Tenants

by Christopher Motz

  Contents

  Copyright

  Other Works

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  A Few Words About 'Tenants'

  About The Author

  First Edition

  Tenants © 2019 by Christopher Motz

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by RDB Interactive, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  OTHER WORKS

  THE DARKENING - 'THE GREAT RIFT' BOOK ONE (2016)

  THE FARM - A NOVELLA (2016)

  PINE LAKES (2017)

  BROKEN - A NOVELLA (2017)

  THE PIGEON (with Andrew Lennon) (2018)

  THE TRAVELER - 'THE GREAT RIFT' BOOK TWO (2018)

  ALSO APPEARING IN:

  COLLECTED EASTER HORROR SHORTS (2017)

  COLLECTED HALLOWEEN HORROR SHORTS (2017)

  100 WORD HORRORS: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR DRABBLES (2018)

  COLLECTED CHRISTMAS HORROR SHORTS 2 (2018)

  For our sweet Bethany...

  Chapter 1

  Linda Gianni stood in front of the Blackridge Apartments with a crumpled scrap of paper clutched in her hand. Of all the addresses she'd written in her notebook, the imposing brick structure on Delaney Street was the last on the list. She'd been waiting on the landlord for twenty minutes under a low, slate-gray sky, scanning the neighborhood for signs of life. A block away, a small pizza place stood out in the gloom, marked by a tacky, pink neon sign that appeared left over from the days of disco. The sidewalks were barren and most of the parking spaces along the potholed street were empty. This section of town had seen better days, but if there was anything going for it, it was the lack of traffic and almost eerie calm. The only sound was that of birds chirping in a nearby tree.

  She checked her watch and noticed it was nearing five o'clock; the landlord was almost a half-hour late. It would take Linda over an hour to drive to her parents' house in Scranton and she'd never been comfortable driving at night. Thick clouds had blocked the sun, painting the street in shades of muddy gray, and before long, Linda expected the fine drizzle to become a full-fledged rain.

  Five more minutes, she thought, checking her cell phone to make sure she hadn't missed the landlord's call. Instead, she saw a half-dozen texts from an unknown number. She rolled her eyes and sighed. It only took a second to figure out who they'd come from.

  WE HAVE TO TALK.

  CALL ME.

  WHY ARE YOU BEING SUCH A BITCH?

  I'M SORRY!

  GO TO HELL, LINDA!

  PLEASE CALL ME!

  The texts had been sent a minute apart, and all from her ex-boyfriend and current stalker, Christian Barnes. He was part of the reason she stood on this lonely street, miles from where she'd grown up. Christian had a tough time taking no for an answer and Linda's parents had grown weary of midnight phone calls and random knocks on the door. She'd dated him for three years when the relationship fell apart, but Linda soon discovered she was the only one playing by the rules and keeping her distance. Christian hounded her incessantly, filling her voice mail with hurtful messages followed by drunken apologies and professions of undying love. Every time Linda blocked his number, Christian would get another phone and pick up where he'd left off.

  After a physical altercation on her parents' lawn, Linda filed for a restraining order, but Christian wasn't taking it seriously. He saw it as a hurdle on their way to a happy reconciliation while Linda saw it as a well-defined punctuation mark on a three-year sentence.

  She deleted the messages and dumped the phone in her purse just as the streetlights buzzed to life, bathing the sidewalk in a yellow glow. She looked up at the apartment building and shivered; it loomed over the street, devoid of any noticeable signs of life. Peeling green shutters covered the windows on the ground floor; the seven floors above were dark and seemingly abandoned. Weather-worn bricks appeared black in the failing light.

  "Okay, pal," she muttered. "I don't have time for this."

  She stepped off the curb and walked to her Prius, digging around in her purse for the plastic Snoopy attached to the end of her keyring. A pair of white headlights cut through the fog as a sleek, black Lexus slowed and pulled into the empty parking space behind her. She raised a hand to shield her eyes, feeling naked in the harsh glare. The engine stopped and the lights went out as a man exited the driver's side door, whistling tunefully. He walked toward her as she blinked away the afterimages of the headlights; for a few seconds, she could only determine his location by the rhythmic tapping of his approaching footsteps.

  "Ms. Gianni?" he asked. "I'm sorry for making you wait, but I got tied up with something on the other side of town. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

  "No," she lied. "I've only been here a few minutes. You're Mr. Sterling?"

  "I am," he said, extending his hand, "but please, call me Albert... or just Al if you like."

  "Al," she repeated. "I'm Linda. We spoke on the phone." She shook his offered hand, taken aback by its softness and pleasant warmth. Based on this and his luxury transport, she assumed hard, physical labor had never been part of his daily routine.

  "Is the apartment still available?"

  "Absolutely," he said. Linda tried placing his strange accent. It had the hard edges of Germanic descent that had softened over time. "It's hard to find good tenants these days with the unfortunate state of our economy. People come, they look, they stay for a month or two, and I'm left holding the bag when they skip out on their last month's rent."

  "It's very quiet," she said. "Is it always like this?"

