by Amy Cross
Heading over to the door, I peer out into the corridor and look both ways.
Nothing.
Just as I'm about to turn and go back to add something else to the note, however, I hear a faint clicking sound. Something moves in the corner of my eye and I look along the corridor, but there's still no sign of anyone.
Telling myself that I must have just imagined the whole thing, and that I'm being a little jumpy, I turn again and head over to the desk.
Almost immediately, I hear a sudden set of bumps from the corridor. I turn and look back out, but at that exact moment the bumps stop. I swear someone must be nearby, and that I just heard footsteps, and as I look both ways along the corridor I can't deny that my heart is racing.
“Hello?” I say cautiously. “Is anyone down here?”
The air-conditioning units are still humming, but apart from that there's no reply. And then, a moment later, I hear a faint scratching sound, as if something is running against one of the concrete walls down here in the basement area. I turn and look over my shoulder, toward the corridor's darker end, and the scratching sound persists for a few more seconds before stopping.
Spotting a switch on the wall, I reach over and turn the lights on. To my relief, the corridor instantly becomes much brighter, but there's still no sign of anyone.
A moment later the scratching sound returns, lasting several seconds before stopping again.
If I run back upstairs, I'll feel like a total coward.
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that I'm in the basement of a modern office building in the middle of London. I'm sure as hell not out in some remote, gothic hellscape, and I could scream and get hundreds of people running. Not that I've ever actually screamed before in my life, but it can't be that hard.
“Is anyone down here?” I call out as I make my way along the corridor. “I just came to ask about -”
Before I can finish, I hear the scratching sound again, and this time I spot something moving high up on the wall at the corridor's far end.
The movement and the scratching stop at the same time.
I stop too.
There's something up in the far corner, lurking in the only part of the corridor that still has any shadow. Whatever this thing is, it only seems to move once every couple of minutes, and even then it only really turns slightly. I wait, trying to convince myself that what I'm seeing is something totally ordinary, and then a moment later the scratching sound returns as the thing turns again.
Like a head, turning to look straight at me.
I open my mouth to ask what's wrong, but then I quickly realize that whatever's up in the far corner is clearly not a person. At the same time, the thought of taking even one more step forward make me want to retch, as if fear is hanging in the air and reaching into my body. Still, I know I can't back down now, so I force myself to be brave. I start walking toward the far end of the corridor again, and this time I don't even stop when the scratching sound returns.
Finally, once I'm almost at the end, I look up into the shadows and feel a flash of relief as I see what's really lurking up there.
It's a camera.
It's an old security camera, and there's some kind of duct tape attached to one side. It's this tape that's scratching against the concrete wall every time the camera pans. I can't imagine why anyone left a camera up there, and it's pretty clear that the poor thing must have been forgotten long ago.
Is it possible to feel sorry for a camera?
I've got to admit that as I watch it turn again, and as I hear the slightly pathetic scratching sound, I feel as if this poor guy has been left all alone and unloved.
Spotting an old chair nearby, I pull it closer and then climb up so I can reach the camera.
“Hey, buddy,” I mutter, carefully taking hold of the piece of duct tape, and pulling it free so that it'll no longer scrape against the wall, “that thing must've been driving you crazy.”
The camera remains pointing at one of the nearby doors for a moment, before slowly turning until it's looking almost straight at me.
“No thanks necessary,” I continue. “I was glad to help.”
The camera stares at me, and I stare back as I wait for it to turn again.
Several seconds tick past, but this time the camera seems focused on my face. I'm sure it should have started turning by now, and I'm starting to think that maybe finally it's broken. Figuring that I'm probably just overreacting again, I decide to wait until the crazy little thing pans away, but after a moment I hear a faint whirring sound, almost as if some inner system is changing its focus slightly.
After a couple of minutes, I roll my eyes and walk away, heading back the way I came. When I get to the far end of the corridor, however, I look over my shoulder.
The camera is still watching me.
Chapter Ten
Rain is pouring down as I hurry from the bus. I don't have an umbrella, so I have to race along the pavement, heading for the brightly-lit police station ahead.
***
“And when did you last see her?”
“I told you,” I reply, as two other police officers lead a scruffy-looking guy past the desk, taking him toward a door at the far end of the reception area, “it was about twenty to one. We were having lunch and she got up to go talk to some random guy on the street and -”
“This is the guy she thought was filming the pair of you?”
I nod.
He makes a note on the form. I can already tell that he's not taking this very seriously, and I guess I can't blame him. I'm sure the police have a lot of things to be doing, and I doubt my story seems very important to them so far. At the same time, it's now over four hours since Chrissie wandered off halfway through lunch, and I'd rather overreact than sit around doing nothing while my friend might be in trouble.
“Did you see this guy?” he asks.
“I told you,” I continue, starting to wonder whether he's been paying attention at all, “I saw a guy with a camera.”
