I Left the Door Unlocked for a Reason

They always assume it’s a mistake.

The lock.
The door.
The way it rests ajar with just enough darkness behind it to look accidental. That’s what they tell themselves — that maybe I was in a rush. Maybe I forgot. Maybe I’m just careless.

I’m patient.

I wait behind that door with the lights off, barefoot, silent, head tilted to listen — not for footsteps, but for hesitation. That beautiful, charged silence where prey wonders whether to enter. They always do.

Because I’ve done my part. The grocery bags I helped carry up the stairs. The polite smile at the mailbox. The stutter, the shy wave, the worn hoodie two sizes too big. It disarms them. Wraps around them like wool.

You can’t fear the quiet one. The pushover.
The kind boy in 3C.

They never suspect that I want them to come in.

I don’t hunt in alleys or wear a mask. That’s for the movies. No, my kills are soft. Tender. Intimate. I invite them in. And they cross that threshold like a lamb stepping into the slaughterhouse—still thinking it’s a church.

Tonight, it’s her.

Her name doesn’t matter.
I don’t name things I plan to break.

She’s new. Moved in a week ago. Wears sunflower earrings and says “sorry” when someone bumps into her. She’s exactly the kind I like: the kind that tries to see the good in people. The kind who would rather doubt herself than trust her instincts.

She smiled at me in the elevator. Offered banana bread.

I took it, even though I don’t eat sweet things.
I only smiled back. I know what kindness does to people like her — it makes them reckless.

So I left the door unlocked.

I timed it. 11:52 PM. She’s a night owl. Goes out to the balcony with her headphones. The music’s always low enough that she hears what she’s not supposed to hear — footsteps, maybe, or a soft creak.

She’s heard me. I know. I let her.

And now she’s coming.

I hear her pause outside. My heartbeat doesn’t rise — it never does — but I feel something stir. Excitement? Maybe. Hunger? Closer.

The knob turns slowly.

She whispers, "Hello?"

It’s precious.
Like a sheep asking the wolf if he’s hurt.

“Are you okay?” she adds, stepping in.

I almost laugh.
But I don’t.
Not yet.

She doesn’t turn the lights on — how polite. She walks carefully, arms out, whispering my name. My fake name.

I move behind her like a shadow. My hand brushes the edge of the kitchen counter. She doesn’t even flinch.

So trusting. So terribly fragile.

“I heard noises,” she says.

I could end it now. A twist. A snap. A soft little sigh as the air leaves her lungs. I could do that. I have done that. But not tonight.

Tonight, I’m bored.
Tonight, I want to play.

So I step into the light just enough for her to see me.

“Oh,” she gasps. “I—your door was open and I thought—"

“You thought something bad happened,” I say softly.

She nods.

I smile. “Something did.”

She pauses. Her eyes search mine.

This is the part I love. The moment doubt flutters inside them — like a moth realizing too late it’s not circling a lamp, but a flame.

I tilt my head. “Why would you come in?”

“I… I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe you needed help.”

“I do,” I whisper.

She backs up slightly. “Do you want me to call someone?”

“There’s no one to call.”

Her voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“But you did,” I say, taking a step closer.

She’s trembling now. Trying not to show it. She fakes a smile. I know fake smiles. I wear them better.

“I’ll just head back—"

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

Her breath catches. That sweet little breath. It’s almost a shame. Almost.

I close the distance slowly, like I’m walking underwater. She’s frozen — cornered between the counter and the sink.

“What do you want?” she whispers.

I lean in, voice low. “I want to see what kind of person walks into a stranger’s apartment just because the door is unlocked.”

“Please,” she says, “please, I won’t tell anyone.”

That’s the part they all say. It’s the *script*. Like their brain can't believe what's happening, so it clings to fairy-tale logic. Mercy. Deals.

They beg, they plead, they promise.
None of them realize…

It was never about the outcome.
It was always about the choice.

She chose to enter. She chose curiosity over caution.
And now, I choose what she becomes.

But something shifts. A flash in her eyes.

She reaches for the knife block.

My hand is already there.

I smile as I hold up the blade between us.

She doesn’t scream. Not yet. She’s trying to calculate her odds. I let her.

“You know,” I say, “it’s funny. People always lock their doors out of fear that someone like me might get in.”

I raise the blade slowly. Her eyes widen.

“But I don’t break into homes.”
I step closer.
“I don’t chase anyone.”
I raise the knife, just above her trembling chest.

“I leave the door unlocked.”
I tilt my head.

And I wait to see who walks in.

Author's Note
Not all monsters hide in the dark. Some wear hoodies, carry groceries, and smile shyly.
So… next time you see a door left ajar — ask yourself:
Is someone asking for help?
Or is someone waiting for you?