Apartment 506

“The mind over matter is me”

– – –

That was the quote that lingered in my mind. I saw it once—on a TV screen during a mental health awareness ad, which played after the show I was absentmindedly watching had ended. It stayed with me, I pondered how powerful our minds can shape our reality. The thoughts we think, beliefs we share, and our perceptions of reality aren’t merely passive but actively influence how we experience and interact daily.

It had me thinking, that despite everyone living in the same physical world, billions of individual realities, cultivated by billions of other people co-exist under one shared present, does that make sense?

But what do I know? I was just a college student trying to figure things out, I still am. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure I was in the right course, so I’m fairly certain that no one should be taking my thoughts seriously about existential views regarding mankind.

Brushing off my odd late-night philosophicals, my head shifted to more important and delicious concerns—what to eat for dinner. I thought about ordering Chinese food but quickly disregarded it, due to the need to save money for my car payment, which I’ve been paying off since last year.

So, I settled for the next best thing—ramen noodles.

They weren’t so bad—actually, not bad at all. It hit the spot for me. It might not be everyone’s ideal hearty meal, but it was good enough for me.

Shortly after, I then washed the dishes, something I had done countless times—whether in the afternoon or, more often, at night. Though, the time of day didn’t matter, as in front of the sink, there was this window. It wasn’t an ordinary window used for admiring the view or scenery outside; its sole purpose was to expel fumes from the kitchen when someone cooked.

It stretched the full length of the sink to the drain board, with a built-in exhaust fan just above the handle. You could open the window slightly, but it wouldn’t slide all the way down; it could only open halfway before being held back by the hinge.

When I peered out, all I could see was darkness—pitch black, apart from my darkened reflection. You wouldn’t even know there was an identical window on the opposite side if it weren’t for the rare moments when workers opened the ventilation during the day, letting in just enough light to reveal the various windows lining the vertical space from top to bottom. To me, It looked more like an empty elevator shaft than anything else, but except for elevator doors it had windows.

Well, I guess I am partially to blame in choosing where to live in the building, when I did a quick tour of the vacant spaces, I chose the one with an ominous window, instead of an apartment with a kitchen that didn’t face a black void. Sure, I could’ve splurged for a better space with a scenic view, or a better building in general, but that was out of the question. I was on a tight budget, and a good view wasn’t exactly a priority standard at that time.

That night, when it came time for me to wind down and get ready for bed I saw from my living room window that it was pouring rain outside, that explained the pitter-pattering I kept hearing as I had dinner, but paid no mind to. I watched the street, empty and desolate in the dead of night as the heavy rain poured on the pavement and the lifeless road, how the droplets of rain flowed with the direction of the strong winds blowing through the air, the trees swaying its leaves and branches along the gushing winds, it was then made clear to me it wasn’t just a heavy rainy night, outside before me was a storm in place.

I felt taken aback by the sudden alarm that emitted from my phone, the sounds of panicked sirens repeatedly ringing from inside the phone’s speaker, as the phone’s LED light illuminated my dimly-lit features, my brows furrowed as I read;

. . .

9:32 PM

‘Emergency Alert’

National Weather Service: A STORM SURGE WARNING is in effect for Richmond, VA until 4:00 AM. Take action now to protect life and property. Avoid flood-prone areas.

. . .

I looked out the window once more at the empty, desolate streets, saturated by the storm’s relentless rain. The rainwater cascaded down the street, flowing over the pavement in sheets. It was obvious that the storm wasn’t going to let up anytime soon. As I lay in bed, the steady rhythm of the rain took on a surprisingly therapeutic quality, offering a strange sense of calm amidst the storm’s fury.

I felt truly at peace for a moment. The rain’s pitter-patter had grown louder compared to earlier, when I barely noticed it. With my head nestled snugly on the pillow, I tried to surrender to sleep, letting the gentle rhythm of the rain lull me into a deep, restorative slumber, enjoying one of the best rests I had in quite some time.

Later that week, as early December settled in, my air-conditioning started to leak, well it had began leaking the morning after the storm, thus I had to keep a bucket underneath, and upon testing its functions I came to a realization that it had broke during the night. Fortunately, winter made the lack of cooling less of an issue, though the building manager had ghosted my text.

At some point black spots began to grow on the grills, dark, jagged blotches creeping across the metal, resembling ink bleeding through paper, though I tried cleaning, but it smudged and made more of a nuisance for myself to get rid of as it turned the white paint surrounding it dirtier.

The unit I rented out wasn’t designed to expel heat like some of the others, so I had no problems with a heater, unlike other tenants. However, one problem did remain: the leak. While it wasn’t as bad as when the storm first hit, it just persisted. I spoke to the maintenance guy, hoping that bringing it up might speed up the process, but all he told me was that there were delays in repairs. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one dealing with water leakage—whilst other units were reporting problems with their heating system.

Despite the issues with my apartment not functioning properly, I found myself brushing off those minor inconveniences. Something else had been bothering me entirely. Over the past few days, I’ve felt increasingly unsettled in my own space, for the past few days I began to experience the same day to day occurrences I used to get, when I lived with my own family—extra dishes to clean that I don’t recall using, dirt and smudges on the floor I’m certain I didn’t cause, missing food items from the fridge that I was sure I had just bought.

These little signs that made me feel as if somebody else lived with me was subtle at first, I even began to think I was just starting to forget easily, early dementia, maybe? No that would’ve been easier to deal with.

What unnerved me the most in the days since the storm were the footsteps I started hearing at night outside my bedroom door. Normally, it was quiet, and I’d curl up with a book in the dim, cozy light of my room, or maybe scroll through messages from friends and family. But now, I found myself huddled under the covers, eyes fixed on the thin strip of light beneath the door, where a quick shadow occasionally passed, accompanied by the wet tap of bare feet on the cold floor, resembling water droplets hastily falling onto a half-full bucket.

Growing up, I wasn’t one to easily believe in ghost stories, but I wasn’t a full-blown skeptic either. When faced with something I can’t explain, I’m not so dense as to just ignore it and brush it off as unscientific. That part of me is what made it so hard to leave my room at night. It felt ridiculous—here I was, a grown man who’d been living alone for almost two years, struggling to muster the courage to go to the bathroom because I believed there was a ghosts in my apartment, how pathetic.

The prospect of moving out was bleak, so whether I was being haunted or not, I couldn’t let whatever this was deter me from living normally. Thus, I found my hand gripping on the handle as I unlocked the door, letting the light from the hallway slowly fill up my darkened room; of course I saw nothing, I simply let out sigh of relief and made my way towards the bathroom near my living room. What did I expect upon opening that door? did I expect a dead ghost from a past century to jump me before I could take a leak?

Walking down the hallway, my gaze was mainly fixed on to the floor, while the warm glow from the lights above washed over the space; it being the only source of light in the entire apartment. Just as my hand hovered over the bathroom light switch, my fingertips grazing the cold plastic, I had paused right then and there.

My gaze shifted beyond the kitchen, and towards the window. A light—no, not from inside my apartment, but outside the kitchen window, directly opposite from my own. It shone like a rectangular beacon in the darkness, catching my eye even from where I stood in the hallway, far removed from its source.

Taken aback, I shook myself from the brief trance as I had stepped into the bathroom. Even when I tried to rationalize what had occurred, my mind kept circling back to that light. What could it have been? As far as I knew, no one lived in the apartment next to mine. It wasn’t even possible someone had moved in recently without me noticing, as I would’ve heard the commotion, so the only option left could be, maybe Mr. Grant was fixing the place up?… at two in the morning. Still, whatever it was, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Exiting the bathroom, I realized that the light was gone. My kitchen was once again cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow from the only light source from the hall. However, just as I walked back to my room, I could’ve sworn I saw something—a movement in my periphery, the shifts in the shadows, darting behind one furniture to another.

For the past few days, I’d felt increasingly unnerved. Coming home from classes, I would sometimes overhear my neighbors talking about their issues with the building. I wasn’t particularly fond of taking the elevator with others—it always felt awkward—but it was one of those unavoidable aspects of apartment living.

One afternoon, I found myself sharing the elevator with Mrs. Callahan and a friend she’d brought over, and they were chatting about work. I wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but when people are only three or four feet away enclosed in a metallic box with you, it’s hard not to catch bits of their conversation.

With my phone out, pretending to be disinterested, I couldn’t help but overhear Mrs. Callahan discussing the issues she’d been having with her apartment. She mentioned a gas leak she experienced last week—luckily, it was fixed, but the thought alone was unsettling. I’d heard of a fire in this very building years ago, also caused by a gas leak. It had been ruled an accident, but still, tragedy can linger in people’s minds, longer than they hope it would.

I never learned many of the details, not even where in the building it had happened, but I reassured myself that maintenance now was different from before—hoping, for the better.

As I stepped out of the elevator and made my way to my apartment, I noticed Mr. Jobert down the hall, on the opposite side from where I lived. He was a retired veteran from the military, a Coast Guard, as I recall. He was older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a gruff exterior that spoke of age, yet his solid build hinted at strength that could still take on someone younger. Despite the years , he looked like he could outmatch a high school football player if it came to it. Mr. Jobert was the only neighbor I regularly spoke with on this floor.

On my first day, he’d helped me move furniture into my apartment, most likely out of pity when he saw me struggling to get a couch through the doorway. Occasionally, I’d catch a glimpse of his daughter, Cindy. She looked about my age, though I was pretty sure she didn’t attend the same university as me—given that I’ve yet to seen her around campus.

I greeted Mr. Jobert with a quick nod, and he responded with a curt smile as I headed toward my apartment door. My gaze drifted to my unit, and suddenly the door beside mine came into view, triggering memories of last night. The light from the kitchen window flashed back in my mind. As far as I knew, no one lived in the apartment next to mine, that thought replayed in my head like a broken record since last night. With my key poised to turn in the lock, I hesitated, then turned away, striding down the hallway to the other end.

“Hey, Mr. Jobert, sorry to bother. Are you busy?” I asked, my keys finding its way back to my pocket.

“Hey, Josh. No, not at all, just waiting on a delivery,” he shrugged, tapping away on his phone, one hand holding it upright while the other did heavily tapped on the screen. Something I noticed older people did more often than those younger.

“I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, still focused on his device.

“Do you happen to know if anyone’s living in the apartment next to mine?”

“506?” He finally glanced up from his phone, his brow furrowed in a perplexed expression as I nodded.

“No, son, no one’s lived there in years. But, you should know that, right?”

I scratched my brow, unsure how to explain last night’s strange occurrence without sounding like I’d lost it, the thought of talking about these occurrences going on in my apartment to anyone was silly, thinking of me rambling about footsteps, random blotches of dirt and murmured whispers sounded stupid to me, it just made me sound as if I was crazy.

“Well… last night, when I got up, I saw light coming from my kitchen window. It looked like it was coming from the window in front of mine… from Apartment 506.”

He stopped tapping on his phone, furrowing his brow further. His expression shifted from confusion to deep thought. As I looked up at him from a shorter angle, I catching a glimpse of the scar on his neck, standing out under the hallway light.

. . .

I remembered the time I’d asked him about that scar, he had me babysit his dog ‘Lady’ while he was from home for a few days, when he came to pick her up I invited him for coffee, and we had small talk while his white fluff ball of a dog ran around. He wore the same thoughtful expression when I asked, clearly weighing what to say, likely recalling the events that led to him getting the scar. After a moment, once he had gathered his thoughts, he shared a story from his time at sea in the late eighties when he served as a Coast Guard officer.

He talked about his duties back then, the long nights on watch, the unpredictable nature of life at sea, what lurked within the unknown, the unexplored, where nature had made the decision that no man was destined to see. With a slight pause, he finally spoke the day he got his scar. A commercial fishing boat had radioed in for help to the Coast Guard ship he was stationed it at the time.

He and his crew, along with his partner Murphy—who he always referred to by last name—were dispatched to check it out. When their ship neared the boat in distress, he and Murphy deployed into the water to investigate. But something was off. Despite being within close proximity to the boat, they heard no response from the crew, the moment they arrived for help.

Murphy hopped on the boat first, calling out for the fishermen to show themselves. When they got on the vessel was eerily silent, no signs of life anywhere, not even a single sound, say for the haunting winds accompanied by the rain, with the sway of the sea, just no short of distance below them.

With all the lights extinguished, the ship had looked as if abandoned, Murphy joked that maybe a ghost had radioed in, Mr. Jobert didn’t really find that funny as he smacked his partner at the back of the head, before the pair proceeded, solely relying on their tactical flashlights. While Murphy entered the wheelhouse, Mr. Jobert stayed by the deck, sweeping his light over the area as they both covered ground.

A full minute hadn’t even gone by before a curdling scream pierced through the raining ambience. The scream came from inside the wheelhouse, muffled as the scream was barely contained inside the small shed. Mr. Jobert’s heart raced as he rushed to check on his partner. He needed not to check inside the wheel house as the door opened on its own, with Murphy’s body had collapsed against it, causing it to come wide open. Mr. Jobert’s flashlight beam fell on his partner’s form, and what he saw made his stomach drop.

Murphy’s chest was filleted open, the bones from his chest ripped out as flesh and blood protruding from deep, claw-like gashes. His face was frozen in an expression of horror, his eyes wide and unblinking as they locked onto Mr. Jobert’s. With a trembling hand, Murphy clutched his bleeding throat in an effort to stop the bleeding spilling from his open throat, choking on his own blood. His eyes seemed to scream a silent warning, pleading for Mr. Jobert to run, yet no words escaped his lips—only a sickening gurgle before life drained from his body.

Mr. Jobert frozen, standing in nothing but the shock of his partner’s death gripping him, in his eyes at that moment, everything unfolded in a blur. The man he’s spent countless of hours to years with as friends and companions was dead right in front of his eyes. Murphy promised him he’d be there for his wedding, he’d be there to see him and Lanie get married.

He was barely holding himself together, let alone fully in comprehension of his situation, when in an instant his flashlight illuminated the open door, something lunged at him with a speed void of any humanlike attributes. He barely got a good look at whoever or whatever it was, before the force had knocked him off balance, causing him to tumble backward at the railing of the ship, his flashlight slipping from his grasp and clattering uselessly as he fell over the side of the boat, plunging into the cold open sea.

Disoriented, he struggled to make sense of what had just happened. He began to realize he was under water as his lungs burned for air, while he instinctively kicked towards the surface, but then a chilling realization hit him—whatever had attacked him, had fallen into the water too.

Fighting against panic, he swam desperately to break through to the surface. The storm above raged violently, with rain and crashing waves making it near impossible to see. His only thought was to get back onto the smaller boat, to escape and reach the safety of the Coast Guard ship. But just as his fingers barely grazed the surface, a cold, scaly grip clamped onto his ankle, the hard piercing scales scratched onto his skin.

In an instant, he was yanked back down into the depths.

Mr. Jobert fought desperately, thrashing against the force pulling him deeper into the dark abyss. With his vision rendered a blur by the water and the panic rising from his chest, he twisted himself around, getting a good look at what had attacked him and his partner—the creature responsible for Murphy’s death. Through the red haze of anger and rage he felt in that moment, crippling fear had latched itself onto him as he bared a sight he would never forget, its terrifying form etched itself into his mind, haunting him to this day.

It wasn’t human, hell it wasn’t even an animal, what Mr. Jobert saw that faithful night was an unearthly aquatic humanoid. Its body was covered in slick, glistening scales, and its limbs were webbed like a grotesque merging of man and sea. Fins protruded from its spine starting from the back of its head down to its tailbone, what locked onto Mr. Jobert was its glowing red eyes bore fully of carnal rage and hunger with an otherworldly intensity.

