The Ghost in Apartment 2R

by Denis Markell

  “Of course he did,” my dad says.

  Uncle Artie is an English professor, so it makes total sense. How many people are going to care is another matter.

  My mom takes off her reading glasses and pushes her chair back. She turns the laptop toward me.

  The posting is really impressive. Katia’s pictures of the neighborhood and the interior make it all look so attractive. And Mom’s little paragraph is pretty good, to be honest.

  “I’d stay here,” I say, trying to be supportive.

  My mom beams and hugs me. “Me too.”

  “Too bad I can’t,” I add. I can’t help myself. She playfully smacks me away.

  My dad comes over and wraps his arms around me. “We wish you could too,” he says. “And you will. This is only temporary.”

  “Well, here goes,” my mom announces as she clicks the Publish button.

  There’s a weird flicker on the screen. Then, a message pops up.

  We are unable to process your request. For any technical issues, please call or email.

  “I did everything right!” my mom exclaims. “I know I did!”

  “Try it again,” my dad says. “Or let me.”

  He sits and patiently retypes her beloved paragraph, and uploads all the photos again.

  There’s a momentary pause as the images load. He clicks Publish.

  We are unable to process your request….

  The three of us stare at the screen. My mom takes out her phone.

  “Funny,” my dad says. “You’d think someone put a curse on renting the room or something.”

  It takes my mom most of the rest of the evening to get things sorted out. I do homework in my closet room. I wanted to use the new desk, but I was told that was off-limits, like I was going to get it dirty or something. I would have said something, but Mom was on hold with the tech support guy at AirHotel, and in no mood for smart remarks. That’s exactly what she would have said if I had tried to argue.

  My mom started out with the guy using her nice professional voice, one grown-up to another. But now she’s losing it.

  “Yes, of course I went to the troubleshooting page on your website first,” I hear her say, her voice rising. “If that worked would I be talking to you?”

  She shoots a look at my dad and puts the phone on speaker so Dad can hear. The tech support guy has a chirpy voice. He’s happy to help. And apparently clueless.

  My dad takes over, and escalates the call to the next-level technician. He’s really good talking to these phone people. It doesn’t matter if it’s our cell phone provider or the cable or health insurance company.

  Dad can get what he wants.

  My mom looks at him gratefully. Her hero.

  After more cheesy jazz music, a person comes on who sounds like he’s had fewer cups of coffee and knows a little more. He and Dad try to figure out if it’s the antivirus software on the computer, or maybe an issue with the browser. I keep thinking of Dad’s words. Maybe the room doesn’t want to be rented.

  Ultimately, my dad has to send the files to the guy so he can upload them onto the site. My mom is asking questions like “Are you sure this is going to work?” Which is never helpful.

  My dad doesn’t even bother to answer, just does what he’s told, and then they have to wait for the files to show up. The guy on the phone, Alex (Dad, the pro, gets his name and uses it every other sentence: “Great, Alex. We couldn’t have done it without you, Alex. Of course I’m going to fill out the survey at the end of the call, Alex.”), tells Dad that he’ll get the files up tomorrow morning and they should be able to see their submission by the afternoon.

  Alex then adds, “Glad I could help. And this one was new to me. I’ve been doing this for four years and this is the first time I’ve ever come across this. I really can’t explain why we couldn’t get it to go through.”

  They say their goodbyes, and my mom tackles my dad and hugs him. She does this whenever he saves her from some situation she would never have gotten through herself.

  My mom gives my dad one more hug and looks at the screen hopefully.

  “He said tomorrow,” my dad says gently.

  “I know. I can’t help it. I can’t wait,” Mom says.

  It’s past my bedtime. I need to get up tomorrow for school, so I say my goodnights and close the door.

  * * *

  At I-don’t-know-what in the morning, I get up to pee. I’m about to head back to my room, when I see a light at the end of the hallway.

  The door to Jake’s room is closed, but there’s a faint light showing under the door. Like someone’s in there. But it’s the middle of the night. I know it’s probably just Mom, or that someone left the light on, but something feels weird and I can’t just go back to bed.

  I want to head to my bedroom, but I find myself walking toward Jake’s room. It’s not like I made a decision. It’s like something is pulling me there. Or someone. I get to the door and reach for the doorknob.

  Before I can get to it, it turns by itself.

  I watch the knob turn, and then the door slowly opens. There’s no one on the other side of it. I can feel my heart pounding under my T-shirt.

  I know I should run back to my room, but I’m rooted in place. This is not normal. The room is kind of glowing. I go to the window and look out.

  No moon. No streetlight. Nothing. Where is the light coming from?

  It’s as if the room is shining from within, casting black shadows against the walls.

  I am trying to breathe normally, but I’m having a hard time.

  I want to back out of the room, but something is keeping me frozen to the spot.

  That’s when I hear the voices in the walls.

