“Away? What right has she to go away?”
“Her mother passed on.”
“Well isn’t that a fine thing.” The old woman shook her head. “So who are you?”
“I’m Jack. I’ll be staying here for a little while to take care of the place.” He wondered if she was senile or just plain rude. “And you are?”
“Crantz. Dorothea Crantz,” she replied, looking past him as if she thought Emily might somehow magically appear.
“Can I help you with something?” he said, opening the door a little wider, while at the same time hoping she would not try to come in. “I really am very busy.”
“Busy drinking.” Her eyes lingered on the beer bottle in his hand. “Alcohol is the devil’s vice you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” Jack said. He shuffled his feet, anxious to be done with the conversation. “But it’s an awfully fine tasting vice.”
“All the worst ones are.” Dorothea clasped her hands together as if she was about to pray for him. “That’s why they are so tempting to sinners.”
“Well I’ll try and make this my last one for the evening.” He humored her.
“Make sure you do.” Dorothea didn’t look like she believed him. “I’ll be on my way, since Emily is not here.”
“I won’t hold you up then. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Crantz.” Like hell it was. “You should drop by again sometime.”
She turned and took a step toward the elevator, then turned back, looking at him with unblinking dark eyes. “Theodore would like you.”
“Theodore?”
“My husband. He doesn’t like Emily, so he won’t visit with her. Maybe I’ll bring him to meet you though.”
“You do that Mrs. Crantz.” He could only imagine what poor Mr. Crantz must have gone through over the years married to this oddball. It was no wonder he had little interest in accompanying his wife. Emily was hardly a model of sanity herself. The two of them together must make quite the double act.
“Well, goodbye then.”
“Goodbye.” Thank god. She was leaving.
“Don’t forget to feed the cats.” Mrs. Crantz was apparently on Emily’s payroll. “They always get their food at ten sharp, and not a minute later.”
“I won’t forget.”
“See that you don’t.” With that she turned and walked briskly in the direction of the stairs, disappearing amid the blackness that lingered in the stairwell.
Jack stood in the doorway and took a sip of beer, relishing the cold bite as he swallowed the liquid.
The corridor was silent as the grave. No sounds emerged from any of the other apartments. No TV, no music, not even the low rumble of muted conversations behind closed doors. A crack of light under a door would at least prove that some of floor five’s other occupants were at home, but he could see none. The building seemed to have a blanket over it, shutting out the light and swallowing the sound. He could not even hear Mrs. Crantz’s footsteps as she made her way back downstairs. He suddenly felt very alone.
“Pull yourself together Jack,” He mumbled under his breath. It was a fine time to get the hebe jebes.
He looked at his watch. It read a little past 9:30 p.m. Screw it. The cats could get their supper a little early. Not that he had seen hide nor hair of them. Maybe they were pouting about the temporary departure of Emily too.
He left the door ajar and found the bag of cat food. A scoop lay beside it, which he used to fill the waiting bowl.
He placed the food on the floor outside the apartment door. Should he call to the cats? Would they find the food on their own? Calling to them would be useless anyway, since he didn’t actually know their names.
He was about to make his way back into the apartment, and his beer, when he saw two silent figures standing in the shadows near the bend of the corridor watching him, a young woman and a little girl of perhaps ten years of age. The child clutched a rag doll in one hand, and held on to the woman with the other.
“Hello?” he called, his voice echoing. “Can I help you with something?”
He waited for the woman to reply. When she didn’t he decided to try another tack.
“I’m looking after the place for Emily. She’s out of town for a while.”
Still the pair never made a sound, never moved.
The hairs on Jack’s neck and arms stood up. He felt a tickle of fear. There’s nothing to be afraid of, he thought, it’s just a couple of the other tenants. They are probably curious, that’s all.
He lifted his hand and waved, forcing a wide smile.
They stared, immobile, their eyes boring into him.
Nice, he mused, real nice. It appeared they didn’t take too well to strangers in this building. Well too bad. He was here now. Besides, he had better things to do than make social with the neighbors. There was a book to finish.
He turned away from the bowl of cat food and pushed the apartment door open. Before he stepped through, he glanced back down the corridor, but it was empty.
The woman and child were nowhere in sight.
Jack awoke early the next morning. He lay there for a moment, with the covers pulled up to his chin, processing the remnants of a dream that lingered in his mind, broken and fragmented. What he did remember though, was dark and sobering. Visions of gloomy hallways, of flitting figures that skulked at the edge of his vision, reaching for him with clawed skeletal hands, and a dead eyed woman with long blonde hair, her skin pallid, flesh soft and doughy. She wore a tattered dress, ripped in several places, and stained crimson. He wondered who she was, why his subconscious would conjure up such things. Her face was not familiar, and he was sure he hadn’t met anyone that looked like her recently. Eventually, unable to piece together anything more than disjointed flashes, he swung his legs from the bed and padded to the bathroom, where he relieved himself and brushed his teeth.
Pushing the strange dream from his mind, he dressed and went to the kitchen. He threw together a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, and two slices of hot buttered toast, and then settled down to write. For the first time in a long while he felt motivated and ready to go, despite the lingering effects of the bad dream. If he was lucky he could get a good nine or ten hours of work done, maybe even more.
