Apartment 14F: An Oriental Ghost Story (Uncut)

by Saunders, C. M.

  He stared at the hair for a few long seconds, remembering the horrific dreams of being suffocated in his bed that he so often had, as water ran off his body and gathered in a little puddle at his feet. Then, not wanting to touch it with his bare skin, he got a handful of toilet paper and used it to pick the hair up from the washbasin.

  Even as he flushed it down the toilet and watched as the water swirled around and carried it away, he somehow knew on a primal level that it was, or would be, significant. The mysterious nocturnal noises, the misplaced hair, the strange dreams, there was just too much weirdness.

  These things had to be connected somehow.

  Was his subconscious mind playing tricks? Or was something not of this world trying to send him a message? If so, why?

  And what did it want from him?

  Chapter 3

  After that initial encounter, if you could call it that, Jerry began to see his uninvited guest regularly. Or at least, he thought he did. He could never really be sure. It all got very confusing. He would often catch glimpses of movement out of the corner of his eye, usually when he was preoccupied doing some menial task like getting changed, showering, cooking dinner or fussing over his work notes. But when he turned to look, there would be nothing there.

  Within seconds, a seed of doubt would creep into his mind and grow until he convinced himself he was imagining things, even though deep down, he knew he wasn't. He supposed it was some kind of natural defence. When confronted with the inexplicable, the irrational, or the supernatural, the human body, in all its infinite wisdom, tries to rationalize matters as best it can as a sort of coping mechanism, bending the facts and distorting the truth in order to coerce you into seeking and accepting plausible explanations, however improbable they may be, so you wouldn't be forced into facing the impossible.

  When he went looking for the phantom figure he never found anything out of place, even though he must have searched every inch of the apartment a hundred times. The only thing he found that didn't belong there was a discarded airplane boarding pass, which he found stuffed between the cushions of the sofa one afternoon.

  The crumpled boarding pass featured the letters, “Mr C. ROWE, GNV FLA – PEK” and had probably belonged to the last tenant, the guy who'd gone back home in such a hurry. Jerry didn't know why he did it at the time, but sensing the boarding pass might be significant in some way, he put it in his desk drawer for safe keeping.

  When he wasn't wasting his time fruitlessly searching the apartment, Jerry spent endless hours sitting in the living room or on the edge of the bed, heart thudding and mind racing, willing his unseen roommate to come out of hiding and show itself. If nothing else, just to prove that he wasn't going insane. A few times, he had even laid down verbal challenges by asking the time-honoured phrase, “Is anyone there?”

  What else are you supposed to say?

  The sound of his weak, trembling voice echoing around the empty apartment only served to exasperate the sense of foreboding and general unease. It also made him feel decidedly stupid, and doubt his own sanity more than ever. Even if a ghost was 'there,' there was no guarantee it could speak English. Unless ghosts were unhindered by such trivial matters as language barriers.

  Regardless, the entity never appeared.

  In those early stages, Jerry never actually saw anything more substantial than fleeting images, but he quite often felt her presence. That was how he suspected, no, knew, that the entity, whatever it was, was female.

  The episodes usually occurred when he was at his desk in the corner of the bedroom where he'd set up his trusty laptop computer, working late or sending emails to people back home. A sudden chill would settle over him despite the clammy warm seasonal weather, and he would sense somebody standing over him, so close that he was almost able to feel their breath on the back of his neck.

  The sensation was so strong, so intense, that it rendered him momentarily paralysed, frozen with terror as invisible tendrils squirmed their way up his back making the hairs on his neck and arms stand on end. When he finally found the courage to turn around and look, there was no one there. At least, no one he could see.

  Sometimes, these visitations, as he came to know them, would be accompanied by the light scent of perfume or fresh flowers. Needless to say, Jerry didn't wear perfume. Neither was he in the habit of keeping flowers.

