The Seance in Apartment 10 Read online

  This studio, like Ike's, was a carbon copy of my own. As I took another step inside, I did my best to remind myself of that fact. See? There's nothing shocking, nothing upsetting about this place. It's just like your apartment. Something happened in it, that's true, but... I walked past the window, the blinds swaying in my wake. The carpet in this unit seemed a little newer than in my own. It was thinner, made of more modern material. Treading through the main room, I hooked a right towards the kitchen and bathroom.

  And then I stopped dead in my tracks.

  There was something on the floor in that dark space that was blocking the way.

  A stack of boxes.

  Approaching the mountain of cardboard, piled past my waist, I chanced to peek into the uppermost box and discovered it to be filled with books. They were severe-looking things, meaty and leather-bound, with foreign writing along their spines that I couldn't decipher. To the left, where the refrigerator sat, I saw still other things piled into the space; a single wooden chair, which held a few boxes containing what appeared to be toiletries and dishes packed haphazardly. On the counters there were still other odds and ends; a large stockpot, spent cans of deodorizing spray, a fly swatter.

  Where the furniture in this room had gone was anyone's guess. Maybe old Evelyn had sold it off before doing herself in, or perhaps Sheldon, desperate for the money, had made a quick buck off of it. For that matter, it was entirely possible it'd been taken out to the dumpster; an upholstered chair or bed that had coexisted with a rotting body in a sealed room was not likely to find a secondhand buyer, upon further reflection.

  Standing in this empty apartment, amidst piles of a dead stranger's things, I began to feel a sharp dread in my breast. The air here tasted sour, the very mark of a room that'd been left shut up for too long in the summer heat, and yet the longer I stood in studio 11 the more I became aware of an unseasonable coolness that plagued it. The sweat on my arms had dried in the intervening minutes, leaving a thin film of salt on my skin. I could taste that same salt on my upper lip, which quivered slightly as I peered beyond the barricade of boxes towards the bathroom.

  I nearly toppled the boxes of books as I edged my way into the bathroom. Flicking on the lights, I saw that the place hadn't been cleaned yet. There was grime in the sink basin. There were faint traces of mold and soap scum in the bottom of the shower, too, which featured a set of grungy shower curtain rings but no actual curtain.

  And there was something else. The mirror that sat above the sink, which featured a shallow medicine cabinet, was marked up in its corners with a few stray fingerprints. I got up close to the mirror, my staggered breaths fogging it up slightly, and felt a sort of terrible awe at the sight of them. Were these Evelyn's fingerprints, left upon the mirror sometime before her death? It was both nauseating and fascinating to focus upon them; if you looked closely enough you could make out the individual ridges in the fingerprints. It was a kind of morbid proof that she'd once lived there, a little piece of herself that she'd left behind. Someday they'd be scrubbed away, and it was possible that a future tenant would think nothing of them, but knowing who they belonged to brought me no little discomfort.

  There was more. The edges of the medicine cabinet, made of cheap, painted wood, bore deep ridges in them that were not a part of the original design. These grooves, two on the left side and three on the right, looked like the claw marks of some enraged animal. I ran my fingers along them, wondering what they were doing there at all. It was clear that they didn't belong, that they'd been put there by someone. Or something. Maybe Evelyn had a dog, I thought, though the notion didn't really hold much water.

  I'd been staring into that mirror for way too long, and as I backed away, my breath caught in my chest. For a minute there, my reflection had been distorted. The shape of my mouth had seemed all wrong; larger, wider than the norm, and the size of my brow had increased sizably, like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. Most jarring of all had been my eyes, which had looked warped. The sight had only lasted an instant; I blinked in surprise and found my normal reflection reinstated, but the effect had put a scare in me. A queer trick of the dim bathroom light—there was only one bulb in the two bulb apparatus overhead—had been the culprit, and as I kneaded my tired eyes with the heels of my palms, I backed out and returned to the main room.

