32nd Street Apartments, Room 814

originally published in The Rabbit Hole Co-Op Anthology

10/15/2012 - Wednesday. I just moved into my new place. The plaster is cracked, and the paint on the door- and window-frames is peeling. There's awful smudges on the linoleum. Rust on the faucets. Everything is dark pine wood, smells like dust. Every time I come home, seems like I find a new cupboard or drawer. I want to count them but I'm afraid it'll be a different number every time.

inventory, keyholes

• 8 floors 
• 14 units / floor 
• 2 keyholes / unit 
• 8 x 14 x 2 = 224 keyholes

10/20/2012 - Monday. This afternoon I bought some chalk, so I was on the elevator at 1655 instead of 1630. I hate the elevator; you can hear the chains creaking. At floor 3 a young woman walked in wearing this horrible shapeless coat -- real fur, I think, which made it that much worse. I pressed myself against the wall, shuddering, wishing I didn't have to go all the way up.

That night I dreamed my mouth was full of snails. I woke up at 0311 and couldn't get back to sleep, because the taste in my mouth was so bad.

10/25/2012 - Saturday. My mother visited yesterday. She brought the Thomas the Tank Engine set from home and asked if I wanted it for my future kids or should she give it away. I said I was never going to marry, but I wanted it for myself. That made her sad. She doesn't understand what I'm facing here, that I need support. That since trains are made of metal and wood they're strong, stronger than anybody, and they'll always be there for you, dependable. That's one good thing I learned from TV.

She ended up letting me keep it, because what's she gonna do with a train set anyways? I'm her only daughter. That night when I slept I knew the trains were in my box, and it made me feel safe. I still woke up in the middle of the night -- I often do -- but it wasn't from a nightmare. It was at 0200 on the dot, and I just lay awake in the silence. It was peaceful.

Far away, barely audible so that I hardly knew whether it was my imagination or not, a flute was playing. I wondered if that was what woke me.

inventory, neighbors 

• 2 college students 
• 1 mother and child 
• 3 factory workers 
• 1 chef 
• 1 professor 
• 2 artists 
• 4 empty rooms

10/28/2012 - Tuesday. At 1900 last night one of the artists knocked on my door. He was the older one, balding, with salt-and-pepper hair swept back along the sides of his head. He asked me if I wanted to see his glass eye collection. I asked him how many. He didn't know. I told him I'd count them for him, and I taped the list to my door along with all my other ones. Because I might someday need to know. And I can never remember things like that.

inventory, eyes 

• 13 brown 
• + 11 blue 
• + 6 green 
• + 1 special one that turns from blue to green 
• + 2 hazel 
• + 3 gray 
• = 36 glass eyes

11/06/2012 - Thursday. I know something is wrong, oh God, I know it. I've seen that awful woman twice now, and I can't stand the way there's no shine in her eyes, like she's already been dead a hundred years.

The chalk did come in handy, though. I've drawn a dog on my wall, for extra protection. A St. Bernard. I love St. Bernards.
I met the professor; she's Indian and young and makes Swiss Miss cocoa every night before bed. She gave me some, which I appreciate. I put it under my pillow, because if I put it in the cupboard it might disappear. The chamomile tea did.

11/08/2012 - Saturday. Its 0300. I'm awake. The flute is playing again. It's not my imagination. But this time, I think it's coming from a drawer that definitely wasn't there before. I feel strength swelling in my chest at the sound and I'm not scared at all.

11/10/2012 - Monday. The old artist knocked on my door again. He was concerned about his eyes. He thought maybe some were missing, because he couldn't find the special one that turns from green to blue. He had counted them and found 34. Two short. I told him I thought it was that woman. He asked me what woman? I said the one with the big fur coat. He said he had lived here thirty-five years and made a point to know all 100 residents in the building. And a woman with a big fur coat wasn't one of them. I said she always went up to the 7th floor. He said maybe she had a friend on the 7th floor. I said, maybe.

inventory, trains 

• 1 Thomas 
• 2 Thomas' cars, Annie and Clarabelle 
• 1 James 
• 1 Percy 
• 3 freight cars 
• 2 passenger cars 
• 1 Gordan 
• 1 Toby 
• 1 Harold the Helicopter

11/11/2012 - Tuesday. I had bad nightmares last night. Snails and these horrendous fat caterpillars. I took Thomas and James out of the box and tucked them into bed with me. Then I felt a little better, but I still couldn't sleep.

This morning I was so tired I couldn't go to work. I tried to sleep, but the light through the window was so bright, and every time I pulled the covers over my head I saw those snails crawling in the dark. So instead I built a train track, really big, with a lot of bridges and underpasses and switch stops. It was real good.

