Page 1 of Ghosted AF
one
~ Rylee ~
Myfootstepsechoedhollowlythrough the stairwell as I trudged up the concrete steps to my third-floor walkup. Dodging empty beer bottles and suspicious puddles, I took slow, shallow breaths, trying not to gag from the stench of garbage that saturated the air.
Bass thumped from one of the units on the ground floor, and the couple in 2C had already started their nightly shouting match. On the upper landing, I sidestepped a plastic tricycle, its paint sun-bleached and cracked, and kicked aside an empty soda can, sending it clattering across the breezeway.
Which set off the yappy ankle biter in 3B.
Approaching the door to my unit, I slowed, my tennis shoes crunching over the snack crackers that littered the ground. Attached to the frame—faded and cracked from years of neglect—a slip of pink paper shined like a beacon of anxiety.
My mind immediately started racing.
I knew I had paid my rent on time and in full. I didn’t play loud music or have rowdy parties, so no reason for a noise complaint. The complex didn’t assign parking, but I always chose a spot across the street from my building to leave the closer spaces open for other residents.
Even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, my hand wobbled a little as I reached for the paper. As soon as I read it, however, the air whooshed from my lungs with a groan.
It wasn’t a complaint. Rather, a notice reminding me that someone from the maintenance team had been by to replace my faulty smoke alarm.
With a shaky laugh, I tucked the sticky note into my pocket, retrieved my key, and slid it into the deadbolt—only to realize the door wasn’t locked.
I pushed my way inside, grumbling under my breath about the carelessness of the maintenance workers, and engaged both locks behind me. After hanging my backpack on the hook inside the tiny entryway, I kicked my shoes off and shoved them against the wall with my foot.
Flicking on the light, I shuffled through the living room on my way to the kitchen, but paused at the end of the sofa when a flash of white caught my attention.
In the center of the coffee table, the new smoke alarm gleamed brightly, a sharp contrast to the threadbare carpet and second-hand furniture. A single 9-volt battery with a fluorescent blue label had been placed beside it, still inside its shrink-wrap, and the open box had been discarded on the floor in front of the sofa.
I frowned. Surely, they didn’t mean for me to install the damn thing myself. If that had been the case, they wouldn’t have needed access to my apartment.
Glancing around the room, I looked for anything else out of place. My eyes immediately landed on a small canvas tool bag on the floor, partially hidden by one of the table legs.
More confused now, I crouched down to inspect the bag, recognizing the name embroidered in red thread just below the zipper. Mykal.
I’d met the shadeling during a couple of other maintenance visits since I’d moved in, and he had always been pleasant and efficient. For him to leave a job unfinished didn’t feel right, and he certainly wouldn’t have left his tools behind.
Rising to my feet, I glanced at the empty kitchen, then to the short, dark hallway that led to my bedroom and the guest bathroom. Maybe he had needed to use the toilet in the middle of the job. Or perhaps he had wanted to check the other smoke detectors while he was there.
I moved toward the hallway, straining to hear anything out of place.
“Mykal?” I called.
Nothing.
Even though I didn’t see any light shining from the hall bathroom, I still knocked before pushing the door open.
Empty.
Three more steps brought me to my bedroom, the space dark apart from the slivers of moonlight that filtered through the blinds. I called for the shadeling again, but still, I received no response.
Maybe there had been an emergency. If he had left in a hurry, that would explain the scene in the living room, as well as the unlocked deadbolt. I didn’t know how the maintenance notice fit into the equation, but I figured he might have stuck it to the frame before starting his work.
While all completely plausible, I still couldn’t shake the unease that prickled at the back of my neck. I didn’t have any evidence one way or the other, but something felt…off.
The main office had already closed for the evening, so I would have to wait until morning before contacting someone. Not tocomplain, of course, but to let them know that Mykal had left his tools in my apartment.
If they wanted to volunteer more details about what had happened, I certainly wouldn’t try to stop them.
With nothing to do in the meantime, I retraced my steps, bypassing the living room and going straight to the kitchen. After popping a ready-made meal into the microwave, I hovered at the counter, drumming my fingers against the chipped laminate. My gaze flickered over the narrow bar toward the sofa, my mind humming with possibilities.
