Apartment 7C

by David Bernstein

  “How was that?” he asked, proud of himself.

  Beth wanted to scream. The individual before her was evil. A true psychopath. “You’re sick,” was all she could muster.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he continued. “I’ll miss the bitch. Miss having my bed made, house cleaned, food ready when I come home, and my cock sucked whenever I demanded it. She was a great cocksucker. Could fit my whole package in her tight little mouth. Got her to stop gagging after the first few times. At first it was the size, you know? I’m rather large. But then it was the taste of another cunt’s cunt on my cock that she had to get used to. Nothing better than coming home with a dirty dick and have your wife clean it off.”

  Beth was speechless.

  “That bother you, Mrs. Baker?”

  She couldn’t stay there any longer. Couldn’t listen to any more of his filth, his lies, although she knew they were most likely true. She turned to leave, needing to get out like a diver needing to come up for air.

  “And that’s why I’m going to get you,” he told her.

  Beth stopped, his words sending a chill down her back.

  “You took my woman, my bitch, my personal whore. Now I’ll have to start over. Get a new one. Spend hours searching through records until I find the perfect whore to make my own. Some pretty loser with no family. And while I do that I’m going to destroy you.”

  Furious, Beth spun around to face him.

  “You’re going down, you bastard. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “A challenge? I like that. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, get the fuck out of my house!” he roared, and Beth quickly did.

  Chapter Five

  An hour later, Beth was pacing in her living room, wondering what the hell she was going to do, when a knock on the door startled her. She let out a breath, clutching her chest. It couldn’t be Carl. There was still police activity in 7C. She went over to the door and looked through the peephole.

  A man wearing a tan trench coat and sporting a five o’clock shadow stood outside the door. He was holding a small notepad and appeared bored.

  “Who is it?” Beth asked.

  “The police, ma’am. Just need to ask you a few questions.”

  Beth wondered if Carl had sent one of his buddies over to talk to her, see what she would say.

  A uniformed officer walked behind the man, heading to apartment 7C. With others around, Beth felt more relaxed about opening the door, and did so.

  She met the officer’s eyes. They were hardened from years on the force. They weren’t cold or calculating like Carl’s, but that didn’t mean the guy was okay. The man before her might be one of Carl’s close buddies, maybe even his partner. And if it was one of Carl’s cronies come to check on her, then she needed to play it cool.

  “Hello, ma’am,” the detective said, unsmiling.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re going door to door on this floor, speaking to the residents. See if anyone might know something about what happened.”

  “What did happen? I heard she shot herself with her husband’s gun.”

  “I can’t get into specifics, ma’am. But a woman is dead over in the next apartment. Can you tell me anything about her, or her husband?”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but I recently moved into the building. I didn’t know the woman very well. A shame really, a pretty young woman doing that to herself. She must’ve been awfully sad.”

  “So you didn’t see anything?”

  Beth shook her head. “Nope. Just heard a loud bang, like someone popped a balloon.”

  The man nodded slightly.

  “So you didn’t go next door?” he asked.

  Beth’s heart, which was already beating fast, pounded harder. Was this guy testing her? Did he know she was next door? Had Carl said she was? Her brain told her to tell the truth, but she didn’t.

  “No. Like I said I figured the loud bang was a balloon or a dropped encyclopedia.”

  “Dropped encyclopedia?” the officer asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Yeah.”

  The man stood there, saying nothing, as if studying Beth.

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m still a little shook up over the fact that my neighbor is dead and I’d like to get to sleep. So is that all then?”

  “I thought you didn’t know Mrs. Bradley.”

  “I didn’t, but wouldn’t anyone, especially someone my age, be upset over knowing their neighbor committed suicide by blowing their goddamn brains out?”

  “Relax, Missus…”

  “Baker.”

  “Relax, Mrs. Baker. No need to upset yourself.” He looked at the blank notepad in his hand. “Well I guess that’s all for now. Have a nice night.”

  Beth closed and locked the door. She then fell against the nearby wall and slid to the floor, trying to catch her breath and calm down. Damn, she thought, and slapped the floor, angry with herself. The detective hadn’t given her his name. Didn’t officers usually do that? Say, “Hello Ma’am, I’m Officer So-And-So.” They always did on television. More proof that the guy was one of Carl’s cronies? Had the man not given his name or shown his badge so Beth couldn’t ID him other than by face? Frustrated and frightened, Beth put her head down and sobbed.

  Twenty minutes later, she was sitting at her kitchen table. Her hands cupped the sides of her head as her mind raced with images of Alice, Don, Marcy and Carl. All of their faces swirling together.

  She got up and waited by the stove while water boiled for tea.

  Grabbing a mug from the cabinet, Beth attempted to pour the hot water into the cup and wound up spilling almost as much as went in. Making her way carefully back to the table, she sat, holding the hot cup of tea with both hands, the warmth inviting, secure. But as she brought the mug to her mouth, her hands trembled, splashing the hot liquid over her fingers.

  Every time she closed her eyes she saw an image from 7C’s kitchen: Marcy’s slack, dead face. A blink, then: the wall splattered with brains. Another blink, then: Marcy’s dead face again. This went on for a while, shaking Beth to her core. She needed to cry, but for some reason wasn’t able to.