  “That's enough exploration for one day,” I muttered, backing out of the apartment. I kept looking over both shoulders as I made my way to the door, and when I was back out in the stairwell I shut it loudly. I hopped down the stairs to my own place, finding the door securely locked, as I'd left it, and once my trembling hands negotiated the proper key into the lock, I burst into the studio and slammed the door behind me.

  Strangely enough, I didn't find a whole lot of comfort for having returned to my own apartment. Looking up at my ceiling, I realized that it was the only thing separating me from that room I'd just been snooping in.

  12

  “Be honest, is it terrible?”

  I hesitated to answer. When my phone had fully recharged, I called my dad for a chat. I wanted to hear his voice, but was careful not to mention anything that I learned that day from Ike. He was still convinced that the studio had been a terrible mistake, and no matter how many times I told him that I liked living there just fine, he still felt the need to ask me if I was having second thoughts. “Trust me, compared to living on campus, this is heavenly.” I paused. “It is weird living alone, though. Still not used to it.”

  “Why don't I drive up and pick you up, then? You've still got plenty of time before classes start. You could even hang out with me at home until you're ready to go back. Sound good?” His offer actually didn't sound half-bad, but I had too much on my mind to really consider it.

  “That's all right, dad. I'll get over it.” I sighed. “I've been thinking a lot lately. About... about mom.” I could hear the change in my dad's breathing, his body language, at the mention of my mother. “Do you think that there's really, like... an afterlife?”

  The question had come from way out in left field, and he chuckled for a time. “W-what's this all about, Victoria?”

  I could have told him that I'd had an experience with a Ouija board and had felt, for a few days, that there was a presence in the studio with me. A presence that'd known the name of an obscure and highly cherished picture book character, and which I'd been led to believe was my mother.

  The trouble with that was two-fold however. My dad was the type who'd become incensed if he knew I'd messed with something occult and, perhaps more pressingly, I wasn't convinced anymore that the presence I'd felt, or interacted with during that séance, was actually my mother.

  “Just wondering,” I said.

  “Of course I believe in an afterlife. Your mom's in Heaven, believe me. It's funny you bring her up,” he continued. “I actually had a dream about her just last night. I dreamt that we were at the old apartment, in downtown Dayton, and that you were still little. In the dream I came into our old living room and I saw her sitting with you, on the sofa, reading that book. What was it called? You used to have us read it to you a dozen times a day. The... the mouse one? 'Molly Mouse', right?” He laughed. “Yeah, I dreamt that you two were sitting there, reading it. It was straight out of my memories, crisp as day. I miss those days something fierce.”

  “Me too,” was all I could think to say.

  The conversation lagged after that and I got off the phone.

  It was time to leave the apartment. I felt like a captive in it, wanted to bust out and go just about anywhere else in the world. The weather was good for an excursion, and so I put on some walking shoes and took off, beating pavement till my feet led me to the local grocery store, a tiny market full of fresh produce and good meat.

  There weren't too many customers there, and the high schoolers that ran the registers and tended to the produce didn't hardly look my way as I wandered in. It wasn't a big space, and the front doors were always left open, except when there was i
nclement weather. Fruits and veggies were stacked high in bins and crates, and also lined a series of shelves in between the wide, dusty windows. In the back, the only air-conditioned spot, was the deli, which had to be accessed through a sliding door.

  I walked through the market, thankful for a break from the sun, and hooked my sunglasses to my tank top collar. I'd worn my hair in a tight ponytail, but the back of my head was starting to hurt. As I walked I let my hair down, the strands meeting my bare, reddish shoulders and making the skin tingle. The very beginnings of a sunburn.

  There were sweet potatoes wider than both of my fists combined and nearly as long as my forearm in some of the bins. Alongside them I found tomatoes as well as bags of peanuts, freshly-baked cookies and sacks of apples from an orchard further south. In the back, along with a bunch of sodas and bottled drinks, there were coolers containing more perishable items. Bagged lettuce, bagged celery, pre-cut carrots and more lined the shelves of the coolers. Looking through those ingredients and finding the price reasonable, I decided I'd whip up a special dinner for the night.