The creature was either completely feral, or pure evil. Its gaze cutting through the water, locking onto him. After a moment of thrashing in silence, the creature let out a deafening cry—a sound unlike anything he’d ever heard throughout what his time at sea. It started as a deep, haunting whale-like call that had morphed into a glass shattering shriek that rattled his skull, if it weren’t for the fact that they were underwater, the piercing echo would’ve ruptured his eardrums.

Mr. Jobert seen what that thing had done to Murphy, he wasn’t going to allow it to do the same thing to him next, for his survival, for his fiance, and for his partner Murphy. He was going to survive, even with nothing but the skin of his teeth, and the fire under his ass. Summoning the strength he could gather, Mr. Jobert lifted his free ankle and used his hard boot to kick the creature square in the face, feeling the satisfying crunch boot against its tough, scaled skin.

The grip on his ankle loosened as its claws started to spread apart from the tight hold, he wasted no time, kicking himself free once more. His lungs burned for air as he swam to get to the surface, until he caught sight of the dark silhouette of the small boat nearby—the small rescue boat he and Murphy used to reach the ill-fated fishing vessel.

Driven by pure survival instinct, he surged upwards, the muffled rain louder as he approached the surface closer. With his heart pounding in his chest and his lungs feeling as if it was going to burst inside his chest, Mr. Jobert aimed for the surface, kicking with all his might.

With the sliver of hope wrapped around him, he felt a sharp grip coil around his shoulders—rough, scaly arms digging into his skin as the creature latched onto him to pull him back down deeper into the depths of the sea. Its cold body pressing against his back, dragging him down like a relentless predator. Panic surged through him, and his muffled scream was lost in the bubbles of water as he nudged and elbowed, struggling to unlatch the thing attaching itself onto him.

In abject fury, Mr. Jobert felt as if he was close to his wits end, feeling his resolve slowly deplete, his fists pounding against the creature’s grasp as it clung to him like a drowning parasite, desperate for its host. Its claws latched onto his neck, drawing minimal blood from the piercing grip. This thing was relentless, but Mr. Jobert wasn’t going down, not without a fight.

Desperate, from his thrashing and wiggling free from its grasp, he had managed to have enough space to turn his body around, the moment they faced each other, he plunged his thumbs into the creature’s eye sockets. His fingers pierced into the creature’s presumed weak spot, feeling the cold wet tissues wrapping around his harsh thumbs, whilst deep in its sockets, with his nails pressed against the corneas.

The monster let out a blood-curdling shriek, so piercing it reverberated through the water. Dark blood clouded the surrounding waters around them, turning the sea into a murky red haze. In its pain, the creature retaliated, despite its blocked vision, it was still able to do some damage, slashing at the side of Mr. Jobert’s neck with its claws, ripping the tender flesh, luckily not enough to sever an artery. The attack sent a sharp sting of pain through him. He let out a pained cry, out of agony but didn’t stop—he couldn’t afford to.

Pulling back his thumbs free, he gave one last kick, channeling all his strength to condemning the creature back to the hell it crawled out of, he used to momentum of the kick to propel himself further up the surface. The cut on his neck throbbing and leaking blood but, still he managed to power through with pure adrenaline. The surface was near, but he dared not look back, focusing on every stroke and kick, driven by sheer power and the will to live.

Mr. Jobert safely returned to the coast guard ship, though he was bloodied and shaken, the slash on his neck was a glaring reminder of the near death experience he’d just survived. His fellow officers swarmed him with questions, what happened to the boat? where was Murphy? Hesitant he’d sound absolutely nuts, he still told his truth. As unbelievable as it sounded, he detailed everything, down to the gash on his neck. He was sure they’d think he was crazy, and that no one would buy the story of an aquatic creature attacking them in the dead of night. But that didn’t matter—he knew what he saw, what he encountered, and even if hell decided to open up underneath, he will continue to stand by his account.

A team of coast guard officers later went back to the fishing vessel to investigate, only to find the obvious, nothing. No Murphy. No traces of the creature or its existence, and certainly not a single fisherman that supposedly radioed them in. The only blaring evidence of something gone horribly wrong in the boat was the trail of blood that led from the wheelhouse and vanished into the dark water. Of course, when they returned to shore, an official investigation with law enforcement involved was launched. But it led nowhere, as there were no solid leads, no body to recover, no witnesses beyond Mr. Jobert, who’s presumed to be a nut job, though medical and psychological tests proves otherwise, they have no evidence to corroborate his terrifying account.

Murphy was officially listed as “missing, presumed dead,” and despite his death, no one could link it to Mr. Jobert or to anything natural. The story was filed away as an unsolved mystery. But even if the rest of the world had to move on, Mr. Jobert never did. He believed—no, he knew—what had happened that night. Whether anyone believed him or not didn’t matter. That was his truth. And every time he glanced at the scar on his neck, he was reminded of the horror beneath the waves that had claimed his friend and nearly taken his life too.

. . .

“That does sound strange… Look, it may be unlikely, but it could’ve also been Grant. Seems far-fetched he’d be doing checks or repairs at that hour, but still.”

Mr. Jobert’s voice cut through the haze in my mind, forcing me to shake off the thoughts that had been swirling around. I tried to focus on what he was telling me.

“I thought the same,” I admitted. “Mr. Grant’s been pretty tied up lately with all the repairs around the building. He hasn’t even gotten around to fixing my A/C.”

Mr. Jobert nodded knowingly. “Yeah, slow repairs aren’t exactly uncommon here. You’ve been here long enough to know. Even if they’re swamped with work, they’re always slow to respond.”

I found myself agreeing, thinking over his words, but before I could form a proper response, the elevator behind us dinged. A man in a delivery uniform stepped out, briefly scanning the hallway until his eyes landed on us. He jogged over, pizza box in hand, confirming the order with Mr. Jobert, as I stepped aside letting them handle the exchange.

“Hey, kid,” Mr. Jobert said after paying for the pizza, “fancy coming in for a slice? I decided to just order in for supper. Cindy said she couldn’t make it today, busy with whatever school stuff she’s got going on.”

“Sure.” I nodded with a chuckled grin.

I wouldn’t turn down free pizza, even if someone held a gun to my head. When the delivery guy left through the building elevator, I followed Mr. Jobert inside his apartment. It felt cozy, distinct and as homey as I remembered it would be since the last time I’ve been. I didn’t feel the strange unease that had plagued over me in my own place lately. Here, I could relax and breathe easily, even if it was only for a little while.

Days had passed since my talk with Mr. Jobert, still no sign of Mr. Grant. He didn’t come to my apartment to check on anything, none of the complaints I had seemed to have even reached him as I was left on delivered. I really wasn’t a stickler to get these issues resolved quickly, if it wasn’t for the mold on my A/C that had worsened to the point of it being unbearable to be around. It was spreading out, thick and dark clumps of mold attached itself to the ventilation grills, and the smell… It resembled something rotting, putrid enough to turn my stomach. Eating in the living room had become impossible. I spent most of my time holed up in my room just to escape the stench.

What really pushed me over the edge was when one morning I woke, I found drops of liquid leaking from the vents again, when I heard the familiar sound of liquid tapping on the floor. Only this time, it wasn’t water. The blackened mold had begun seeping out between the grills in ink-like streaks, as if an octopus erupted from inside the ventilation system. Since I’ve been asleep when the leaking had begun, I wasn’t able to catch it in time before it made an even bigger mess to clean up. This was a nightmare—scrubbing and mopping for what felt like hours as my arms started to feel restless, doing whatever it could just to get rid of the foul-smelling mess.

Frustrated, and feeling like I’d reached my limit, I finally picked up the phone and called the maintenance guy.

He didn’t pick up, and with two hours left before class, I had enough time to pester him until he answered. Frustrated, I spammed his phone with missed calls, feeling like an obsessive ex, when finally, just as I was rifling through the fridge for something to pack for lunch, a crackling sound echoed from my phone’s speakers. My attention snapped back to it, sitting on the counter, and I rushed over to pick it up.

“What?”

His voice was groggy, and I could tell he’d just woken up, which only irritated me more. The nerve—like I was the one being a bother, as if I committed a the great sin of coming to him about the repairs he should’ve done two weeks ago.

“Mr. Grant, I texted you weeks ago about my A/C. It’s molding at this point! I’ve had to clean up this disgusting mess—”

“Ah, shit. I’m sorry, kid,” he interrupted, sounding more exhausted than anything. “Yeah, I got your texts… and all the other complaints from everyone else in the building. I haven’t gotten to your problem yet because it’s not as urgent as some of the other crap I’m dealing with.”

His voice grew more aggravated, as if he was recalling everything at once.

“Yesterday, that fat bitch Bertha from 304 had people raising alarms because her apartment started smelling like a goddamn corpse. I had to call 911, and we busted down her door thinking she’d dropped dead from a heart attack. Turns out she’s been hoarding dead cats, and the smell was seeping through the walls. So, excuse me if I haven’t gotten around to your A/C since the beginning of the month.”

I couldn’t really mutter up much of a response, he could tell I was taken aback by his ranting as he sighed, seemingly out of pity for leaving me speechless at the other line.

“Okay… how about this,” he offered, sounding a little less annoyed, “I’ll come check it out next week on Monday. Can you stick it out until then?”

“Yes, please,” I muttered.

“Great.” He hung up.

Sighing, I just shrugged it off, returning to what I’d been doing at that time, before the call interrupted me. My college classes that day was as mundane as ever, with the usual routine dragging on, although it was a bit more stressful, as holidays were approaching, deadlines had to be met. With another semester being nearly over—only a more week until the sweet temporarily release from school, due to the winter break. I could practically feel the collective excitement around the campus—students, staff, and even professors were looking forward to the break for a chance to head home to their families for the holidays.

Though, it was still Thursday after all, and I had a few more classes to power through before the Monday break finally arrived, so I couldn’t feel too comfortable just yet.

I was burning the midnight oil, working on papers that were due the next day, when the familiar pang of hunger hit. Leaning back in my chair, I let out a sigh and glanced at the monitor. My eyes skimmed the pages of the essay I’d been hammering out for hours. The bulk of it was done, thankfully, but it still needed a final round of revisions and a few touch-ups before I could submit it to my professor.

My eyes drifted to the bottom right corner of the screen: 11:44. Sixteen minutes before the deadline. I quickly double-checked for any glaring errors—grammar, spelling, all the usual pitfalls that professors would chew you on for, if overseen. Satisfied that it was as polished as it was going to get, I let out a deep sigh. It was time. I drafted an email, attached the file, and hit “Send.” The weight of that assignment was finally lifted off my shoulders, as I felt a sigh of relief come out of me.

The calming pitter-patter of rain against my bedroom window had lulled me into a rare state of peace. With my essay finally behind me, I leaned back into my chair, letting the white noise wash over me. For the first time in a while, my mind felt clear—until a sudden, muffled crash jolted me alert. The distinct clatter of ceramic hitting the floor sent a jolt of unease through me. My eyes shot to the bedroom door, dimly lit by the glow of my desk lamp.

Slowly, I stood, my heart picking up speed as I moved toward the noise.

The creak of my door echoed softly as I stepped out into the hallway, the warm light barely guiding my steps. I made my way to the kitchen, each footfall muted by the quiet of the apartment. My fingertips brushed against the cold plastic of the switch before I flicked it on, and the harsh kitchen light buzzed to life, casting long shadows across the floor.

There I found before me pieces of a plate I had used previously earlier in the day, what was once a formed ceramic piece was now reduced to jagged pieces of shattered glass onto the floor. With my brows furrowed I began to clean, I assumed it had slipped somehow from the counter. I had just washed these letting them out to dry on the drain board before I could put it back on the cabinet above the counter, where I stored my other plates.

Sweeping the shards into a neat pile, my eyes drifted to the counter where the plate would have been. Something about it felt off. The surface was smeared with grime—dust and debris mingled with smudges of what looked to be mud. But what stopped me cold was a medium-sized mark, unmistakably resembling a footprint. I froze, staring at it for a moment longer than necessary. After discarding the broken pieces, I turned my attention to scrubbing the dirt from the counter, the unsettling image of that footprint lingering at the back of my mind.

Quite frankly, I would’ve been more freaked out, if this wasn’t the first time I’d come across something like this. Just the week before, after coming home late from a dinner with some groupmates after class, I’d noticed dirt trailing from the front door to the living room. At the time, I shrugged it off, assuming it was my own doing, maybe from rushing in and out? But now, with the footprint shaped mark on a counter, I was sure I hadn’t caused, it boggled my mind.

I knew for certain that this time it wasn’t me. And I had no idea what to make of it.

On my way back to my room, no longer feeling the need to eat, that eerie sensation returned—the same one I had felt the night I hesitantly stepped out of my bedroom, the same night the kitchen window had glared with the unnatural light from the mirroring window next door. Only this time, there was nothing. No light, no unexplained footsteps that I tried to pass off as dripping water. Just silence.

I stood frozen for what felt like five long minutes, staring into the dim, hollow space of my living room. The shadows twisted unnervingly, and the outlines of my furniture felt uncanny, as if the empty leather seats were watching me, accusing me of being an intruder in my own home. A chill gripped me, creeping up my spine, as I saw it, a dark hand emerging from behind the couch, gripping the seat to help itself up further, slowly rising as the smell of rotting emitted from the ventilation above became more prominent.

My chest tightened, and before I knew it, my eyes stung with tears I hadn’t realized were forming.

The tension snapped, and I bolted to my room, slamming the door behind me, causing the crucifix attached above the door way to shake, as I flicked the lock with shaking hands. With my back pressed against the door, sinking myself to the floor, the gentle, warm glow from my desk lamp was my only comfort, casting a soft light in the room that barely reached the corners.

I sat with my knees pulled to my chest, hugging myself tightly like a child seeking shelter.

My forehead rested against my knees, and for a brief moment, I let my body curl in on itself, trying to find peace in that fetal position, hoping to feel safe again. With stray tears trickling slowly down the skin of my cheek, I heard the faint sound of a music box, its soft, lilting notes permeated my ears, hearing the source coming from under the slit of the door, slowly lulling me to sleep.

– – –

I barely got a wink of sleep that night, sitting on the floor like a dog waiting for its owner, I was aware of how crazy I seemed. My gaze never wavered from the thin strip of light under the hardwood door, fixated on every subtle shift of shadow that passed through the faint glow. The steps moved almost deliberately mundane—undoubtedly walking by, feigning domesticity as whatever was outside walked around the hall as if they had owned the place.

I thought I was going insane, whatever lurked and waited for me behind that door, knew I was watching it, just as much as it was watching me.

When my eyes landed on the crucifix above the door, a subtle sense of comfort washed over me. In the dim light, it looked eerie, it almost felt cliché—as if pulled straight from a horror flick. Yet, despite its unsettling appearance, I felt, at the very least, that I was being watched over, maybe a product of my upbringing, being made to believe inanimate statues and objects held something more than just the stones and concrete it was made from.

See, I wasn’t overtly religious—faith had never been something I leaned on heavily—but it was woven into my upbringing. Growing up, my family always made sure religious iconographies surrounded us and our home as reminders of the protection and faith they believed enveloped us through the years. The crucifix above the door was definitely not my choice in regards to styling my room, though my mother insisted—making sure I had some piece of ‘protection’ in my space, whether I liked it or not.

Funny enough, I’m starting to think she’s right—maybe I always have.

Somehow, at some point in the night, my mind felt at ease as it was diverted from the unsettling presence within the four walls of my apartment. Sleep eventually crept into my senses, just to pull me under. Another night had gone by, and another was waiting at the other end, while I stayed pliant, letting it tackle me rather than it being the other way around.

