Prompt : You find strange, muddy footprints leading up to your front door.

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3:33

My groggy eyes resist opening as I’m pulled out of my slumber.
Darkness cloaks the room. Everything is still. My senses slowly return to this dimension.
Even with my eyes half-shut, I catch the faint red blink across the room — the digits etched on the clock read: 3:33.

I sit up, scanning the room, half-expecting to see a bunch of people ready to explain why I’d been woken.
My own mind steps in to question me:
Why the hell am I awake at this ungodly hour?

A quick body scan — no urge to pee.
I yawn, muttering curses under my breath, and pull the bedsheet over my head, ready to drift back to the land of Morpheus.

And then I hear it.

A low squeaking sound.
Soft. Sharp. Like a hand dragging slowly across wooden floor.

I freeze.

My body stiffens instinctively.
My voice, shakier than I’d like, shouts toward the locked door:

“Who’s there!?”

Silence.

The heat creeps up my face as my breathing goes uneven.
That sound...
It wasn’t from the street.
Not a neighbor.
It came from the corridor — just outside my apartment room.

This can’t be happening.

Whatever alcohol remained in my system from last night has evaporated.
Drowsiness? Gone.

I leap out of bed, grabbing the only thing close to a weapon:
My guitar — pulled by its stem off the stand.
Not ideal for balance, but it’s heavy enough to knock someone out cold.

Unless they have a knife.
Or worse, a gun.

I look around — phone?
Of course, it’s in the living room.
Tucked away in my coat pocket on the sofa.

Great.

I clench the guitar harder.
If someone broke into the wrong house tonight, they’re about to regret it.

10 lakhs in student debt.
Dumped two weeks ago.
Working weekends just to survive.
And now a potential robbery?

No. Fuck that.

I swing the guitar through the air in frustration, then march to the door.

3… 2… 1…

I unlock and fling it open — screaming into the corridor, ready to swing.

Silence.

The echo of my shout bounces off the empty walls.
Darkness. Stillness.

I step out slowly.
Heart pounding.
Eyes adjusting.
Fingers clenched around the neck of the guitar, ready to strike.

Nothing.

I rush back inside and turn on every light.
Bathroom — clear.
Guest room — empty.
Kitchen — untouched.

I rest the guitar against the wall and slump onto the sofa, chugging water, letting my body come down from the high-alert state.

My pulse begins to settle.

And that’s when I notice it.

In my earlier panic, I hadn’t caught it.
But now… with everything illuminated…

My eyes land on the carpet leading to the front door.

I freeze.

Wet. Red. Handprints.
Trailing away from the door — as if someone had walked...

But on their hands.

A slow chill creeps up my spine.
I stare.

That’s blood.

Fresh blood.

I follow the trail with my eyes, one print at a time.
Moving slowly across the carpet.
Each print clear. Vivid.
And then, suddenly...
They stop.

Just like that.

And what yanked the breath from my lungs and sent a shiver ripping through my spine…

Was the size.

These prints... were of a toddler.