Chapter 1: The 3:17 Scraper

Chapter 1: The 3:17 Scraper

The digital clock on the bedside table glowed a venomous red: 3:17 AM. For Leo Vance, that time was a cruel joke. It was the hour his shift at the 24-hour grocery store ended, but it was never the hour sleep began. Sleep was a foreign country he hadn't had a visa for in months.

He lay on his lumpy mattress, the springs digging into his spine like bony fingers. Every muscle ached with a deep, thrumming exhaustion from a night of heaving crates of milk and stacking pyramids of canned beans. The air in his fifth-floor apartment was stale, smelling of old coffee and the city's perpetual dampness. All he wanted, with a desperation that felt like a physical hunger, was the sweet, dark oblivion of a few hours of uninterrupted rest. He wanted the silence.

That’s when he heard it.

Scrape. Drag. Pause.

Leo’s eyes, gritty with fatigue, snapped open in the darkness. He held his breath, listening. It was probably just the ancient building groaning, or the branches of the scraggly tree in the alley scratching against the brickwork. He’d lived in this rundown shoebox for two years; he knew its symphony of groans and sighs. But this was different. This was rhythmic. Intentional.

Scrape. Drag. Pause.

It came from the window. His only window, which looked out over a sheer five-story drop to a grimy, trash-strewn alley. There was no fire escape on this side of the building. Nothing.

He rolled over, pulling the thin pillow over his head, trying to muffle the sound. It was his over-tired mind playing tricks on him. Auditory hallucinations, the internet had called them. A symptom of chronic sleep deprivation. Just ignore it, Leo. Go to sleep. His body screamed for rest, a profound, bone-deep weariness that made his limbs feel like they were filled with wet cement.

Scrape. Drag. Pause.

The sound was louder now, more insistent. It was the noise of something solid and abrasive being deliberately pulled across the glass. A knot of irritation tightened in Leo's chest. Was it a bird? A massive one? No, the sound had weight behind it. With a groan that was half-frustration, half-surrender, he threw the pillow aside and swung his legs off the bed. The wooden floor was cold against his bare feet.

He shuffled to the window, his form a pale shadow in the gloom. The city lights cast a sickly orange glow on the pane, illuminating a lattice of grime and water spots. He squinted, trying to make out the source of the noise, expecting to see a loose sign swinging in the wind, or maybe a cable slapping against the wall.

He saw a face.

Leo recoiled, his heart lurching into his throat with a violent, painful thud. An old man was floating in the darkness outside his window, his face just inches from the glass. He was gaunt, his skin wrinkled like cracked parchment, and his eyes were sunk deep into shadowy sockets. He wore faded gray coveralls, the kind a janitor or a mechanic might wear. Long, bony fingers rested on the windowpane.

For a moment, Leo’s exhausted brain simply refused to process the impossibility of it. He blinked, certain this was a dream, a waking nightmare brought on by too much caffeine and too little sleep. But the man didn't vanish. He remained, impossibly suspended in the night air five stories up.

In his hand, the old man held a long-handled squeegee. He gave Leo a weak, almost apologetic smile, revealing gums as pale as bone.

"Sorry to disturb you, son," a reedy voice crackled, muffled by the thick glass. "Just finishing up. Boss has us on the graveyard shift this month. Catches the grime better in the artificial light, he says."

A window washer.

The logical explanation was so absurd, so mundane, that it almost felt more insane than the image itself. Who washed windows at three in the morning? And more importantly, what was he standing on? Leo pressed his face closer to the glass, craning his neck to look down. There was no scaffolding. No cherry picker rising from the alley below. There was nothing but empty, black air.

The old man seemed to follow his gaze. "Newfangled harness," he said, patting his chest with a dusty hand. "Individual lift system. Bit shaky, but it gets the job done."

Leo's mind scrambled for purchase. It didn't make any sense, but the man was so calm, so normal. His own exhaustion was a thick fog, making it hard to separate the real from the surreal. Maybe he was just missing it. Maybe there were hooks or wires he couldn't see in the dark.

The old man coughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Say, son. I hate to be a bother, I truly do. But my throat's as dry as a desert up here. You wouldn't have a glass of water for an old man, would you? My bottle fell down to the alley about an hour ago."

The request was so simple. So human. A thirsty old man doing a thankless job. Leo’s ingrained empathy, the part of him that would give his last dollar to someone who needed it, stirred. It would take ten seconds. Unlock the window, pass him the water, lock it again. A simple act of kindness.

But as his hand moved toward the latch, a wave of cold, primal dread washed over him. It was a feeling that bypassed his brain entirely, screaming up from his gut. It was an animal instinct, a pre-verbal certainty that told him the space between inside and outside, between his apartment and the night, was a sacred barrier. Opening that window, even a crack, would be a catastrophic mistake. A fatal one.

He let his hand fall.

"I... I can't," Leo stammered, his own voice sounding thin and distant. "Building rules. Can't open the windows past the first floor." It was a stupid, flimsy lie, but it was all he could think of.

The old man's pathetic smile didn't waver, but his eyes changed. The pleading, weary look vanished, and for a fraction of a second, it was replaced by something else. A flicker of cold, ancient anger. It was a look of pure predatory appraisal, and it chilled Leo to the bone. It was the look of a wolf watching a lamb through a fence, patiently waiting for a break in the wire.

The mask was back in place as quickly as it had fallen. The old man sighed, a theatrical display of disappointment. "Ah, of course. Rules are rules. Can't be helped."

He didn't move. He just stayed there, floating in the void, his skeletal fingers resting on the glass. He lifted the squeegee again.

Scrape. Drag. Pause.

The sound was no longer an annoyance. It was a threat. A patient, rhythmic tapping on the walls of Leo’s sanity.

Leo backed away from the window, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn't turn his back on the man. He couldn't. He retreated to his bed and sat on the edge, his eyes locked on the silhouette framed against the orange city glow.

The man didn't look at him again. He just kept working, scraping the same patch of dirty glass over and over. A man with an impossible job on an invisible platform, waiting.

Leo knew, with a certainty that defied all logic, that the man wasn't washing his window. He was trying to scour his way in.

And Leo knew he would not be sleeping tonight. Or possibly ever again. The silence he craved had been stolen, replaced by a sound that would now echo in his mind forever.

Scrape. Drag. Pause.