THE APARTMENT
A GHOST STORY
ANTHONY M. STRONG
West Street Publishing
For S.
My Inspiration and Muse
THE APARTMENT
Published by West Street Publishing
www.WestStreetPublishing.com
www.AnthonyMStrong.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and events are products of the authors imagination. Any similarity to events or places, or real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Anthony M. Strong
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or other.
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The Apartment
JACK BRANNAN SAT IN THE SMALL New York City park with his arms stretched across the back of a green painted bench as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He watched a group of children play near the fountain where two pathways intersected, their parents lingering nearby, deep in conversation. To his right several older boys kicked a ball around, their excited cries carrying on the breeze. He didn’t notice the woman approach until her shadow fell across the bench.
“Are you here to feed the cats?”
“I beg your pardon?” He shifted his gaze from the impromptu soccer game. She stood in the glare of the afternoon sun, her body little more than a black outline against the powder blue sky. He raised a hand and shielded his eyes. It didn’t help much, but at least it allowed him to make out her features, a deeply lined face, gray wispy hair flowing over her shoulders, thin lips and deep set eyes.
“Are you the man that wants to feed my cats?” She asked again, fixing him with a penetrating stare, as if she could drag the answer forth merely by burrowing into his head.
“I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“I don’t think so.” Her tone was crisp with a slight nasal quality. “You’re wearing a blue shirt.”
“Of course.” Realization dawned on him. He’d told her what he’d be wearing. “The apartment. You must be Emily Waltham.” He jumped up and extended his arm.
“That’s the name my mother gave me.” She looked at his outstretched hand as if he were offering her a piece of moldy bread. She made no move to reciprocate. “You’ll want to see the place I assume?”
“I’d love to.” He dropped his arm.
“Excellent.” She waited for him to scoop up his laptop bag. “It’s not far. Follow me.”
Jack missed the tranquility of the park. He stood on the sidewalk, the New York traffic assaulting his ears with beeping horns, his nostrils burning with the acrid odor of exhaust fumes. He’d always wanted to visit the Big Apple, to spend time there like a real writer. This place, this sprawling metropolis, had inspired more stories than any one city ever had a right to do, yet now that he was here he wondered, briefly, if he’d made the right decision. It seemed somehow different from the New York of his dreams, a little dirtier, and a lot noisier. It was certainly a far cry from the snow-capped mountains of Colorado, where he’d grown up skiing and hiking.
Emily pulled a heavy set of keys from her pocket and unlocked the apartment building’s double doors. A blast of cold, dank air met them as they stepped over the threshold. It smells a bit like a tomb in here, Jack thought as he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. “You keep the building locked?”
“Always. You’re in the city now Mr. Brannan. One can’t be too careful.”
“Please, call me Jack.” He let the door swing shut behind him.
“I prefer to keep things formal, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine with me.” Jack really didn’t care what she called him as long she let him stay in her apartment free of charge, just for feeding some cats. It seemed fortuitous that he’d seen this place come up online mere days after getting the call from his agent that Red is for Murder, his latest thriller, had been picked up by a big five publisher. Even better, they wanted to see the sequel as soon as possible - The unfinished sequel. What better location to finish the book than the city that inspired the likes of Jack Kerouac and Ernest Hemmingway? So here he was, one leave of absence and a six-hour plane flight later, standing in this building that was to be his home for the next month.
“You’re a writer?”
“Yes.” He took in his surroundings. The lobby was expansive, with alternate black and white tiles that gave the impression he was walking on an oversized chessboard. Rows of ornate bronze colored mailboxes were set into the wall immediately to the right of the front entrance. A couple of them gaped open, one missing its door entirely. Dust bunnies gathered around the legs of a chaise lounge that had seen better days, its once bright red fabric patchy and worn. The lobby had a musty smell that reminded Jack of dirty socks.
“What do you write?”
“Fiction mostly. Thrillers.”
“I’ve never heard of you.”
“I write thrillers, I never said people read them,” he joked, smiling. “I also teach English at a small community college in Colorado. I took a month off to finish my latest book. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your ad. It’s a perfect situation.”
“Now don’t be making your mind up so quickly. You should wait until you see the building before you commit yourself. We’re not exactly the Ritz you know, the poor girl’s seen better days.”
“I’m sure the accommodations will be fine. All I need is somewhere quiet to write, free of distraction. Besides, the price is right.”
“Ah yes. Just because I’m not taking your money doesn’t mean I don’t expect certain duties to be carried out.”
“I know, feed the cats, make sure the furnace stays lit, water the plants, and generally keep an eye on things,” Jack said, paraphrasing the text of the ad.
