The Apartment: A Haunting in New York

by Anthony M. Strong

  It didn’t.

  He looked out over the city and was surprised to see the windows in the surrounding buildings still lit up, so it wasn’t a power failure. That left only one other option. A breaker must have tripped.

  It appeared that he would have to go down to the basement, to the rows of fuses located near the back of the building. If he was very lucky it was just this apartment that was out, if he was slightly less lucky, the whole floor. Worst of all would be if the entire building was dark, which meant the master had been tripped and would need resetting. Unless it wasn’t a fuse at all, but something else, something worse, which would mean starting up the generator. He was not sure he remembered how to do that, even though Emily had gone over it with him. No point in worrying about that now though, not until he got down there and checked things out.

  He stood and stumbled to the kitchen, stubbing his toe on the side of a chair along the way. He opened the cabinet under the sink and retrieved the sturdy black flashlight he’d seen there the evening before. He clicked it on, relieved when the narrow beam of light fanned out across the room. The batteries were fresh.

  He picked his way back through the apartment, avoiding the chair this time – his toe throbbed enough from its first encounter – and stepped into the corridor, shining the flashlight in both directions.

  The hallway was empty.

  He padded toward the stairs. This time the elevator was not even an option, not that he would have taken it anyway. Apart from the clamorous noise the thing made as it descended, he still could not get the image of the cables snapping, the car dropping eighty feet before smashing itself apart in the very basement he was now heading toward, out of his mind.

  When he reached the stairwell he lingered at the door, his hand resting on the knob. All of a sudden he didn’t want to go down there. The thought of trudging down six flights of stairs, in a cramped space at night with the lights out, gave him pause. He was not even sure why he was the one responsible for getting the lights back on. Didn’t buildings like this one usually have a maintenance man, someone who got cheap rent in exchange for doing this kind of thing?

  Then it occurred to him that he was the maintenance man, and that he was, in fact, getting free rent for doing this. That still didn’t explain who would have taken care of it if he weren’t around. Surely Emily didn’t do this kind of thing herself. Either way, it was irrelevant. He would just have to suck it up take care of it.

  Taking care of business.

  The phrase popped back into his head, along with an image of the dead rat.

  Stop it, he chided himself, think of something else, something fun, like skiing on Copper Mountain after a fresh fall of snow, or drinking cocoa in the ski lodge next to a roaring fire.

  That seemed to work, if only a little.

  He cracked the door open and slipped through, the flashlight bobbing off the walls and ceiling as he started down toward the basement.

  He reached the landing below and turned the corner, his footsteps hollow and dull. The stairwell was cold, much colder than the rest on the building, and he wished he’d put his jacket on. He briefly considered going back, it was only one flight up after all, but that would mean plucking up the courage to enter the stairwell all over again, and it took nerves of steel to do it the first time. No, he would just have to suck it up and press onward.

  When he reached the second landing he paused to catch his breath. Only then did he hear it.

  A hiss.

  It was barely audible, but a hiss none-the-less.

  He froze, listening, his ears straining to detect the sound, to find out where it came from, but all was still.

  After a moment he breathed a sigh of relief. It must have been his imagination, or perhaps the wind pushing through a crack somewhere. He took a step forward.

  The hiss came again.

  This time there was no mistaking it.

  He swung the flashlight around in wild arcs, seeing nothing at first, but then the narrow beam picked out a shape in the darkness. Actually it picked out two shapes.

  Standing above him, hovering on the next landing up, stood the little girl with the rag doll, and next to her, a black cat with green iridescent eyes that caught the light and threw it back.

  He stumbled backwards, alarmed, his foot finding the edge of the stairs. For a moment he thought he might fall as his heel slipped. He teetered, neither on nor off the step, throwing his arms forward to regain his balance.

  The cat opened its mouth, wide and yawning, and emitted a long, drawn out yowl that made Jack’s skin crawl. The little girl, her doll clutched tight to her chest, watched as he fought with gravity, and then the flashlight beam slid upward, draping the pair in darkness once more. At the same time, with one last effort, he managed to arrest his backward momentum and stood shaking, his breath coming in large heaves, relieved that he was not laid flat on the next level down with his neck cocked at an unnatural angle.

  When he lowered the flashlight back to the spot where the little girl and the cat had been standing, they were gone, only empty space greeting him.

  Jack descended the rest of the way to the basement at a faster clip than before. Nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. It was just a kid and a cat, perfectly ordinary. Yet somehow he was afraid.

  He reached the ground floor, the door that blocked access to the basement, and fumbled to pull the ring of keys from his pocket, then found the larger brass key, the one he’d hoped he wouldn’t need, and inserted it into the lock.

  He swung the door inward and looked down into the darkness, which seemed a little denser, more cloying, than it should.

  Almost like soup, he thought, darkness soup.

  He stood at the brink of the basement, unwilling to cross the threshold into that dark place, knowing that he must. Then, after sweeping the flashlight around the lobby just to make sure he was still alone, Jack took the plunge.

