A/N: Sorry about the short length again. Going through a short story phase. Yeah. -U

As usual, the lift to my floor is playing irritating and repetitive music, which only adds to my foul mood. I am exhausted after school and can't wait to get home. The lift dings and I step out on to the 7th floor. I glance at the flat opposite mine, the only other flat on the floor. Number 702. It always strikes me as odd that I have never seen the person who lives there, yet somehow I always hear a woman screaming at someone or something. However, I linger no further and go inside my flat to start my homework.

A couple of hours later when I am putting off a particularly vicious maths problem, I hear someone lurching about in the hallway outside my front door. Curious, I take up my invisible sword, which is my favourite weapon.

I peer through the peephole, hoping to catch a glimpse of my neighbour, but only see her door swing shut. Disappointed, I am about to return to my desk when I spot a skin-coloured something on the floor. I go out and crouch down to get a better look. With a sudden sick feeling in my stomach I see it is a human hand, bloody from where it has been severed off.

I am about to either scream or throw up, but I decide to do neither, instead opting for a chance to channel my hero, Sherlock Holmes.

"What case have you got for me now, Lestrade?" I mutter to myself.

"Oh, just another murder." I reply as Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Shouldn't be a problem for the brilliant Sherlock Holmes!"

But in the meantime, what to do with the hand? Can't just leave it there, someone might call the police, or something. I get up to find a pair of kitchen tongs. Hopefully my parents will never know I am planning to use them to pick a disembodied hand up off the floor. However, when I return to the hallway, nothing remains but a patch of congealing blood to prove the hand was actually there. Who – or what - could have picked it up in the meager twenty seconds or so that it took me to get the kitchen tongs? Maybe it was whoever put it there in the first place. I give an involuntary shiver.

Wonderful. The brilliant Sherlock Holmes is already stumped. I give up on being a crime-solving vigilante, my gaze sliding up to Number 702. I fall back, startled, and gasp at what I see. The door is open and the apartment is pitch black. No, seriously, you wouldn't even believe it. It's so much so that the darkness almost seems to spill out in the way light usually does. However, the light from the brightly lit hallway has no effect on this hideous darkness.

I see something through the dark, though. A pair of eyes watch me; deathly white except for the tiny black pinpricks that are pupils. Cold fear floods me, and just as I am really about to scream, the door snaps shut. I am left paralyzed on the spot, gaping.

I edge back inside my apartment and shut the door quickly. I don't sleep soundly that night.

The next morning when I awake I am reluctant to go and check the hallway again, but for some reason I still do. The words "LEAVE ME ALONE" are scrawled in more blood on the floor.

My heart is pumping and once again those terrifying, ghostly eyes are boring holes in me from the other apartment. Covering my hand with my mouth, I flee to the lift and go to reception.

I approach the man at the desk and ask, "Excuse me, could you please tell me who lives in Number 702?"

The man blinks. "I'm sorry, miss, I don't understand your enquiry – there is no apartment number 702."

I reel back, eyes narrowed, as the man gives me an odd, suspicious glare, as though to say, you kids, causing unneeded trouble for me.

I don't bother trying to explain the situation to him – he's a grown-up, he wouldn't understand. Instead I frantically hurry up to floor 7, the music in the elevator now like an ominous soundtrack to a clichéd horror film. I grab a meat cleaver from the kitchen (it's more useful than an invisible sword, that's for sure), and stand stationary, facing Number 702. The words in blood on the floor are still there.

Achingly slowly, the door creaks open to reveal… nothing. Just the same thick blackness without the glowing white eyes. I don't know how stupid one has to be to enter a place like this, but it must be pretty damn stupid, if those aforementioned clichéd horror films are anything to go by. Yet, my ravenous curiosity once again getting the better of me, I still take the few trembling steps over the threshold, cleaver raised in what I hope is an intimidating fashion.

The darkness beckons.

About a foot into the room, my vision is of 0% use to me, and I feel the damp coldness in my very bones. Immediately, I want to go back out. I whip around, just as the door slams shut. No. No.

I try the handle but it's locked, so I bang my fist on the door screaming. Remembering the cleaver in my hand, I viciously attack the door with it, but someone rips it from my hand, slicing open my palm. I shout out in pain.

Annoyingly, the only thing in my head is clichéd movie, clichéd movie, clichéd movie…

I can't go out. All of a sudden, I feel strangely calm, and take a few more steps further into the suffocating darkness. It draws me in. I feel detached from my body, and my breathing is shallow. The cold is still seeping through me, but I don't feel it. Sensing a presence, my gaze trawls upwards to the pair of deathly white eyes. That is the last thing I see.

A/N: (yeah, another one) So, I got a couple reviews saying they wanted this to be continued. Sorry guys, that's it, that's the end! I feel like adding more would be a bit silly, as this feels quite finalised. I don't really know what you expected to happen after this, honestly! So yeah, sorry about that. -U