  I need to interject that hearing things in the walls of an old house like ours is not unusual. You hear running water going through the pipes, arguments between people in apartments next to yours, or loud parties. In my closet, I even hear mice scratching around, which is kind of gross, except it’s a lot better than when one of them dies in there. Trust me.

  All I’m saying is that hearing things in walls is nothing new. But this is different. It’s like the walls themselves are whispering. I can’t explain it better than that. It’s like the wind, only inside the room. I can’t make out what the voices are saying. It’s like a moaning.

  I begin to shake.

  Little by little, the moaning begins to form sounds…syllables whispered urgently right into my ear.

  “Yaaaah…naaaa…kella.”

  The voices keep repeating this over and over again.

  They’re getting louder and louder and louder….

  And then, at the window.

  A face appears, pale and angry.

  Its eyes are boring right through me, filled with rage.

  Another voice surfaces, calling me from far away. “Danny! Danny!”

  Then the voice is right next to me.

  “Danny!” I startle, and realize I’m in bed, looking at my mother.

  “That is the freakiest thing I have ever heard.” Gus’s eyes are as big as the falafel balls we got at Haddad’s to eat in Brooklyn Bridge Park.

  “So what did your parents say?” Gus asks, taking another bite of his pita sandwich. I guess my story didn’t do anything to his appetite.

  “They just said I had a bad dream and they know that change is hard but I’m going to have to accept it.”

  This place used to be an eyesore of old warehouses and rotting piers. Back during World War II, many of the great battleships were built right here by the immigrants who had moved to Brooklyn, some of them to escape the very war they were helping end. But after the war, all the shipbuilding moved away and the place just sat here, ugly and unloved (like that kid with the cologne—sorry, he really bugged me). Now it’s this amazing park, wi
th everything from a barbecue area to volleyball courts, soccer fields, and the piers are walkways leading right out to the water, where you can sit on benches and get an impressive view of Manhattan.

  Like I said, normally this is one of my favorite places in the world (okay, I haven’t been many places, but you know what I mean), but today everything feels dark and strange, like I can’t shake that angry face from my dream.

  Nat hasn’t said a word. She’s just staring at me with her big dark eyes. It’s a little unnerving.

  I’m dying for her to say something. She reads a lot, so maybe she’s read some ghost story that’s like this.

  “I cannot believe some stupid dream is creeping you out so much,” she finally says, rolling her eyes.

  I can take anything but the eye roll.

  “Look, it didn’t feel like it was a dream. It felt real.”

  Nat looks out over the water. “Duh. I had a dream that I was taking the history midterm in my underwear and it totally felt real.”

  “This is different,” I insist.

  “Danny, you’ve been telling us for a week now how mad you are at your parents for doing this. Clearly this is just your subconscious telling the same story.”

  I can hear my voice rising. “Oh, really? Then how do you explain the face in the window in those photos? Or the fact that my mom couldn’t upload the photos to the AirHotel site?”

  Nat is trying hard not to smile, which makes me madder. “You told us yourself the face was probably your reflection,” she says. “And really? You think your mom’s laptop is haunted? Like you’ve never had trouble with a computer?”

  “So that’s your explanation?” I ask.

  “Danny, what if this hadn’t happened to you?” Nat says. “What if you had heard about someone who really didn’t want his parents to rent out his brother’s room, and he passes a film crew on the street shooting some ghost story, and then some totally normal things happened that seemed weird because life is sometimes weird, you know.”

  “My uncle Vince once saw the Virgin Mary on a piece of veal,” offers Gus.

  “Which applies to this how?” I ask.

  “Nat just said life is weird,” he answers.

  “And sometimes we see things we want to see,” Nat adds.

  “So you think it’s all in my head,” I mutter.

  “I’m just saying there’s an explanation for it, that’s all.”

  “Seriously? You wouldn’t say that if it happened to you.”

  Gus reaches into his bag. “Anyone want some pastrami?”

  Mom told me when she was studying to be a social worker she was trained in conflict resolution. This is Gus’s “go-to” for conflict resolution when things get tense. Offer food.

  Nat and I stare at him.

  “It’s the good stuff. The one we make right in the store,” he explains. “Normally my dad tells me it’s for the customers, but Nellie was the slicer today, so…”

  Nellie is always sweet to Gus and sneaks him “the good stuff.” She’s like twentysomething and wants to be a novelist, but thinks it’s cool to work at a butcher’s. For “life experience,” as she puts it.

  I take two slices of pastrami, thin as paper. I offer one to Nat as a peace offering. She takes it.

  “Hey!” Gus adds, chewing happily. “You know what I just learned from my dad? You’ll never guess what part of the cow pastrami comes from.”

  Nat freezes just as she’s about to put her slice in her mouth. “Please don’t tell me it’s something gross.”

  “It’s cool!” Gus exclaims. “It’s made from beef navel! You’re actually eating a cow’s belly button!”

  Nat’s face turns green, and she hands Gus back the pastrami.

  He shrugs and eats it. “Hey, what matters is how it tastes, right?”