  And there were other, more tangible things. As well as the occasional unexpected power-cut, the lights in the apartment were perpetually flickering. Once, all the light bulbs out at the same time forcing him to call Yin Tao to help him replace them all. At first he put this down to power surges or faulty wiring, but after a while he wasn't so sure. He remembered reading somewhere that flickering lights were indicative of classic poltergeist activity.

  Something else indicative of poltergeist activity was household objects randomly disappearing, or being moved around by unseen hands. In this case it was his apartment keys, mostly. They never seemed to be where he left them, and after a prolonged search they usually turned up in the most unexpected places. Underneath his pillow, in the food cupboard, on the balcony floor. Once, he found them in the front pocket of a pair of trousers he hadn't even been wearing that day. It didn't happen very often, just once or twice a week. But it happened enough to be a growing concern.

  The first couple of times, Jerry blamed his own absent-mindedness. Then, he thought his mind was playing tricks, and probably clung to that explanation far longer than was necessary. Finally, he was forced to seriously consider the possibility that the spontaneous key moving might be tied in with the other inexplicable occurrences.

  The only other answer was that he was going mad, and that frightened him more than any paranormal activity. To be a stranger in your own skin, not knowing if what was happening around you was real or imagined. To lose your grip on reality, leave the material world behind and retreat into the dark confines of your own mind, sink into yourself without a trace. Now that was scary. Jerry would much prefer to encounter a whole troupe of ghosts, demons, werewolves or salivating vampires than submit to insanity.

  It was in his nature to confront his problems head-on, it always had been, and he was quite proud of the fact. Running away or hiding, burying your head in the sand and ignoring your troubles instead of sorting them out, never did anyone any good. At best, it only served to prolong the inevitable. This was a trait he picked up from his dear old granddad, God rest his soul. One of his favourite sayings had been, “Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.”

  Apparently it was a quote by one of the great artists. Pablo Picasso?

  All things considered, after only two months of living in apartment 14F, Jerry thought he understood why the person who had this job, this apartment, this life before him, saw fit to suddenly run off. They must have been experiencing the same unnatural catalogue of events and been terrified out of their wits by it all.

  If he was that way inclined, if his damned pride didn't keep him there, Jerry wouldn't hesitate to do the exact same thing. Fuck the job. He had a return plane ticket, he would just bring the date forward and stay at a hotel until he could fly.

  It was tempting. But no, running away and leaving the problem for some other unsuspecting chump to sort out wasn't the answer. It was a coward's solution. Granddad would hate him for it, and Pablo Picasso probably would to. This was his apartment now, and his responsibility. The only thing to do was solve the mystery and find out what this thing wanted.

  On a whim, one evening Jerry decided to try and find out more about the elusive Mr. C Rowe, the previous tenant. He wanted to at least know if Mr. Rowe had experienced the same things in apartment 14F as he had, and what he had done about it before riding off into the sunset.

  But where to start? How on earth could he find him?

  Jerry turned on his laptop and while he waited for it to kick in, opened his desk drawer and fished out the boarding pass he had found. Mr. C. ROWE
, GNV FLA – PEK.

  The first part was obviously the guys name, and PEK was Peking, also known as Beijing, the destination airport. That meant that the remaining group of letters had to be an abbreviation of the airport from where Mr. C Rowe had embarked on his journey. A quick Google search revealed the letters GNV FLA stood for Gainsville, Florida, US.

  So far, so good. At least now he knew where the guy was from.

  Next, he Googled C. Rowe, Florida, US. The first few results were for a real estate agent by the name of Carl Roe that was operating in Fort Lauderdale. Jerry was pretty sure that wasn't the guy. But halfway down the page, were details of several Facebook accounts under the name of Rowe. At last, a constructive use for social networking.

  Jerry tried to access one of the Facebook accounts but was unable to see the users full profile. Evidently, they had adjusted their privacy settings to discourage hackers or malicious strangers from garnering valuable personal information about them. He fingered the crumpled boarding pass and thought for a moment. What now?

