Door Blood

It's the seventh day. The drop of blood on the door handle is still there. I changed the locks, blocked the peepholes, sprinkled flour, and it was never absent. The surveillance screen goes black every morning at three o'clock in the morning. The opposite door of 302 has been empty for three years, and the sound of mopping the floor can be heard every night. Until that day, there was an extra line of engraved words on the door handle: "Stop pretending, you are her." I touched the scar behind my ear - suddenly the pain was excruciating. The woman who disappeared three years ago was named Lin Wan. And I live in her house.