The Seance in Apartment 10

by Ambrose Ibsen

  10

  I awoke to a missed call and a few texts from both Julia and Annie. Neither had anything new or interesting to share, but simply wanted to see how I was doing. They'd returned to their families, and I could tell by the tone of their voices that they were wondering how I was holding up all by my lonesome in the empty, spooky apartment building.

  And, well, when I spoke to them, they must have heard in my flat replies that I wasn't doing so hot. “Why don't you break your lease and just move back in with your dad?” asked Julia. “It would make more sense than torturing yourself in that apartment all summer, don't you think? What's the big deal about this summer course, anyway. Just take it in the fall. It'll be easier then, since the semester's longer.”

  I talked the two of them down, assured them that things weren't so bad in the studio, even though I fancied I could still smell hints of old blood rising up from beneath the cheap rug I'd thrown down over the carpeting. A short while later, while I was getting dressed, I dodged a call from my dad, choosing instead to send him a text full of grinning emojis. If he'd known what had happened in here with Cat and the others, then he'd have been over in a flash, insisting that I leave the place. I wasn't interested in that.

  There was a part of me, endlessly stubborn, that wanted to make this work.

  Yes, the place was boring and barren.

  Something terrible had happened there that was going to take me some time to work through emotionally.

  I wasn't getting great sleep and was damned stressed.

  But even so, I was living on my own, and when classes started soon I knew I'd be happy to have this space. I'd nagged my dad for a long time to let me move off of campus and he'd only just budged. Things weren't great at the moment, but they'd certainly improve. And anything, I figured, was better than ending up back in the dorms next semester.

  I'd lived in the dorms for my first two years at college, and I'd hated them. It's no exaggeration. My first year I'd gone through two different roommates. The first, a girl named Naomi, had been hostile from the very get-go. She'd moved in all of her stuff before me and had “claimed” certain parts of the room for herself before I'd even had a chance to give my opinion. She used to tamper with my things, lived like a pig and stayed up late, which made it difficult for me to get better sleep. Requesting a transfer to a different dorm, I was assigned a new roommate, a friendlier girl named Amanda who'd been way too lax about the university's “No overnight guests” policy, and who often got frisky with her boyfriend at night while I fought to sleep across the room.

  My second year rooming assignments had been much the same, and I was beyond tired of having to deal with other people's shit. So, no matter what, I was going to stay in this shoebox apartment and I was going to find some way to make it work. There wasn't even a choice in my mind.

  Once I'd dressed and nibbled on a heel of partially stale bread for breakfast, I remembered the scene on the lawn the night before and decided it was as good a time as any to pay my downstairs neighbor a visit. I had no idea what I could expect, what this person would be like or if they would even be in. If in fact the person living in that apartment was the same one I'd seen outside my window, then there would be words; of that much I was certain.

  Stepping into my sandals, I walked out into the dim stairwell, the blocks of dusty glass that answered for windows aglow in the light of the sun. The day was cheerier, warmer, than the last few. Maybe, I thought, once I was done chatting up the neighbor I'd go for a walk and clear my head. Locking the door behind me—and taking care to do it with extra firmness—I started down the stairs and paused at the second floor landing. The number outside the door, laced in cobwebs, was “8”, and after a few seconds of hesitation I bucked up and knocked.

  There wasn't any immediate answer to my knocking, just some rustling from somewhere inside the apartment. It sounds like there's someone in there, I thought, biting my lower lip, but will they come to the door? When a minute passed, I knocked again. A little harder this time. Hands in the pockets of my shorts, I leaned against the stairwell railing and waited some more.

  Finally, from the other side of the door, there came the sounds of shuffling footsteps. By the sounds of it, someone was coming up to the peephole in apartment 8 to have a look at me. Standing upright and donning as firm an expression as I could muster, I stood before the door.