  Then he had an idea. He opened his own Facebook account and requested to join the Florida network and several Florida groups, which he hoped would enable him to see the profiles of other members. With any luck, Mr. C Rowe would be one of them. It was early evening in Beijing. China being thirteen hours ahead meant it was morning in Florida. The group administrators should be online already, or would be very shortly.

  It must have been Jerry's lucky day for once, because within minutes, one of his requests was granted. Despite never having been to Florida in his life, he was now a member of the Florida network, and wasted no time in scanning it for any members called C. Rowe.

  The search turned up only two results. One was a middle-aged woman, leaving just one. A Chris Rowe. The picture showed a smiling twenty-something in a graduation gown and cap. Jerry clicked on the image and it took him to a profile page, after that he went directly to 'send message' and, as he still wasn't sure if this was the right C. Rowe, sent a brief email asking if the owner of the profile had ever been to Beijing. If so, Jerry continued, he had something very important to discuss and could he please contact him as soon as possible. That should do it.

  He waited a few minutes to see if the message status turned to 'read.'

  It didn't.

  Jerry was going to leave it at that. But then, curiosity got the better of him and he decided to take a quick look at Chris Rowe's wall, where people left personal messages visible to friends, friends of friends, and crucially, other people belonging to the Florida network.

  He immediately felt a twinge of guilt. This was snooping of the highest order, like opening someone else's mail. But these were exceptional circumstances. Jerry's life, or at least his sanity could be at stake. Any feelings of guilt were banished when he saw what was written on Chris Rowe's public wall. What he found there filled him with dread.

  Hi Chris, How is China?

  Chris, are you OK?

  Hi C, are you without internet, or just being ignorant, lol!

  Haven't heard from you in a while, please get in touch to let us know you are OK.

  Calling Mr Rowe!!!

  Chris, Why don't you answer me?

  Why are you ignoring everybody? That's not cool, bro.

  People are worried, please GET IN TOUCH

  Spoke to your parents, they called the place where you work over there. They said you had already left to come home? So when do you arrive?

  Helloooo? WHEN DO YOU ARRIVE???

  Chris?

  The last wall post was dated just over two weeks ago, and there had been no activity since. According to the information the school had supplied, Chris Rowe had left between two and three weeks before Jerry's arrival, which would make it around two months ago. But, obviously he'd never arrived home.

  Jerry suddenly felt sick to his stomach. If the guy wasn't in Beijing, and he wasn't back in Gainsville, Florida, then where the hell was he?

  Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. He knew nothing about this Chris Roe. Perhaps the guy was a free spirit who simply decided to take an unplanned holiday somewhere, without telling his friends or family. People do that, don't they? Or maybe he owed money to some gangsters and wanted to 'disappear.'

  As much as Jerry tried to convince himself otherwise, both scenarios seemed highly unlikely.

  After pondering things for a while longer, he decided to put his computer to some practical use and started surfing the internet for news stories relating to the mercurial Chris Roe. A few of the larger Chinese newspapers had English-language websites with searchable databases, but he could find nothing relating to the missing American whatsoever. Then he broadened his search criteria and looked for stories about this building. Again, the search drew a big fat blank. No grisly murders, no unexplained premature deaths, no strange disappearances. Not even so much as a single weird, out-of-the-ordinary story. Nothing that could possibly explain the strange set of circumstances he found himself embroiled in.

  This unusual in itself was unusual. An apartment block this old, this size and with this many tenants past and present, must have witnessed some kind of tragedy during its long existence. And if not an out-and-out tragedy, then surely some kind of strange or unsavoury occurrence, something that would leave a black mark somewhere. So Jerry searched deeper, spending the rest of the evening scouring every nook and cranny of the Internet he could find. Still, he found nothing.

  He did, however, come across some useful articles about the Chinese media in general, which might go some way to explaining the sheer lack of useful news stories. All news media in China, from newspapers to television and radio, is state-run. This means that the government carefully monitors the flow of information received and then thoroughly censor it before allowing it into the public eye.

