What Watches Back

Smyrna looked down at her phone and hesitated before pressing the call button. The late-night lights on the street outside glinted in the glass of the front door of Apartment 6B. Up close the door looked ordinary: brushed steel, a small rectangular mail slot, and the wide silver handle. But it was the small oval viewer—set at just the right height—that had drawn her attention.

She pressed her forehead gently against the peephole and held the phone in her free hand, ready to dart away if anything changed. On the other side: a narrow corridor with pale walls, dimly lit. A figure stood halfway down the hall, just beyond the pool of light from a ceiling fixture. For a moment the figure remained still, as if sensing something, then turned away and walked back into the shadows.

Smyrna’s heart thudded. She didn’t belong there. She hadn’t been invited.

Her friend, Iris, had thought it was a prank at first: “You want me to peer through the peephole of a stranger’s door at midnight? Really?” But Smyrna had laughed, told Iris she’d explain later. She had told herself it was curiosity; real life rarely mimicked the voice-over from old detective movies, but tonight it felt exactly like that. The figure in the hallway—was it the tenant? Or someone who didn’t belong?

The corridor light flickered. Shadows stretched. Smyrna took a breath and dialed Iris’s number. The call went to voicemail. She sighed. Her hand tightened around the phone. Then, behind her in the reflection of the glass beside the door, she saw movement—a tall silhouette in the stairwell, just beyond that slot of view. Someone had reached the top of the stairs and was loitering there, not stepping forward.

Smyrna snapped the phone shut and stepped back. The person moved into clearer view—thin, wearing a hooded jacket zipped tight. They looked up directly at her door. Through the reflection, she knew the silhouette had seen her. She bolted.

She ran down the steps of the building, nearly losing her phone, but she made it to the lobby. The security desk was empty. The front door’s lock clicked shut behind her. Outside, the street felt tranquil, the lamplight gentle, innocent. Someone was perched at the upper floor window of the building—just a dark rectangle, holding still.

Taking a deep breath, Smyrna’s thoughts spun: What had she expected to find? What did she see? The peephole was intended to protect, to let someone inside glance out safely. But by using it the other way, she invited unseen things to peer back.

She texted Iris: “I’m okay. Something weird happened. Will explain soon.” Then she looked back at the building one last time before walking away into the quiet night, footsteps echoing in the gutter. Something was behind the door tonight. And maybe, in the reflection, Smyrna’s own shadow was part of the story.