“I’ve lived here for over thirty years Mr. Brannan, and this is the first time I’ve left the building in the care of another soul. I wouldn’t leave now if it were not absolutely necessary.”
“Your mother’s passing. I’m so sorry.”
“These things happen, Mr. Brannan. She was a very old woman. Regardless, her affairs do need to be taken care of now that she has gone to the other side, so to speak.”
“Of course.”
“Mother hated this building. She said the tenants annoyed her. She was always trying to get me to leave, to join her in New Jersey. Now she finally has, if only for a short period.” Emily touched his arm. “Would you like to see the apartment now, Mr. Brannan?”
“I would. If you don’t mind.”
“We shall take the elevator. The stairs are so steep and dark, and my legs are not what they once were. I should have the place rewired, but it’s just too much money.”
Jack had noticed the elevator already. A great hulking thing enclosed in an iron cage. It looked original to the building, with two gold colored scissor gates that guarded an ornate wooden elevator car. He had assumed it was a relic, left in place for nostalgia purposes, but apparently it was not.
Emily spoke again, as if reading his mind. “It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.” She pulled the grates back and motioned for him to enter. “After you?”
The elevator proved to be as ponderous as it looked. The cables creaked and moaned as they heaved their load upward. Jack immediately wished he’d taken the stairs, bad wiring or not. He wondered when it had last been inspected. There did not appear to be a safety certificate anywhere in sight.
A vision of the cables snapping, the two of them plummetin
g to their deaths amid the splintered wood of the shattered car, refused to vacate his mind. Sometimes having a vivid imagination had its downside.
Emily, clearly immune to the nuances of the aging elevator, did not seem to share his fears. “This place has been in my family since 1924. My great grandfather bought it as an investment. The building itself dates back to 1903.”
“Really?”
“The place started life as the Hotel Roosevelt. It was quite the place to be until a fire gutted the top two floors. That was 1943, if I remember rightly. The fire nearly bankrupted my great grandfather. It took him many years to repair all the damage. It wasn’t converted into apartments until the fifties.”
“How did the fire start?” Jack's interest was piqued. He’d come here to finish a story, but maybe he’d find an idea for a new book too.
“The police suspected arson, but they could never prove anything. Twelve people died. It was a sad business.”
“That’s dreadful.” Jack wished he could write this down, but it might seem odd, or worse, rude, to pull out his phone and make notes while she talked. He wasn’t here to interview her.
“It’s an old building Mr. Brannan, and as such has seen its share of tragedy. It’s the way of things.”
“Still-” Jack was about to press her further on the fire, but at that moment the elevator came to a shuddering halt.
“This is it. Floor five.” Emily pulled the gates back.
Jack stepped into the corridor, all at once aware of the bone-gnawing chill that hung in the air.
The apartment was surprisingly modern. The paint seemed fresh, and the musty smell that permeated the rest of the building was absent, for which he was grateful. The living room was spacious. Two large picture windows flooded the space with daylight. Gorgeous polished hardwood floors took second place only to a large brick fireplace that boasted a dark cherry mantle. The furniture, although not to his taste, was well kept and clean.
“This is one of the largest apartments in the building.” Emily said. “There is a larger one on the floor above, but I don’t like it. That floor burned in the fire, and even though it was all repaired many years ago, I can’t stand to live where so many people lost their lives. I keep everything above floor five closed off, and hardly ever go up there.”
“I understand completely.” He smiled. “I think this will be just perfect.”
“Good. Now let me tell you about the cats.” Emily gripped his arm, a little too tightly. “They really are rather finicky little things, and they will take advantage of you, if you let them.”
“I see.” How hard could it be to feed a few mangy cats?
“You won’t let them will you?” Emily asked, her face furrowed with concern.
“No,” Jack assured her. “I will make sure the cats know their place. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Good.” Emily seemed to relax. She led him to the kitchen and opened a small door set into the wall to reveal a tight walk in pantry. She pointed to a shelf with a large bag of dry food on it. “The cat food is in here. Please make sure you seal the bag each time, otherwise the air gets to it.”
Jack nodded.
“You probably won’t need to top up the water more than once a day. Their bowls are outside in the hallway. They come and go as they please.” She pointed to a small cat flap set into the door.
“You let them roam the whole building?” Jack asked, surprised.
“They like it that way,” Emily said. “Besides, they keep the mice at bay, so they earn their keep.”
“Ah.” Maybe it was better that the cats were free to go where they chose. He wouldn’t have to share the apartment with them.
“Do you have any questions?”
“I don’t think so,” Jack answered. Everything seemed pretty straightforward.
“Excellent. I shall see you tomorrow then. Ten o’clock sharp?” Emily put a hand out and steered him toward the door.
“Ten it is,” Jack nodded. It seemed their meeting was abruptly over with.