Despite barely making it through the night, I still had to attend classes, and this time, getting out of bed felt like I was about to climb Everest with my only gear being a pickaxe. Dragging myself to the bathroom, I realized how little attention I’d given to self-care for the past weeks. The unshaven stubble creeping along my jawline and the dark shadows beneath my eyes were tell-tale signs of ‘letting myself go,’.

Yes, it was clear I’d been through the wringer, although a part of me hoped that, if people knew what I’d been dealing with these past few weeks, they might cut me some slack—or at the very least, leave me alone.

Even though I wasn’t in the right shape—mentally or physically—I forced myself to class. How I wished I had just stayed home, but a part of me desperately wanted to get away from that place too. Funny enough, that’s what drove me the most to leave in the first place, whether I wanted to acknowledge the fact or not. I kept telling myself, “It’s the last day before break, then you’re home free,” but deep down, even then I knew the reason was simply to be separated from my apartment.

Away from the form that had continuously drained and sucked out energy from me every single day. For what reason? I wish I had known then too.

The drive to campus didn’t take too long, about thirty minutes of a drive from my apartment building—getting a parking spot wasn’t that tough either, since I would always park on a certain area, and had usual spots I’d stop to when it’s not too crowded.

Our campus’ architecture intrigued me from the first time I got here—due to its historical background establishing itself millenniums ago the campus had a rich traditional architecture featuring classic red-brick facades and Romanesque revival elements, mirroring the university’s historical past—blending in the present’s modernity as time consistently passed by.

Multiple historical buildings, different halls built during different eras, now being kept alive by sharing one umbrella of maintenance—modernity.

Over time, I understood why older buildings required more maintenance and why they’re more crucial to upkeep, in comparison to newly built ones. As parts are replaced, new ones get old, and the cycle continues—which is normal. It only becomes a problem when left unattended for too long.

Passing through a cluster of students, I observed the different types of personalities that littered the campus. Though the majority minded their own business—getting to wherever they needed to go—I still found it intriguing and a little dystopian to see certain individuals sticking their phones anywhere to film a video, whether to dance in front of a camera or film others without consent.

It bothered me to be in the frame of someone else’s lens, unable to control how I looked whilst a group of friends minded their own business—presumably filming or taking photos of themselves. It didn’t help that I knew I looked like shit at the moment either. I knew I could’ve just been overreacting; I could even tell that I felt aggravated as I forced myself to go to class. I should’ve had the option to just stay at home, but even that didn’t feel comfortable to me—given my situation at home.

Alas, I powered through—or at least tried to. I survived my classes for the afternoon before spending the rest of my day at the campus library, scouring the shelves in search of something good to read. I hadn’t found anything that piqued my interest yet as I walked through the halls that had barely any signs of life. It was the last day of school, so I assumed the other students didn’t really have much work to do anymore.

Despite the librarian’s ‘No Eating’ policy, I roamed the plush-carpeted halls with a chicken sandwich in hand. My eyes darting around the different genres, the smell of books, both new and old tickled my senses as I used my free hand to browse quickly through the lightly-dusted books.

As I passed by the mystery novels showcased on bookshelves, I began to go through the horror genre, littered with niche books and familiar titles I’d seen in movies, but what really caught my eye that afternoon was something that’s still lingers in my mind, even to this day.

‘Dii Inferi Subter’

Gods Down Below—it roughly translated to, finding it out down the line. When I held the book in my palms, I felt its weight in my hand. I had no real interest in the occult or supernatural literature, but with its leather material against my skin, I felt compelled to see what was inside. I think, at that moment, a part of me yearned to get answers to things I couldn’t explain.

With my sandwich half-eaten, I sauntered to the corner table by the window to read, natural sunlight shining on the pages. The book’s hardcover felt matte and leathery, its edges reinforced with rusted metallic triangles that were sharp to the touch, while an engraved insignia—representing the sky, water, and earth—adorned the center of the cover.

Sitting down, I hesitated to open the book, but it was the first step I took trying to find out more about the hauntings I’ve experienced at home, and this book was going to be one of the many I had opened up in this library, digging through its pages hoping to find something I haven’t already been told online.

I had no luck with the first book, but it was only the beginning. I skimmed through every occult book and page I could get my hands on in the library that pertained to the supernatural. Stacks upon stacks of books piled up on the table before me as I searched for any details or signs that even hinted at resembling the occurrences I’d encountered in my apartment.

Feeling pretty defeated, I realized that time had slipped away from me during my hours spent diving into books in the campus library. The sun was no longer beaming through the window. I sighed, resting my head on my arm, my eyes drifting into nothingness—until they focused on an open book I had set aside earlier.

Curious, I sat up and looked at the page I had forgotten open, after giving up on searching for answers in that very book at some point earlier.

I was met with an illustration depicting what seemed to be a mermaid. Her tail glistened with scales that embellished its length, blending into her sharp, emaciated upper body. The fleshy skin on her form transitioned into darker-toned, iridescent scales down her limbs. Her complexion was taut and blueish-grey, with sea mold and barnacles blemishing her skin, resembling a drowned corpse, dead-lost at sea, toned-pale as the storm clouds looming above the ocean. Her milky-white eyes resembled an angler fish—ghostly blind yet all-seeing—peering into the minds and souls around her.

It unsettled me to look into her eyes, and even more so at her facial features, which held the haunting presence of a woman with anger and rage simmering beneath the expression she held blank.

Her webbed fingers, human-like in nature, tipped with razor-sharps nails, while atop her head rested a bed of corals, protruding from the top of her forehead and very scalp, parting the long drab flowing hair that cascaded down her back in streaks of ginger. It seemed whatever rested above her was a permanent crown—twisted and jagged spires resembling horns of a demon.

Yet, the rest of her haunting features almost paled comparison to the bloodied stubs behind her back. Six grotesque, opened flesh wounds—stretched and gaping on her petite frame as whatever inhabited her backside was ripped out of her frail body to reveal torn flesh and peeking the bones of her ribcage, forcing her to wander earth eternally from her opened wound that will never cease to stop its bleeding.

Looking at the illustration on the book, I reeled back, overwhelmed and clearly unsettled, I read the calligraphic words below.

“Pelagora”

I muttered almost questioning, unknowing of the entity presented by the book, before turning to the next page, seeing it adorned with information and presumably the background of this supposed entity. My interest has been piqued, drawn to know more about this creature—though short-lived as my phone had vibrated in my pocket, my familiar ringtone snapped me out of my readied trance to dive into the pages.

“Mom,” I read on the screen, my hand holding onto the phone with a careful grip.

Tapping the screen to answer, I held the phone to my ear as I briefly checked the front of the book to read its title once more: Dii Inferi Subter

“Hi Mom, whats up?” I asked, turning the book back to its current page.

My mother had asked me about my day. I gave her the usual preset answer I would resolve to, just to keep the conversation going; the fewer questions asked, the less worry I’d have to burden her with, and the faster I could bid farewell and move on.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother, and I appreciate that she’s reaching out to check-in on me, as she’s the only one that’s actually made an effort to reach out to me in my family. Though, like any concerned mother, she has her quirks, and by quirks I mean she had a tendency to be overbearing, though at least she cared about me—at times a little too much, which causes for conversations not needed to be had.

“You need to start eating and taking care of yourself better; you’re not a child anymore, Joshua. I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you of these things; you need to be aware of these yourself.”

After talking about plans for the family gathering during Christmas, I had mentioned to her I haven’t filled up my fridge in weeks and had takeout the other night—so I was looking forward to having homecooked meals that weren’t prepared by a college kid with low-cooking skills. I regretted bringing it up almost instantaneously as she began to school me thousands of miles away, at the other end of the phone.

“Do you still smoke? I don’t want to keep lecturing you over and over about these things; you should know better by now. The last thing I want for you is to be having complications when you’re older because you couldn’t be responsible for yourself by controlling these habits of yours.”

I let out a sigh, forgetting about the book before me, as I laid my head on my palms, with my elbow propped against the table. It was getting tiring having to be told off by my parents, and this wasn’t an uncommon thing either, especially then when I still lived under the same roof as them.

When I had the chance to finally move away and be my own person for once, I’ve never felt so liberated; the first few months felt like a high—the freedom was intoxicating, and eventually, after a year or so, the novelty had worn off. Although reminiscing about that time could still put a smile on my face, as I could remember just blasting music in my apartment, leaving the dishes out to be washed eventually as I busied myself with other things without being nagged at—most importantly, being free to make mistakes, to make decisions without worrying about what others or what my parents would think.

A part of me longed for that familiar feeling again; it was no wonder why I felt frustrated and sad with the state my apartment was in; what was once a sanctuary to me that held pleasant memories of my own was now reduced to a space I couldn’t even stand to be in anymore.

“Look, I’m just doing my job as your mother. I’m looking out for you, and whether you like it or not, I will enforce these things on you to give you a better life.”

She spoke sternly, and I nodded as if she could see me—realizing she couldn’t, so I just hummed.

“I know Mom, and… I am trying; I just had a lot on my plate with… school.” I lied.

“I’m sure, sweetie; it’s alright. Since you’re on your winter break for now, get here as soon as you can, okay?”

I hummed once more, my eyes dragging down to the open pages of the book, my fingers trailing on the words—feeling the rough worn surface of the paper on my skin, its rich-aged tanned color marked with jet-black ink across its pages.

“Alright, take care, Joshua. Love you.” She spoke calmly.

“Love you too, Mom.”

Silence permeated my space as I let out a quiet sigh, glancing around the mess I had caused in the library. I brushed off whatever weight I held on my shoulders at the moment as I closed the book—setting it aside before I returned the other stacks of books, so I could have it checked out, to continue reading it at another time at home.

It felt a little odd when I tried to check out the book with Mrs. Auriel. When I arrived at her desk, she was gone—presumably on break or somewhere else. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I waited for her; but after fifteen minutes had passed and she still hadn’t returned, I settled with just leaving a note with my library card information and the book’s title. It was then that I realized it had no author’s name listed anywhere, but since the title seemed distinct enough, I figured it would be sufficient for identification.

When I arrived home, the air… it felt different, lighter, maybe? I wasn’t sure how to describe the feeling. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I made my way to my room, retreating within the confines of those four walls that now felt like the safest place on earth.

I opened the book, skimming through the different entities just to catch a glimpse of the illustrations. Naturally, I searched these names on the web, and almost all of them yielded results; it seemed some of these demons also appeared in other demonology texts. I was hooked, to say the least—spending a good few hours researching and diving into these entities and their backgrounds.

From demons that haunted the minds of men across time and history—causing mayhem and despair to bring their master of all masters one step closer to his ultimate goal in the underworld—to demons of decay, malicious beings lurking in the shadows before ultimately claiming a host, and demons of fire, said to haunt charred landscapes and relics of forgotten battles. Each of these unholy creatures held twisted, otherworldly illustrations, seemingly depicted by the unfortunate victims who discovered their forms, whether in the physical or unnatural plane.

In this book, the only demon or entity that held no record in the digital world was the being named ‘Pelagora’. My eyes locked onto her illustration once more, recalling the image I’d seen at whilst at the library. Flipping onto the next page, I was met with the familiar account of her history I had glossed over while on the phone with my mother.

My brows furrowed as I delved deeper into the words of the pages; I felt a strange pity for her. Her haunting appearance made more and more sense as I absorbed the information from the texts.

. . .

Pelagora/peh-luh-GOH-rah/Pelagora, Mar’gorael, The Siren

Mother of all mothers, daughter of all daughters; Pelagora is a fallen deity, cursed to roam the seven seas for her transgressions against the divine holiest of them all.

Once a seraphim, Mar’gorael—a high-ranking angel—was seated in Heaven’s court among the most revered beings in the kingdom. Amidst the sea of clouds, this angel bore a masculine form, embodying strength, power, and wisdom. He radiated a transcendent beauty and possessed an ethereal voice, a gift from the Creator of all creators. Most of his existence was spent by the throne with his fellow angels, reverently singing praises that echoed throughout the heavenly plains above the earth.

The angel’s wandering gaze would become its demise; witnessing the atrocities of man—watching the innocent shrivel as collateral damage; women, children, and the vulnerable, all susceptible to an endless parade of war and cruelty throughout history and time. Mar’gorael questioned the purpose of their suffering—questioned the decisions of God.

As its three pairs of wings descended from their heavenly perch—from heaven, down to earth—it was the angel’s unfurling mistake that came next. In an act of defiance, it cast judgment on a man who raised his hand against his own family, wielding wrath according to its own understanding of justice. That choice—the act of enforcing wrath by its own will—was a betrayal of the very balance it was meant to preserve.

For daring to interfere, the angel was cast out—Mar’gorael’s radiant form twisted by the fires of its fall, all six wings ripped from the bone by awaiting demons lurking beyond heaven’s borders, forced to scatter across the regions of earth. The angel’s form tore through the atmosphere, catching fire as it singed the remaining tattered divine fabrics before plummeting into the unknown depths of the sea.

Banished to a liminal space, the angel’s compassion simmered and curdled into a dark hatred for mankind, a hunger and lust for rebellion, from being casted out of divinity; spared from hell, and trapped in an eternal prison in-between. Yearning for a world free from suffering, shaped in its own image, Mar’gorael lay dormant as time aged the world—until, at last, it assumed a new form: The Siren.

. . .

I couldn’t help but feel pity as I looked at the illustration of the entity, seeing the deeper meaning behind the scars and deterioration etched into her depiction. Pelagora, the embodiment of a woman scorned, with empty eyes that held an untold story, buried in the deepest depths of the ocean—chained to coral on the seabed, her abandoned form left to be forgotten by time, trapped for eternity.

When it came to religion, I understood there were nuances to almost everything. Here was a being once exalted to one of divinity’s highest forms, meticulously crafted by the hand of God, now cast out with eternal damnation and ultimately abandoned by her own creator.

It’s a concept familiar to many—a story once told before. Yet, it seemed even heaven wasn’t immune to history repeating itself.

Knowing what I knew, it felt… wrong. It didn’t feel fair. Despite everything I’d been taught to believe, I found myself pitying the entity. If bringing justice to the helpless meant taking matters into your own hands, wouldn’t the answer be clear if one had a righteous heart?

A part of me feared the radical altruism festering in that thought, now sensing a pair of eyes watching me from the shadows.

I glanced up at the dimly illuminated cross nearby, turning my head to look at it from where I sat at my desk. The warm glow of my lamp shone against the sleek, hardened skin of Christ on the crucifix, dotted with painted blood. His sorrowful eyes seemed to look back at me, and I felt a rush of accusatory guilt run down my spine.

Yet, it all seemed to wash away as soon as my mind registered a loud thud and the sound of footsteps from the other side of my bedroom wall. I knew that the space beyond where my bedframe rested was no longer part of my flat. My gaze fixed itself on that side of the room as silence slowly seeped back in.

Standing up, I approached the wall. As I drew closer, the sounds grew louder—murmured voices weaving through the silence.

Pressing my ear against the cold surface of the wall, I strained to catch any hint of a voice. I knew I must’ve looked… odd, especially if seen from a second perspective view—but understand that I was sure, no, confident, that the other side of this wall was the adjacent flat, apartment 506.

The voices grew almost clearer now, though still muffled, the conversation barely decipherable through the thin structure of the wall serving as a barrier between two spaces. This building truly was old; I sometimes forget it has been built almost a whole millennia ago.

“Hector, hurry! Jenny, Mila and Andrew are already up in the ceiling!” A woman called out with urgency, strain evident in her tone.

“We all can’t fit in there Josephine!” The man replied back, grunting and coughing.

“Mom, Dad, its stuck!” A teenage voice spoke out, struggle evident in his call, as if pulling a heavy object, immovable in its current state. He coughed, his breath coming in wheezes, matching the labored breathing of the older man nearby.

