My gaze remained glued to the space behind the curtain. Unwavering.
My throat bopped, eyes studying the shadow which seemed to have broadened, as if someone – or something – was indeed lurking within its folds.
The figure moved.
My voice barely a breath, I spoke into the phone. "Mel, let me callyouback." Iendedtheconnection,myeyesneverwavering from the curtain's ominous stillness.
With deliberate, cautious, careful steps, I slowly approached, my throat tightening with each inch I closed the distance. The dim, buzzing fluorescent light in the room seemed to amplify the surrounding shadows, playing tricks on my eyes. With each position, I became unsure of the figure's position behind the curtain. The dim light seemed to become even more dim, almost swallowing the room in absolute gloominess.
But as I drew nearer, I could just make out a faint, almost imperceptible outline peeking from behind the fabric, a subtle suggestion of a hidden figure. A slight suspicion of a figure hiding behind the curtain.
A tense silence stretched, broken only by the rhythmic drip of the rain outside…
However, the fragile quiet was soon shattered by a persistent, insistent banging on the door.
I flinched, turning towards the banging swiftly. It came again, this time louder with an hint of urgency. It gradually became consistent until I was forced to abandon my investigation to answer.
Withasighofreluctantfrustration, Iabandonedmysilentvigil and strode to answer it. Jerking the door open, my forehead pinched when I found a woman standing on the doorstep, drenched to the bone by the never-ending downpour. She appeared to be middle-aged, her face etched with a weary kindness, clad in a white gown.
She held out a sodden cardboard box, her frail eyes silently pleading for me to take it. I accepted the dripping package, a question forming on my lips as I noticed her lack of greeting.
My gaze wandered around her frail figure finally falling on the small, frantic gestures her hands made, pointing weakly to her throat and shaking her head – she was unable to speak.
She then directed my attention to a piece of paper taped to the top of the box. I spun the box around and carefully peeled it off, unfolding the water-wrinkled note.
'Hi! I'm Miss Madison, the landlord of this complex. Welcome to our little community! This is just a small welcome gift for you.' My eyes widened in surprise.
I looked up at Miss Madison, who offered me a warm, albeit silent, smile in return and a gentle nod before turning and disappearing down the dimly lit hallway. My gaze pinned on her, watching her carefully until she disappeared out of sight.
The welcome gift turned out to be a small electric heater, exactly something I needed following the heavy rain and the chill air.
The walls were also thin.
The heater could ward off the chill that had sipped through the thin walls and settled over the apartment.
Immediately I shut the door behind me, my attention immediately diverted. I deposited the heater on the dusty desk, untouched, my mind already racing back to the unsettling mystery behind the curtain.
However, when my gaze fell back upon the window, a fresh wave of cold dread washed over me. The curtain was now hung limp and lifeless, revealing the empty space behind it. And the window, which I was certain I had closed and latched against the storm, now stood wide open, creaking softly and rhythmically in the soft wind.
* * *
Theclanginghadbeenconsistentallnight. Itbeganat1amand proceeded for a while. It was so loud and deliberate that I could barely get sleep. I turned and twisted on the soft mattress, groaning at the consistent hammering.
The clanging continued early that morning at 4 am when I could finally get sleep.
It was like hammer on hardwood. Consistently, as if to deliberately annoy me.
I grunted, rubbing the sleep from my gritty eyes, and swung my legs over the side of the creaky bed. A slight lift of my sweatpants exposed the deep scar on my ankle that extended in a long line to my knee.
I swung the curtain aside and took a peek out of the window. The environment was like desert as usual. Still as ever, the only thing heard is the chirping of birds and dog barks miles away.
The ground was wet, muddy from last night's heavy pour and the spot where I had packed my car was empty.
Wait, what the hell?
I set out, gazing closely at the spot.
There was nothing.
As I sprinted towards the empty spot, my flip-on sandals slappedagainstthemuddyground,thesoundpiercingthrough the air around me.
I jabbed the button on my car key, my heart racing as I spun around.
From a distance, car honks pierced the air and it pierced the air whenever I pressed on the button.
I turned around the corner, following its sound until I heard the laughter of men following the honks.
My legs carried me towards the laughter, arriving at three men behind a cave, casually resting on my car.
They had pushed the car all the way from there?
"What is this?"
"So, the rumors are true?" One of the men, looking in his early thirties, his ears, nose and lips pierced and his neck bathed in tattoos, said. "We have a new flatmate."
"Nice to meet you as well. Now, get off my car."