  The deadbolt was unlocked and the knob turned very slowly. Then, with the door swinging inward, the presumed tenant of apartment 8 looked out at me from beneath bushy white eyebrows. He was a stooped old man, an inch or two shorter than even my diminutive 5'4”, and he clasped his hands at the waist of his white T-shirt. Behind him, an oscillating fan distributed a pleasing breeze throughout his studio. I could make out a neat, twin-sized bed in the corner, a table stacked with books and several pieces of art—pencil drawings—on the walls.

  Clearing his throat and putting on a shaky smile, the old man said, “H-how can I help you this afternoon, young lady?”

  I was completely disarmed by this. Losing the plot for a minute, I took a step back and introduced myself. “Hello, there. M-my name is Tori. I, uh... I live upstairs. In Apartment 10. I, uh...”

  He nodded slowly, picking up the slack as I was at a loss for words. “Nice to meet you, Tori. My name is Ike. Don't get to know too many neighbors these days; they seem to pack up and leave before I even know they're here.” He gave a wheezing laugh. One hand against the door and the other slipping into the pocket of his khaki shorts, he cocked his head to the side. “Anything I can help you with?”

  Whoever I'd seen outside the building last night, it definitely wasn't this guy. There was no way. And so, I was in a damn awkward position. “Do you, uh... do you live here alone?” I asked. “This building in particular seems like a pretty empty place.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I moved here about ten years ago now, when my wife passed.” He patted the doorframe with an arthritic hand and grinned. “I don't need much space these days. It's small, but you can't beat the price.”

  “Right,” I said, smiling. “I know what you mean. Well, I... I was just coming by to say hello, and... I'm just looking to get to know the complex a little better. I just moved here a few days ago and I so seldom see other people around.”

  “Oh, I'd get used to that. If you want to see people, you've got to go into town. The folks who live in this complex are largely the kind who like to keep to themselves. Won't see much of them about the place, not in my experience. Then again, I tend to spend most of my time cooped up in here as well,” he guffawed. Looking back into his studio, he added, “Would you like to come in? I was just about to put on some afternoon tea. It's Darjeeling, if you're interested.”

  I couldn't think of any good reason to refuse, and if we're being honest I was just happy to be talking to another person who lived in my building. There was a certain camaraderie about it. I accepted his invitation and stepped into the apartment, sitting down on a small loveseat tucked opposite to the bed and looking at the walls. He had a few shelves of books, but above them, in black frames, were highly detailed and colored drawings of airplanes. There must have been a dozen in total, and the small table to my right, I noticed, was crammed not only with books, but with art supplies.

  Except for the décor, Ike's apartment was a carbon copy of mine. I basked in the air coming off of the fan while he moved into the kitchen to pour tap into an electric kettle. Fetching a few teabags from his cupboard, he plopped them into mugs and waited for the water to boil.

  “So,” I said, nodding to the art on the walls, “did you draw these yourself? They're great.”

  “Yes, they're all my doing,” he replied, blushing. “I fought in Korea as an airman, and ever since I've had those planes in my head. Just something to pass the time with.” He had to use two hands to steady the kettle, and as he poured the water into our cups, he splashed a bit onto the counter. I was going to get up to help him, but by the time I did so he was striding b
ack into the main room with two mugs in hand. I accepted one from him and gave the teabag a swirl, letting it take on a rich brown color. I'd never had Darjeeling tea before, but it smelled lovely.

  While waiting for the tea to steep—he liked his extra strong, he admitted—the two of us made casual chit-chat. He asked me what I was studying in school and then mentioned a sister of his—one year deceased—who had been a nurse for more than thirty years at a local orthopedic hospital. I stood up to have a look at his drawings, and he told me a bit about his service in the early 50's. He mentioned, too, the work he did in the decades after his enlistment ended. He'd worked as an accountant for a number of large firms in cities as far flung as New York, Dallas and Los Angeles. This building, he explained, had been chosen largely because it was close to where his childhood home once stood, and despite his having been well-traveled, he had a soft spot for old Moorlake.

  When the two of us had managed to drink some of our tea and I felt reasonably comfortable around him, I asked Ike about the person I'd seen standing outside my window, uttering that strange, droning groan on more than one occasion. Having lived in the building so long, he was sure to have seen or heard the individual at some point.