“I-I have to go check on the Mila and the kids, I can’t leave them up there! I want to make sure they make it-“ Her words cut off as a sharp crackling of splintering wood rang out, from what seemed to have been coming from the ceiling at the other side of the wall. It soon followed a loud thud, the sound of her pained groans caused the two other voices to panic.

“Mom!”

“Oh my God, Josephine!” the older man cried out, his footsteps pounding away from the younger voice, moving closer to where the crash had come from.

“Nico, don’t look… I said don’t fucking look!” The man’s voice, once firm, broke into a fit of anguished sobs.

With furrowed brows, my palms began to sweat against the dry wall as I listened intently, catching the sobs of what was now clear to me, seemed to be a son and a father. The boy continued to plead, his voice shaking as he begged for reassurance about his mother, their coughing growing harsher as the boy’s cries intensified.

“I-I shouldn’t have been giving her hell for these past few days for losing Joseph. I can only imagine the pain and guilt your mother has been feeling… Instead of just being the man she needed I just weighed more on her burden.” The father’s anguished wails seeped through the wall, the timbre of his throaty sobs felt guttural.

“We’ll find him Dad, no matter what it takes… but first we have to get out of here.”

The pair’s footsteps audibly moved around as shoes on wooden floor squeaked and thumped. Their voices unintelligible the further they moved away. The faint sounds turned to whispers, and, from whispers to a familiar silence once more, leaving me frozen with my ear against the wall. The tender flesh of my cheek remained frozen on cold surface, as I struggled to pull myself from the trance, trying to process what had just transpired.

I debated calling emergency services—after all, a woman might be dead on the other side of this wall. Initially I had thought the next apartment over was 506, but what if I was wrong? What if it was a different apartment attached to the other side?

I found myself grasping at straws, trying to rationalize an occurrence once more, but at this point it was too real; not to say the previous occurrences didn’t feel real enough, I’ve just buried—or attempted to forget them for the sake of my sanity, and to continue living in my apartment.

Standing there, facing the wall, I realized I had been staring blankly, as if watching paint dry. I continued to gather my thoughts right then and there, as I felt a weight on my chest slowly ease up while I inched closer to conclusion within myself, to finally stop tiptoeing along the lines.

Something happened to that apartment, adjacent to mine, and the secrets locked behind that front door—I don’t think I would ever be ready to find out.

After an uneventful weekend, Monday morning had arrived, and so did I—though in a puddle of sweat. I barely could recall the dream I had that night when I went to bed. I just remembered feeling hot, I couldn’t see anything but the darkness, just the all-consuming darkness—but what made up for my lack of sight was the intense feeling of smoldering heat that enveloped my body.

It felt as if I was in hell, the screams and cries of voices I could not see, while the crackling wails of agony felt like a cacophony of begging—pleading for the torment to stop.

When I woke up, I gasped for air, my chest heaving as if I’d just surfaced after being submerged underwater for too long. Sitting upright in bed, I realized I hadn’t woken from the dream—I’d been pulled from it. I couldn’t recall whether my body had done it on purpose to wake me up, or I was so deeply entranced that my mind had forgotten to breathe.

Trying to shake it off as a passing occurrence, I stepped out of my room. Upon checking my phone I then noticed the voice messages I’d received from Mr. Grant. Judging by the timestamps, it had been about half an hour since he sent out the messages.

“It’s Monday kid, I’m coming over this afternoon, if you’re heading out, let me know beforehand so I can get the spare key before going to your apartment.” his voice crackled through the phone’s speaker. He sounded slightly muffled due to the outdoor ambiance and the wind blowing onto him while recording the message.

“I’m on my way now to check on the other apartments on that floor. Just your luck right? When I promised last week I’d come over on Monday, I actually—“

The message cut off abruptly. I replayed it out of habit, but it didn’t offer any new insight. After playing the recorded messages, I gave him a brief text, letting him know I wasn’t going to be home, and then I turned off my phone to begin to head out. I didn’t really wanna stick around and have to deal with Mr. Grant, knowing him he’ll be talking to talk, and I’m not really in the mood to go through that with my social battery being at an all-time low.

I noticed that the dripping had minimized from the air-conditioner, watching the droplets of water dribble onto the bucket half-filled with ventilation discharge, the water was still mold-ridden and stunk-rotten, at least at this point I had gotten used to the smell. None of that all of that didn’t matter anymore—Mr. Grant was going to come in and he was going to fix the problem as promised. All I needed to do was get out of his way.

After emptying the foul-smelling bucket, it didn’t take long for me to get ready. I planned to run a few errands, maybe grab some breakfast, and finally stock up on groceries. I hadn’t been keeping up with much around the apartment lately; with everything going on, I’ve been procrastinating more than usual.

At least now that I had the chance to, I felt pretty optimistic that I was taking charge of my day for once, rather than the other way around.

As I locked my apartment door, my attention drifted to the one next to mine, noticing that the once-sealed, locked entrance was now slightly ajar—all I could see through the parted crack was darkness.

I stared at the open crack longer than I should have, torn between curiosity and the creeping dread tightening around my chest, that engulfed the sense of safety I thought I had. Part of me knew I should turn away, with my feet lifting to maneuver backward—lost in a plethora of thoughts and contemplations, by the time I formed a cohesive thought, I already stood in the middle of the apartment.

Standing in the dimly lit open space, I sensed a distorted familiarity as the layout of the apartment was a mirrored version of mine. The light from outside the main hallway illuminated the area, giving me a better look at the state of the apartment. Its walls singed black, burnt marks trailing from the bottom, and upwards—windows taped over blind, keeping even the barest hint of light outside from ever peeking in, to bless the gloomy space with its warm glow.

A lingering stench was powerful, overtaking my senses as I covered my nose with my forearm. The smell of rot and burnt ash was too pungent for my nose to simply breathe in the room naturally. I felt my eyes water as I walked around the empty apartment, glancing at the littered garbage and burnt clumps of ashes. My eyes landed on a white sofa toasted on its edges resembling a dirty marshmallow, it was kept against the wall, undoubtedly abandoned and left by its previous owners, it piqued my interest, not because of its odd state, but what lay adjacent to the abandoned furniture.

Groceries… clean, almost fresh, and unopened items laid waste near the couch. With my footsteps crunching against burnt remnants on the floor, I walked to check closely. Crouching down, I picked up a container of ice cream, the pint-sized cookie dough-flavored treat laid flat on my palm as the weak light from the open door served to illuminate. My thumb grazed over the dust and debris on the bottom of the pint, reading its printed numbers.

Best by: 03/2023

Feeling the warm pint of ice cream slip from my grasp, it toppled onto the floor. It was mine—I had bought it not long ago earlier this month, and it disappeared with some of the groceries I kept in the fridge. I glanced at the pile of miscellaneous groceries, scattered items pooled on the dirty floor, once I turned on the flashlight of my phone. I scanned through the ruined apartment for any other semblance of familiarity. I felt a sickening nervousness at the pit of my stomach, as I began to question…

‘did someone have access to my apartment?’

The thought that someone had been coming in, taking my groceries, and walking through my halls at night while I was locked up in my room. I felt a strong unnerving sense deep in my throat, trickling down to my stomach—violation was all I felt by the thought that someone lived with me, right under my nose this whole time.

My displeased gaze drifted to a piece of paper, littered with what looked to be a childish drawing of a family. Six drawn figures blacked out with ink, with their distinct features, barely seen through the marker’s scribble, except one drawing of a short toddler in blue. Before I could even register or make out what it could’ve meant, the creaking of a door from down the dark hall permeated my senses, echoing throughout the space as the door slowly inched wider to open, what lay behind the barely lit door was complete and utter darkness—pitch black.

I felt as if my brain was locked in fight or flight mode, as I chose the latter—always have, and ran. I got up sprinting to the front door, as I could’ve sworn the door was slowly closing in on its own, catching it before it fully clamped shut. Slamming the apartment door closed with a harsh pull with my bare hands, and the loud thud echoed around the commercially bright-lit hallway, nothing but the beat of my own heart pumping against my chest, accompanied by the pants from my dry throat, permeated the silence in the hall.

I could’ve stayed—I would’ve stayed in the building, gone back to my apartment, and locked myself in my room once again, but knowing what I knew—or at least speculated on for the past few hours since leaving. I knew I wasn’t safe there either, whatever, or whoever was in 506, knew that I was there, that I saw my groceries, and whatever junk laid out in that abandoned apartment.

Fearing that whatever I ran away from could be waiting for me in my apartment. I stayed outside, letting time pass by inside a cafe to gather my thoughts and use their free Wi-Fi. Trying to make sense of what was going on felt like an impossible goal. I wasn’t sure how to look for help, without sounding completely nuts. I thought about calling the cops, or telling the landlord, and maintenance, but what would I say?

‘I think someone is living in my walls or the abandoned apartment next to mine, please send help’

I pondered that rehearsed line and thought heavily about alerting the proper authorities, but with shaking hands, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to call and ask for help. I wasn’t a stranger in doing so, I’ve asked for help and assistance before— but the thought of having to explain the situation to the landlord, and Mr. Grant, I felt unreasonably unnerved.

Left with one option—I had to talk to the only person I knew, with more knowledge about the building than most, the person I could only trust in this beaten-down old structure full of unspoken history within its renovated walls—I needed to talk to Mr. Jobert. Though, despite my regarded closeness with the man, I still couldn’t help but overthink what he would say, and how he would react.

‘He wouldn’t think I was crazy, would he? I mean… he fought a sea creature for Christ’s sake, he should be the last person to judge, right?’

With my knuckles repeatedly thumping on the hardwood planes of the mahogany door, I felt a sense of urgency in my knocks, whether purposely or otherwise. My chest constructed within itself, feeling the need to see a familiar face; it felt foreign to me to yearn for human connection, but when faced with something beyond myself in that moment—a grumbling sensation bubbled rattling my bones, feeling a numbing itch down my throat I couldn’t scratch—as my body vehemently tried stopping itself from uttering a word I felt afraid to speak.

“Help.”

– – –

What was I afraid of? I believe some part of me at that moment still held onto the thought that it was all in my head, that everything unfolding was just a figment of my imagination, albeit a viscerally real one; the only thing that kept it—that kept me from the reality of the situation was truly asking for help—from seeking help.

To seek help is to believe that something was wrong, that it was real—every minute detail.

“Hello…?”

My train of thought had completely derailed when my gaze landed on a pair of greyish-blue eyes.

“Is Mr. Jobert here?” I asked, as the girl standing before me was Cindy. Mr. Jobert’s only child and daughter. She stood puzzled; I assumed my knocks unnerved her in some way, as the panic within my system was clouded by the feeling of bashfulness, standing before the brunette-haired girl.

“No, and is there something wrong?”

I shook my head, letting out a quiet sight. I wasn’t sure what to do then; I still felt the need to tell someone about what I had just encountered earlier today, but to tell her? Someone who’s practically a stranger to me, as I was to her. We’ve never spoken, only occasionally saw each other once in a while around the hall. I never asked about her, nor did Mr. Jobert often talk to me about his daughter, almost as if it were an unspoken rule that she was completely off limits; I didn’t have to know her or anything about her, and I had to respect that.

She glanced at me with furrowed brows, seemingly analyzing my expression; could she tell I was lying? “Its just that… I could’ve sworn I heard you call out for help; did you need my dad’s help with something?”

“No, I’m sorry, I have to go— apologies for bothering you—”

I was about to turn my heel until I felt stopped in my tracks as my wrist was pulled back causing me to halt. “Wait— you live beside 506 right?” She asked, her eyes held a little more than concern, they held urgency. Glancing down at my wrist I could see how she held me back from leaving, her hands held taut, before pulling back with another apology.

“Yeah, 505” I mumbled before she glanced past me, as I turned to see what her gaze was focused on. Feeling a slight unease in my nerves as my eyes landed on the two doors at the other end of the hall.

“Do you know what happened…?”

Her eyes held a perplexed expression, I felt slightly unnerved by the way she looked at me. Though, I wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that she was a girl or simply the look of expression on her face.

“I’m sorry?”

“What happened to the apartment beside yours.” She reiterated.

I shook my head once more unsure what she was talking about. I have been naively oblivious to everything around me, more specifically around the apartment. It wasn’t until recently that I started paying attention to my neighbors and the other tenants, as I’ve kept myself locked in my own space for so long. If it wasn’t for Mr. Jobert offering to help me move my couch inside, I probably wouldn’t have had the pleasure of knowing the man, even if he was my neighbor.

“Come in.” She gestured going inside the apartment to let me through the door, the sound of her footsteps disappearing into the living room, as I closed the door behind me.

“I’ve been doing some digging around this place for the past year—this building. The whole thing is practically being held together with duct tape and toothpicks.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

I stood confused, as I watched her pick up a cardboard box, toppling its contents onto the dining table nearby as a slurry of papers, news articles, and miscellaneous bags with labels were scattered on the wooden surface. “I’m saying… something is going on right under your noses.” She said as she handed me a printed page of a news article from 2001.

“Family of seven dies in an apartment fire.” I read out loud.

“I’m sorry, what does this have to do with anything? What the hell are all of these…”

My words caught in my throat as my mind began to process what I just said out loud, with a frantic motion my gaze focused back onto the paper, reading the article intently, while Cindy stood with a slight annoyance in her expression, crossing her arms as the slight scowl slowly eased into understanding.

. . .

Family Of Seven Dies In An Apartment FireDecember 28, 2001 • By Aidan Kellen

In the early morning of December, a family of seven tragically succumbed to an apartment fire in Richmond, Virginia. Down in the Maplewood District, on Sycamore Hollow Lane, the Crestview Commons apartment flat was engulfed in flames, caused by an undetected gas leak discovered during the investigation.

Authorities uncovered the remains of the Gonzales family; Hector Gonzales (36), Josephine Gonzales (35), and Nico Gonzales (15). The remains of four Gonzales children—Mila (13), Andrew (9), Jenny (5), and Joseph (1)—could not be conclusively identified amidst the aftermath but were ultimately presumed deceased.

Residents reported hearing a loud explosion around 2:30 a.m., followed by flames rapidly spreading through the apartment complex not long after. Emergency responders arrived at the scene around 2:47 A.M. but fire had already consumed much of the apartment flat. Luckily first responders were able to extinguish the flames before causing more damage by spreading further onto other flats.

Despite their efforts, the family—two parents, and five children—was unable to escape in time.

“At Elmwood, we take the safety and security of our residences very seriously, our team of professionals take regular inspections with great caution for the comfort of our residents. We are heartbroken by the tragic loss of the Gonzales family and will waive rent for all residents of Crestview Commons this month as a gesture of solidarity. We send our love and condolences to the grieving families of the affected during this tough time.” — Sam Drover, Elmwood Properties.

Crestview’s residents are left reeling, with many expressing concerns about the building’s aging infrastructure and other issues with individual apartments. The management company, Elmwood Properties, declined any further statements, in regard to questions about the building’s maintenance.

A memorial service for the Gonzales’ is being planned by family and friends, with details forthcoming.

. . .

“This isn’t possible.” My voice felt hoarse, roughly emitting from my throat as I simmered further, taking in the development of information. The night I heard those voices, seeing the article with a photo attached with a crime scene photo of the burnt-out apartment from the outside, made it all felt too real. Whatever skepticism I had left chipped away entirely, as my hands held historical evidence, physically tangible within my grasp.

“T-They didn’t even bother cleaning the fucking apartment, even after all these years. This statement is complete bullshit!”

The agitation in my stammered words must’ve had Cindy confused, as her solemn expression contorted to furrowed confusion.

“What are you talking about?” She asked.

