The rain’s pattering taps, intensifying as I turn the corner. “Run where?” I feeling stupid. It doesn’t bother to even reply. Just the same noise intensifying by the minute. I decide to get off my couch to take a walk down the street of my apartment.

“.-. ..—.”

run.

In Morse Code.

It’s driving me mad.

Even after the rain stops, drips from the lamppost repeat the same spine-chilling word.

I walk into my apartment, trying my hardest to ignore the drips off my porch’s roof, and close the door. I prepare to get to bed as I walk into my room, I turn the lights off only to find that the room’s windows have been shattered and there is glass everywhere reflecting the colors of the sunset.

I take a step forward, towards my bed, and cry out in pain as the edge of a glass shard catches the side of my toe. A thin line of blood appears. I feel dizzy and faint, not from the pain, but from the sheer cognitive dissonance that any of this happened. Am I going insane?

I stumble into the bathroom to get some disinfectant and a band-aid from above the sink. My fingers catch the light switch, flooding the room with a harsh white light that thankfully reveals nothing different. The tiled floor is the same: a little bit grungy from water damage caused by the leaky showerhead. I sit down on the floor and patch up my toe, breathing heavily as I try to come to grips with reality.

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe I imagined the Morse code, and my windows were broken by a freak weather accident in the storm. It's bad that they're broken, but it's not like I can't have them fixed once I clean the floor up.

I stop shaking and stand up, a little unsteady on my feet. The showerhead drips into the drain, plunking on the floor. Then again. Then...

Wait.

I know that pattern.