“I’ll walk you out.” Emily followed him to the elevator.
“There’s no need. I can find my own way out.”
“Nonsense,” Emily said. She waved an arm in the air. “I shall see you out. After all, someone has to lock up after you leave.”
“Well in that case–” Jack held the elevator door open for the strange old woman. She shuffled past him and waited in the car until he stepped in behind her.
“Besides, I need to show you the basement. If there is an issue you will need to know what to do.”
“Right now?” Jack said. “We can do it tomorrow if you like.”
“No time like the present.” Emily pulled the elevator door closed with a clank. “Unless you have somewhere else to be?”
“No.” Jack tried his best to look at ease. “Not at all.”
“Good.” She reached out and pressed the button marked with a large red letter B, and soon the elevator was clanging and clunking its way back toward the ground. As the creaky old elevator descended down through the lobby and kept going, gears and cables moaning and grinding, Jack wondered just what he had let himself in for.
The next morning Jack checked out of his hotel a little before Ten. With a backpack full of clothes slung across one shoulder, his laptop bag hanging from the other, he walked the two blocks to the apartment building, pausing only briefly to purchase a cup of hot coffee. When he arrived at the apartment building, he found Emily at the curb waiting next to an idling taxi. She watched him approach with a mirthless gaze.
“You are two minutes early Mr. Brannan.”
“Better that than two minutes late.”
“Quite so.” She pushed a set of keys into the palm of his hand. “The silver one is for the front doors. The bronze key opens the apartment. The others are for the rest of the building. They are numbered by apartment. I doubt you will have a need for those. Please remember to keep the downstairs doors secure and locked at all times.”
“And this one?” Jack fingered a tarnished old key, larger than all the others.
“That opens the door to the equipment room in the basement.”
“Okay.”
“Here, take this.” Emily pressed a crumpled slip of paper into his hand. “If you need me for any reason you can call this number. It’s for my mother’s house in Wildwood. I’ll be staying there while I settle her affairs. I don’t have a cell phone I’m afraid, never had the need, but mother has an answering machine. If you leave a message I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“I doubt I’ll need to call you.” Jack slipped the note into his pocket.
“Well, if anything happens, just call. Any time, day or night.” A look of concern flashed across Emily’s face, just for an instant, and then it was gone. “I’ve left an extra bag of kitty food on the kitchen counter.”
“The cats will be fine, you don’t need to worry.”
“I’m sure they will, Mr. Brannan.” Emily climbed into the taxi. She looked up at him through the open back window. “One more thing–”
“Yes?”
“Try to keep out of the way of the tenants. They really don’t do well with strangers.”
Jack spent the day settling in. He went to the store and bought some basic groceries. He also bought a six-pack of beer and several chocolate bars. He always worked better when he had chocolate around.
Back at the apartment he set up his writing area, dragging a stout wooden desk from its nook near the bedroom door and placing it facing one of the large picture windows. He set his laptop upon the desk and sat back, taking in the view of the city. A perfect place to finish the book, he thought. He could feel it in his bones. This publishing deal would change everything. He could feel his earlier misgivings fading away. This was where he was meant to be, where he should be.
New York.
Later, as dusk spread across the sky, he popped a beer and sat on the overstuffed couch. A nagging voice inside his head told
him he should be writing, but he ignored it. The book could wait one more day. Besides, a few beers would help him sleep. He always found it hard to relax the first night he was in a new place.
He was about to start on his second beer, was halfway across the living room with the open bottle in his hand, when he was interrupted by a single sharp knock. He turned and looked at the apartment door, surprised. The silence in the wake of the sudden sound seemed almost palpable.
Seconds ticked by. Jack waited, listening. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he was suddenly aware of the sound of his own breathing.
He held his breath.
When the second knock came he almost dropped the beer.
“Hello?”
Stony silence answered him.
“Can I help you?” He reached out and touched the latch, unsure if he should open it. He wished there was a peephole, one of those things that let you see whoever was on the other side of the door before opening it, but there was not. New York City was hardly known for its safety. He briefly considered peeking out through the cat flap, but then realized how ridiculous that would look. Instead he called out. “Is there anyone there?”
No answer.
He took a deep breath, pulled back the latch and pulled the door open, just a crack.
“You’re not Emily.” An old woman stood on the other side of the door, with her hands on her hips. She couldn’t have been more than four and a half feet tall. Her face was a roadmap of old age. She wore a blue patterned dress with a white collar. A knitted shawl was draped over her shoulders, which she held tight to her chest.
Jack took a step back, alarmed. “No I’m not.”
“Where is she? What have you done with her?”
“I haven’t done anything with her. She had to go away for a little while.”
The Apartment: A Haunting in New York Page 1