“I mean, they haven’t even cleaned out or even renovated 506. I’ve been inside, I saw how disgusting and abandoned it was.”

“You got in?”

A look of bewilderment etched onto her face as she walked closer with intent, seemingly wanting to hear more. I debated whether or not to tell her about what I saw, what I heard, and everything I’d been experiencing for the past weeks, but as I looked at the scattered items on the desk and the printed news article in my hand, I let out a deep sigh.

I told her everything, starting from the beginning. The minor occurrences; from the dirty smudges on the floor, missing groceries, and hearing footsteps that weren’t my own. I laid it all out for this girl who was barely an acquaintance, and who I’m fairly certain doesn’t even know my name. Despite everything, she was here, the only present body who had an open ear to listen to me, who was ready to hear what I had to say, whether judgment was at the tip of her tongue or not.

I felt weary sharing more about the heavier occurrences. Her unease was evident when I recounted what I’d heard on the other side of the wall in my room—what I now realized to be the last moments of the Gonzales family on the night of the fire. I also told her about my earlier visit to apartment 506 and how I’d left a trail of dust in my wake as I fled the abandoned flat.

Feeling the weight slightly ease the burden from my shoulders as I told her everything, her eyes never showed any other emotion rather than curiosity and understanding; staying quiet the whole time I spoke, a contrast to the reaction I anticipated.

“So I came here… to talk to Mr. Jobert— to your dad—about everything I just told you. He’s the only person in this building that’s been kind to me, he’s the only person that I could consider a friend in this fucked up place.”

“You’re pretty close to my dad, huh? Makes sense why you’ve been avoiding me like the plague when I would come to visit.” She spoke, carrying a faint smirk with her light quip, I felt a slight fluster creep up behind my neck from her implication, though melting away as her eyes soon gave a distant look.

“He’s been very protective of me, ever since…” Her words trailed along with her gaze, as it focused on the window nearby, following its direction I watched the parted curtains make way for the afternoon glow outside.

“My Mom died.”

A heavy pause settled between us, the air had grown thick and awkward, though it didn’t last long as she interrupted the silence with a sigh. I almost made the mistake of stumbling upon my own words, contemplating on responding right then and there, if it wasn’t for her—

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trauma-dump.” She spoke out abruptly.

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry as well… for your loss I mean.” So close.

She nodded before thanking me, brushing off the topic, avoiding the painful silence that threatened to frost over once more.

We shifted the conversation to her findings—instances of previous tenants and residents leaving the building abruptly due to their apartments deeming unsafe.

“I know… this all looks crazy.”

Brushing her hair back with her fingers, she looked around the mess she’s caused on her dad’s dining table. “But growing up, I’ve seen what people in power would do to those that are weaker than them. My Mom fought for the truth, she… she fought for the Gonzales’ family all those years ago, she knew Josephine Gonzales—they were friends. My parents lived in this apartment for years. I told my father to move out years ago, especially after Mom had passed, but he… he just couldn’t let go. Not of the apartment—but of her.”

A sad sigh escaped her lips as she sank into a dining chair, avoiding my gaze. She seemed deep in thought, silently wrestling with emotions she hadn’t fully processed.

“My investigation began when my friend Tessa started interning for Elmwood Properties’ headquarters,” she continued, her tone shifting. “She was stuck with filing and categorizing documents when she came across a whole binder of information about Crestview. I found it strange at first, when she handed the binder to me. I even asked if it was safe—if she’d lose her job. But she said they probably wouldn’t even notice it was missing since the binder was so outdated.”

I listened intently, as she sifted through the papers and information she gathered—likely everything from the said binder.

She pulled out a photograph of a woman. A picture was of a brunette woman with familiar greyish-blue eyes—features that bore an almost uncanny resemblance to the girl before me. Scrawled across the image in red ink were the words Gonzales’ Case Journalist.

“I have to know why they have this photo of her, why they had her labelled like some target.” she said, her voice resolute. “And I know, the only way I can continue investigating is to know what my Mom couldn’t find out back then. To finish what she started.”

Her voice brimmed much determination, flipping the portrait back to her, staring at the image of her mother. “She’s the reason why I even chose Investigative Journalism.” Her eyes held a longing sadness, despite the chuckle in her tone.

Her eyes stayed looking at the photo, while I couldn’t even utter a single word as my attention was fixated on her. I let her talk, say everything she needed to and digest as much information as I could, it’s all I could do, it’s all she needed from me.

With silence inevitably permeating the room, the quiet was abruptly interrupted by a familiar jarring ring, echoing around the apartment.

“My Dad—he’s home, help me clean up.”

Her voice shifted to a frantic tremble, hastily piling the spilled contents of the box, back into hiding. “Wait— why are you hiding these things, doesn’t he know…” The words died in my throat as the obvious began to weigh in my mind, as she simply gave me a knowing look. “Oh— oh right, he wouldn’t let you… O—Okay.” stammering, I joined her in dumping the contents back into the box.

After the second doorbell we could hear the muffled voice of Mr. Jobert behind the door. “Cindy? Are you home?” He asked, pressing the doorbell once more.

“Just a minute, I’m changing!” Cindy shouted out, running across the apartment with the box clutched within her hands as she wobbled to get to her room.

I had to improvise. With a hare-brained idea, I unlocked and opened the door.

“Mr. Jobert! Sorry, I was at the bathroom. I stopped by to come and see you, I didn’t know you wouldn’t be home so I waited.” I spoke, half-truthfully, as the older man walked in observing the surroundings of his home.

“Where’s Cindy?”

“She’s at her room.”

Our gaze led down the hall, at the closed door. “So, what are you here for?” He asked, walking to the living room as his eyes trailed to the dining table, nothing seemingly out of place.

“I wanted to chill here for a bit while Mr. Grant was fixing up my apartment. You know the man talks and talks, I didn’t wanna be in my apartment to listen to him rant about the other tenants.”

He chuckled at my words, placing his wallet and keys onto a nearby stand, before making his way to the kitchen.

“So, you spoke to Cindy?”

I nodded, feeling slightly uncomfortable knowing the directions the question from him would lead to.

“She’s cool, I haven’t really had the chance to speak or meet her properly so it was nice to get properly acquainted.” I spoke calmly, despite the apple on my head, nervously feeling the target above me, as his eyes felt pointed and sharper.

“Dad, you’re back early.”

Cindy’s voice permeated the tense atmosphere, as she walked in casually, with a poised nonchalance. She really had changed her clothing, knowing her Dad would notice the lie if she was caught with the same clothing she wore before he left. Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she stood by the kitchen archway.

“Yeah, I grabbed the wrong receipt to refund. I’ll just do it tomorrow, there’s 13 more days left anyways.” He shrugged, letting out a relaxed sigh.

“Great, I actually have to go, I’m gonna go out on errands, and hang out with… Tessa.” She spoke, pausing slightly, seemingly thinking of a name. She was lying, the brief glance towards me to avoid her father’s gaze as she told a lie.

“Okay, don’t be out too late. Call me when something happens.”

It didn’t seem Mr. Jobert caught on the lie, or trusted her enough that she would be doing exactly what she said she would.

Cindy left, almost abruptly as silence once more permeated the apartment as I sat on the living room couch, pulling out my phone as I used Mr. Jobert’s Wi-Fi. We spoke casually, he asked a few questions about how I was doing and how school was, and if I was still experiencing anything strange in my apartment.

I didn’t want to lie him, I wanted to tell the truth, to tell Mr. Jobert everything, just as I told Cindy earlier, but if I was going to investigate and uncover what happened to the Gonzales along side her, keeping Mr. Jobert in the dark as Cindy wanted it to be, would make things easier for her—for us both.

“I’m out, your A/C is all fixed up kid. Don’t call me again if something comes up. Text.”

My phone dinged a message notification as I read the text from Mr. Grant, I felt a slight ease on my chest knowing one of my problems was solved. Also the fact that I had a reason to slip away from Mr. Jobert’s apartment without having to make him feel as if I was brushing him off or was uncomfortable.

“Oh— Mr. Grant texted me saying the air-conditioning in my apartment is fixed, mind if I go and check it out? Just come by if you need anything.”

I tried my best to sound casual as possible, though it didn’t seem to matter as Mr. Jobert’s eyes didn’t leave the book he had prompt on his hands. “It’s fine. Make sure that Grant didn’t half-ass the repairs, or else that thing would break again in less than a week.” He spoke gruffly as I chuckled, his regular quips always did put a smile on my face, even if briefly. Which made the guilt in my chest clench tighter.

With a nod I was out the door, the moment the dark oak wood made a thud echoing around the hall, I felt a pair of arms grab me—forcing me into the emergency exit nearby, practically adjacent to the apartment. I panicked—almost letting out a loud protest if it wasn’t for the hand clasping on my mouth. Struggling, I felt my body being tugged—with my head leaned in, I felt my hair being pulled into the stairwell.

By the time I formed a coherent through, the girl stood before me with her index finger against her lips, gesturing for me not to make a sound.

“Sorry, I had to make sure I wouldn’t get spotted by my dad.” She huffed, though she didn’t really seem apologetic for almost giving me a heart-attack.

“Was yanking my hair really necessary?” I grumbled, as she shrugged.

“You’re bigger than me, I had to get you in here one way or another.” Unapologetic, her tone made me chuckle slightly. Before I could retort, she had already pulled out her phone showing me a location in her map.

“This is Elmwood Headquarters; it’s not too far of a drive.” She said, and I looked confused.

“We have to talk to Samuel Drover, I want to know more about what we’re dealing with, even if I have to press for more answers… even if it gets us in trouble.” She had a look of determination once more, a reflection of the fact that she’s been simmering in this investigation for a long time, unraveling each clue and information piece by piece for the past year or so.

She was far more ready than I ever would be to face what was on the other side of it all, but I was still willing to make the jump if it meant uncovering the truth.

It didn’t take long for Cindy and me to reach the building. We used my car, driving around the city for half an hour until we arrived at our destination. The Elmwood Headquarters loomed before us—a towering structure of glass and steel that reached up high to pierce the clouds above. Its sleek, modern design contrasted, sticking out like a sore thumb with the aging buildings surrounding its premises.

At that moment, as we both stood out in the parking lot, the withered trees of winter made the already dreary atmosphere seem dead amidst the snow, resembling ashfall. At the heart of it all was Elmwood, its megastructure sucking the life out of its surroundings, the company logo so saccharine and inviting—a mockery of what we presumed lay within its corporate walls.

I didn’t know what to expect—Cindy didn’t seem to either—but we pushed through those revolving doors with puffed chests, bracing ourselves for what’s to come. Truthfully, I wasn’t even sure if we’d even make it as far as the waiting area outside Drover’s office. Yet, with Cindy at my side we found ourselves standing in the middle of a dreary minimalistic atmosphere, the room exuded an oppressive sterility, void of any color other than modern black, polished white and formal grey.

At the far end, the woman behind the desk, dabbled away on her desk keyboard, her fingers gracing past each key with precision, not bothering to spare a glance, knowing exactly what our presence meant in that waiting room.

“I’m sorry, you can’t go in without an appointment, Mr. Drover isn’t seeing anyone right now—”

The secretary behind the desk spoke, her blonde hair neatly prompted up in a bun, not bothering to spare a glance at us both, with her eyes tired and empty behind the sharp frames of her glasses. Cindy huffed shaking her head. “I’m not leaving until we see him, is that clear?” Trepidation in her voice was evident, as the secretary reeled back on her seat, taken aback by Cindy’s tone.

“I’ll see what I can do, but for now please… sit.” The secretary’s murmured voice permeated our ears. Her words brought Cindy a sense of ease—compliant for now as she turned to take a seat at one of the black plush leather couches nearby.

With Cindy settled on the couch, my eyes averted to where she had stood earlier. A photo etched onto the brochure displayed on the desk was Mayor Kingsley—his face was familiar, and practically hard to forget due to his campaign posters being plastered around town every election season—even if the man has been mayor since the trilobites. Beside him stood a younger Samuel Drover, as the pair stood together with their hands clasped together in unity.

“Trust the Flow, Build the Future with Elmwood.”

We sat in silence for what felt like forever. Cindy kept her piercing glare on the grand oak wood door, a few feet away from the secretary’s desk, as the lady behind the counter continued to take calls. The words I overheard from where I sat sounded like typical business jargon.

“How long are we going to stay here?” I asked.

“As long as it takes,” Cindy grumbled; I could tell she, too, was beginning to get impatient. We both knew they were planning to ice us out until we decided to leave.

“Mr. Drover is busy today, so the wait might be longer, if you could just come back another day and—” The secretary spoke out, her voice sounding even more worn down compared to earlier.

“No. We can wait.” Cindy interrupted.

The blonde lady sighed. “Okay.” She spoke defeatedly, returning her attention to her work as the oddly calming sound of her nails tapping on her keyboard, accompanied by the keys typing at a certain pace and rhythm put me in a light trance.

About two hours had passed and Cindy stayed unmoving in her seat—gaze drifting from one place to another, as her arms crossed, with her back against the couch cushion. At some point she closed her eyes, seemingly resting as her gentle breaths were slightly audible.

“Sir, these kids won’t leave without speaking to you.”

The secretary paused before her eyes trailed to where Cindy and I sat.

“What are your names?” She asked.

“Cindy Jobert.”

“Joshua Colewell.”

A long pause permeated the reception area after she repeated our names to the other line of the phone. Cindy and I looked at the woman behind the counter as her face contorted to a solemn expression. Nodding with the occasional hums of acknowledgment, she would turn her gaze towards me and Cindy before briefly looking down at her desk.

“Understood sir,” she spoke, before typing briefly as she brought the phone back down.

“Are they gonna let us in?” I asked, while Cindy sat keeping her eyes directly onto the woman who stayed silent. Her brows furrowed before standing up.

Before Cindy could even speak, the double doors at the far end of the area opened at an abrupt pace. The door slammed wide, and three guards dressed in black suits stepped into the room—immediately making their way toward me and Cindy. Their polished shoes took long strides, dragging deliberately across the floor as their distance grew closer.

“Mr. Drover won’t be seeing you today.” The blonde woman spoke.

“We’re not leaving until—” Cindy defiantly, tried to stand her ground but the guards began to escort us both out of the room.

“Ma’am, It’ll be easier for all of us if you cooperate.” The guard tried to step towards her but she resisted, and in seeing the girl struggle, I had to step in.

“Hey! Don’t put your hands on her,” I spoke out, trying to drown out the hint of nervousness I held in my throat.

Before I could react, both guards held onto me as the one guard restrained Cindy. We both struggled to get out of their grasp as I shook myself trying to free my arms loose while the three had me and Cindy on hold, being forcibly escorted out of the building. Throughout the process of being escorted out, at some point, Cindy and I stopped resisting as we got to the lobby before ultimately being shoved outside in the cold winter air.

At that moment as I sat on the snow-covered pavement, watching my breath in front of my eyes, I looked up at the girl with an apologetic look, wishing we could’ve done more in coming here, I also held a worried look with Mr. Jobert in mind, how I let his daughter be manhandled in front of me; the man would kill me if he knew.

The drive back was quiet, Cindy had her elbow propped against the window of the passenger seat as I focused on driving on the dimly lit road.

“I have a ‘go-fruit’ bar in my bag if you’re hungry?” I broke the silence, keeping my eyes on the road, as she turned her attention towards me. I felt her piercing gaze, like a weight on my chest as I could see her expression from my peripheral view.

With her mouth slightly parted. “Do you have water?” she asked, as I nodded.

She took my bag from the backseat rummaging through my stuff before pulling out an unopened bottle of water, though with the drink in hand, her expression furrowed as her eyes saw something inside amidst the clutter.

“Is this..”