  The basement was damp and frigid. By the time he reached the bottom of the steps, he could feel goose bumps breaking out over his arms. He glanced back up, toward the open door, half expecting to see the little girl there, with that doll held tight to her chest. She was not, which filled him with a fleeting sense of relief.

  He still had to get the power back on though, and that meant picking his way through the dank basement to the far wall and locating the main fuse. That should not be any big deal, after all, he’d been down here with Emily already and he didn’t feel nervous then.

  That was in daylight, with another person.

  Now he was alone in the dark, and somehow everything was just that little bit creepier.

  He edged forward, trying to remember the way. As he went he swept the flashlight back and forth, picking out objects that loomed from the darkness. There was a stroller with one wheel missing, which now sat tilted to one side, a pile of old paint cans, some with lids so rusted he doubted they would ever open again, and several objects under dusty tarps, none of which he could identify by their shape alone. He hurried past all these things, until he came to the far wall, and was relieved to see the large fuse box, its metal door already open as if was expecting him.

  It didn’t take long to locate the problem. As he suspected, the main breaker was in the off position. He reached out to flip it back to on, and at that moment the basement door crashed closed.

  Jack almost dropped the flashlight.

  He swiveled around, his heart racing, eyes searching the basement. He appeared to be alone, which was some small mercy, but what caused the door to slam shut? There was no breeze down here, and even if there were, he doubted it would have been enough to do that. It might have swung back on its own, but with such force? That didn’t seem likely. Maybe that damned creepy kid had followed him? He’d seen her in the stairwell not fifteen minutes ago, so it was not much of a stretch to imagine her creeping after him and doing something like that as a prank. She was probably laughing up in the lobby right now. That must be it, he reasoned, convincing himself.<
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  If he saw her mother again he would have something to say, for sure. In the meantime, he still needed to address the power situation.

  He turned back to the breaker board, reached out, and flipped the switch, relieved to see the bulb at the top of the stairs light up. Thank god it was just a breaker. At least he wouldn’t have to climb back up to the apartment in the dark.

  He pushed the panel door shut and hurried across the basement to the stairs, taking them two at a time, eager to be out of there. As he reached out to open the door, a thought flashed through his mind. What if it was locked? He would be trapped down here, and who knew how long it would be before he was found. A vision of his desiccated corpse, skeletal hand still clutching the knob, weaved through his mind. He turned the handle, almost convinced that he would end up a prisoner in the basement, but the door opened with ease, much to his relief.

  He entered the lobby, feeling sheepish all of a sudden for overreacting. In the cold yellow light of the incandescent bulbs set high in their sockets on the ceiling, his fear seemed just a little silly. Still, he wasted no time in getting back to the apartment, and when there, opening a beer and downing it in one, just to calm his nerves.

  The next morning Jack awoke to the chatter of a jackhammer somewhere on the street below, its rhythmic beat mixing with the vague sounds of honking horns and revving engines. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table.

  6 A.M.

  What in god’s name were they doing digging up the road at this hour? Come to that, why were so many people leaning on their horns? Not once in all of recorded history had sounding your horn ever made a traffic-jam go away, and yet people still blew them as if their particular horn was the one that might somehow achieve that state of vehicular nirvana.

  He turned over and wrapped the pillow around his head, pressing it into his ears, which only served to mute the sound. It was also uncomfortable, so in the end he crawled from bed, dressed, and left the apartment. It would do him good to get out for a while. There was a diner down the block, and a stack of pancakes, dripping in butter and Maple Syrup, just might get the creative juices flowing.

  And they did.

  By the time he left the restaurant, his belly full of pancakes, he felt rejuvenated and ready to write. This would be a better day. He could feel it in his bones. This was his day.

  He sauntered back to the apartment building and skipped up the steps. The jackhammer was still pounding the asphalt, but Jack no longer cared. He slipped inside the building and made sure the door closed behind him, Emily’s warnings about the big city echoing in his head.

  He turned toward the stairs, and there, standing in the corner near the basement door, half shrouded in shadow, was the same girl, with the same tattered rag doll in her hand.

  “Well hello.” Jack forced a smile, resisting the urge to flee. “You get everywhere, don’t you?”

  She stayed mute, her eyes boring into him.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked.

  If he was expecting a response he didn’t get one.

  “Okay then,” Jack said. He crossed the floor in the direction of the stairwell, all too aware of those eyes following his every move, pulled the door open, and entered. The feeling of unease had returned now, creeping back like an old enemy. The pancakes sat like lead in his gut. He glanced upward, took a deep breath, and started to climb.

  By the time Jack reached the fifth floor any humor left within him had dissipated. He stepped into the corridor with his breath ragged from the ascent and legs burning. He turned toward the apartment, and then stopped, his eyes picking out a familiar shape.

  In the middle of the hallway, right outside his door, was the dead rat.

  A feeling of dread came upon him.

  What was that doing there?

  He moved closer, never letting his eyes stray from the furry black corpse, hoping against hope that it was not the same rat, but rather another rodent that just decided to pass its last breath on his threshold.

  Only it wasn’t.

  Jack could clearly see the caved in skull, the blood, now dried and dark, coating the poor thing’s mangy fur.

