Not a Ghost Story

Four

Heart thundering, I rip open the door to find one elderly, freckled, grey haired and golden-brown skinned man standing on the other side of the threshold.

He smells of cigars.

He holds up close to half a dozen envelops, looking particularly unhappy. When he realizes that I am not my sister, he hesitates.

Before he can say anything, I utter, "I'm Darcy's sister. I'm...visiting...for a while." Did she mention me to her neighbors?

He huffs with understanding, then grumbles, "Your sister must be putting the wrong address on her mail. I live in Thirty- Four C, she lives in Thirty- Four A."

I cringe and glance up at the apartment numbers tacked onto the door. Yep, 34 A.

I manage an uncomfortable smile. "I'm sorry about that. I'll make sure to let her know."

"Please do," He drawls, then slowly passes me Darcy's mail. I regard him hesitantly before making to shut the door again.

He sticks out a hand, halting my progress. I gulp.

"D-did you need something else?" I ask as steady as possible.

He says gruffly, "Keep that cat quiet. She makes those God-awful noises every time I walk down the hall."

Oh, my...

Curse you, Snowbell.

He stares at me for one moment more, then slinks down the hallway, his shoulders hunched over and back curved in what looks like an uncomfortable position. He shoves his hands in his cardigan pockets and disappears around the corner.

I shut the door slowly but flip the locks quickly. I turn to face the apartment and find Snowbell sitting at the threshold of the hallway, tail flicking.

My lip curls. "You little shit."

In the evening, when Darcy returns home, I tell her all about the creepy old man. And the strange behavior from Snowbell.

Around a beer bottle, she cackles, "That's Mr. Shane. I think he's the one that makes this floor smell so bad, probably chain-smoking those cigars every day."

I shudder. "He's...charming."

She laughs again, flips through her magazine, takes a swig of her Molson Ice, before adding, "As for Snowbell, I've heard her make those noises before. I never knew it was because of Mr. Shane, though." She makes kissing noises at the white cat until it joins her on the loveseat, curling up in her lap.

I contemplate, taking a sip of my own beer. "Maybe she's sensitive to the cigar smell. I got a whiff of it when I opened the door. Jeez, how does that man live with it?"

"He's got to be nose blind."

"Just don't forget to correct your return addresses. I don't want to be confronted again."

Her brows pull together, and she gives a slight shake of her head. "I'm almost sure I've been putting down the correct address. Unless I'm going crazy."

I swallow some more beer before adding, "Definitely crazy."

Four days later, the phone rings.

"Shoot!" I shout, slipping on the tile floor and landing on my knees. My wet hair drips heavily down my back, and I scramble to grab the towel off the door hook and shut the water off. It's grown cold anyway.

The phone continues to trill, and I move with slippery purpose across the apartment and into the kitchen.

I pull the phone off the mount, getting tangled in the cord immediately, and answer. "Hello?"