Midnight Live: Someone Is Right Behind You

"Someone is right behind you."

It's the most common comment I get in the chat during my late-night streams. 

But when that exact phrase abruptly hijacked my screen, spammed in bold, blood-red letters, my blood ran completely cold. 

Because deep down, I knew. This time, they weren't joking. 

It was real.

——

"Are you sure it's just a story, Evelyn?"

The caller’s low, raspy voice crackled through my headset.

It had a wet, cloying quality to it that made my skin crawl.

I sat in the soundproofed corner of my bedroom, fingers drumming absently against the desk.

"Of course, Charlie." I offered a light chuckle into the microphone, keeping my tone strictly professional.

"Crimson Butterfly is just my spin on a twentieth-century urban legend. There aren't any actual lunatics out there turning their victims into taxidermy."

"Is that right?" He let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Then why don't you check your screen?"

Frowning slightly, I shifted my gaze to the secondary monitor on my left.

The live chat—which had been a blur of your voice is so sexy and tonight's story is killer—came to a sudden, eerie standstill.

A split second later, a glaring gold VIP message popped up. Within moments, the chat was flooded with frantic copy-pastes:

[Evelyn, the closet door behind you just opened.]

[Oh my god! There's a hand in there!]

[RUN! GET OUT OF THERE!!!]

My stomach pitched. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

The backdrop for my stream was a carefully curated corner of my bedroom.

The vintage louvered closet door was always kept firmly shut. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stare at the stream preview instead of looking over my shoulder.

There was a two-second delay on the feed.

Through the slightly pixelated background, I could clearly see the dark wood of the closet door. It was cracked open.

A hand clad in a black leather glove was resting, utterly motionless, against the doorframe.

"Apologies, everyone. We're having some technical difficulties tonight. See you tomorrow." Moving faster than I ever had in my life, I killed the stream and ripped off my headset.

Dead silence flooded the room, broken only by the low, steady hum of the central AC.

I rose slowly from my chair, my hand instinctively grabbing the heavy metal of the microphone stand.

I inched my way toward the closet. My palms were slick with cold sweat, making it nearly impossible to keep a firm grip on the pole.

"Who's in there?" My voice betrayed a tremor.

Nothing.

I jerked the door wide open and swung the weighted stand down with all my might—

Empty. Just a handful of wool coats hanging there, still swaying slightly

I sagged against the wall, my chest heaving. An optical illusion? Or some sick prank pulled by a hacker hijacking my webcam feed?

Then came the knock at the front door.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I jumped, the mic stand clattering out of my grasp and onto the hardwood floor.

The knocking started again. Louder this time. Urgent.

I snatched the stand back up and crept toward the entryway.

I peered through the peephole. Out in the dim corridor stood a tall man in a dark trench coat.

He sported a heavy five o'clock shadow, and his eyes were as sharp and unforgiving as broken glass.

"Miss Evelyn, I know you're in there." He held up a gold shield, pressing it right up to the lens.

"Detective Lucas, Major Crimes Division. Unless you want to be the subject of your own true-crime stream tomorrow, I suggest you open this door."

I hesitated for a heartbeat before sliding the chain lock back.

Lucas didn't wait for an invitation. He pushed his way inside, his eyes sweeping the living room like radar.

"What were you just doing? You're as pale as a sheet."

"A prank. Just somebody messing around." I forced myself to sound calm, lowering the metal stand. "I assume a detective isn't dropping by at this hour to check the gas meter?"

He stared at me with ice in his eyes, reached into his breast pocket, and slapped a photograph down on the coffee table. "Take a look."

It was a picture of a young woman lying lifeless in the mud of an abandoned warehouse lot. But what turned the blood to ice in my veins was the deep red velvet dress she was wearing. It was an exact match to the limited-edition gown currently hanging in my closet.

"She's the third one this month." Lucas's voice was devoid of warmth. "Her build, her hair color, down to her exact sense of style—all identical to yours."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I managed to push the words out.

"It means you're being hunted." Lucas took a step forward, his physical presence dominating the space. "Pack a bag and come with me to the precinct. Your safe zone is gone."

I took a step back. My gaze drifted subconsciously toward the coffee table.

A sudden tremor went through my hand.

I remembered it perfectly: right before the stream started, I had poured a glass of red wine and set it on the far left edge of the table.

But right now, that long-stemmed glass was sitting dead center.

Someone had been here. Just now.