  Someone had placed this here, put it there for him to find. Unless…

  Maybe one of Emily’s cats had picked the thing up, brought it down as a gift. He’d heard of cats doing that kind of thing. But for that to happen the cat would need to get into the upstairs apartment somehow, and the last time he checked, cats could not open doors.

  So that brought him back to the only logical conclusion. The rat had been left for him to find.

  “Dammit.” He muttered, stepping over the carcass into the apartment. He went straight to the kitchen, found a five-gallon trash bag under the sink – it was rather too big but it would do - along with a pair of yellow kitchen gloves, and returned to the scene of the crime.

  He pulled on the gloves, wrinkling his nose against the smell that wafted up, and reached down.

  The first time he tried, he could not touch it. He stood straight and took several deep breaths through his mouth, then bent over again.

  He grimaced and closed a gloved hand over the lifeless rat, scooping it up off the floor. Disgusted, with the pancakes rising in his throat and threatening to make an encore, he dropped the corpse into the trash bag. He stripped off the gloves, which joined the rat, and then twisted the top until he could tie the bag shut.

  He hadn’t used the trash chute yet, but it was easy to locate, tucked away within a tiny beige room at the far end of the corridor. Soon the whole package, rat, gloves and all, were speeding down to the dark depths of the building to join all the other nasty stuff. When he arrived back at the apartment he was surprised to find Eliza waiting for him.

  “Hello again.” She smiled, her eyes sparking despite the gloom.

  “Hi.” His own greeting was not quite so enthusiastic.

  “What’s wrong?” A worried look passed across Eliza’s face.

  “Just the damn rat again,” Jack told her. “Some joker decided to leave it outside my door.”

  “That’s awful.” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you got any idea who would do such a thing?”

  “Beats me.” Jack had his suspicions. “It was probably that weird kid with the filthy rag doll. She probably thought it would be funny.”

  “What, Katie?” Eliza shook her head. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Well someone put it there.” Jack opened the door. “Would you like to come in?”

  “I don’t want to intrude.” Eliza shook her head.

  “Nonsense. I don’t think I’ll be able to write anything of any consequence right now anyway,” he said. He didn’t want to be alone, not at that moment, and Eliza’s company eased his apprehension regarding recent events, the basement, the dead rat, and the creepy kid with the rag doll. She was also easy on the eyes, and he wasn’t complaining about that.

  “Well, alright then. Just for a short while.” She followed Jack into the apartment and looked around, her eyes wide with curiosity. “I haven’t been in here before.”

  “Really?” That was odd. Emily was the building’s owner, the landlord. It seemed like Eliza should have been in the apartment at least once or twice, if only to sign her lease or complain about a plumbing issue or some such thing. “That seems odd.”

  “Emily doesn’t like the tenants coming into her personal space. She says it is an invasion of her privacy.” Eliza wandered over to the picture window and gazed out over the city. “Most of us abide by her wishes.”

  “Most?”

  “There are a few who don’t heed her requests.” Eliza turned back to face Jack. “Not all the tenants are as nice as I am.”

  “I see.” A creeping, crawling sensation wriggled its way up Jack’s spine. There was something about the way she spoke, an edge to her voice, which set alarm bells ringing in his head.

  “I don’t think you do.“ Emily glanced toward the door as if she expected someone to appear, and then turned back
toward him. Her eyes alighted on the laptop, a sudden fire dancing in them. “Mrs. Crantz said you are a writer.”

  “That’s correct,” Jack replied. “Thrillers mostly.”

  “Can I see?” she said, her eyes widening. “I haven’t read a book in such a long time, but I used to read all the time.”

  “Sure.”

  She positioned herself behind him. “Well? Can I see it?”

  “Sorry.” Jack reached down and tapped the keyboard. The screen came alive, but something was wrong. The page on the screen should have been filled with words, but instead all it contained was one line. He frowned. “That’s not right.”

  “What?” Eliza leaned in.

  “This document, it’s wrong. This isn’t my book.” He read the words out loud. “I am watching you.” He looked up at her. “Someone must have come into the apartment while I was out and messed with my laptop. What the hell?”

  “Oh no.” Eliza backed away, a strange look upon her face. “I was afraid of this. I should have known.”

  “What were you afraid of?” Jack narrowed his eyes. “What do you know?”

  “Please don’t be mad.” Eliza was shaking. “It’s him.”

  “Him who?” Jack could feel the anger rising inside him like a black wave. Someone had entered his personal living space and fooled around with his stuff, touched his laptop. And what was with that strange message, I am watching you? Who was watching him, and why would they bother? Surely it wasn’t that creepy kid. “Tell me.”

  “Harold,” She gulped. “Harold Creach.”

  “Who the hell is Harold Creach?”

  “One of the other residents. He’s not a nice man, not nice at all.” She turned toward the door. “I have to go now.”

  “Now hang on.” Jack moved to block her path. “Just what exactly is going on in this building? Tell me.”

  “Just leave it. Trust me, you don’t want to make him mad at you.” She was at the door now. Her eyes flitted to the cell phone on the desk. “You should call Emily, tell her that you can’t stay here.”