I knocked on the old artist's door, but he wasn't home. So I went to the professor. I guess she doesn't teach on Mondays. I said I made a train track and does she want to see. She said sure because she wasn't getting any work done anyways. We went over to my unit. She asked me about the St. Bernard on the wall. I said her name is Angela; she protects me. She saw the Swiss Miss on the bed and asked why it wasn't in the cupboard. I said it might disappear.

Then she looked a little frightened and said her Swiss Miss had disappeared the other day, but she thought she had just misplaced it. I said don't count on it. It's that woman in her terrible fur coat.

11/19/2012 - Wednesday. I don't hear the flute music anymore. I miss it. Things are getting worse. I either sleep straight through the night and it's just black, black, blackness, or I have nightmare after nightmare and I end up skipping work because I'm so tired. I keep Thomas and everyone in my bed, even the freight cars. I'm starting to feel like I'm the one supporting them.

11/21/2012 - Friday. This afternoon when I got home, James was missing. I can't take it anymore. I just can't.

Next time I see her, I'm going to confront the woman in the fur coat. I don't care what happens.

11/23/2012 - Sunday. 0400. I hear the flute, clear as day. It fills me with courage. Angela turns to look at me, and a little drool drips from her mouth. I believe in you, her big dopey eyes say. I have to face that woman, for James and for the artist and the professor and my own sanity.

I get up. I already know where I have to go -- the elevator. Just thinking of it makes me shudder, but I have to be brave. I look at Thomas. He looks back. I decide he has to come with me. After all, James is his best friend.

The walk down the dark hallway feels like forever. I can't help but feel that it's smaller at the end than at the beginning, but maybe I'm imagining it. I push the down button on the elevator, and the doors creep open. The woman is standing there, with her horrible lightless eyes. I knew you'd come, she hisses.

You took my tea. You took the artist's eyes. You took the professor's cocoa. You took James, I say. You're not having me, or anything else.

I'm a friend, she says. I want to help you. You're too young and stupid to understand. 

You're a dirty thief, I say. And now you're a liar, too.

That makes her mad. She shows her ugly teeth and growls. I'll bite you, she says. 

I'll send Angela on you, I say back.

Angela's nothing but a drawing, the horrible woman says. Some chicken scratch on the wall.

Oh, I say. She has to be wrong. I know that I drew Angela, but she was already there, somehow, wasn't she? I'm hurt. I'm confused. Oh.

You're a stupid, crazy, little girl.

I'm big, I protest. I grew up. I go to work.

But you play with toys to cope, she says, and grins.

I clutch Thomas to my chest. He's not a toy! He's real! I cry.

Only in your head, she says. To everyone else, he's just pretend.

Then so are you, I say savagely. I hold up Thomas like I'm holding up a cross at a vampire. And now you have to go away. I don't want to think about you anymore. I'm not going to dream your horrible snail dreams.

She screams and bares her teeth. They grow down to her chin, like she's some kind of awful mutant squirrel.

You can't have any of me anymore, I say. She screams and screams. It sounds like the elevator chains, groaning and groaning up and down. The fur coat falls off her shoulders, and I see she has no body, just a head and neck floating in midair. Screaming and screaming.

I hate you, I say. Go away. And then the elevator chain breaks.

For a second I'm falling, but then I bump against the open door button and yank myself up on the 8th floor just in time. I watch the elevator careening down into the shaft, taking the bodiless woman with it. Taking her down into darkness, forever.

11/23/2012, later. Today we had a funeral for the broken elevator. It was more like a celebration, because James was safe in his box, my tea was in my cupboard, the professor had her cocoa back, and the old artist counted 36 eyes total, including the special one that turns from green to blue.

Everyone on the floor gathered in my apartment, where I still had my amazing train track set up. One of the college students complimented it; he said he collected model trains and thought it was really cool. I said I thought he was really cool. We all drank Swiss Miss and chamomile tea.

Even my mother was there. She didn't approve of the trains, but she baked cookies for everyone anyways. I told her, thank you, cookies are good for growing strong.

inventory, compartments 

• 0 - 1 closets 
• 20 - 31 drawers 
• 11 - 18 cupboards 
• range: 31 - 50

11/26/2012 - Wednesday. Last night, no, this morning, I woke at 0500. The flute was playing. It was so loud I knew it must be coming from somewhere in my room. I went to one of the cupboards and opened it. Inside was a smaller cupboard. I opened that and found a drawer. In the drawer was a tiny drawer, like a drawer in a doll's house. I opened that, too. Inside was a tiny man playing a tiny flute with a tiny train conductor's hat on his head.

I asked if he wanted to take a ride with Thomas on my track. He said he would be honored. Angela barked.

Story Notes:

"32nd Street Apartments, Room 814" is inspired by the installation "Pedicord Apts," found in the Weisman Art Museum in Minnesota.