  "You're lucky to spot a dozen people this time of the evening. Some find it creepy while others find it rather charming. I'm one of the latter. Who wants to live in a neighborhood where crossing the street becomes a daily adventure? People come here to get away from the bright lights and loud parties. Everything you need is only a few blocks away: a clothing store, a grocery, a shop that sells cell phones and other gadgets. There are some wonderful restaurants in walking distance; I'd suggest Abruzzi's if you're in the mood for inexpensive Italian fare. There's a pizza shop just down the road, but I wouldn't recommend it." Al leaned closer and whispered, "They don't speak English."

  Linda nodded and smiled, casually glancing at her watch.

  "My apologies," Al said. "You're here for the apartment, and I'm prattling on about nonsense. Forgive me."

  "No, it's fine. I was just hoping to get home before dark."

  "Ah, you have someone waiting for you. Boyfriend? Husband?" he asked. His eyes darted to her ring finger and back up again.

  "No, nothing like that. I live with my parents at the moment," she said, embarrassed. "It's only temporary."

  "Understood. Sometimes leaving home is easier said than done."

  "Oh, it's not that..."

  "Would you like to see the room?" he interrupted.

  "Uh, yes. That would be great."

  Al Sterling hopped onto the sidewalk and approached the steep flight of concrete stairs leading to the front entra
nce. He stopped, bent, and snatched something from the sidewalk. He held it out and shook it between his thumb and forefinger.

  "My keys!" Linda exclaimed. "I was looking for those."

  "Good thing I found them, then," he said with a wink. He dropped them into Linda's outstretched hand and grinned. For the first time, she noticed how attractive Al Sterling was for an older man. His hair had been combed back and clung tightly to his scalp; streaks of gray radiated from his temples and disappeared behind his ears. His eyes were the color of emeralds, topped by thick brows that had been trimmed to perfection. He wore a plain button-down shirt, and black, pleated slacks. A gold chain hung around his neck and vanished into his shirt where several curly strands of white hair peeked above the rim of his collar.

  Linda cleared her throat and looked away before her lingering gaze gave him the wrong impression. The fine scent of his cologne touched her nose before being scattered by the breeze. If she had to guess, she would've assumed it was worth more than her entire outfit.

  "So, how did you find the place?" Al asked as he mounted the steps.

  "I found the ad in the Gazette," she replied. "I thought it must be a typo when I saw how little you're charging for rent."

  "It's a very competitive industry. If I charge too much, my rooms stay empty, but if I charge too little, people get the impression there's something wrong with the place... cockroaches or rats in the walls or something like that. I assure you, we don't have either at the Blackridge."

  Al opened the front door and led Linda inside as her purse buzzed with the muffled vibration of her cell phone.

  Give it a rest, Christian, she thought. Since blocking his number hadn't worked, the next step was to change her number, instead. At this point, she would do anything to stay off his radar.

  "Something important?" Al asked over his shoulder.

  "Not at all," Linda replied. "Just a pest I can't seem to get rid off."

  Her irritation with Christian evaporated the second she stepped foot into the Blackridge's lobby. She felt her mouth hanging open - catching flies as her mother was wont to say - and snapped it shut before Al could notice.

  "Christ," Linda blurted. "This is an apartment building?"

  Al turned and smiled, thrilled by her reaction. "It wasn't always. It was built in 1922 as the Hotel DeMarco, but by the 1960s, the entire industry had changed. Those ramshackle motor inns started popping up on every corner, and suddenly people no longer cared about comfort. The building was in an awful state of disrepair when I purchased it, but I've been trying to return it to its former glory ever since. I considered calling it The Sterling, but it seemed too... tacky."

  "It's beautiful," Linda said.

  And it was.

  She'd expected a grimy foyer - a small enclosure with cracked linoleum tile and smelling of the thick, acrid odor of thousands of stale cigarettes - but what she saw was immeasurably better. The ceiling arched twenty feet above her head, the plaster painted a clean, eggshell white. Art Déco designs accentuated a dozen large pillars that supported the floor above; four bronze and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling - one in each quarter of the room - with an even larger central fixture surrounded by a hand-painted, golden sunburst. The floors were gray and black marble with a repeating, interwoven design. Some styles clashed, but it was still elegant and well-kept and had the faint, pleasant smell of fresh lilac.

  "If you have time, I'd love to give you a brief tour," Al said. "There's plenty to see, and although some sections are off limits to tenants, there's no lack of old-fashioned charm."

  Linda nodded without thinking. It was too good to be true, and for five-hundred dollars a month, it was an absolute steal. She dangled from the hook like a fish out of water, listening to his every word and waiting for the inevitable catch.

  "You're sure the price in your ad was accurate?" she asked.

  "Yes, ma'am. I haven't raised the rent in fifteen years, and that price covers your electricity and water. You're responsible for cable, food, and upkeep of your unit."

  "Upkeep?"

  "If something cosmetic needs fixing, you fix it. Something gets broken, you replace it. I think it's only fair."

  "Of course," she agreed.