He opened the laptop and waited for the screen to light up, then entered his password. The manuscript was ready and waiting, just where he’d left off yesterday. He took a moment to read over the last few pages he’d written, and then started to type. He hadn’t managed more than three lines when there was a dull thud from above.
Jack glanced upward, toward the sound.
The ceiling light, hanging by a short cord, swayed back and forth. He watched it lose momentum and slow, while at the same time listening for any further sound.
None came.
He turned back to his work and started to tap away at the keyboard once more, his fingers flitting over the keys, a staccato soundtrack to accompany his writing. No sooner had he gotten back to work than he forgot all about the sound from above, his whole attention focused on the manuscript.
Then the ceiling shook a second time.
Jack leapt to his feet, startled.
This thud was louder than the previous one. Jack looked upward, annoyed, and then crossed the room and picked up the wad of keys. He’d been under the impression that the apartment above was unoccupied, yet clearly there was someone up there.
He moved to the door and opened it a crack, peering out for a moment, then stepped into the hallway. He moved down the corridor. Had anyone else heard the thumps?
It appeared not.
The place was deserted, silent.
He felt a pang of disappointment. He’d hoped to run into another occupant of the building, someone who might accompany him up to the sixth floor.
He stopped at the elevator, placed a hand on the cage door, his fingers lingering on the latch, but decided against it. Better to take the stairs. If there was someone up there fooling around he didn’t
want to alert them that he was coming, and the elevator made enough sound to wake the dead. Besides, he didn’t trust the thing as far as he could throw it. Who knew when it had last been serviced?
He came to a heavy fire door marked Emergency Exit, and peered through the small pane of safety glass to confirm it was the stairs, and then pushed the door open. He began to climb, taking the steps two at a time, keeping his footfalls light and even. Even so, the noise reverberated in the enclosed space, and he was glad to reach the landing one floor up and exit the stairwell.
He paused for a moment, listening, but the corridor was silent. Still, someone had made those noises. Maybe they were still in the apartment.
He hurried along until he located the correct door, walking off the distance, a mental map of the floor below in his mind. When he reached out and turned the handle, the door did not budge.
Locked.
Thank goodness he’d had the foresight to bring the set of keys along. He looked at the large ring of keys, which easily numbered twenty, not counting the ones he knew were for the building’s front door, the apartment below, and the basement. He flipped through them, noticing the numbers engraved on the fob of each key - 610, 611, 612.
He glanced upward to the door, noticing the faded gold leafed number on the door. 613.
Of course it was.
Jack was not superstitious, but even so he felt a tingle of apprehension as he found the correct key, the one with 613 engraved on the hilt, and inserted it into the lock. He hoped it would not work, thus relieving him of the duty to further investigate the strange bumps, but to his dismay it turned easily, the deadbolt sliding back with a faint click.
He took hold of the knob and turned, letting the door swing inward on worn hinges, then stood for a moment, peering into the space beyond, before taking a tentative step across the threshold.
The apartment was dark and gloomy. It smelled of mothballs and something else, a rotten, cloying odor that burned his nostrils. Jack did his best not to gag, and reached for the light switch, his hand fumbling across the wall, searching.
After a few seconds he located the switch and flipped it up. Weak yellow light illuminated the room. It was not much better, but it did at least push the darkness back into the corners.
He took a deep breath. If there was anyone lurking in these dank and oppressive rooms, they knew he was here. Only Jack had the feeling that there was no one in the apartment. He couldn’t explain it, but the place just felt empty. Even so, he should check the place out, make sure. Emily had left him in charge, and even though security guard was not on the list of duties, he felt an obligation to keep her building safe.
Jack padded across the room, noting the lack of furniture, and approached the closest door, peering inside.
This appeared to be a bedroom, with a closet built into the far wall. For a moment he considered taking a peek inside the closet, but then thought better of it. He’d seen too many horror films. That was the kind of thing that ended badly.
Instead he turned and made his way to the next door and opened it. This was a bathroom with a claw foot iron tub and a shower. A tattered shower curtain hung from a rusting chrome bar. A roll of toilet paper lay on the cracked tile floor, no longer round, but instead sagging and formless as the damp air took its toll.
Apart from that, this room was also empty.
Finally Jack turned his attention to the only other room in the apartment, a small kitchen separated from the main living area by a wide arch. Dirty yellow cabinets hung on the walls above a chipped porcelain sink. One hung open to reveal a tilted shelf, a lone drinking glass perched precariously as if it might slide off at any moment. There was no stove or refrigerator, just empty spaces where the appliances should have been, with peeling, stripped wallpaper and dirty baseboards.
In the middle of the kitchen sat a huge rat.
Jack took a step backward, startled, his heart pounding in his chest. A wave of revulsion caused him to let out a slight whimper before he realized that the creature was not moving.
It was dead.
He took a step toward the furry corpse, than another, stopping close enough to see the crushed skull, the crimson circle of blood, still wet and glistening in the weak light.
