"Bebé, you're gonna love this place," I say lying on the couch.

"You sure about that?" Laura asks, "I'm super picky, remember?"

I shift the phone to my other ear, "Yeah," I nod, "I'm sure. It's got high ceilings, exposed brick walls, a fireplace—"

"Okay," she cuts me off, "that actually sounds nice—"

"And," I interrupt, "they lowered the rent for me."

She sighs, "I swear it feels like you're lying to me."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because it sounds too good to be true, Marcos—seems like you're just trying to get me to move there."

"Is it working?"

"Yes," she giggles.

I smile, "Good—I mailed you a key."

"You didn't," she sounds incredulous.

"I did..." We kept talking until my phone died. I didn't get to say goodnight.

Hopping off the couch, I stroll over to the bedroom—and plug my phone in. I return to the living room and walk out onto the balcony. Instinctively, I reach for my lighter—I still keep it in my pocket. But I don't have any cigarettes. Instead, I take out a piece of gum. That usually takes my mind off wanting a smoke. In the distance, a bolt of lightning rips across the sky and the wind's picking up. I go back inside, lock the glass door and close the blinds.

The glow from the computer on the antique desk (which came with the apartment) in loft reminds me that I forgot to turn it off. I jog upstairs and few mouse clicks later, it's shutting down. Then I notice the bottom drawer is open—I don't remember opening it. There's a piece of paper laying on the bottom. I reach in and grab it. The yellowy paper has these words scribbled on it: DON'T SPEND THE NIGHT. Wait, what was that?

Out of the corner of my eye—a shadow dashed across the wall. I jerk my head around, but nothing's there. Sweat's beading on my back. I drop the paper as the words ring in my ear—no, something's whispering: "don't spend the night." It's getting louder. I rush downstairs, heading for the front door. I try turning the knob, but it's jammed shut. A flash of lightning brightens the room through the windows near the top of the ceiling. The lights flicker slowly before going out. Then a booming clap of thunder roars, shaking me to my core.

It's pitch black now. I reach for my lighter and go to the kitchen. There's a creaking sound coming from the stairs to the loft—I grab a knife from the rack and make a dash for the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. The lock on the door rattles. Then it stops suddenly. I sigh. 

I flick my lighter on and something's staring at me. My hand trembles as it snickers. The creature has a hole for a nose, a wide mouth and no eyes. Drool drips from its jagged teeth as it grins—it blows the lighter out. I scream.