  Surprisingly, he had no clue what I was talking about. “It could be that my hearing has gone,” he said, chuckling, “but no, I can't say I've ever seen anyone like that outside. Odd. Maybe it was someone visiting a tenant in another building. These kids around here, I tell you, they sometimes get up to such debauchery. It's hot as sin, but the summer tends to be the most relaxing time of year here for me. It's quieter. There's no loud music, no college-aged fellows arguing. I remember being that age; men of that age have more youth than they can handle, I tell you. Always hollering and fighting. But in the summer, there's a good deal less of that. I rather enjoy it.”

  “I see,” I replied, feeling suddenly like an idiot. I massaged the back of my neck and took another sip of tea. “So, at the end of the semester people just move out in droves, huh? Are there any other people in this complex that've lived here for a long time like you?”

  Ike stroked a whiskered cheek and slowly crossed his legs. “Well, let's see. Yes, in building 1 there's a woman named Sandra who I've known for several years. She's very kind, brings me a basket of her home-made soaps every Christmas and sometimes stops in for tea. She and her husband have lived in a studio over there for a bit longer than I've been here, as a matter of fact.” He paused. “Oh, and of course there's Evelyn, in apartment 11.”

  He said the name Evelyn like I was supposed to recognize it, like I was supposed to go, “Oh, right, Evelyn, yes, we're very close, Evelyn and I.” The name didn't ring any bells, though. “Sorry?” I asked. “Who's Evelyn?” I balanced my empty mug between my knees, adding, “Apartment 11 in which building?”

  The man's eyes narrowed and he smoothed out his right eyebrow with a trembling finger. “Erm, this building, my dear. Upstairs.” He pointed at the ceiling.

  “But...” I shook my head. “But I was told that no one else lived in this building, except for the two of us. Unit 11 should be empty, as far as I know. I live in unit 10, and haven't heard anyone above me all this time.”

  Finishing the last of his tea, Ike set his mug aside and draped his arms over his lap. Leaning forward, he gave me a weird look. “No, no, not now, of course. She doesn't live there now. Eh... but she did, until just recently. Did... did Sheldon not mention...?” He wet his lips pensively. “The landlord, when you signed your lease, he didn't make any mention of... Evelyn?” He took my silence to mean that Sheldon had not. “Oh, dear.” He tossed his shoulders and laughed uncouthly. “Well, it's really no surprise, I suppose, that he would not have said anything. Poor lad is a decent landlord, has his hands full managing this property, and he's always hurting for money. Can't keep this place filled up and always has students skipping out on their leases, leaving him high and dry.”

  I was utterly lost. “Sorry, Ike... I don't follow. Who's Evelyn?”

  The old man gave a wave of his hand like he was trying to shoo away an invisible fly. “I'm not sure it's a grand idea for us to discuss it now, my dear. There is a time and place to discuss such things, but I think it would be in poor taste for me to gossip about the dead.”

  I gulped. “E-excuse me?” My scalp began to itch terribly and my ears got warm.

  Perhaps Ike surrendered what he knew because he felt bad for me, or because he wanted to cover the landlord's ass. It was possible, too, that the old guy just wanted to gossip. “Evelyn lived upstairs, in apartment 11, for about fifteen years. She was here when I moved in, and always kept to herself. I... I don't care to speak ill of the dead, but I will be honest with you; she was a queer woman. Not very sociable. In fact, she would often get into screaming matches with the tenants on other floors, who claimed that her carrying on night after night kept them awake. I don't know what she got up to in her room, as it was never my business and we were not much on speaking terms, but there were rumors. You know, the usual that is attributed to eccentric, single women of a certain age. Witchcraft.” He wiggled his fingers for a bit of hocus-pocus style emphasis. “She lived alone there, had no family that I know of. Or if she did, then they never stopped to visit. A strange woman.”

  “And... and what happened to Evelyn?” I asked. “How did she die?”