  The tension is officially broken, and I put the other slice in my mouth. Gus is right. It’s really good. I feel the sun on my face and the sounds of little kids yelling in the playground behind us. I look out at the boats in the harbor. It’s all so normal. Could Nat be right? Was it all in my head?

  “Danny, just think about it,” she says. “Let’s say you’re right. And the room is haunted. Why did these things start now? Isn’t that kind of a coincidence?”

  I have no answer for that.

  I come home to find Mom standing, hands on hips, staring at her laptop screen. Of course it’s open to the AirHotel page with our listing. No one has booked the room yet, and she seems to think that refreshing the page every ten seconds will make a difference.

  Dad is out, having lunch with his friend the producer.

  Jack Tempkin produced an independent film way back in the nineties that got a lot of attention and even an Oscar nomination.

  Jack has been one of Dad’s biggest fans since he sat on a jury for a competition that Dad’s student film was entered into. He’s always said Dad’s film should have won, and has done everything he can to help raise money so Dad can finally make a real movie.

  I like Uncle Jack. He looks like you’d think a producer would look. He’s a little guy with a big head, and what hair he has left is combed back. He smokes cigars (not in our house, of course—Mom would kill him) and drinks wine and always has a script under his arm. But his clothes are kind of shabby (he’s been wearing the same blazer since I can remember) and his stories are always about giving this person or that person their big break and how they never remember, the ingrates.

  It seems that since his big film, none of Uncle Jack’s projects have gotten made. But he’s always having meetings and is convinced that this one is going to be the one to put him “back in the game,” as he likes to say. Then he’ll be able to bring Dad’s movie “to any studio in Hollywood.”

  Whenever Dad comes back from one of these lunches, he’s filled with energy and ideas. It’s hard to watch him tell Mom all about Jack’s new project, because as much as Mom wants to be supportive, I can tell that she thinks Uncle Jack is just getting Dad’s hopes up. It’s not that he’s lying to Dad, Mom explained to me once. He really believes it. It’s just that…life doesn’t always work out the way you want it.

  Tell me about it.

  So part of me feels bad that things aren’t working out for Mom, and part of me is pretty stoked because I know that after a while, if we get no takers, I can move into the room. I bet I wouldn’t have those bad dreams then.

  “Do you think I should change the description?” Mom asks me for like the hundredth time. She’s already changed it five times and it’s only been up for a few days.

  “Mom, you have to give it time,” I answer. “Besides, anyone staying in Brooklyn now would have booked months ago, wouldn’t they?”

  Mom sighs. “I guess so. I just thought…” She refreshes the page again. I wish she wouldn’t do that.

  There’s the sound of a key in the lock and Dad comes in. The look on his face says that he has news but he’s not going to tell Mom unless she asks.

  “So how’s Jack?” she says.

  My dad hangs up his jacket and scarf. “He’s great, actually. He thinks NYU is going to offer him a permanent job in the spring.”

  Usually Dad wears a sweatshirt and jeans around the house. The only time he dresses in what he calls “grown-up clothes” is when he’s meeting with a client or going out for lunch with Jack. I guess it makes him feel more like he has a real job or something.

  “That’s great!” my mom says, and it sounds like she means it. “I bet he’s an amazing teacher.”

  “Apparently they really love him, and want him to do it full time,” my dad says, but he doesn’t sound happy.

  “That’s a good thing, right?” I ask.

  My dad goes to the fridge and gets some grapes. “Yeah, of course. It’s just that—”

  “If he takes the job, he w
ouldn’t have time to produce movies,” my mom says, finishing his sentence.

  Dad’s voice sounds a little tight. “Not for a little while. Until he gets settled in. That’s what he said.”

  I can tell my mom is trying hard to sound positive. Dad gets really sensitive about this. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t eventually be able to help you,” she says.

  “There are a lot of big names on that faculty,” Dad mutters. “He’s going to show them my script.”

  My mom sighs. “That’s great. I was just trying to be supportive.”

  My dad’s shoulders slump. “Wasn’t I supportive when you wanted to try this AirHotel thing?”

  Mom paces back to her laptop and plops down.

  I can’t take any more of this. I’m about to head to my room when Mom screams.

  I should mention here that Mom is a screamer, so this didn’t freak me out too much.

  Some moms drop a plate and say a curse word (unless they’re my aunt Amanda, who has never said anything stronger than “For heaven’s sake!” Like she’s in a movie or something. She’s hilarious). My mother screams.

  If she’s pouring a glass of water and some splashes over the glass, she screams.

  Growing up, I learned to interpret different screams:

  “Oops!” (Short, high-pitched.)

  “I got a paper cut!” (More like ow! But still a scream.)

  “There is a dead mouse under my desk!” (Very loud and long.)

  This scream was the “something amazing has just happened” scream. She’s balled her hands into fists and is punching the air. “Yes! Yes!”

  No.

  No.

  I know exactly what’s happened.

  Dad and I join her at the screen.

  There is a message. “You have a request to book your room! Please read.”