Anna pulled me down to the floor, and I scrambled to fit the floorboard back over us. My heart was pounding so hard I couldn’t tell if I was even breathing.

We heard footsteps. They were slow, deliberate, coming closer.

“It’s him,” Anna whispered, her voice trembling. It had to be the old man.

“Are you hungry?” The raspy voice broke the silence, sending chills through me.

Anna hesitated before answering, her voice barely audible. “No.”

The footsteps receded, and a moment later, we heard the muffled sound of the TV turning on. We stayed under the floor, trapped in what felt like hours of suffocating silence.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I carefully lifted the floorboard just enough to peek out. My breath caught in my throat—he was staring right at me.

For a moment, I froze, paralyzed by fear. Then instinct kicked in. I yanked the floorboard off completely, grabbed Anna, and bolted.

We didn’t get far. His hand grabbed us, his grip much stronger than I expected.

“Let us go!” I screamed, struggling against him.

In the chaos, I saw a crowbar lying near the chair. Desperation surged through me. I grabbed it and swung it as hard as I could, hitting him in the head.

He collapsed, and I didn’t wait to see if he’d get back up. Anna and I ran, stumbling down the stairs and out of the building, sprinting all the way to my house.

When we got there, we told my mom everything. She listened, her face pale, then called the cops.

The police arrived, took our statements, and reassured us everything would be okay. Anna’s parents came to pick her up, and for the first time in what felt like forever, we let out a breath of relief.

But that relief didn’t last.

Later that night, there was a knock at the door. When we opened it, the police were standing there, their expressions grim.

“The old man,” one of them said. “He’s gone.”