Apartment B

When I left the airport in Philadelphia, it was obvious I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Cabs blew past me and when I finally got one to stop, a middle-aged man in business attire jumped inside and took off. After several attempts, another cab stopped. I told him my address, and though he spoke little English, within thirty minutes I was at my apartment, unpacking.  It was still early in the day, so I decided to take a walk.

I had never seen anything like it. So much history, unlike McLouth, the small town in Kansas of which I was born and raised. Passing by a group of tourists, I heard them describe the architecture as “gothic.” Sure, I had heard that term before. Though I never fully understood what it meant until now. If this were “gothic,” I liked it. The building faces were imposing and ornate in design. But all the buildings were crammed together like the line I waited in to get on the plane. When I viewed the houses from a certain angle, they appeared as one continuous house and the gaps between them a mere seam. It made me long for the Kansas countryside.

I stopped at a diner at the end of the street, ordered a coffee and picked up a newspaper that happened to be sitting on my table. It was rare for me to look at a newspaper but I needed something to pass the time before my coffee arrived. On the front page of The Philadelphia Inquirer, it read, “Missing Person.” There was a picture of a woman who looked like she were still in college or maybe fresh out. My age…same long, brown hair….pretty. It made me think about my sister. I was going to miss Ally. We’d never been apart like this before. Twins aren’t supposed to be separated.  

“Ma’am?”

I jumped. The waitress had arrived with my coffee. “Thank you.”

She smiled, nodded and went back to work.

Three sugar packets poured in, I took a drink. Perfect. I set my coffee down on the newspaper then I noticed I had spilled some. Picking up my cup, there was a coffee ring right below the “Missing Person” title. My attention was drawn to it. I started reading again. “Ashley Davis, 22, last seen on…” That’s my street! Upon reading the rest of the article, I found out three other females my age disappeared in the vicinity of my apartment.   

Excited and eager to get settled, I showed up early on move in day.

            I didn’t get to meet the landlord; he had me fill out the entire lease agreement online. I also wired my deposit and thanked him for such an easy transition. 

I stood on the crooked sidewalk in front of the house, soaking in the features of my new home. 

This is superb!  I said to myself and walked up the flaking-wood porch to the front door.

***

I slid a key in the old rustic lock and turned the knob.  The ancient heavy-door creaked as I forced it open. The weathered wood floorboards showed the true age of the building.  Knotted and scarred from years of use, my heels echoed as moved further into the lobby area.  

Old metal mailboxes were laid into right side of the wall.  The brushed metal went well with dark brown walls.  There was only one apartment downstairs, Apartment A. The door was old and worn; the bronze knocker hung loosely on one screw. Small piles of papers had formed in front of the door, showing its vacant state. It was obvious no one lived there for a while now.  

The main lobby held a creepy yellow hue.  Looking up at the dirtied florescent light, I understood why.  I decided to walk past the stairs on my immediate left and head towards a small hall that lead to another door already open.  From where I stood it looked like a stair case leading down to the basement, but the dark black-void made me second guess my choice.  I decide to take a first peek at my new apartment.  I have always hated basements anyhow…