Smitha tossed and turned in bed. Sleep eluded her even after a tiring day. As she lay wide awake, the red glow of her charging electronics caught her eye. Annoyed, she got up to block out any stray light. She switched off all the electronics, drew the deep brown curtains tightly shut, and shrouded the room in complete darkness, hoping it would bring the peace she craved.

Once everything was in place, she returned to bed. Yet, sleep continued to evade her. The once soothing drip… drip of a tap and the steady tick-tock of the clock now grated on her nerves, louder and more insistent than ever.

Frustrated, she got up again and fumbled through the darkness. Checking the taps one by one—the bathroom, the sink, and finally the kitchen—she found each sealed tight. She twisted them all again, just to be sure. But the faint, irregular dripping persisted, as though taunting her.

On her way back, the softly illuminated face of the wall clock caught her eye. Its hands pointed to 1 a.m. She sighed in exasperation. Closing her bedroom door firmly behind her to shut out the noise, she returned to bed, longing for the quiet she needed.

Drip, drip.

Tick, tick.

With every passing moment, the persistent sounds grew louder in her ears, each beat felt like a drum banging. Smitha buried herself under the blankets, desperate to block out the noise, but it was no use. Frustration piled up like a rising tide. Determined to silence the sounds once and for all, she got up for the third time.

She checked all the faucets again, starting with the bathroom and ending at the kitchen sink. Each one was shut tight. Standing in the dim hallway outside her kitchen, she paused and strained her ears. Was the sound coming from outside?

Drip, drip.

Tick, tick.

Distracted by the clock’s ticking, she wandered into the living room, where the source of the sound hung on the wall. Unlike her bedroom, the space was flooded with pale light from the street, casting long shadows across the furniture. Oddly, the ticking here felt less intrusive, almost muted.

Is it because I’m staring at the clock that it doesn’t feel so annoying? she wondered. The thought calmed her. Letting out a small sigh, she stretched out on the sofa. Maybe here, in this brighter, quieter room, she could finally catch some sleep.

After more tossing and turning, sleep still refused to come. While the drips of the faucet were muted in the living room, the bright lights and the relentless ticking of the clock echoing through the room kept her restless. Frustrated, Smitha sat up on the sofa, ready to concede defeat.

But then, as a last resort, she dragged a chair toward the clock on the wall. Using it as leverage, she climbed up and carefully removed the batteries. The ticking ceased instantly, leaving the room in a comforting hush. The sudden silence washed over her like a balm, easing the tension from her body.

Relieved, she returned to her bedroom. Lying on her bed, she relished the stillness, finally ready to surrender to sleep.

Drip, drip.

Tick, tick.

Smitha jolted upright on hearing the ticking of the clock once again. She sat frozen on her bed, her heart pounding like a drum in her ears. She was too terrified to switch on the light. The darkness felt like her only shield, the one thing hiding her from whatever—or whoever—was nearby. How had someone managed to reach her fourth-floor apartment? The only way in was through the front door, locked and bolted. Unless… unless it wasn’t someone at all.

Her breath hitched. She pulled her legs onto the bed, afraid to even let them dangle over the edge. What if something was hiding under there?

Forcing herself to stay calm, she took slow, shallow breaths and listened closely. The sounds were faint but persistent. Drip, drip. Tick, tick. And then… something else. A faint scraping, coming from the balcony.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. After a moment of deliberation, she grabbed her phone from the bedside table and bolted toward the bedroom door, staying as far from the bed as possible. With trembling hands, she turned on the flashlight and pointed it underneath the bed.

Nothing.

Relief flooded her for a moment, but it was short-lived. Just as she began to sweep the light across the room, she heard it—the unmistakable creak of the balcony door handle. Her breath caught as she turned to see it twisting from the outside.

The door, bolted shut, refused to budge. But whatever was outside wasn’t giving up. The handle jerked violently, again and again, frustration building on the other side.

She darted toward the light switch and flipped it on. Her scream caught in her throat as she saw them—small, green hands, clawed and slimy, stretching through the gaps in the grilled window pane. They writhed and groped, trying to find a way inside.

The stories were true. The goblins were real.

Smitha’s chest tightened as she recalled the urban myths—small, violent creatures that invaded homes at night, leaving no survivors. She had dismissed them as tales of burglars. But now, seeing the hands clawing at her window, she knew the truth.

Her eyes caught a specific movement. The goblins were climbing on top of one another, forming a grotesque, writhing tower to reach the bolt at the top of the door. It wouldn’t be long before they got inside.

Panic surged through her. She had to get out.

With her phone in hand, she snapped a picture of the creatures at the window before bolting toward the apartment door. The bedroom door couldn’t be locked from the outside, so she left it ajar in her haste. Grabbing her purse and keys from the coffee table, she darted out of the apartment. Her fingers fumbled as she turned the key, locking the apartment door behind her—one small barrier to keep the creatures from following her—before sprinting down the stairs.

Crash!

A loud noise echoed through the stairwell. Her steps faltered. It wasn’t coming from her apartment. It was somewhere else in the building.

Her blood ran cold as the realisation hit her: the goblins weren’t just in her home. They were everywhere.

Screams erupted from nearby apartments, followed by chaotic thuds and crashes. Smitha kept running, her breaths ragged and her legs trembling.

When she reached the lobby, she froze. Through the glass doors, she could see the goblins swarming the building like ants. They scaled the walls effortlessly, their slimy hands passing loot to others waiting below. One of them—larger than the rest—wielded a blood-soaked club.

Tears stung her eyes as she spotted a man trying to escape. He didn’t make it. The creatures dragged him down, their claws gleaming in the dim light.

Smitha turned away, bile rising in her throat. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t help him.

Her eyes darted to the west side of the building. The goblins were concentrated on the east. It was her only chance.

Without hesitation, she bolted for the exit, staying low and silent. The cool night air hit her face as she ran into the streets. She didn’t stop, didn’t dare look back until she was far enough away.

From a distance, she turned and saw them—green, slimy creatures scurrying up the walls, undeterred by the wail of approaching sirens. The chaos in her building grew louder.

Smitha clenched her fists. No one would believe her. But she knew what she had seen.

— The End —