Chapter 4: The Ghost in the Footage

Chapter 4: The Ghost in the Footage

The rhythmic testing of the doorknob finally stopped just before the sky began to lighten from black to bruised purple. Clarice hadn’t slept. She had lain there for hours, a prisoner in her own bed, listening to the methodical squeak-turn-release that had become the soundtrack to her terror. The silence that followed was not a relief; it was a vacuum, charged with the promise of his return.

When the first bird chirped outside, it was like a starting pistol.

She threw back the covers, her movements jerky and desperate. Escape. The desire was a physical force, a magnet pulling her out of this house. She grabbed her backpack, shoving in her laptop, her wallet, her phone charger. Her hands trembled so violently she could barely zip it closed. She didn't have a plan beyond Fátima. Fátima was north, a fixed point of safety in her spinning world.

Her eyes scanned the room, a frantic inventory of her small life. Her clothes, her books… her plants. The little collection of succulents on the windowsill, the only living things she had managed to nurture. Leaving them felt like abandoning soldiers on a battlefield. With a sob catching in her throat, she gathered the small pots into a cardboard box. They were coming with her.

She listened at the door, her ear pressed against the cool wood. Silence. She knew the routine. He would be gone. But the knowledge did little to calm the frantic hammering in her chest. Taking down her pathetic barricade felt like a surrender. She eased the chair away from the knob, slid the dresser back, and with a deep, shuddering breath, unlocked the door.

The hallway was empty, steeped in the sterile, pre-dawn gloom. She fled. She didn’t look at his closed door. She didn’t allow herself to think. She just moved, one foot in front of the other, through the silent living room, past the showroom kitchen, until her hand closed on the cold metal of the front doorknob. She was out, the crisp morning air a shocking, beautiful slap to the face. She ran to her car, threw the box of plants onto the passenger seat, and didn't look back as she peeled away from the curb.

Fátima’s apartment was a chaotic explosion of life and color. Half-finished canvases leaned against the walls, books were stacked on every available surface, and a mug of what smelled like cinnamon tea was steaming on the cluttered coffee table. It was the antithesis of André’s house. It was safe.

Fátima wrapped her in a hug the moment she saw her face. “Clarice? Oh my god, what happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The story came tumbling out, a frantic, disjointed narrative of silent vigils, couch impressions, and the terrifying, patient testing of her doorknob. Fátima listened, her warm, kind eyes wide with concern, never once interrupting, never once showing a flicker of doubt. When Clarice was finished, her voice raw, Fátima squeezed her hand.

“Okay,” she said, her tone firm. “Okay. You’re here now. You’re safe. We’ll go to the police. We’ll file a report. You can’t go back there.”

Clarice shook her head, a fresh wave of despair washing over her. This was the obstacle she hadn’t been able to see past. “And say what, Fátima? That my landlord is creepy? That he sits in my room but doesn’t touch anything? They’ll search the house. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. He’ll give them that same empty smile and they’ll see a quiet, professional man and a hysterical girl who broke her lease. They’ll think I’m crazy. My parents will think I’m crazy.”

The truth of it hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Who would believe her story? It sounded like a nightmare, not a crime. Without proof, she was just another unreliable narrator.

A new desire, sharper and more dangerous than the need for safety, began to crystallize in her mind. It wasn't enough to run. It wasn't enough to be believed by Fátima. She needed to know. She needed proof that would make the world believe her.

“I have to go back,” Clarice said, the words tasting like poison.

“No. Absolutely not,” Fátima countered, her grip tightening.

“Just for an hour,” Clarice insisted, her voice gaining a hard edge. “His schedule, Fátima. It’s his weakness. He leaves at 4:15 a.m. and doesn't come back until 5:45 p.m. He’s gone all day. I need my things. My birth certificate, my social security card… they’re in my desk.” It was a lie, but it was a plausible one. “And,” she took a deep breath, “I’m going to leave something behind.”

An hour later, Clarice was walking back up the path to the silent house, a tiny spy camera, no bigger than a sugar cube, clutched in her sweaty palm. Fátima waited in the car down the street, the reluctant getaway driver. Every instinct screamed at Clarice to turn around, but the need for validation was a burning coal in her gut. She let herself in with her key, the sound of the lock tumbling echoing unnaturally in the quiet.

The house was exactly as she’d left it, pristine and still. The air was cold, stagnant. She moved quickly, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. In her room, she found the perfect spot for the camera: tucked into the spine of her heavy art history textbook—the same one that had failed to be her alarm—which she positioned on her bookshelf. It had a clear, direct view of the couch and her bed.

She grabbed a few more handfuls of clothes, shoving them into a duffel bag to make her return look legitimate, and fled for the second time.

That evening, huddled on Fátima’s sofa with a laptop balanced between them, they began the vigil of their own. Clarice fast-forwarded through the empty hours of the day. The room was a still life, unmoving, until the timestamp on the video read 10:23 p.m.

“There,” Fátima whispered, pointing.

On the screen, the bedroom door swung open. Silently. The textbook Clarice had leaned against it hadn't budged. A cold knot formed in her stomach. It was impossible. He hadn’t pushed the door open; it was as if he’d simply passed through it.

André entered the frame. He moved with that same unnerving, fluid grace and sat on the couch, assuming the exact position she had seen with her own eyes.

“He’s just sitting there,” Fátima breathed, her voice a mix of awe and horror. “You were right. Oh my god, Clarice, you were right.”

For the next two hours, the figure on the screen was a statue. They watched in morbid fascination. This was the proof. This was enough. But then, the turning point. The timestamp hit 12:45 a.m., and the André on the screen stood up.

But he didn't leave.

He walked to the side of the bed. Her bed. He stood over the place where her sleeping form would have been, a dark, predatory shape looming in the night-vision green of the camera. Both women held their breath.

He slowly, deliberately, lowered his head until his face was just inches from her pillow. He stayed there for a full minute, motionless. It looked like he was listening, or… or smelling. The gesture was so inhuman, so unnervingly intimate, it made Clarice’s skin crawl.

Then came the surprise, the action that shattered every remaining piece of her sanity.

He straightened up, his gaze directed not at the bed, but at his own pale hands. He held them out in front of him, over the empty space where she would be lying. And then, with terrifying precision, he began to move his fingers through the air. They were sharp, intricate, cutting motions. He traced lines on an invisible surface, mimicking a surgeon making incisions. He mapped out her torso, his fingers slicing and sectioning the empty air above the mattress where her body would be.

He wasn't just watching her. He wasn't just a voyeur.

This was practice. This was a rehearsal.

Fátima let out a choked cry and slammed the laptop shut, but the image was burned into Clarice's mind. The silent, meticulous dissection of her in absentia. Her blood ran cold. The monster in her house wasn't just there to observe. It was there to prepare. And she was no longer just an exhibit; she was a blueprint.