  Chapter Six

  Beth had been too late again. First with her own daughter, then with a stranger. Maybe it was her fault Marcy killed herself. Did she push the woman too much? Send her over the edge? No. That was bullshit. Beth had tried to help. Marcy would’ve killed herself anyway, and if not, then Carl would’ve eventually killed her. Either event was bound to have happened.

  It was a morbid way to look at things, but why hadn’t Marcy taken Carl with her? Shoot the prick first, then off herself. But Beth supposed she knew the answer. Marcy wasn’t a killer.

  And neither was Beth.

  But she could have been, had she known her daughter’s life was in danger. She would’ve done anything to protect her child. So why hadn’t she?

  At least this time, with Marcy, it was different. Ultimately the same results, but it wasn’t on Beth this time. She had only recently moved into the building, and hardly knew the people in 7C. If she’d been living in the building longer, like some of the other tenants, then she’d feel worse. They should all be ashamed of themselves. Carl’s cop buddies too. Beth hoped they all rotted in hell.

  Marcy was dead. There was nothing more Beth could do for the girl. That ship had sailed, as the saying goes. But Carl, he was someone that Beth could do something about. He was still a danger to females everywhere. And he’d threatened her. Said he’d destroy her—a defenseless little old lady. What the fuck?

  How much time did she have before he came after her? A day? A week? A month? Beth needed to come up with a plan for dealing with Carl. Involving the police was out. She was on her own.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day she called a locksmith and had new, stronger locks put in as well as a bur
glar-proof security gate installed on the fire escape window. The building’s super had suggested she get a gate for the window—they were in Brooklyn after all, and anything can happen anywhere—but she shrugged it off. The neighborhood was nice and had a low crime rate, and with a policeman living next door she felt she’d be extra safe. Now, she had the best security gate money could buy.

  Pacing her living room after the locksmith left, Beth thought about what she had to do. She needed to take the offensive. Waiting around for that psycho to do something first was silly. But she couldn’t take on Carl, or even defend herself if the man attacked her. He might strike outside her home, while she was out shopping. And even with the top-of-the-line locks installed, she imagined he could find a way in if he wanted to.

  That night Beth slept uneasy, worrying about Carl and what he might do. Yes, she had new locks, and expensive ones too, but in reality they did little to make her feel safe from that maniac. Cops had picks and an assortment of other tools to help them break into locked places, and for all she knew, Carl might have illegal tools, ones that professional thieves used. Or maybe she was just being paranoid.

  After finally nodding off, Beth dreamt of Marcy coming to visit her.

  “Beth,” she said, appearing from out of nowhere in front of her as she lay in bed.

  “Marcy? I don’t understand. You’re alive?”

  Marcy didn’t answer. Instead she turned her head to the side, but when it kept going far past that of any human, Beth nearly screamed. The popping of sinew and bone erupted from Marcy’s neck, and before Beth knew it, she was staring at the back of Marcy’s head where the bullet had freed itself from her skull.

  “I must be dreaming,” Beth said aloud, cringing at the ghastly sight.

  Marcy turned her head back around, appearing normal again.

  “It’s up to you now, Beth,” she said.

  “Up to me?”

  “To stop Carl, and prevent him from hurting anyone else.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “You’ll figure out a way.”

  “Why’d you do it, Marcy? I could’ve helped you.”

  Marcy looked down, ashamed. “I regret it now, but what’s done is done.”

  “Oh, Marcy…” Beth said sadly.

  “I don’t have a lot of time. But you can’t let him hurt any more people. Do it for me, for all the women he’ll hurt, do it for your daughter.”

  “Alice. Have you seen—”

  “She’s at peace now. For a while she was a lost soul, like I am now. When Jim died, her spirit was healed. But she doesn’t like what’s going on here.”

  “Tell her I’m so sorry. That I should’ve done something. Anything. Please let her know.”

  “I will, Beth, but she’s angry too. Angry at Carl. It’s his fault I’m dead. It’s time for me to go now.”

  Marcy turned around and walked toward the far wall.

  “Wait,” Beth called out. “Don’t go.” She attempted to get out of bed, and wound up taking half the covers with her. With her feet tangled up, she fell forward onto the floor, bracing herself with her arms. A woof of air came out of her lungs and a sharp pain stabbed her right arm. She’d worry about the pain later. She needed to stop Marcy from leaving. Looking up, she saw the woman walk into the wall and vanish.

  “Come back,” Beth cried. “Please come back.” But Marcy was gone. Beth put her head down and fell into darkness.

  Chapter Eight

  Beth awoke on the floor, the bright morning sunlight shining through the windows. Her back was stiff and her right arm ached. A little confused, she pushed herself up. She must’ve fallen out of bed. The covers were draped along the side of the mattress and onto the floor, wrapped around her legs as if they had tried to stop her. She remembered the dream.

  Was it a dream? she asked herself, then shook her head. Of course it was a dream and a darn vivid one at that. But something gnawed at her. She had a hard time believing herself. A message from the grave then? No, that was ridiculous.

