Agatha pressed her ear against the door and held her breath as she listened intently for any sign of activity in the corridor. She was awakened at one in the morning by a loud scratching sound at the door of her aunt's dilapidated two-bedroom apartment and was now standing in front of it, hovering somewhere between wanting to open the door out of curiosity and wanting to keep it shut for her safety.
The scratching persisted. Agatha tiptoed to look through the peephole and saw nothing. She contemplated opening the door just for a five-second peep, but just as she was about to turn the handle, a hand shot out from nowhere and grabbed her wrist in a vice-like grip.
"Don't."
Agatha looked up into her aunt's unsmiling face.
"Didn't I tell you not to open the door at this hour?" Aunt Marita whispered harshly.
"I thought maybe Tangerine got out and wanted to come back in," Agatha stammered, her head bowed as she stared at her bare feet.
"Don't ever open the door for anyone after midnight. Not even for me," her aunt admonished.
The scratching became more aggressive and was soon replaced by a loud pounding on their door. They watched nervously as the door throbbed from the incredible force. Agatha took a few steps back never taking her eyes off the door, while her aunt tried to push a couch in front of it to bar whatever it was that was trying to break in.
"Help me, Agatha."
Aunt Marita pushed the couch while Agatha pulled the other end until they were able to successfully prop the entire furniture against the door. It was then that the pounding suddenly stopped. It was followed by an eerie silence so thick that it was almost deafening.
"Let's keep the sofa here for the night," Aunt Marita sighed. "Sleep tight, Agatha."
But Agatha could not sleep. She tossed and turned, thinking about the strange occurrences that took place outside their door almost every night from the time she came to live with her mother's sister, following the fatal accident that claimed both her parents' lives. The noise would vary from muffled whispers to heavy footsteps that would go up and down the hallway until five in the morning. Sometimes, she would hear a scream or the sound of children running.
"Do not open the door after midnight, no matter what happens," her aunt would always tell her.
Her aunt's apartment was filled with post its instructing Agatha to feed the cat, to never eat in the bedroom, only eat in the kitchen, to clean as she goes, and to take the trash out after six in the morning. Aunt Marita would leave for work at 7 AM and be back home at six in the evening. If she's not home at any time before midnight, Agatha must bolt the door shut and keep it locked until five the very next day.
She remembered the night her aunt picked her up at the bus station. It was well after 11 o'clock in the evening, and Aunt Marita was sitting on a bench, wringing her hands, her face wrought with anxiety. Her aunt gave her a tense smile that soon faded as she picked up Agatha's bags and hailed a taxi. There were hardly any cars on the road on their way to the apartment, but Agatha could sense her aunt's worry gradually mounting into panic. Her aunt kept glancing at her watch, and her occasional frowns would betray her unease. They traveled wordlessly until the taxi finally pulled up in front of a rundown old building that probably was once an opulent and monumental piece of architecture, judging from its Grecian pillars and elegant structure. Much of its grandeur had degenerated into the shadows of its decrepit-looking edifice crumbling amidst a labyrinth of commercial outlets, high-rise buildings, and meandering roads.
Aunt Marita hurried out of the vehicle, dragging Agatha and her bags with her until they reached the building entrance where she fumbled to unlock the front gate. The lobby was a symphony of grimy black and white tiled floors and dingy unpainted cement walls. As they stepped into its dimly lit space, they were greeted by an austere-looking staircase that led up to the second floor.
