Chapter 11: Motherless
Second floor. The elevator shuddered slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought it might break down, trapping me in this metal tomb. But then it continued upward, and finally—finally—the doors opened onto the familiar hallway of the third floor.
When the elevator doors slid open, I didn’t immediately step out. Instead, I pressed myself against the side wall and listened, straining my ears for any sound that might indicate danger. The hallway stretched before me, lit by the same harsh fluorescent lights as the parking garage, but it was the silence that unnerved me most. No shuffling footsteps, no low moans or growls, no sounds of life at all.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds, I finally exhaled the breath I’d been holding and stepped into the corridor.
There were only four apartments on this floor—mine, Mrs. Chen’s across the hall, and the young couple at the far end whose names I’d never bothered to learn. It had always been a quiet floor, the kind of place where neighbors nodded politely but rarely spoke beyond pleasantries about the weather.
Now it was quiet for entirely different reasons.
The moment my feet hit the carpeted hallway, I saw them—dark, wet footprints leading from the elevator to various apartment doors. Some were clearly human, but others... others had a dragging quality that made my skin crawl. The beige walls were splattered with rusty brown stains that could only be blood, and in some places, I could make out the distinct impression of handprints, as if someone had been pressed against the wall while struggling.
My legs felt like lead as I followed the grisly trail, knowing with growing dread where it would lead. Each step brought me closer to apartment 3B—my home, the place where I’d spent the last three years of my life, where my mother and I had built our small but precious home after the divorce.
When I reached my door, my worst fears were confirmed. A bloody handprint was smeared across the familiar green paint, the fingers splayed in what looked like a final, desperate attempt to hold on to something. The print was small and delicate—distinctly feminine.
"No, no, no..." The words tumbled out of my mouth as panic began to claw at my chest. My hands shook so badly that it took three tries to get the key into the lock. When the door finally swung open, the metallic smell of blood hit me like a physical blow.
I stepped inside and immediately closed the door behind me. The living room, which had always been my mother’s pride and joy with its carefully arranged throw pillows and family photos, was in complete disarray. The coffee table was overturned, magazines and books scattered across the floor. Dark stains streaked the pale yellow walls, and I could see drag marks in the carpet leading toward the back of the apartment.
"Mom?" I called out hesitantly.
My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might burst. Each breath felt like I was drowning, the air thick and wrong in my lungs. I knew what I was going to find, but some desperate part of my mind kept insisting that maybe—maybe—she had hidden somewhere, maybe she was injured but alive, maybe there was still time to save her.