I feel a shudder pass through my chest. I should probably mention that I saw the guy earlier from the bus, but at the same time I don't trust myself. Better to stick to the facts that I know are true.
“And he was filming you? The two of you specifically, I mean.”
“I couldn't tell.”
“So he could have just been filming the restaurant?”
“Absolutely.”
“And did you actually see your friend interact with this individual?”
“No. The street was very busy, there were lots of people around and -”
“So she might have just gone to an appointment. Or maybe she bumped into someone she knew and went off with them.”
“She wouldn't do that. Not without telling me. We'd just ordered food.”
He makes another note on the form.
“Should I have come sooner?” I ask. “I left some messages for her, telling her to call me. I figured I should give her a little time, but I couldn't just go home and not do anything.”
“Miss Cassidy,” he replies, scribbling something at the bottom of the form before setting his pen down, “your friend has been absent for four hours. That's not exactly a vast, yawning chasm of time, and as for the lack of contact I would venture to suggest that perhaps the battery on her phone has died.”
“Sure, but -”
“And twenty-four hours have to elapse before a missing persons report can be filed.”
“I know that, but -”
“Do you know what I think? I think your friend met someone and decided to go off with him or her. Probably a friend or relative, or maybe just some cute guy. Is your friend attractive, Miss Cassidy?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Does she like men?”
“She... I guess, but -”
“These things happen,” he continues, interrupting me again. “She'll probably call you later and tell you how she was swept off her feet by a tall, dark, handsome man who took her out and wined her and di
ned her. Right now, she's probably sitting in a bar somewhere, drinking her second or third cocktail, and laughing at everything this guy says. She's probably completely forgotten about you, but I'm sure she'll call when she finally remembers she left you at that restaurant over lunch.” He smiles. “No offense.”
“Chrissie's not some kind of airhead,” I reply, trying not to sound too annoyed by his attitude. “She's my friend.”
“And your friend will almost certainly be in touch tonight, or tomorrow morning.” He sets the lid on his pen and puts it in a little pot, before sliding the form onto a nearby shelf. “If you still haven't heard from her by this time tomorrow, come back and we'll see if we can look into it a little deeper. But as much as you might not like to hear this, Miss Cassidy, it's not a criminal offense to ditch somebody over lunch. Seems to me, your friend just got a better offer.”
***
“Seems to me, Miss Cassidy,” I mutter angrily as I carry a bowl of cereal over to the sofa in my apartment, “your friend just got a better offer.”
Flopping down, still wearing my sweatpants after getting back from a post-work session at the gym, I take a mouthful of cereal before leaning back on the sofa and sighing. I swear my blood is still boiling, and I can't help thinking back to that police officer's smug face. He blatantly thought that Chrissie was just some floozy who'd run off with a random passing stranger, and I've got half a mind to put in a complaint about his attitude. Then again, now that it's been eight hours since I last saw her, I kind of hope she has just run off with some hot guy.
I mean, I'll kill her when she finally shows her face, but at least I'd know she's safe.
“Better offer, my ass,” I say out loud, before setting the bowl of cereal down. Somehow, I'm still not hungry.
Spotting my phone resting on the coffee table, I consider calling Chrissie and leaving another message. I've already left four, of course, and I'm still clinging to the hope that this is all a terrible overreaction on my part. Grabbing the phone, however, I figure it couldn't hurt to leave just one more message, and this time I'll really impress upon her that I'm getting worried and that she needs to call me, or at least send a message, just to let me know that she's alive. As I bring up her name on the phone, however, I start worrying that I'm being too clingy, so I toss the phone aside and lean back, filled with nervous energy.
“Damn you, Chrissie,” I whisper. “Next time I see you, I am going to...”
My voice trails off.
Sitting on the sofa, I stare at the window opposite. I'm on the tenth floor up here, and all I can see outside is darkness. When I first moved into this place six months ago, the next building along still had some offices being rented, but over time the lights in the windows have gradually gone out one by one, and now the block is empty. As I continue to stare at the window now, I can just about make out the faintest hint of the other building in the darkness, and I've got to admit that it's kind of spooky to think of those rows and rows of empty, unused spaces. I usually close the blinds as soon as I get home, but tonight I was too busy worrying about Chrissie and I forgot.
Now, hauling myself off the sofa, I wander over and grab the cord, ready to pull the blinds shut. For a moment, however, I peer out at the other building, and now I swear I feel as if somebody out there is staring right back at me.
In fact, I really feel as if I'm being watched.
I know I should close the blinds, but instead I continue to peer out at the next building. I can just about see the grid of dark windows, but of course all the lights are off. I look at each window in turn, trying to figure out exactly where this sensation is coming from, but of course I don't actually see anyone. Deep down, I know that I'm probably being paranoid, that I'm letting a few moments of weirdness start snowballing in my head, but at the same time I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.
Finally I reach over and switch off the light, plunging my living room into darkness. Once my eyes have adjusted, I'm able to see the building opposite a little more clearly, and I feel a cold shudder pass through my chest as I realize I can just about make out a dark human shape in one of the windows.
