I used to live in a small studio apartment in Chicago when I finished college.

It was not fancy, just a single room space on the top floor of a three-story building.

I chose it because rent was cheap and it was close to work, and as a 23-year-old with student

loans and no savings, I didn't have the luxury of being picky.

The apartment was clean, functional, and most importantly, mine.

The only window in the place looked out over a narrow alley.

Across the way was another apartment building, nearly identical to mine.

The alley was tight, barely wide enough for a single car to squeeze through, and during

the day it barely got any sunlight.

At night, it was pitch black.

That never really bothered me much. I was working late nights at the time, bartending at a lounge on the north side.

I usually got home around 2.30 or 3 in the morning.

Then I'd make a quick meal and zone out on my phone until I passed out.

One night, about a month into living there, I noticed something odd.

I had just walked in, kicked off my shoes, and turned on the overhead light when I thought

I saw something move in the window across the alley.

Just a flicker.

A curtain twitching, maybe.

I froze for a second.

But when I looked again, there was nothing.

The window was dark and still.

I shrugged it off.

...