  "If I had a nickel for every time I cleaned blood from a carpet or fished a soiled diaper from a toilet, I'd be a rich man."

  "Uh huh." Linda only caught every other word. Al Sterling could have talked about removing dead bodies with a pitchfork, and still, Linda would have only nodded her head and agreed. She'd become transfixed by the strange pattern etched into the marble beneath her feet.

  "Would you like to see the common room?"

  Linda followed, forgetting about the time, the drive home, and ex-boyfriends intent on unwanted communication.

  She belonged to Al Sterling, hanging on his every word as if it was gospel.

  Linda knew the Blackridge was perfect even before seeing the rest of the building.

  Chances like this only come along once in a lifetime.

  ***

  "This is the Rose Lounge," Al explained as he flicked on the lights. Linda ran her fingers over the decorative braid work carved into the solid oak door. The rose-colored glass was frosted and beveled around the edges; the words The Rose had been etched into the center of the glass pane. "There's a bar, as you can see, but we don't keep it stocked. That's just asking for trouble."

  The bar was a solid piece of blond maple backed by a long mirror and a half-dozen empty shelves where wine and spirits once awaited thirsty customers. The carpet and wallpaper were tasteful shades of red. There were a dozen cafeteria-style bench seats like the kind Linda remembered from high school. They detracted from the ambiance of the room, but Linda told herself the Blackridge was no longer a hotel, but a re-purposed building meant to be utilitarian.

  "There's a kitchen in the back," Al said. "Now and then some of the tenants get together and throw a low-key party to wind down after a hard work week. Alcohol is permitted, but you're expected to take what you don't use and clean up afterward. This room is for everyone and it should be respected with that in mind."

  "Of course," Linda agreed. "No one wants to live in a pigsty."

  "I think you'd fit in here quite well. The tenants are all like-minded individuals who only want a clean, safe place to raise their families."

  "Will I be meeting any of them?" she asked.

  "We may run into someone," Al said, "but don't be surprised if we don't. When I say the place is quiet, that's exactly what I mean."

  Linda had no problem with quiet. Quiet is good. Quiet is necessary.

  After walking the perimeter of the lounge, and making several stops to see the kitchen and emergency exits, Al led them back to the lobby. Its charm hadn't yet worn off, but Linda tried her best not to seem too anxious. Her friends would be positively jealous when they got a load of the place, especially considering some of the dumps they'd been resigned to.

  Al showed her the old Admissions desk - where all the building's mail was delivered - before leading her down a shadowy corridor at the rear of the lobby. This area of the building had been converted into maintenance closets, storage rooms, and a large, well-appointed laundry room. Gleaming silver washers and dryers lined the rear wall; several vending machines carried a variety of fabric softeners and detergents. None of the machines had coin slots.

  "You don't charge to use these?" Linda said.

  "Of course not," Al replied, sounding offended. "It isn't a laundromat."

  Bright fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling at evenly spaced intervals. It was nothing like Linda's first apartment. There, she carried her overflowing laundry baskets down several flights of stairs, ending in a final, narrow staircase to the building's cellar. The machines were little more than dented curb-finds, coated in multi-colored sludge from years of spilled detergent. The knobs and buttons were caked in grime, and more often than not, the machines leaked or didn't work at all.

  The laundry room in the Bl
ackridge was cleaner than the one in her parents' home.

  "By your expression, I'd think you're pleased," Al said.

  "Pleased? I think it's the cleanest laundry room I've ever seen."

  Al chuckled and clapped his hands. "I'm glad it meets your approval. The machines are cleaned and maintained on a weekly basis. Detergent and dryer sheets are stocked regularly for your convenience, but you're more than welcome to use your own if you have a personal preference."

  Linda backed into the hall as Al turned off the lights and closed the door behind him. The only other door was at the end of the hallway, topped by a bright red 'EXIT' sign. Al opened it, peeked outside, and quickly pulled his head back. He wiped rain from his forehead and dried his hand on his shirt.

  "I'm afraid the garden will have to wait."

  "There's a garden?"

  "It's not much, but everyone seems to like it." Al held his hand out toward the door. "Go ahead, see for yourself. I wouldn't suggest going outside, but you can see most it from the doorway."

  Linda smiled and took him up on the offer, but didn't leave the dry comfort of the hall. A red, brick path lined with manicured hedges led from the door to a central courtyard where an immaculate, white gazebo stood empty, festooned in several strings of colored lights. Flowers grew in several grassy clearings that had been recently fertilized with fresh mulch. Wooden benches lined the perimeter of a tall security fence while a small but decorative fountain babbled to her right.

  "A fountain," she giggled. "It's like walking into another world."

  "It's original to the building," Al informed her, "but unfortunately it only works when it wants to. The plumbing is almost one hundred years old."

  "And the shed?" Linda asked, pointing to a squat, wooden structure near the far fence.

  "Tools. Lawnmower. Nothing out of the ordinary. You shouldn't have any reason to go in there unless you fancy yourself a gardener, in which case, be my guest."

  "Oh, no," she laughed. "My mother has the only green thumb in my family."