  I'm not much of a cook. Whenever I get the chance I watch a ton of food-related TV, but when it comes to working in the kitchen I can be a total klutz. Complicated recipes are usually out for me, but there was one dish I was fairly confident about, one which my mother had taught me to prepare as a teenager, and which had been her signature. Spaghetti alla carbonara.

  In case you've never tried it, it's a fairly simple Italian dish comprised of spaghetti, bacon, eggs, cheese and a few other ingredients. A salad full of greens and fresh tomatoes can serve as a great compliment to such a hearty entree, and so I began gathering up the requisite components for both. A bunch of spinach, a small container of grated parmesan cheese from the deli, a small basket of grape tomatoes, a packet of grated carrots and chopped onions, a small bottle of olive oil, a box of spaghetti, parsley and garlic completed my order. I had eggs at home that I could use in the dish, and though spaghetti alla carbonara usually called for bacon or pancetta, the price of those ingredients made me swoon. I decided to skip them to avoid bankrupting myself.

  All told, my trip to the market took me two and a half hours. On the way there I'd been brooding, my thoughts steeped in negativity. I'd thought about Cat, about the strange happenings at the séance, and of everything Ike had told me about the woman who'd committed suicide in apartment 11, Evelyn. But after spending a half hour picking out my dinner ingredients, the most remarkable thing happened. My mood improved. Immersing myself in the process, selecting fresh veggies and more, I came to forget all of that and simply focused on the task at hand. As I beat it home in double-quick time, I was filled with excitement.

  This was what I'd been needing all along, what had been missing during my first few days living on my own. A hobby. Something productive to fill my time with. I was looking forward to cooking so much that my spirits didn't even waver as I spotted the Lamplight complex looming in the distance. I returned to the apartments, hiked up the four flights and immediately put on some danceable music. Leaving the window open to let plenty of fresh air in, I unpacked my bags and began sorting all of my ingredients.

  Cooking that dinner was the most fun I'd had in ages. Preparing such a meal for myself felt wildly indulgent, but it also made me feel more like a proper adult. This, I decided right then, was something I could get used to doing more often. I set out a small pot on the stove for the pasta, filling it with water, and then washed and shredded my greens for inclusion in the salad. Munching on a few leaves, I was stunned by their freshness, and as I added other ingredients to my salad bowl, the whole thing started coming together, looking like something you'd buy at a restaurant.

  Since I didn't have any meat to work with, I tossed a bit of olive oil into a pan and sauteed some roughly minced garlic. Once my water reached a rolling boil, I dunked the box of pasta and began prepping my sauce. This was always my favorite part of the recipe. You combine a few eggs with grated parmesan to make a thick sauce which is then poured on the freshly boiled pasta. Dumping my fresh parmesan into a bowl, I plucked two large eggs out of the fridge and got to cracking.

  “Been a while since I've made this!” I said. Thinking back on it, I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually eaten the dish. There'd been a time when, growing up in my mom and dad's house, we'd enjoyed it with some regularity. It wasn't an especially fancy dish, but for birthdays and holidays, I'd always begged my mother to make it. As I worked in the kitchen, I could still remember the way my mother had taught me each step, her gentle voice in my ear all the while. “Make sure to combine the egg and cheese well, otherwise it might come out lumpy.”

  I cracked one egg into the parmesan and then started on the other, however as the second egg splashed into the bowl, I noticed something was wrong. There was a red streak in this egg, a blood spot, but that wasn't what had given me pause.

  There was something floating in the whites, tenuously connected to this trail of red membrane.

  Grimacing, I bent down closer to the bowl and tried to pick up the object in question with the fork I'd been using for mixing. It was somewhat opaque, whiter at one tip than it was at the other. It definitely wasn't a part of the egg shell, and as I scooped it out, I considered the possibility that a small, curved piece of plastic had somehow fallen into my bowl, though I felt sure I'd seen it come out of the egg.

