Step. Step. Step.
The noise is coming from outside my room. Up and down the corridor, eight paces in one direction, the sound of a shoe rustling against floor boards as he turns, and then eight paces back. His speed is as consistent as a metronome. The only time it alters is if I get up and walk to the door, then he’ll pause until the overbearing silence sends me scurrying back to bed.
It’s been this way for months. In the day, I’m free to leave my room. At night, I’m kept imprisoned by the sound of a man I’ve never seen. I say man because the footsteps sound heavy, not the shuffle of someone who’s fat, but authoritative like someone laden with muscle.
He’s stopped. Right outside my room. The door handle turns with a creak.