Here’s the trick, don’t even think about it. Don’t think about the sound of old floor boards when the pressure of a foot presses down from who knows who or what. Don’t think about the dimming of lights and especially don’t even think about what the room looks like behind you.
Here’s the trick, don’t even think about it. Don’t think about the sound of old floor boards when the pressure of a foot presses down from who knows who or what. Don’t think about the dimming of lights and especially don’t even think about what the room looks like behind you. Just keep working and focus on that.
That’s what I wanted to tell her but I didn’t. I told her that she was welcome to the coffee in the pot (just brewed), and I showed her the location of the bathroom. I then left her to become acclimated to working with me and working within my haunted rooms. When she shivered, I looked up from my manuscript.
“Yes, felt like someone just walked over my grave.”
“Oh, that’s something my grandmother used to say. When she felt a cold shiver run down her back or shoulders, she always said that.”
I nodded and smiled while letting my eyes drop back to my manuscript. It was rude but these Indiana girls had to keep their back-water statements to themselves. She got right back to work without any sniffs or huffs. The girls from outside the city were usually very conscientious and she was no exception. When we broke for lunch I asked her how long she had been living in Chicago.
“About 12 weeks. I was ready to give it up, I felt so overwhelmed.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.” I was sincere as I passed her the salt. I needed her help and, well, I needed someone around. The cold spots were getting worse, the sounds of footsteps and God help me I thought I had heard a few sighs. I needed someone who would come every morning, work hard and make human noises, human movement, human scents, and human residue.
“So this used to be an old warehouse, huh? It makes a beautiful apartment.”
“It is nice,” I said “I like the view all around. I think the realtor thought I should be here because she found out I was a writer.”
She laughed slightly and nodded as if she understood that as a writer I must also be a Bohemian by nature. I wasn’t, I was just a writer. The apartment suited me for other reasons, one it was isolated for Chicago and two, the noise of the city didn’t crowd in upon my work.
We worked together for 13 glorious weeks and the manuscript began to take shape. We even managed one night to make a timeline of the plot and conclusion. She stayed until 11 P.M. we became so consumed with the work she lost track of the time. Her hair began to fall out of its pins and curl down around her neck. Her freckles began to glow through her smudged makeup. She almost looked 12. She definitely looked beautiful. But this was business, all business and I couldn’t mix business with pleasure.
One Wednesday morning she was standing, looking out toward Lake Michigan. The city was clear and gleamed before her, like some promising city. I admired her body as she studied the scene before her. Her straight, sky-blue, skirt was too large but still looked enticing around her rather bony hips and her soft, buff colored sweater cascaded around her narrow shoulders and folded softly around her thin waist. Her clothes always seemed a size too large but she wore it well, oddly enough.
“You know,” she said, “I know this apartment is haunted. I heard her crying in the bathroom.”
I stopped what I was doing. My pen was in mid stride as she said those words. She turned at my silence looking a little perplexed. “What do you think happened? Do you think she died in an accident while this place was still a factory?”
“No,” I said, slightly relieved she was forming conclusions that didn’t include me.
She looked slightly pouty and my heart beat hard. “Are you sure? How do you know?” she asked.
“Because the sounds and the cold spots started after I started living here. I’ve never heard her cry before though.”
The dear girl actually frowned and sat down next to me as if to try and comfort me or dissuade me from my idea. “You don’t know that. The former owners probably wanted you to buy the place so they could leave.” She looked so sincere and concerned. I grasped her tiny hips and pulled her under me, wanting that one kiss, that wouldn’t be tainted with fear. The kiss was sweet, and moist and lingering. I would regret this one, I remembered thinking.
“I know you killed her actually,” she whispered softly in my ear. “I know you did.”
I felt her pull the trigger, felt the bullet rip through my shirt, my skin, my heart my back. My weight muffled the sound; just what she needed to leave me here to sigh, chill the air and press down upon the old floor boards. No one stays for long.
She was a clever girl, whoever she was, a very clever girl.