  Slowly, giving her back plenty of time to adjust, she made her way over to where Marcy had walked into the wall. No markings or ectoplasm.

  What was she doing? Beth laughed.

  “Look at me,” she said aloud. “How silly I must appear.”

  She went into the bathroom, popped a few Tylenol, and proceeded to the kitchen. Seeing the front door, she froze. It was wide open. She made her way over to it and inspected the doorjamb and the locks. No signs of tampering—at least that she could tell.

  Had she left the door open last night? No, she clearly remembered locking it when she came home from the grocery store. It was an automatic procedure to lock the door after coming inside. Marcy’s ghost? Beth immediately threw the thought away. Carl! It had to be Carl. He was screwing with her. Trying to scare her or make her think she was going crazy. She put her hand to her mouth. Maybe he had drugged her, and that’s why the dream was so vivid—the reason she had fallen out of bed.

  A little unnerved, but angry, Beth immediately headed over to 7C and pounded on the door until it flew open.

  “What the hell do you want?” Carl shouted.

  “I know it was you. You cops and your devices.”

  He grinned, looking pleased with himself. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I know it was you.”

  The sound of a door opening came from down the hall.

  “Please,” Carl said, his tone weary. “I’m just trying to mourn the loss of my wife. Leave me alone or I’ll call the cops.” He grinned again, then gave a wink and shut the door.

  Beth huffed, furious. She turned to see Mr. Henry peeking from his doorway.

  “What?” Beth said, irritably. “Where were you when he was beating his wife?” The man went back inside his apartment, shutting the door.

  Beth raised her arms into the air. Turning around in place, she said, “Where were any of you when he was beating her? You’re all cowards and should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  Lowering her arms and shaking her head slowly, she felt defeated, the anger leaving her body.

  Chapter Nine

  Over the next few weeks, Beth started losing it. Sleep was hard to come by with the constant threat that she’d wake to find Carl standing over her, holding a knife, or a pillow, or a gun, or maybe just his gorilla-sized hands. But for the three weeks since Marcy’s death, Beth hardly saw the man except for once in the hallway—in which he said nothing—and whenever she caught him walking by as she looked through the peephole.

  He’d been in and out of her apartment though. She was sure of it. Little things kept happening, like when the shower head came off, hitting Beth in the back of the neck. Or another time when she went to get ice from the ice-cube tray and dropped a piece. It shattered on the floor, and when Beth went to pick up the pieces, one of them cut her. On closer examination, she found that among the pieces of shattered ice cube were slivers of glass. She ran hot water over the ice cube trays, melting the ice, and found glass in almost all of the tiny compartments.

  It was nearly impossible to keep anything in her refrigerator without fearing it might’ve been tampered with. She called the locksmith back and had a lock installed on the fridge, but again it did little to make her feel secure. Her apartment door was almost always unlocked or open when she awoke in the morning. Items, like her novel or a porcelain statue, were placed in different positions on shelves, or found in areas of the apartment where she was sure she hadn’t left them.

  Carl was trying to drive her insane, or at least make her believe she was going crazy. Maybe it wasn’t even Carl himself that was screwing with her, but someone clearly under his orders. One of his cop pals? Or a C.I. that would do anything Carl wanted? This way if that person was ever caught in the act, Carl would be in the clear. But no. It had t
o be Carl. He beat his wife alone. A guy like that wouldn’t want any witnesses to his crimes. It was too big of a risk to involve anyone else in his endeavors.

  He’d had women to his apartment, Beth hearing their sexual sounds through the wall, as well as a few pleadings from the beatings he gave them. Why none of the women came forward to report Carl was a mystery. Maybe they were prostitutes and druggies, people that no one would ever believe.

  The one thing Beth knew for sure was that she had a fight on her hands. It almost would’ve been better if the guy just flat out attacked her. This slow, methodical torture was worse than any physical attack, making her question her sanity.

  Chapter Ten

  The restless nights continued, but at least there had been no more visits from beyond the grave. Marcy seemed to be expunged from Beth’s mind. She still had a clear memory of that dream which was odd as most dreams faded from memory shortly after waking. But a month to the day when Marcy killed herself, Beth had another ghostly visitor.

  Alice appeared before her as Beth dreamed she was sitting in her kitchen, the one she and Don had lived in before his passing. “Alice,” she said, overjoyed at seeing her daughter.

  “Mom,” her daughter replied, grabbing a hold of Beth’s arm. Her grip was strong, forceful, and Beth was frightened; not by the bruises on Alice’s face and neck, but by her demeanor.

  “Alice? What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “You have to listen to me, Mother.”

  “I’ve missed you so much, dear.”

  “I can’t stay long.”

  “Of course you can.” Beth stood to hug her daughter, but Alice resisted, holding her mother down. Her face looked grave, serious, causing the bruises on her neck and face to appear zombie-like.

  “You need to do something; Carl is a very bad man. Dangerous. He’s still hurting women. He’s even killed. Marcy had no idea what he’s really like. He takes junkies and prostitutes, kills them and dumps their bodies. He’s always on the cases, making sure nothing is ever found out.”