  Sighing, Ike lowered his voice. He even glanced around his well-lit studio, as if making sure that there was no one nearby who might be listening in. “That's a good question. According to Sheldon, the woman had paid her rent well in advance. On the first of every year she wrote him a check for enough money to cover twelve months of housing. Except for this last year, where she only made a partial payment. Perhaps she'd come upon hard times, or maybe she was looking into moving elsewhere. At any rate, she missed her rent at the beginning of May and Sheldon went a-knocking. He stopped by a few times but never did catch her at home. Or so he thought. When days had passed and he was going to have to start the eviction process, he decided to go up onto the fire escape and take a peek into her room.” His mouth sank into a frown. “That's how he found her. Hanging from the ceiling.”

  The mug I had balanced between my knees nearly fell to the floor. I clutched it, my pulse galloping in my temples and my vision getting a little spotty. “S-sorry? She... she committed suicide? In... in apartment 11?”

  Ike nodded gravely. “That's right. It wasn't so long ago. I remember Sheldon clambering down the stairs looking like he'd seen a ghost. He pounded on my door, begged me to use the phone. He told me what he'd found. Authorities came by to cut her down, absconded with the body—you know, the usual. There was no telling how long she'd been hanging there. To hear Sheldon tell it, the body was in a bad way, pretty well degraded, and the window had been closed, leading to the buildup of a terrible stink. It must've been months. She left no note, and no one is sure about why she did it. Like I said, she wasn't known to be close to anyone and didn't seem to have any family.”

  The color drained from my face. Though Ike had explained it all, I still struggled to make sense of this new information. A woman hung herself in the apartment above mine, not long before I myself had moved in. “W-why didn't I hear about this?” I asked, my voice marked more with confusion than outrage.

  “Sheldon is already hurting for money; being forthright about such things wouldn't help him fill anymore rooms.” His tone softened. “It's an awful thing, of course, but these buildings are old. The walls have seen a lot over the years. I doubt very much that Evelyn was the first to die in this complex. Please don't concern yourself over it.”

  Too damn late. I was more than a little concerned over it. Not looking to make waves, I sported a nervous smile. “N-no, of course. Of course.”

  That was the end of the visit, for all intents and purposes. I said my goodbye shortly thereafter. There could be no more chit chat about airplanes or the weather in the wake of that bombshell. My mind was reeling, and even as I left Ike's place and bega
n trudging up the stairs, my feet feeling as though they were encased in concrete, I couldn't get over it.

  A woman killed herself in the apartment above mine. A dead woman might have been hanging in there for months. What the hell?

  Making my way up the stairs absentmindedly, I looked to my door and found it sitting ajar.

  My heart nearly stopped. Again? I was certain—positive—that I'd locked the thing. I felt my stomach do a somersault and nearly purged the Darjeeling on the stairwell when I noticed something strange.

  This wasn't my door.

  Too lost in thought and simply climbing the stairs on autopilot, I'd gone up one extra flight, to the very top of the building.

  The door I was standing in front of was that which led into apartment 11.

  The dead woman's apartment.

  And the door was sitting ajar.

  11

  The inside of the apartment was dark. That was all I could say from the stairwell. The blinds were probably blocking out the sunlight. The air that seeped out from the crack in the door was scented in dust but nothing else—nothing like the gut-churning rot smell that Ike had alluded to.

  The smell of a human body, left to rot, in a sealed room.

  I shivered despite the warmth.

  Though the very thought of entering that apartment felt profane to me, I did so. I reached out, put my hand on the door, and pushed it all the way open, taking a step through the threshold once I felt sure that no boogieman would spring out. I'm not entirely sure why. It was curiosity, I guess, along with a flimsy feeling that no harm could come of walking into an empty apartment.

  The first thing I noticed—or, perhaps, looked for—was a crack in the ceiling towards the center of the room. There was a hole, where something, maybe a large screw eye, had once been inserted into a ceiling joist, and a good bit of the drywall surrounding it had fissured, probably due to some load that'd been left to hang there. My imagination could fill in all of the blanks.