Part 1
Three nights after moving in, he pulled back an old wardrobe and found a small hole drilled through the drywall into the neighboring unit.
Through the hole, he watched his neighbor, Sister Mara, lead a group of cloaked figures in a midnight ritual around a burning bowl of blood-soaked paper.
When he looked closer at the documents being burned, he recognized his own signature on the top page.
The scent of dust and ancient wood filled Leo Kaczmarek’s small room in Ridgewood, Queens. He inhaled deeply, a sense of weary relief settling over him. It wasn’t much, just a single room with a shared bathroom down the hall, but it was his.
His. A word that tasted foreign after losing everything. The $180,000 bankruptcy had wiped out his contracting business, his house, and most of his self-respect.
The divorce had finished the job.
New York City was a brutal place for anyone starting over, let alone someone with zero savings and a mountain of debt. Yet, here he was, in a room he could actually afford: $450 a month. It felt like a minor miracle, a tiny patch of solid ground in an earthquake.
He ran a hand over the peeling floral wallpaper, then patted the worn oak wardrobe that stood against the shared wall with apartment 3B. Sister Mara lived there, a quiet woman with kind eyes and a habit of leaving him little notes about shared fridge space.
Leo had spent the first two days simply existing, unpacking his few possessions, trying to make the space feel less temporary. On the third night, a restless energy nudged him. The room, though cheap, felt grimy.
He decided to tackle the stubborn dust bunnies that had surely been accumulating behind the heavy wardrobe for decades. With a grunt, he pulled the bulky furniture away from the wall, scraping loudly against the wooden floorboards.
A shower of plaster dust rained down. He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face.
As the dust cleared, his eyes focused on something odd. Not just the discolored wall or a forgotten cobweb, but a perfectly circular hole, no bigger than a quarter, drilled through the drywall. It wasn’t a natural crack or a worn spot. It was deliberate.
His heart gave a curious thump. What kind of person drilled a spy hole into their neighbor’s apartment? He felt a prickle of unease, then quickly dismissed it. Probably some previous tenant, long gone, who had been curious about Mara.
Or maybe a little perverted.
He leaned closer, peering into the darkness within the hole. He saw only blackness. He pressed his ear against the cold plaster, listening. Nothing. Just the muffled hum of the city outside and the distant wail of a siren.
Still, the discovery nagged at him. He pushed the wardrobe back against the wall, but not quite all the way. A sliver of curiosity had lodged itself under his skin, refusing to be dislodged.
Later that night, long after the streetlights had come on and most of the building was quiet, he couldn’t sleep. The silence felt heavy, expectant. He glanced at the wardrobe. The hole seemed to call to him.
He eased himself out of bed, careful not to make a sound on the creaky floorboards. He crept to the wardrobe, carefully pulling it back just enough to expose the tiny aperture. The apartment was completely dark, save for the faint orange glow from a distant streetlamp filtering through his window.
He hesitated. Should he really do this? What if he saw something he shouldn’t? What if Mara caught him? His rational mind urged him to stop, to go back to bed. But the other part of him, the part that had been broken down and rebuilt, the part that craved any flicker of excitement or escape from his own mundane misery, pushed him forward.
He lowered his eye to the hole.
Still, nothing. A faint, almost imperceptible murmur. He pressed his ear against the drywall again. A low, rhythmic chanting, barely audible, like a whisper against the plaster.
It was midnight.
He looked through the hole again. This time, a soft, flickering light met his eye. The room next door was bathed in a warm, pulsing glow. It looked like candlelight, or maybe a small fire.
He squinted, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes. Figures moved in the light, their forms indistinct under heavy, dark cloaks. There were five of them, including Sister Mara. Her face, usually so gentle, was obscured by shadow and concentration as she stood over a low, bronze bowl.
A pungent, metallic scent, vaguely sweet and sickly, began to seep through the small hole, mingling with the faint aroma of incense. It made his stomach churn.
The chanting grew slightly louder, a repetitive, almost hypnotic drone. It wasn’t Latin, not any language he recognized. It was guttural, ancient, and deeply unsettling.
Mara raised her hands, a sheaf of papers clutched within them. The other cloaked figures echoed her movements, their voices rising in a crescendo.
With a deliberate, almost ceremonial grace, Mara began to feed the papers into the burning bowl. The flames licked at the edges, charring the documents into flakes of black ash that curled and disappeared.
Leo watched, transfixed, a cold dread creeping into his bones. This was no ordinary neighborly gathering. This was something else entirely. Something illicit. Something… occult.
As the last piece of paper was offered to the fire, the flames surged, casting dancing shadows on the cloaked figures. Leo’s vision blurred with the heat and the smoke wafting through the hole. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes.
One final piece of paper remained in Mara’s hand. As she held it aloft for a moment before consigning it to the inferno, the light caught the top corner.
And Leo saw it.
In crisp, undeniable black ink, stood his own full legal name: Leo Kaczmarek. Directly beneath it, neatly typed, were the nine digits of his Social Security Number.
Part 2
My breath hitched, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. I tore my eyes from the horror show next door and stumbled back, pulling my original lease agreement from the top drawer. I found the page, scanned the boilerplate, then froze.
Buried deep in the legal jargon, in tiny print I’d barely glanced at during signing, was an addendum: a “blood indemnity clause.” It mentioned ritual observance and financial recompense for “spiritual negligence.” My mind reeled. Julian Cross hadn’t just slipped this in; he’d forged my signature on the burning paper.
I peered through the hole again, my heart pounding against my ribs. Sister Mara was no longer burning documents. She held a black-and-white photo, turning it slowly under the flickering candlelight.
It was my face.
She dipped a small brush into the bronze bowl, now filled with a thick, red liquid, and began painting a symbol across my photographic image. A jagged, three-pronged rune, stark against my printed smile.
My whole body went cold. I wasn’t just observing a ritual; I was the subject. She was preparing me as their next financial sacrifice. My eyes darted to her hand, then to the wall. The light from my room, even a faint glow, could give me away. I had only minutes, maybe seconds, before she finished the binding rune and looked up.
You are Leo Kaczmarek. Sister Mara is performing a binding ritual on your photo, and you know she will notice your light through the hole if you don’t act fast. What do you do?
A) Seal the hole immediately with quick-set plaster, hide under the covers, and pretend you saw nothing. 👉 Read Chapter 2
B) Pull out your smartphone and record high-definition video of Mara burning the blood contract through the hole. 👉 Read Chapter 3
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