My Guest in Apartment 10B

R. Dickinson

Years of patronizing horror movies does not prepare you for reality. They show you ghosts and demons that scare you, claw at you, and attempt to kill you. They look gross and menacing and the movies teach you that you should be terrified—well, that is before you get an extreme adrenaline rush, fight back, and win, of course.

However, a ghost that smiles and winks at you as you go about your business is something else entirely, and leaves you impossibly confused. How does one react appropriately to this?

Arabella went straight into Windsor hall, eyes in a blank stare and mouth ajar as she murdered the elevator button as if it would be quicker than waiting patiently. Thoughts of swiping the basil were long gone. Her chest heaved painfully as beads of sweat started to pepper her face.

There was no mistaking that wink—Mary knew her!

She tapped her foot impatiently as the elevator creaked and whined, its motor pushing the car to the tenth floor with immense effort. Waiting for it to finally reach her floor, she crossed her arms and blew an errant strand of hair from her face. Why was New York so mystical? Wasn't it supposed to be a concrete jungle of logic and numbers, science and facts?

At last, the car halted with a violent thud, and she began another long wait as the doors pried themselves open at a glacial pace. The moment a small space could be seen, she pushed her shoulder to hedge between the doors, squeezing herself out of the confinement. She then took quick long strides to reach her apartment.

Arabella was about to place her hand on the door lever when its wide wooden panel softly cracked open, and gently swung to welcome her home.

She exhaled a pent-up breath as she thought about another one of life's mysteries probably standing in front of her.

"James, Mary saw me. She knows me! S-she..." Arabella stuttered.

She walked in and took a glass of water from the faucet as James closed the door. "She went in to see Bertie, but she winked at me first."

Her laptop faced the other way and typing began as she gulped down the rest of the water.

"Yes, today is the day."

Arabella dropped the glass in the sink, breaking it into a few large pieces. "What do you mean today is the day?" She picked up the pieces, but as she reached towards the glass bottom, her finger got caught in one of its sharp edges.

"Ow!"

The familiar sweep of air washed around her, and her hand was pulled from the shards by an oven mitten. The faucet opened and running water flowed over her wound, earning an exasperated hiss and a cuss under her breath.

"It's fine, I'm fine. I've been cut many times, James." She tried to pull her hand away, but he was persistent, his grip firm and steady on her injured hand.

There was something absurdly remarkable in observing two floating oven mittens that tried to help her with her cut. As she relaxed under his ministrations, Arabella felt her wound being gently examined, and as there wasn't anything blocking the view, she began to examine it too.

Thankfully, the wound wasn't very deep. She didn't need stitches, but she would need to clean and bandage it if she didn't want it to become infected.

"There's a reason you can't touch people. Is it because your mission doesn't require you to?" She stifled a snort. "The mitts look ridiculous." Arabella tried to pull her hand from him, but his steadfast grip remained.

"James, come on, it's fine," she whined a little. She wasn't at all used to being cared for.

A new dish towel was taken from the cupboard and wrapped tightly around her hand. She was tugged to the living room and the grip went slack. The mittens floated and casually deposited themselves on the table.