I squint, hoping to see the figure more clearly and find that it's just a trick of the light, but it's as if there's a man standing in the window directly opposite mine. I can't make him out very well, and he doesn't seem to have moved an inch since I laid eyes on him, and as I stare at him I keep telling myself that I'm wrong, that he's just a hat-rack or a filing cabinet with a weird shadow, or...
I wait a moment longer, before closing the blinds. Standing in darkness, I stay completely still for a couple of minutes before opening the blinds again. The figure is gone. Either that, or he was never there in the first place.
I can't lose my mind again. I won't let that happen.
Chapter Eleven
“Hold on, I'm coming!” I call out. “Hold on!”
Still a little bewildered and dazed after being woken, I glance at the clock as I clamber out of bed. It's 3am and I was fast sleep, but now someone's knocking on my front door and although it occurred to me that maybe I should just pretend I'm not home, I finally realized that maybe something's wrong, or even that Cassie might have shown up.
“I'm coming,” I mutter, slipping into my dressing gown as I head through to the hallway. Peering through the peep-hole in the door, I'm surprised to see a little old lady outside, and a moment later she bangs on the door again.
Figuring that I have to at least see what she wants, I slide the bolt and chain across before pulling the door open. The light in the hallway is a little too bright for my sore eyes.
“I'm so sorry to wake you dear,” the old woman says, smiling at at me, “but do you by any chance know how to pick a lock?”
***
“And then wiggle the pin,” I read from my phone's screen, before turning and looking at the hairpin that I've inserted into the lock on the woman's front door, a little way along the corridor from my own apartment. “Just keep wiggling, I guess.”
I do as the wiki page suggested, but to be honest this feels like a fool's endeavor. I find it very hard to believe that a simple hairpin is going to help me get this woman's front door open, and frankly I think I'd be a little worried if I thought that anyone could gain access to any of the apartments in this building simply by poking the lock for a while. Still, I keep trying, if only so that I can legitimately tell her that I've tried my best when I inevitably give up.
“I feel so foolish,” Doris says for the third or fourth time since she woke me. “I really should get another set of keys cut, but I never seem to find the time.”
“It's quite alright,” I reply, still wiggling the pin, still wiggling the pin, still not having any luck. “I'm really not sure this will work, though. Did you try calling the building superintendent?”
“Oh, I thought about that, but I didn't want to disturb him in the middle of the night.”
“But -”
Forcing a smile, I continue to wiggle the hairpin.
“You must think I'm a dreadfully silly old fool,” she says. “I'm usually not this forgetful. I've seen you a few times, going in and out of your apartment, and I always thought that you've got a very kind face. So when I found myself in this predicament, I suppose I thought that you'd be the most likely person here to actually help me. Some of the other neighbors look so mean and scary.”
“I'm sure they're not,” I reply.
“But you're lovely, and so kind. So very kind indeed.”
“It's nothing,” I tell her, “but I really don't think I'll have any -”
Suddenly, before I can finish that sentence, I hear and feel a noticeable click in the lock. I freeze for a moment, before looking back at my phone and realizing with a rush of relief that I might actually be making progress. After double-checking the instructions, I twist the hairpin around and then lift it slightly, and then to my utter surprise I feel another click. Grabbing the handle, I give it a turn and push, and finally
a miracle happens. The door starts to swing open, and I'm left on my knees, holding the hairpin and feeling just a little impressed by my own efforts.
“Oh, you've saved me!” Doris says, kissing the top of my head before shuffling past and heading into her apartment. “I thought I'd never get back in! Thank you, thank you!”
“You're welcome,” I reply, still a little stunned that I got the door open, and also a little worried that it was so easy. Getting to my feet, I figure I should just go back to my own place and get some sleep, but a moment later I hear Doris yelling at someone in one of the nearby rooms.
“Do you ever wear your hearing aid?” she shouts. “What's the point of it if you just leave it on the arm of the chair?”
Taking a step into the hallway, I look through and see that she's handing something to another old woman, who looks to be just waking up in a large old armchair next to the window.
“What?” the other woman stammers, before Doris presses something against her ear. “You don't have to shout! I'm not deaf!”
“Of course you're deaf, Irene,” Doris replies, rolling her eyes as she turns and shuffles back over to me. “The daft old thing can't hear for toffee, not without her hearing aid in. I was banging on the door for ages before I came and troubled you, and she was just dozing happily in her chair without a care in the world.”
“I was not!” Irene calls out to her. “You must have been banging on the wrong door! Why'd you get yourself locked out, anyway? What were you doing up and about at three in the morning?”
“Oh, never you mind that,” Doris says with a sigh, pushing the front door shut behind me just as I was about to head back out into the corridor. “My sister can be a little irascible sometimes. There's nothing one can do about her temperament, I'm afraid. It's just her character, and she's been that way since birth. Well, for as long as I can remember, anyway.”