Jack recoiled. He wanted to stop looking, but was somehow unable to tear his gaze away. What the hell could have done this, he thought. It wasn’t the cats. Even if they could somehow get inside the apartment they would never be able to inflict this kind of damage. It looked like the rat had been hit with something hard. A blunt object.
Suddenly he didn’t want to be here anymore. Even so, he hesitated for a moment. Should he pick the thing up and dispose of it? Rats were vile, filthy things full of disease, even when they were alive, and the thought of returning downstairs knowing it was rotting right above him, separated only by the apartment ceiling, drywall and wood, gave Jack the creeps. On the other hand, something had killed the rat, caved its head in, and that would take quite a bit of force, and in a locked room no less. Was this the source of the twin thuds that shook his apartment and sent him up here in the first place? Had he heard the rat being dispatched?
If so, that meant someone must have been in this very room, despite all the evidence to the contrary. They might still be around, skulking in one of the other apartments on this floor. They could be watching him right now for all he knew.
A shiver ran up Jack’s spine.
It took him all of two seconds to make up his mind. He turned and fled, a tight knot of fear balled in his stomach. He reached the hallway and slammed the apartment door closed, eager to put something solid between himself and the grisly dead thing in the apartment. He hurried toward the stairs without bothering to lock the door. The place was empty anyway, so what could anyone steal? The moldy old roll of toilet paper? The rat?
When he reached the stairs he hurried down, not caring that the strike of his feet on the concrete steps echoed in the narrow stairwell. When he reached the floor below he almost ran toward his apartment, eager to slam the door and hide out.
Only he wasn’t alone.
Standing in the corridor was a slim, attractive woman with shoulder length brunette hair. She wore a thin white dress with a floral pattern, and held her hands across her waist, her fingers intertwined.
“Can I help you?” Jack briefly wondered if this was the intruder, the person who had dispatched the rat, but then decided against it. She was much too demure and waiflike. Besides, if she’d just killed a rat there would be some evidence on her dress, at least a spatter of blood or two, given the violent end the creature had endured.
“I heard we had a new tenant in the building,” she said. “So I thought I would come by and say hello.”
“Temporary tenant. Just until Emily returns later this month,” he corrected her. “I’m Jack.”
“Eliza.” She smiled and Jack noticed how young she was, no more than twenty-five years of age. “Pleased to meet you Jack. Mrs. Crantz told me all about you, and I just had to swing by and see you for myself.”
“Ah yes.” A thin smile touched Jack’s lips. “Mrs. Crantz.”
“She is a bit of a busybody, I’ll admit.” Eliza leaned on the doorframe. “But she knows everything that goes on in the building.”
“I bet. Maybe she can tell me who is running around on the sixth floor killing rodents,” Jack said.
“What?” A flicker of concern crossed Eliza’s face. “Oh dear.”
“It’s probably nothing. Someone caught a rat in the apartment upstairs.” Jack tried to make light of the situation, not wanting to scare her.
“I hate rats. Such vile creatures.” Eliza shuddered. “At least we won’t have to worry about it paying us a visit in the dead of night now.”
“I suppose not.” Jack glanced toward the door, eager to go inside. Under normal circumstances he was all for passing the time with an attractive young woman, but right now, at that very moment, he felt ill at ease. The image of the rat, head smas
hed in, white shards of bone poking through tufts of blood soaked hair, played over in his head.
Eliza may have noticed his mood, or perhaps she was already done, but either way she said, “I’m sure you’re busy. I’ll leave you in peace.”
“It’s fine.” Jack hoped he hadn’t offended her.
“I have to go.” She backed up, a wry smile on her face. “But I’ll see you again, no doubt.”
Jack closed the door and leaned against it, relieved to be back in the relative safety of the apartment. He stayed like that for a long while, listening to the empty silence in the corridor beyond, wondering if the rat killer was out there, creeping through the hallways looking for more hairy victims to dispatch. This sort of thing must happen all the time in these old buildings, he reasoned, otherwise the vermin would overrun the place. It was probably just one of the other tenants taking care of business.
Taking care of business with a hammer.
That thought made him shudder, so he pushed it from his mind.
It was only after his phone rang that he moved, the sudden sound making him jump. He snatched it up from the desk, almost spilling a half empty can of Coke in the process, and answered. He recognized the voice of his agent, Bob Thomson, immediately. How was he doing? Had he settled in? When would there be more pages?
Jack answered all of these questions with calm precision, and by the time he hung up he felt normal again, ready to work, as if Bob’s voice had put things in perspective, brushed away the cold fingers of paranoia that had gripped him so easily before. So he wrote, for the rest of the day and well into the evening. He didn’t even stop for food, only stepping away from the laptop twice. Once to pee, and once to get a cold soda from the refrigerator. In fact he was still writing like a mad man, the words pouring onto the page in a hailstorm of vowels and consonants, when the lights blinked out.
Jack sat there, the white light from his laptop screen the only relief from absolute darkness. He reached out and toggled the switch on the desk lamp, as if this small action would somehow restore things to their erstwhile state.
The Apartment: A Haunting in New York Page 2