Her hands dug through the bag once more, before pulling out the brochure. The saccharine image it gave off was hard to ignore, even from a brief peripheral glance.

“Oh, that’s the brochure I found earlier in the waiting room, where that secretary lady sat,” I spoke, continuing to drive as she examined the image on the brochure.

“This looks outdated. I… I remember seeing a photo like this at home too, when my Mom was still on the case, it was pinned on an investigation board in her office—before her evidence got taken away that is.”

I was about to speak but she cut me off before I could utter a word.

“Can I keep this?” She perked up, gesturing at the brochure.

“Yeah.. not sure what you need it for though,” I replied, briefly glancing at her before turning my eyes back onto the road.

“I feel like… I’m getting closer to finding out what my Mom knew.”

With silence settling in, it felt comfortable this time. I could see it in her face—her once solemn expression, tinged with melancholy, now held a sliver of hope. I gave her a curt smile, as she nodded—slipping the brochure into her bag.

Despite it all, I could sense that the closer we were to find the truth, the more uncertain I was—whether I, or even Cindy, was prepared to uncover what had been buried from the world decades ago. What did her mother find out amidst the chaos, hidden behind the veil of deceit that Elmwood had so carefully placed over the public? Their misdeeds, their shortcomings—I don’t think I was.

“Are you prepared to know the truth?” I asked curiously.

“No, I never will be.”

Reluctantly, I returned to my apartment that night. Still in the same state as I left it that morning, with everything that had progressed throughout the day, I had completely forgotten that Grant had stopped by to fix the air-conditioning. I stood looking at the dirty smudge around the vents, making note to clean and paint over the ever-so charming remnants of fading mold.

Finally, I let out a sigh of relief, finally feeling the weight off of my shoulders from dealing with the air-conditioning problem that had lasted for almost a whole month at this point. I haven’t had company in forever too, so it felt right on time that my air-conditioning was all fixed up.

“Please excuse the… my apartment.” I spoke walking towards the girl sat with her laptop prompted on the kitchen counter.

“It’s fine.” She replied absentmindedly, typing away on her computer. A short pause lingered before Cindy broke the silence. “Look.” Turning her laptop towards me, she gestured at the screen showing me the contents of what she’d been fixated on for the past ten minutes.

With squinted eyes, I peered closer to see a news article from 2000.

“Elmwood Properties Partners with City to Launch Affordable Housing Initiative for Underserved Communities” I read out loud, as the photo below was the very image imprinted on the brochure I took from the secretary’s desk, except this time the background was no longer edited out—taken from the Mayor’s office, the pair had their hands clasped on a shake for the cameras to capture.

Before I could continue to read further, Cindy turned the laptop back toward herself. “That article outlines how they struck some deal to bring in ‘affordable’ housing for the underprivileged. Elmwood financed the builds, and the Mayor authorized the zoning regulations. On paper, it looks good—great, even—but if you look closer…”

She scrolled down the page, pausing to let me glimpse at another photo embedded in the article—Elmwood’s model homes surrounded by smiling people, families with happy and healthy grins, and children being held by their parents. A picture-perfect image of what Elmwood wanted the public to see—of what they wanted to portray.

“They funneled taxpayer money into the project, jacked up rent prices the next year, and pushed out the people who couldn’t pay anymore.” Cindy muttered bitterly, folding her arms, “Bottomline is… it’s pretty clear the Drovers and the Mayor go way back.” She spoke, glancing back at the screen once more with a piercing stare.

“Samuel was their poster boy in the 2000s it seems… most of the articles about Elmwood back then had his face all over.” Cindy scrolled and typed once more, as I stood from behind her, getting a better look at the previous articles she’s had prompted up.

“Can you search for more articles or news blocks about the Gonzales case?” I asked.

She sighed shrugging as she clicked off of a page. “There’s little to none, I’ve tried months ago. It feels like a dead-end.” Cindy sounded defeated, I felt bad for even asking as it would make sense she would’ve tried that long ago, especially when the case was still new to her.

With my eyes fixed on the words “No results found.” I felt my brows furrow as my gaze focused on the blank screen. “May I?” I asked gesturing for permission to use the laptop briefly.

She hummed nodding, moving to the side to give me access to the computer.

“Thank you.”

Immediately, I began pulling up an archival tool website, which retrieves older versions of web pages taken and archived throughout time. “I’m trying to see if articles or pages got taken down at some point in time.” As soon as I clicked on the year 2002, there were more relevant searches written in December 2001.

“What the hell? Good thinking..” Cindy quipped as I chuckled thanking her.

Scrolling through the browser Cindy clicked her tongue. “Of course, those pricks would try and hide articles that put Elmwood in a bad light.” She grumbled while I read in my mind the article headlines detailed on the page.

The majority of them already said what we knew or at least what the public was told back then; that a family had died in an accidental apartment fire caused by an undetected gas leak. I sighed, with furrowed brows as I scrolled through, not finding anything substantial to give us more.

I felt a sense of hopelessness. Did people truly care so little about this case, to not look further into what truly had happened? Not even a moment’s thought to read between the lines of a story so conveniently cut and dry, so painfully clean? If the speculation was proven to be the truth, would the public even care for long? Or would they move on, leaving the affected families to pick up the pieces of what was left? It was all so unfair—utterly and devastatingly unfair.

“Wait stop.” Cindy abrupted.

“What?”

Her finger pointed at a link to a video. “Sister of Elmwood fire pleas for justice” It read, as my hand practically jolted to click, immediately opening the video, prompting it up on the screen.

. . .

A woman in her late 20s prompted the camera to her face, standing outside what seemed to be a parking lot along with a group of individuals all aligned with posters and signs. Written within the signs were; “Justice for The Gonzales Family”, “We know the truth!” and “Stop the lies!”. Those were the ones visible in the video, but it’s pretty obvious there were more signs, as people at the back held up theirs before the camera shifted its focus back on to the young woman.

“My name is Tina Perez. I am the sister of the late Josephine Gonzales.” She spoke with a look of determination in her eyes, though tiredness was evident. I felt a chill down my spine as she spoke with a rasping animosity in her voice.

“My sister, along with her family was killed in the fire. I have no doubts about that. Today I, along with family and friends of the Gonzales are gathered to protest outside of Elmwood Headquarters to voice out the truth.” The camera panned around showing the groups of people in protest, and the familiar towering building, Cindy and I found ourselves not too long ago. Though without the renovations current in the present, it looked just as dreadful as it did 20 years ago.

“They know the truth, I know the truth, and I’m sure as hell Elmwood knows it too. It’s time the public finds out as well. What really happened to my sister—” She paused glancing away from the camera as her expression turned from determination to anger.

“The Drovers won’t get away with this! Stop trying to hide the truth and bring justice to the victims!” A voice yelled out from the background of the video as Josephine began to shout out the same sentiments with the crowd, their signs being held up higher than before.

It didn’t take long until a group of guards, accompanied by law enforcement tried to tame the rioting crowd. Cindy looked visibly uncomfortable as her eyes were glued to the screen of the computer. “We need you to leave.” an authoritative voice spoke from outside the frame, while Cindy and I were left to look at Tina’s expressions, yelling at the security guard with her repeated mantra.

“We know the truth! We know the truth!” the repeated chant by the crowd echoed around the property, raising their signs in a blurried uniformed motion.

“This is private property, you will be arrested for trespassing.” Another voice said in the background, carrying the same zealous moral conviction.

“We’re not leaving until—” Tina’s voice cut off, the camera’s shaky visual was barely discernible before ultimately lying flat on the floor.

Tina was being dragged away, along with her fellow protestors as the policemen held the protesting group, relentless with their words as their voices slowly died out and faded into the background. The video was nearing its end until the camera was visibly picked up by a manicured hand blocking its lens, before ultimately cutting to black.

– – –

We stared at the blank screen for what felt like forever, letting the quiet permeate again. The room felt stuffy, awkward, and grey—an uncomfortable concoction of stillness and dread. I stayed silent, my gaze captured by the phantom lights dancing in my vision—the afterimages burned into my eyes from the video abruptly ending.

“We have to find her,” Cindy uttered, her eyes glazing as it never left focus on the black mirror before us.

“Tina Perez…” I uttered the woman’s name once more.

Cindy and I began delving into who she was, searching for any trace of her online—social media sites, webpages, blog articles—anything Cindy and I could access. We only had her name and face, but it was enough.

Finding her social media profile within less than 10 minutes was slightly unsettling. Finding information about this woman within a few clicks and taps on the keyboard was a jarring thought. Anyone could be traced and searched for easily in this day and age, and I felt anxious to think deeper about it—what if it would happen to me, and not for good reasons?

As Cindy scrolled through Tina’s page, she uttered to herself, being glad the woman was still alive—living a happy and peaceful life. She owned a market stall at the farmers market, at a beach in North Carolina. Photos of her with a young girl and an older woman were prevalent, in multiple photos throughout the years, as the three were the ones that mostly appeared on her gallery page.

I felt a sense of melancholy as Cindy persistently scrolled through Tina’s profile. “Do we have to bother this woman? I mean looking at her now, she’s moved on. She seems to be happy and living a peaceful life, away from… all of this.” I bit my lip feeling the hesitance in my voice, though my hesitation wasn’t enough to deter me from speaking out what I thought.

It felt wrong to suddenly come into this woman’s life, barge into her space asking questions that had brought her and her family pain decades ago. Especially if they truly had moved on from the past—from the tragedy.

“It’s not a matter of ‘if’ anymore, Josh. We have to do this, we have to get answers, to proceed and be one step closer to the truth.” She said coldly, with no weariness or hesitation for what she was about to part-take in—ripping off a bandage from the families of the victims, opening up old wounds for the sake of uncovering the truth, but what’s to expect from someone that’s been obsessed with this case for over a year.

She truly was a journalist—a relentless one at that.

I made no arguments, I relented and let her take the wheel, even if it felt heavy on the inside—even if I didn’t want to follow her lead, because deep down I knew she was right, we didn’t have any other leads to follow, no other hints or evidence to track down within our grasp—this was our only hope.

My thoughts were ended by the ringing on my phone.

“Mom.” It read on the screen, my phone pulled out from the inside of my pocket.

I made a slight gesture as Cindy briefly glanced at me with a nod, pivoting my feet to the other room as I took the call.

“Mom?” I uttered, accepting the call.

“Joshua, sweetheart. How are things there, are you getting ready for the family Christmas?” She asked a hopeful tone in her voice, sensible even at the other end of the line.

I couldn’t bear a response just yet as I froze, I had completely forgotten about the family gathering they had planned, it was going to take place in a few days, and I only had a day or two to pack up and prepare if I wanted to make it on-time.

“Y-Yeah, I’ve been… Christmas shopping. Gotta get you and the others something for Christmas right?” I stammered in my words, maybe I wasn’t the best liar, I rarely would get away with lying, especially with my mother, it’s like she just knew, whether from the tone of my voice or how my body reacted while speaking to her—she just did.

“That’s perfect! Although you didn’t have to, we’re just hoping you make it, as we’re all going to be here during Christmas, you know?”

Her voice sounded cheerful, genuinely—or so I think it is.

She made small talk and continued talking about the plans for the faithful day, it sounded great on paper. Everyone gathered from their respective lives, from different parts of the country, or world, visiting our childhood home just for this one faithful event.

What should be filled with love, peace, and prosperity, a time for joy and family, but as my mother continued to gush about the plans and how great it was all going to be, my eyes trailed to the dark window, staring at myself—my reflection, and the dark outline of 506’s kitchen window.

It was around this month when they had passed, they too probably had plans for their own Christmas celebration, being able to spend time with each other, basking in the love and joy. Maybe even seeing all their other relatives under one roof, all the children gathered, playing around while the adults caught up in long familial conversations.

But, they didn’t get to have that, they weren’t given a chance to. As my eyes trailed into the darkness, my grip on my phone tightened. In a trance-like state, I felt my attention be pulled back once again, with the sound of my mother calling out to me at the other line.

“Yeah, I’m still here Mom… It’s been a long day, I just… dozed off a little bit.” I mumbled, wanting to at least make it sound more convincing. She chuckled lightly, apologizing for keeping me up this late at night, and we exchanged goodnights’ before ultimately hanging up.

I yawned realizing that for once I was genuinely tired, wanting nothing but to go to bed.

“We leave tomorrow at 9 for North Carolina,” Cindy spoke walking to me from the living room to the kitchen.

I simply let out an exhausted breath from my nose, with a shrug I walked past her grabbing my bag to put it back into my room.

“I hope this works, I hope that making someone re-live a past trauma is worth all of this.”

“I don’t… want to do this. But we have to.” Cindy breathed out, a slight tinge of guilt present in her tone before staying quiet, gathering her things to leave. “Josh, when was the last time you had your gas checked?” She asked out of the blue.

“Not recently, why?”

“Nothing, it’s just… I thought I smelled something near your kitchen.” She furrowed her brows, her bag in her hand as she stood by the doorway, pausing to think to herself.

“Ah, I don’t know. It’s probably just the vents, I had Mr. Grant come in and fix my A/C earlier. I can’t tell what smells anywhere at this point since my nose probably got used to it all.” I reasoned, chuckling slightly as she held a solemn smile while nodding.

We said our goodnights and parted ways, her leaving my apartment, and I locking the door safely, before retreating to my room.

I understood the complexity of our situation, she held more bravery than I, in terms of making the tough calls, but the feeling of guilt, it’s not just something I could brush past with the thought of doing things for the ‘greater good’, who are we to decide that for anyone.

Though the decision swayed from my morals, I relented—am I a coward for doing so?

I packed up lightly, it was just a short day trip, and I estimated we’d be back around nighttime, leaving at nine in the morning. I carried the stuff I prepared with me inside my backpack like a Boy Scout; my granola bar, two bottles of water, a mini first-aid kit, and a bag of trail mix.

Of course, my keys and wallet were somewhere along there, probably in the front or back pocket. With preparation being said and done, I left my apartment.

My eyes met the door of Mr. Jobert’s from across the hall, the number ‘501’ blaring at me, feeling the familiar guilt creep back in once more at the back of my neck. I tried to brush it off, looking away abruptly with a sigh stifled between my lungs and my throat, as I got into the elevator to wait down at the lobby for Cindy.

It was morning, usually I’d expect Mr. Grant down at the lobby making phone calls or scheduling repairs he had to do, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Chalking it up to the man probably somewhere in the building arranging repairs for other tenants, I walked around the lobby patiently waiting.

Cindy arrived not too long after, we got in my car which wasn’t parked too far from the apartment, and after prompting up a GPS location map with the farmers market down in North Carolina, we finally began our journey.

The drive was quiet at first, I could tell we both had one thing in our minds at that moment. “What do we say,” I uttered, thinking out loud as the words slipped from my mouth and my gaze was focused solely on the road.

“The truth, what we’re there for.” Cindy was blatant, her eyes never leaving the passenger seat window as she watched the trees pass by, the morning sunlight peeking through the branches and leaves before gently beaming on her skin.

“Okay… and if she doesn’t—”

“She will. She has to.” Cindy cut me off, not even letting a sliver of doubt emit from my lips.

There was a brief awkward silence, I knew it would be a 4-hour drive from where we were to the beachside farmers’ market in North Carolina. I tried to make small talk, asking about how Mr. Jobert was doing, what he was like as a Father, and how Cindy felt in general, growing up with him as her Father.

“Honestly, he’s not that different from then, and now. He was protective of me and Mom, but it grew worse when she passed. In the first few months, I couldn’t go anywhere without him giving me a curfew, or him checking on me by calling every 30 minutes.” Cindy said with a sigh. I chuckled finding Mr. Jobert’s overprotectiveness to be endearing, although I could see why she would feel suffocated by that.