Another one from the crew hopped off the hood, "Come on now, man. That is rude. We just wanna play." He slapped me playfully. He was bald, tattoos covering almost the entirety of his diamond-shaped face.
"Don't touch me again." I bit out a warning, more casually than I had intended.
The group of men paused, totally stunned by my boldness.
The other man resting fully on the hood of the car leaned forward, a cigarette stick pinched between his rough fingers.
He also looked like the ringleader of whatever group they were. Muscular like the rest of the gang, heart-shaped face, greendyed hair, Grey-dyed goatee. Tattoos assaulting his arm. An absolute mess and zero aura.
"What? Do you want to fight?" He challenged.
"Absolutely not."
They all relaxed, taking my response as a sign of succumbing to whatever intimidation they were feigning.
"I'd rather stab my eyeballs with pins than exchange blows with you jobless scramps."
The one with dyed goatee hopped off the hood of the car, closing the space between us.
He stank. Of cigarette, alcohol, dry sweat and all other things depicting a depressed, miserable life.
When he opened his mouth it was worst.
"Do you want to put that to test, little boy?" He barked.
I wriggled my nose, throwing my face away from his.
"I'd love to but I kind of can't stand smelly mouths."
I don't know which had him fuming, my comment about his mouth odor or my casual slap on his broad shoulder. Either way, he was gritting, boiling. He threw the leftover cigarette on the ground and stomped on it.
"Boys, let's teach this little kid a lesson."
The other guys stepped forward, ready to obey their boss's demand.
Before dyed goatee could throw in the first punch, I caught his fist, twisted it and brought him to his knees in one simple move.
His other junkies took careful steps back, stunned by my practiced move.
Still holding his tattooed hand, I leaned in, "When throwing in the first punch, always look at the muscle movements of your opponent rather than into their eyes."
I grabbed onto his dyed goatee. "This is painfully ugly. Consider tinting it back to its actual color. And maybe you could use the rest of that dye for your hair."
As I clicked the unlock button on my car key and reached out for the door handle, a wave of dizziness washed over me.
I climbed in, clutching my head tightly, my vision blurry until I zoomed off.
* * *
Dust and heating vents.
Mostly dust.
It twisted my stomach, making me feel out of place.
The whole space actually did.
The tightness of the office. The mini-large statue of Mother Mary etched against the wall. The fading bright color of the office. The leaking air conditioner. The portrait of himself and a young girl who looked uncomfortable standing beside him.
"Sinclair, your complaint will be reviewed shortly."
The gruffness of his voice snapped me out of my trance.
"When?"
"You will receive feedback soon."
"When should I expect feedback?"
"As soon as humanly possible," he provides, nonchalantly scribbling something in a notepad.
It was a neat notepad and I noticed a lot of pages were ripped off the spine.
"How soon, John?"
"Father John," he corrected, adjusting the glasses settled on the bridge of his note.
"Alright. Whichever title you choose to hold, I'd like you to clarify why a feedback isn't feasible now, as we speak?" "The apartment you tell of, Mr Chase, is empty."
I paused. "What do you mean, "empty"? I heard footsteps last night."
He paused his scribbling and looked at me for a brief moment before his gaze returned back to whatever he was scribbling.
"Perhaps, you confused your dream for reality."
"I can assure you, I did not. I clearly heard footsteps and hammering early this morning."
He abandoned his pen and looked up at me. "It is difficult to stop any hammering when there was clearly none. The apartment above yours have been vacant since the death of the previous owner. It is locked and the key lays here, in my drawer."
"Perhaps, it had a spare key and—"
"There is no spare key, Chase. The only key to that apartment is with me."
This makes zero sense. I couldn't have hallucinated all those consistent hammering.
"Well, someone could certainly have broken in." I suggested with a slight air of urgency.
"That definitely is possible." So, I'm not insane, then? "However, Icheckedinthismorningandtherewasnosignofanyone breaking in."
"So, I'm insane and there is no one residing in the flat above?"
"I can't exactly tell, Chase."
"So, what could possibly be the reason behind the all-night hammering fest that kept me awake?" I asked, my tone sharper than intended.
He leaned into his chair, puffing out an exhausted sigh. "I'm not sure what exactly you want me to do, Sinclair Chase."
"That's why you are a goddamn agent, connect the fucking dots!" My outburst surprised me and I locked eyes with Father John, wondering where that rage had come from.
I took a deep breath, my tone softening. "My apologies. I didn't mean to snap."
He breathed and got onto his feet in his plain black suit.
"Let's check it out together if you insist, then."
He reached for a drawer and fished something out—a key, rusted.
"Lead the way, Mr Chase."
* * *