  Studying the thing on my fork under the light by the sink, I felt a wave of bile teasing the back of my throat. I lost all will to eat then, looking down with certainty at what was a strictly foreign object. I turned it this way and that, and when I was sure, I dropped the fork into the sink and backed out of the kitchen, white as a sheet.

  There'd been a human fingernail in my egg.

  There could be no questioning it. It was the right shape, size, and along the back, running through the golden yoke, was a thin strand of reddish flesh, showing where it'd been loosed from the nail bed. Gagging, I stumbled onto the futon, my entire body shaking.

  How? What the hell is going on in this apartment? How did that thing get into the egg... where did it come from?

  I was reminded of Evelyn's apartment, of the claw marks on her bathroom medicine cabinet. Fighting back nausea, I pictured a woman's hand scraping the wooden borders of that fixture with such force that her nails were torn away.

  The pot on the stove began to boil over and the garlic in the pan burned.

  13

  The smell of my dinner remained in the apartment overnight. The mess remained uneaten and I couldn't even bring myself to clear it away. My hunger had gone, completely. I did go looking, once or twice, in the sink though. The fingernail wasn't there, making me wonder if I'd ever actually seen it in the first place.

  All the stress I'd been under had been playing with my head, it was clear. Wanting to relax, give my mind the rest it needed to recharge, I set off to bed early.

  But I didn't sleep. Not at first, anyway.

  Tossing and turning in the sheets, eyes studying the dark shapes on the ceiling, I couldn't drift off for the life of me. My body was sore for the day's trek, and my mind was equally tired, but sleep was determined to come on its own terms, and as I sat there, staring into the darkness, I got to thinking about other things.

  Evelyn.

  What had she been doing up there in apartment 11? Why had she killed herself? There'd been a lot of weird books left behind in that studio, along with some of her personal belongings. It occurred to me that I might go up there and have a look around, just to sate my curiosity, but I quickly banished the thought. Rooting around in a dead woman's things was tasteless, and besides, I didn't have any reason to do it.

  Evelyn was dead and gone, and I was simply suffering a nervous break. Moving out on my own hadn't been so easy a transition as I'd hoped, and the recent goings-on in my new apartment were really getting to me. You're still not used to living alone, I told myself. You're a dumb kid, that's all. You were stupid to think that this was a good ide
a, but... but you just have get used to the place. Then it won't be so scary. Remember when you first moved into the dorms? After mom died? You were a wreck then, too. Everything was weird, foreign. You couldn't get comfortable and you had a roommate making you crazy. Just relax, get some sleep, and forget about all of this other stuff. And stop blaming that poor dead woman. Don't pay her any mind. She's history. She has nothing to do with you.

  Just then, I thought I heard a noise through the ceiling, a loud thump on the floors of the apartment overhead. I buried myself underneath the sheets and flopped onto my side, doing my best to ignore it. Go to sleep, damn you. Just go to sleep, Tori. Sleep is what you need right now.

  Moonlight came in softly through the window, and the curtains shifted in a slight breeze. Between them I caught the very edge of the fire escape, its rusty railings casting faint shadows across the carpet and against the curtains. In that fluttering, too, I spied something else. It was denser, larger than those railings, though I couldn't get a very good look at it.

  In time, my eyes adjusted and the scene through the window was brought into sharper focus.

  Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me—and I swore up and down that they were—there was someone perched outside my window, on the fire escape. The shadow was cast against the curtains, and in their fluttering I could make out much. The subtle swaying; the shape of a head and shoulders leaning forward as if to glance through my window; a set of fingers reaching out to meet the glass.

  I shot up in bed, the futon's frame shrieking beneath me. The breeze continued, and through the break in the curtains I saw only a clear summer night beyond the edge of the fire escape railing. There was no human shape, no hand, nothing at all. Though relieved, I felt like crying. I took my head in my hands and fought back tears, wondering why I was seeing such strange things. This space, it transformed at night, treated the light in such a way that it could make me see things that weren't there. Optical illusions, I thought, in an effort to calm myself down. You can't always trust your eyes. You don't know this place well enough yet.