“I love him, I do. Although lately, he hasn’t been himself. More reserved, quiet, and… not there. I don’t know, have you noticed it?” She turned the question to me, meanwhile, I gave her a brief side glance with my hands on the steering wheel, and I shrugged.

“Love the guy too, but… I’m not keeping up with his daily life closely like that to know, it’d be a little weird if I did, don’t you think?” I quipped as she chuckled, a genuine smile I don’t think I’ve ever seen from her just yet.

“What, not into older men?” She teased as I felt myself choke on my spit.

“Oh calm down, I’m just messing with you. I know you see him as a father figure of some sort. Speaking of… what’s your family like? I’ve never seen them around.” Cindy’s attention was fully on me as mine was on the road, I let out a soft breath before shrugging slightly out of nervousness, I don’t think I’ve ever opened up about my family in a long time.

“Well… I grew up on the West Coast, my folks are situated somewhere in rural California. They were always on the go, making a living for me and my adopted siblings. My mother is barren so they settled for adoption, and you never see them since they never come here. Apart from my mother about a year ago, dropping by to leave a cross above my bedroom door.” I blurted out, recalling information about my past, though not enough to overshare, remembering I’ve had troubles with that more times than I’d like to admit.

“That’s odd, why don’t they visit?” Cindy uttered, I gave her a brief glance just to see her expression, I could sense the sympathy in her eyes, I felt the odd feeling of being pitied, and I didn’t like that.

“I wish I knew. I’ve had a relatively good relationship with them… At least I think so, they’re the only family I know.” I said, a solemn tone in my voice as I felt a slight melancholy permeating with family being the subject of our conversation.

“What about your biological parents, did they ever say anything about them?” She asked.

I shook my head, I wasn’t sure whether or not they had, and I just don’t remember. I knew that I was adopted as a baby in an orphanage, while my parents were on a waiting list, hoping to adopt a newborn or a toddler, that’s how I, and many of my siblings came to be under one roof.

Cindy didn’t press further, even though she knew her boundaries despite being the nosy one between us two. We sat in a comfortable silence for a while, watching the beautiful scenery before us, as we neared crossing state lines. My stomach growled as I looked down briefly before feeling a slight fluster emit at the back of my neck.

“Sorry, I skipped breakfast. I have a granola bar in my bag, would you mind if—”

“Just stop at the diner at the next gas station we get to.” She cut me off, refusing to hand me my granola bar inside my bag, just laying waste in the backseat of the car.

“I’m not gonna eat there, I’m saving up, I don’t wanna waste money eating pancakes or food I could just make at home.” I reasoned, and before I could talk about having to pay for my car, and other bills and expenses, she cut me off.

“Well you didn’t, so I’m buying.” She said.

I glanced at her, trying to see if she was serious about doing so. “What? Don’t tell me you’re turning down free food over fragile masculinity.” She quipped, half-jokingly as she chuckled at her own words.

“Oh no, please do. Just don’t start complaining when I order the most expensive thing on the menu.” I had a sly grin as I began to direct the car to the furthest lane, preparing to pull over when we reached the diner. “Enjoy the freezer-burn diner steak then.” She rebutted as I slightly winced at the thought.

Frozen, and slightly moldy steak was not something I wanted to consume first thing in the morning, especially on a long drive to get to our destination.

When we got to the diner, we had a fun time together. Though, it’s probably something I wouldn’t say out loud. We sat together and had playful banter about what to get, while I spent a good amount of time considering whether or not to make things harder for her, since she made us stop at some diner in the middle of the road.

In the end, I settled with a breakfast plate, and she had a stack of pancakes with artificially flavored strawberry syrup. It felt nice being able to get to know more about Cindy, I’d come to find out she does go to the same university as I did, except our schedules just never interloped, or I was just too focused on myself to actually notice whether or not she was around.

She spoke about her deadlines and complained about how pursuing an old case set her back from her academics.

“I know nobody is holding a gun to my head, and that I’m doing all of this with my own volition. But deep inside of me, I know I want to finish what my mother started.” She said, picking on her food as I stayed quiet, eating quietly.

“I know how badly this case affected her throughout the years leading up to her death, I know they made my Mother some sort of target because she was digging too deep in the case.” She continued.

“Although the worst they’ve done, as far as I know, was to have authorities take the evidence she held against the Drovers—but that’s exactly why I have to finish this. I have to know what she held against them, what my father refuses to talk about. The man would lose his mind if he found out I’m pursuing this case.”

Cindy chuckled solemnly, a melancholic tone behind her slight grin as her eyes focused on the window. I made no effort to break the silence, letting her sit in her thoughts as she processed her own words, I had nothing to say anyway. Once more I knew I just had to sit and be a listening ear for her, to be there for her.

We left after paying for our meal, and we got back to the car, letting a generic pop song play on the radio to break the silence. We exchanged short conversations afterward, making gas station stops to use the bathroom or to get some snacks to pick on while we were out on the road.

Time had passed, as the once cold morning turned into a chilly afternoon. We arrived at the farmers market a short while after making the cross to North Carolina.

Sniffling, from where we stood beside the parked car. The beach was almost completely enveloped with snow, the waves rolled lazily, tamed by the winter’s unrelenting blanket of cold. The beach looked eerie, the unorthodox combination of sand usually associated with summer and heat was overwhelmed by the frothy white snow.

Cindy clutched her scarf, covering half of her face further, seemingly to avoid the cold winter air blowing on her face. We began our walk, navigating to get to the farmers market as we followed the footprints of various other shoes, permeating all over the parking area as it led further away from the beach, and towards the dock, where various other shops were lined facing the ocean.

We walked through the docks until we saw from a distance the familiar roofs of market stalls, similar to the ones we’d seen in the photos we found. Most of the vendors were bundled up, hands wrapped in gloves as they hawked their goods to the handful of shoppers willing to brave through the cold.

“Winter Sale! We have all the fruits and vegetables you need for your Christmas dinner!” A vendor spoke out as Cindy and I walked by, I gave them a smile and a nod while she persisted, walking while looking around for a familiar face.

A few more vendors spoke out about their promotions and sales, while we walked scanning various booths, as well as their products. “It takes a lot to sell and work during this season, struggling in the cold, waiting out here for hours, just to make a sale,” Cindy uttered, gazing at the sparse crowd. I nodded but didn’t respond further, my eyes scanning the small booths lined with mason jars, packaged baked goods, and woolen scarves.

We wandered for a while, out of habit rather than any real intent to buy, I felt a little bad just brushing off the vendors so I gave them gestures and greetings, rather than icing them out in the cold weather.

“You know, you don’t have to do that to every person we come across right?” Cindy quipped.

“I know, I just… want to.” I shrugged, as she let out a brief chuckle.

We continued down the stalls until she paused, her eyes glazing over as her focus was on the woman draped in a blue sweater, her white scarf covering half of her face. She was occupied arranging the fruit baskets out on display, while a younger girl beside her draped similarly fixed the vegetables in an organized manner.

“Tina Perez?” Cindy spoke out to her, catching both of their attention as my eyes slightly widened.

She’s going for it? Not even bothering to lay the groundwork gently, just diving headfirst into re-opening this woman’s old wounds?

“That’s me.” The woman in blue spoke, revealing more of her face to us as she had a concerned expression on her face. I can understand why she would feel unnerved, having two strangers show up at her place of work wasn’t exactly a thing you’d expect daily.

I was about to intervene before Cindy could start asking her questions, but ultimately, the girl was quicker, abruptly speaking before me. “I heard you have fresh sea grapes, my father has been craving those lately, it’s good for his immune system.” Cindy’s voice spoke higher than usual, a calm demeanor emitting from her as she approached the stall closer with a gentle smile.

“Oh- oh yes we do. These usually grow in the summer, so they’re hard to come by and cheaper during that season.” Tina’s expression shifted to a reciprocating smile as the two conversed, while I stood slightly dumbfounded.

“I saw on your page that there were sea grapes so I had to come by with my… brother, to come and check it out,” Cindy gestured toward me, as I gave them an awkward nod and a wave, her expression staying cheerful before looking back.

“See Mom, I told you we need to put ourselves out there more, it drives more customers.” The younger girl spoke, as Tina and Cindy chuckled at the girl’s remark.

I stood giving them smiles and nods, letting Cindy take the wheel as the pair eased into us while preparing the fruit in a brown paper bag. “I was wondering if we could have a word with you, we’re from out of town, and… we just have a few questions if you don’t mind?” She spoke with a slightly faltered look from her once cheerful demeanor, holding a hopeful expression on her face as Tina furrowed her brows in consideration.

“It’s about Josephine. We know what happened to her and her family was not an accident.” Cindy’s words had Tina with a widened stare, her face almost turning pale on her already light complexion. She froze for what felt like a minute before she turned to the younger girl beside her who was continuing to organize the fruits and vegetables on a basket.

“Sarah, I’ll leave the store to you. If Abuela calls, just say I had to go on an errand real quick.”

Cindy and I left with Tina, I felt slightly unnerved as we followed the woman, unsure where she was taking us, gesturing for us to keep going. We ended up at a coffee shop nearby, away from the cold weather outside. I sat beside Cindy while Tina sat at the opposite chair, warming her hands on the cup of coffee between her palms, as Cindy and I let her gather her thoughts, having to process and dig up old memories long left decades ago.

“My name is Cindy Jobert, I’m an Investigative Journalist major at Virginia State.”

“I’m Joshua Colewell. I… I live in the apartment next to where Josephine and her family had passed.” I wasn’t sure how I was going to introduce myself, but I know just from the look Tina had in her eyes as she looked at me—a look of silent concern, a chill ran down my spine.

“So you’re not siblings…? I figured. You two look nothing alike.” Tina chuckled lightly, as Cindy smiled and I scratched the back of my neck, recalling Cindy’s white lie earlier. Tina’s eyes were still on me as she observed my features, slightly longer than she did Cindy’s.

We sat in the quiet pause before a light breath emitted from the older woman. “Josephine and her family were good people. We lost them too soon, especially those sweet kids. They had a whole life left to live, Joseph was barely even a few years old, I held that baby when he was just a newborn.” Tina smiled sadly with her eyes focused on the coffee between her palms, focusing her gaze on the steam emitting from the cup.

“I remember his little hands clinging onto my finger while Hector had to make sure the other kids were okay at home, and Josephine was asleep resting after giving birth,” Tina said, melancholy evident in her tone as she reminisced a peaceful time, her eyes on me as her emotions were even more evident, getting a better look at her face.

“It’s such a shame we couldn’t give him and his siblings a proper burial. The bodies of Andrew, Mila, Jenny, and Joseph were never found. I didn’t question it at that time… thinking that the fire practically incinerated those children. That thought haunted me for years, I hope those angels are resting in peace, lord knows they deserve it the most.” I felt a slight prickle in my eyes, hearing and sympathizing with Tina’s grievances, she and her mother must’ve held so much guilt as if they had survived the fire from within the apartment themselves.

“I’ve been waiting—praying for years… just for something like this to happen, I felt guilty for the longest time leaving the town, leaving it all behind. But I did try, I tried my hardest, I fought my strongest, but at the end of the day, what more could I have done.” Tina clasped a hand on her mouth, glancing down as her eyes watered brimming with tears.

This was painful to watch, to see someone have to dig up old buried memories, feelings suppressed to move on from the past trauma inflicted by the unfairness brought upon her and her family by the world, by chance, or maybe even by fate.

My mouth parted, unable to sit idly by while the woman teetered between breaking down and holding herself together. “Please take your time, we don’t have to do this today or tomorrow. You can let Cindy and I know when you’re ready and—”

Her hands reached out for mine, holding onto them for composure as she shook her head. “No. No, I can handle it.” Tina held a look of determination after wiping stray tears off her face.

“Josephine’s story needs to be told, the world needs to know what truly happened to my sister and her family,” Tina said, as Cindy prepared to record her words with her phone, she asked briefly if it were okay, to which the older woman simply nodded.

“Weeks before the incident, Josephine had been complaining to me and our mother about the gas leak. Hector tried to fix it himself after the building manager was unresponsive—they said a lot was going on, so they were taking a bit too long to handle the family’s apartment repairs.” Tina paused with a distant look.

“Hector couldn’t fix it himself; the parts he needed to replace weren’t something you could just pick up at a hardware store. They were foreign and imported, so back then they were harder to come by. It wasn’t just a matter of money, although they were living paycheck to paycheck—even outside hires were struggling to find replacements that matched.” Her voice held an agitated tone, undoubtedly frustrated as she seemed to recall previous memories.

“Josephine begged the manager to send someone, to speed up the process as patching it up with tape wasn’t cutting it anymore—but they brushed her off, setting their problems aside.” Tina paused once more as her eyes glazed over, looking at me and then at Cindy.

“Until it was too late.” Her breath shook, struggling to utter the finality of what had happened to the Gonzales.

“When we found out their death was being ruled as an accident—that the building did not fault the incident, I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to rip every single person in that company to pieces, to cause them the same pain they have caused me and my family.” Tina no longer held back her tears.

“I gathered family members, friends, and community members to protest and speak out the truth, we did everything we could to get the word out, to get people to listen and to spread the truth, yet that company was always one step ahead of us.”

Cindy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, glancing briefly at me with furrowed brows before turning to Tina. “Do you think Elmwood and law enforcement was covering up their faults?” She asked trepidation in her expression.

“I’m sure of it. They did it so cleanly too.” Tina sardonically chuckled under her breath.

“A woman that lived in the building told me about the silent repairs Elmwood was making on those faulty gas lines, under the guise of ‘general maintenance’. It’s good they went ahead to finally fix that damn issue… but at the expense of my family?”

“I can never forgive that.”

The drive back home was quiet, Cindy replayed parts of the statement given by Tina, her fingers grazing across the screen of her phone before turning towards me. “I feel for them. I think Tina’s right, Elmwood covered this up, it could mean dozens—maybe hundreds—of other cases where people suffered because of their negligence.” Cindy’s voice wavered, pausing before averting her gaze.

“I think my mother knew—she knew, and had the evidence to back it up.”

My grip tightened on the steering wheel, and the rhythmic hum of the tires filled the silence. “It’s not just negligence. If this was intentional if they knew the risks and ignored them… it’s criminal.” I paused for a moment, biting my tongue just for a moment. “How sure are you… about your Mom? Because right now I don’t think we can afford speculations.” I asked honestly, yet as I felt the atmosphere shift with tension, I couldn’t look back at her as I focused on the road.

“Because she wouldn’t be dead right now if she didn’t,” Cindy uttered.

“It’s not a fucking coincidence she caught some terminal illness weeks after they confiscated her evidence. I saw her medical records in my dad’s office, I compared the timeline…”

Her words hung heavy in the air, I glanced at Cindy from the corner of my eye, her fists clenched tightly in her lap as if holding onto whatever composure she had left.

“You think they intentionally caused her death?” I asked, my voice soft but insistent.

Cindy let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I don’t have concrete proof, but…” Her voice faltered as she shifted her gaze to the passenger-side window. “I can feel it. As crazy as it sounds, believe it or not, I know my Mom would still be here if…” She uttered, leaning her head against the window, letting out a tired sigh before closing her eyes, I stayed quiet letting the air of silence permeate the car once more.

The drive felt longer on the way back, quieter as it no longer held the light atmosphere we once had on the way to North Carolina. Cindy was deep in her thoughts, Tina’s voice emitted from her phone once more, replaying parts of her statement.

“This happened twenty years ago.” Cindy broke the silence, sitting upright slightly, her words heavy with the realization. “The statute of limitations for things like this—wrongful death cases—it’s long gone for Tina’s family. Hell, even for my mom…” Her voice caught at the mention of her mother.