  The Ruling Party are very selective about the material they make available for public consumption. Not just to their own citizens, but the wider international community resident in the country. When in China, you played by her rules. Most of the sanctioned material was made up of feelgood stories about how China was booming and destined to become the world's next superpower, and how proud its citizens should be of their country's great achievements. This and endless guff about perceived national heroes, the merits of justice, and always doing the 'right thing.'

  Jerry soon realized that where the Chinese media is concerned, you rarely found what you might call negative news about 'the Motherland'. Stories about murder, rape, serial killers, armed robberies, or people going insane and butchering whole families, things that sell copy in the West, were buried or simply left unreported in China, even though things like this must happen on a daily basis. Instead of being thrust into the public domain for people to sneer at and judge, disturbing stories like that were largely covered up.

  Maybe this highlighted the more negative aspects of Western culture than Eastern culture. Chinese people were sheltered from the harsher truths and wrapped in cotton wool their whole lives, while the equivalent media turned their Western counterparts into vultures and gore-junkies, eager to gorge themselves on other people's tragedy and misfortune. People were born into one of two extremes.

  All this led Jerry to conclude that even if something terrible had befallen Chris Rowe, the chances were that he wouldn't get to hear about it. It wouldn't be reported anywhere in the national media, and certainly not the English-language media that was accessible to judgemental foreigners who may then draw unfair assumptions about the Chinese based on what they read. It simply wouldn't be the kind of story that supported and reinforced the national image at this critical time in its history. At best the story would be marginalized, or worse, buried. And what could possibly make a vengeful spirit (if that was what it was) angrier than being completely ignored? Your life deemed worthless, your death brushed under the carpet and not worthy enough to fill even a few lousy column inches.

  Despite the dead end, Jerry couldn't shake the feeling that h
e was on to something. The sudden disappearance of Chris Rowe, the strange goings on in the apartment. The dreams, the flickering lights, the moving shadows and smells. All this damned weirdness simply had to be connected somehow. Had his predecessor been murdered? Did his restless ghost now haunt his old apartment?

  No, that couldn't be it. Jerry was quite sure his tormentor was female. Then what could be happening? Nothing about it made any sense.

  At some point in the evening, he wasn't exactly sure when, he began trawling the web for information on ghosts, spirits and other unexplained phenomena. Predictably, his search was hindered by the Firewall, also known as the Golden Shield Project, the system set up by the Chinese government in 1998 to regulate and monitor public Internet use. Primarily, the system blocked access to porn sites and anything deemed controversial or politically sensitive. But unfortunately, this philosophy also extended to some international news sites and even popular resources like Wikipedia and YouTube. More pertinently, as a result of a blanket ban on 'horror', they'd also started blocking sites of a paranormal nature.

  The Internet, however, is simply too big to be governed by a bunch of uptight suits and despite the Firewall, Jerry was able to uncover a deluge of information. Website after website detailed personal experiences, testimonies, investigations, experiments, various thoughts and theories.

  It soon became apparent that some people devoted their entire lives to this stuff, seeking and recording stories, forming opinions, and laying them out in online forums. Whereas at one time these people might be branded off their rockers and marginalised, the Internet now provided a platform for all kinds of controversial views. No matter how subversive or outlandish your beliefs, you had the ability to not only find, but connect to and converse with like-minded people all over the world. Surely, all these believers couldn't be wrong. There had to be at least a grain of truth in the paranormal.

  Jerry was a practical man. He believed in what he could see, what he could touch. Five senses. As a rule he didn't believe in ghosts, but that wasn't to say they didn't exist. He couldn't see carbon dioxide either, but he knew it existed. And he was humble enough to acknowledge that there were many, many things in the world he didn't understand. Life was one long learning curve, and there would always be more unknowns. He would be willing to accept that ghosts were real if he had just one shred of proof. Something tangible. But there was none.