I stayed quiet, letting her continue.

“They—Elmwood—made sure to wait just long enough. They fixed those damn gas lines quietly, knowing well there were families like the Gonzales and…” She faltered again, pressing her lips together and inhaling sharply. “Like mine. Families they completely screwed over. My mom wasn’t just fighting them—she knew something bigger was at play. And then, suddenly, she’s gone. Her so-called illness… no one will ever prove a damn thing now.”

Cindy chuckled trepidatiously, clenching the phone in her lap, knuckles baring white.

“But how long ago did your mom pass?” I asked carefully, keeping my tone neutral as I glanced at her from the corner of my eye.

“Fifteen years ago.” Her voice was quieter this time, almost a whisper. “She fought them for years after the fire—she wouldn’t let it go. She had to hold them accountable, even if it wasn’t for Tina’s family anymore. And then, just like that, she got sick. Weeks after they confiscated her evidence. And it wasn’t long before we buried her.”

I didn’t know what to say. Everything about this was vile, calculated. They’d waited long enough for most people to move on, for laws to bury the past behind legal deadlines. They’d bet on time doing their work for them—and they were right.

“What was her illness?” I asked.

Cindy hesitated, her lips parting before speaking, her voice hollow. “They said it was lung cancer. But she never smoked, not once in her life.” She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “That didn’t stop them from blaming it on her, though. The doctors couldn’t explain how it came on so aggressively, but they ruled it ‘natural causes’.” She let out a frustrated exhale, her hand balling into a fist in her lap.

I felt my chest tighten as I processed her words. “You think it was connected to the gas leak?” I asked carefully, not wanting to jump to conclusions but unable to ignore the glaring possibility.

“Connected?” Cindy’s gaze turned to me, her expression contorted to gather her thoughts.

She turned back to the window, staring out at the darkness as though it held answers. “I-I’m not so sure…” she continued, her voice quieter now. “There’s a chance she was looking into gas exposure. Leaks like the one in the Gonzales’ apartment? Long-term exposure can do more than blow up a building. It can poison you, slowly, and you don’t even realize it until it’s too late.”

“Poison you how?” I asked.

“Mental hallucinations? Physical deterioration? I’m not very familiar with the logistics of its effects but when we get back we can do more research.” Cindy said, pausing as my gaze was focused on the road, the night sky, and the dark surroundings of rural woodland, only illuminated by the street lamps planted at the sidelines.

“You know what’s so evil about all of this?” Cindy’s voice grumbled as she looked back at me. “They’re untouchable now. No case, no proof. There is nothing to force them to answer for what they did. Tina’s family… my mom… it’s just so unfair.”

“Maybe not legally,” I admitted, gripping the steering wheel harder. “But even if we can’t take them to court, we can still expose the truth. That’s what you’re after, right? For people to know what they did?”

Cindy nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You think anyone will care?” she asked.

“They will. The good ones would, the truth should prevail in the end, right? Or else what good is there out in the world if it isn’t? And if it’s out there, someone will pay attention. At least we’ll know we did everything we could.”

With a trembling breath, she leaned her head back on the seat. “I don’t know if it’s enough.””Maybe it’s not,” I conceded. “But it’s something.”With the weight of our purpose drawing us closer to something none of us could really understand in retrospect, the remainder of the trip went by in quiet. After guiding me toward her apartment complex, Cindy was ready to exit the car but stopped for a second before turning to face me.

“Will you be busy tomorrow?” She asked.

“I’ll be shopping for Christmas presents, I have a flight to catch in the 24th.” I said, nodding as I noticed the slight falter in her gaze.

“Wanna come with?”

She smiled at my question, nodding. “That would be nice, I need a break from… all this.” She gestured at nothing, pausing before letting out a soft sigh.

“I don’t know if I can do this alone,” Cindy mumbled, I could hear the trepidation in her voice, I could hear how tired and worn down she was from chasing this case, from looking for answers that felt lightyears ahead of us.

“You’re not, I’m here. I’ll help you.” I simply said, my voice didn’t sound like my own, as I heard the words with my own two ears.

“I need you to promise me, Josh.” Her voice wavered, almost shaken up by the desperation evident in her tone.

“I promise.”

She smiled thanking me as I drove off, telling me she’ll be waiting in my lobby around noon, then we can just grab lunch together tomorrow.

I left Cindy behind as I made my way back to my building. It wasn’t far from where she lived, which made sense—she could easily visit Mr. Jobert throughout the week. The road felt quieter, the muffled rhythm of the wheels jolting me awake as I navigated over road bumps, my mind growing heavier with each passing mile.

The day had drained me completely. Even as I reached my apartment, my eyes lingered a little too long at door ‘506’ before I moved toward my own. The tiredness enveloping my body, as I start to feel the lightheadedness develop into a headache. I shuddered, brushing off my grievances as I remember what I had seen inside the apartment adjacent to mine.

I contemplated calling the police, realizing that there was a high chance a person—most likely a homeless man was living in this abandoned apartment. I turned back to Mr. Jobert’s door, wondering if I should just stay at his place for the night, but the feeling of guilt crept up again, keeping Cindy’s secret from him. If I were to stay in his place, I’d feel as if I was taking advantage of his kindness—I’ve wronged him quite enough already.

The hallway was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of silence that made the hum of the ceiling light feel deafening. Though my surroundings remained quiet, my mind raced a million miles, with my thoughts whispering endlessly inside my head, until I hadn’t realized soon enough, that my hand was wrapped around my doorknob, before letting myself inside my apartment.

Or so it felt like it.

I settled in, a sense of calm washing over me as the stillness of the apartment took hold. I was about to head to bed, ready to call it a day after a long one, but first, I dragged myself into the kitchen out of habit more than necessity. I filled a glass of water, the coolness of the glass against my palm grounding me in the quiet kitchen. The only sound that broke the silence was the steady glug of water as it poured from the dispenser, and into the glass.

The night was quiet and calm, I could hear the video I left playing from my computer back inside my room, as the sound reached up to the kitchen in incoherent rambles. Though the gnawing headache that had subsided, It was all routinely mundane, up until I saw the smudges on my counter once again.

As I set the glass down on the counter, my eyes wandered to the dirt patch I’d seen before. There they were again. I furrowed my brows, wondering if I was just too tired to care. But I couldn’t ignore them now, not with how the dirty water I had once seen back in my living room vent, began to drip from the ceiling above the dirt.

It led my gaze upward, directly underneath the dislodged ceiling tile.

Climbing onto the counter, my hands gripped the edge as I reached the loose tile. The dirty grip slid under my fingertips as I carefully pulled it free. My phone’s flashlight came on, and I pointed it into the space above the kitchen. Dust kicked up in the beam, and I could feel it—heavy and thick like the air had been untouched for years. All I saw was the metallic tangle of old ducts and an empty void.

Yet still, I couldn’t help but feel the gnawing feeling that there was something else up there. A presence. Something I couldn’t see in the dark, but could feel. My stomach lurched, I felt there was something—or someone—behind me.

My nerves screamed at me to look, but every instinct told me to stay still, to resist the urge to look back, as the wisp of air blew on the nape of my neck in a breathing pattern.

I turned around.

My eyes settled in the dark as I tried to process the damp surroundings, scanning from one side to the other. It was right there when my eyes found what didn’t belong amongst the dusty pipes, growing mold, and cobwebs. It was a teddy bear, its lifeless eyes beady and black, staring back at me with a permanent grin on its lips.

And then the smell followed, face contorted smelling the scent of rotten mold emitting deeper within the dark corner behind the protruding support beam. My eyes watered as I covered half of my face, and I made my way closer by taking down more ceiling tiles to throw on the kitchen floor below, keeping my foot steadily placed on the counter while walking carefully.

No amount of mental fortitude or desensitization could’ve ever prepared me to see what was lurking on the corner.

What I expected to have been a space was forsakenly wrong, as my breath caught in my throat, the flashlight beamed on what had been an obscured secret for years, just right at the top of my head.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at—dark, disjointed shapes clumped together in the cramped, dusty void. But then as my eyes settled in, the small skeletonized hand reaching out in my direction made my vision a blur, brought by the molding smell and the realization that tore into my chest.

Laid before me was a corpse.

The sight of the decrepit bones bore into my eyes, mottled with stains that darkened by age, moisture, and decay. The smell was faint but distinct, a sour blend of old rot and mildew that clung to the back of my throat, it was clear the decomposition of the corpse had long been completed, the curved outlines were unmistakably human, but chest wrenchingly shrunken smaller in size.

As my light shone further to observe its form, the tattered dirty blue sweater clung onto the upper body of the corpse, my eyes able to make out the cartoonish design of a dog on the clothing. I felt my eyes water further staring at the corpse, its eye sockets, and cavernous voids staring back at me with emptiness forever emboldened in the sockets of where its eyes used to be. The unhinged skeletal jaw hung wide and eternally frozen, screaming in silence for help, only for its call to be answered decades later.

It was a boy—I thought as I scanned further, now seeing the other remnants of belongings, lost and abandoned through time. A foreign object caught my eyes, or what I thought it was at first, before my sight registered further in the dark, only to realize it was a small sneaker, the dirt-smudged white, with its pink accents left forgotten not far from the boy’s corpse.

After my gaze parted from the shoe, then my focus landed on what looked to have been the back of a skull, a bit larger than the previous one. It was a bit harder to discern what it was at first, I hadn’t realized then that the matted streaks at the back of its head were what was left of its hair. The sight made my stomach lurch further, as a gasp was pulled from my throat seeing an even smaller form wrapped around the larger corpse.

I felt bile rise in my throat as streaks of hot tears rolled down my cheeks. My mind raced to all the grim conclusions I could discern, given what was before me. “T-This can’t be. This can’t be those kids.” A cowardly whimper escaped from my lips, my voice cracking trembling on the verge of a sob.

The soft rustling among the corpses startled me, freezing me in place. I jolted to move, as my phone’s flashlight pointed around my oppressive surroundings. Half of my body was still wedged up there, the stale air and layers of dust suffocating me. The sound grew closer, sharper. Then, a sudden chirp broke through the silence.

Before I could react, a blur lunged from the skeletal eye socket of what I now realized was little Andrew’s skull.

“What the fuck!”

I shouted, jerking back instinctively. My foot slipped off the edge of the counter, and I grappled frantically trying to find my balance, with my hand latching onto a flimsy ceiling tile. I heard a sickening crack before the entire structure caved in.

I crashed, falling back onto the floor in a cascade of debris, my head bouncing off the tile with a sickening thud. Dust filled the air in choking clouds, with bits of drywall and plaster raining down on me. Though that was the very least of my worries.

Two bodies, or what was left of them, collapsed against mine—skeletonized remains that clattered and shifted against my skin. Jenny’s little skull tilted grotesquely to one side, her jaw half-locked in a permanent scream. Mila’s skeletal arms sprawled across me, her ribcage poking sharply into my side. Andrew’s tiny remains landed just feet away, staring blankly into nothingness.

A shrill, bloodcurdling scream tore from my throat, filling the apartment with raw, primal terror. The metallic cloying stench of corroding metal, and growing mold filled my senses, oppressive and rancid. But beneath the putrid scents, something new, sharper—an acrid, chemical reek that burned my nostrils.

Gasoline.

My breath hitched as my eyes widened at the realization, my already-pounding heart seemed to stop altogether, even just for a millisecond. The smell clung to the air, thick and unmistakable, mixing with old decay. My hands fumbled to push the brittle remains off my chest as panic set in.

Somewhere in the apartment, a loud zap of what sounded to be loose electric wiring, hitting a puddle of water. Clicks and zaps preceded further from where I lay reflected from the sheen in my eyes, my gaze found the thin streaks of lightning.

A moment of deafening silence followed, then—

The world ignited.

At that moment, I barely registered half of my apartment being engulfed in flames, everything came as a shock and a blur to me. My ears rang, a shrill endless note that muted the fervid chaos around me. I stumbled back, knowing there was no way I could’ve escaped through the front door at the time of the explosion.

I took cover behind my couch, the blistering heat felt unbearable, every breath I took felt like a never-ending smoke in my lungs, as the air smelled like burning ashes and molten plastic. The fire frolicked closer as I felt tears emit from my eyes, my already hazing vision, a complete blur.

“Mom… Mommy.” I called out for her out of panicked instinct, my weakened form grew weaker, as pain rippled through my body, the burns on my raw flesh searing through my senses, the damage registering to me as soon as the adrenaline subsided.

I made the effort to peek above the couch, my damaged hand crawling up to hold onto the backrest, as I slowly peeked to see the state of my apartment. I felt a hopeless churn in my stomach seeing the front door completely blocked off—a death trap as the flames made my once familiar space truly look like an altered image from hell.

My eyes darted to the hallway leading into my bedroom, the fire hadn’t reached it yet; I saw the darkness beyond the flickering light, a stark contrast to the orange inferno beginning to consume half of my apartment.

“Run, damn it!” I cried out to myself, begging my own body to keep me alive, to muster up the energy to get to safety.

I forced myself, stumbling over bits of debris and fallen tiles, with pulsing heat emitting from behind me, as if it was clawing at me, pulling me back into the unforgiving flame. Yet I persisted—struggled, but persisted.

For the time being, the struggle was worth it as I made it into my familiar room, and my first instinct was to pry the window open, it was harder to do considering I only had one hand to use. As I coughed feeling light smoke emit from the bottom of my enclosed doorway, my eyes darted around the familiar space, looking for something to smash it open.

“The book…”

I coughed making my way towards my desk as I grabbed the heavy book with one hand, the hard-covered shell looked strong enough to smash through the window, with its triangular metallic frames at the edges.

Without hesitation I chucked the book, breaking the window’s glass into pieces, shattering outside, raining shards out onto the empty street. I cried out for help, screaming and crying for someone, anyone to come and save me—yet nothing.

Defeated I knew jumping off would just result in another method of death, though I contemplated. Taking the faster way out, or waiting as death slowly inched its way to my doorstep.

As I walked towards my desk, I thought about what I could only truly do at this moment, at this time;

. . .

Mom, I’m sorry for not always listening to you, and for being so distant throughout the years. I love and appreciate everything you and Dad have done for me, for me and my siblings. I don’t say that enough, I don’t tell you guys how much I love you all, no matter what negative feelings we may harbor and ignore silently.

We may not be bound by blood but you’ve given me a life so many other kids myself couldn’t have back then, and for that, I will always be grateful.

Mr. Jobert, I can’t begin to express the guilt I feel for keeping Cindy’s secret from you. The man who’s welcomed me with open arms and practically treated me like your own, when I was at my loneliest I had you. I still remember the many nights I’d knock on your door, and we’d share a drink as you talked to me about what life was like out at sea.

At some point I even thought you were just making stuff up because of how absurd they sounded but, they—you brought me comfort when I needed them the most, thank you for taking care of me, I wish I could do the same for you as you get older.

Cindy, I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it to our first real hangout, I know we’ve only known each other for such a short time, yet I’ve truly found a friend in you, and for that, I can’t thank you enough.

I think what I’m most sorry for, is that I made a promise to you, I made a promise to help you uncover the truth beneath the lies you’ve been fighting for so long.

I hope in some way I was able to be of help to you in bringing the family justice, you have a good heart, Cindy, don’t let the darkness of this unfair world change that.

Truly, I wish I could be there, I wish I could help you see this through until the end, but unfortunately, this is as far as I can go. I pray that you make it, I pray that you find what you’re looking for.

Because I think I have; I think I can hear them Cindy, they’re calling me, telling me to come home. For now, I must go, but until we meet again. Goodbye for now.

Your friend,

Jos—

– – –

End