The Upstairs Apartment

Chapter 1 · The Move

The building was from the mid-19th century, with a gray stone facade that rain had stained in uneven streaks, and tall windows with wooden shutters that no longer closed all the way. It sat on a narrow downtown street—the kind tourists took pictures of because it still had that old-city feel, but the locals knew for its loose cobblestones and the musty smell rising from the basements. Sarah saw it for the first time on a Tuesday in October, with drizzle on her face and two suitcases at her feet, and she thought it was perfect.

The apartment was 3B, third floor, door on the right. High ceilings with crown molding, dark hardwood floors that creaked pleasantly underfoot, a small kitchen with white tile and a window facing the interior courtyard. The living room was two feet taller than any modern apartment Sarah had ever seen, and that height made everything quieter, as if the air had more room to soak up noise. The rent was low for the neighborhood. Very low. The landlord, whose name was Mr. Mendoza and who handled everything over the phone from another city, told her it had been empty for a few months and he'd rather have it occupied. Sarah didn't ask why it had been empty.

She got settled over the weekend. She didn't have much furniture—just what fit in a rental car—and the spaciousness of the apartment made everything she placed look insufficient, like furnishing a cathedral with four chairs and a lamp. But she didn't mind. She'd arrived in the city three weeks earlier for work, had spent that time in a hotel room with a window facing an elevator shaft, and anything with her own floor felt like a luxury. She unpacked the books first, as always. Then the clothes. Then everything else, in no particular order, with that specific satisfaction of filling your own space.

The first week was exactly what she needed. She slept in on weekends, made coffee in the little kitchen with the window cracked open, heard the sounds from the courtyard—birds, someone upstairs hanging laundry, the distant noise of the street—and felt something she hadn't felt in a long time: that she was okay where she was. Work was demanding but manageable. The neighborhood had good bakeries and a used bookstore three blocks away. At night, the silence was almost complete. Almost rural, she thought more than once. She hadn't imagined downtown could be so quiet at night.

On Monday of the second week, Sarah went to bed at 10:30 with a book. She turned off the light around 11:00. She'd been in the dark for maybe ten minutes, in that halfway state between sleep and waking, when she heard it.

A dragging sound. Heavy, steady, as if someone were moving a large piece of furniture across the floor with deliberate slowness. It was clearly coming from upstairs. It lasted maybe fifteen seconds and then stopped. Sarah opened her eyes in the dark and waited. Nothing. She checked her phone: 11:02 PM. She thought: neighbors, moving furniture, nothing weird. She closed her eyes.

Two minutes later, the footsteps started.

Slow. Very slow. One step, pause. Another step, pause. As if someone were walking while measuring distances, or as if they were walking very carefully to avoid making noise, which was paradoxical because in the silence of that night, each footfall resonated with a clarity that seemed amplified. Sarah counted the steps. Fourteen steps in one direction. Silence. Fourteen steps back. Silence. One full lap, she deduced. Someone walking in circles in the apartment upstairs.

She looked at the ceiling as if she could see through it. The ceiling was white, with a thin crack running through the plaster from the window to the central molding. The crack had been there since she arrived. The footsteps continued upstairs, methodical, unhurried, unchanging. One lap. Another lap. Another. Sarah waited for them to stop. At 11:45 PM they were still going. She thought about going up. She thought it was late. She thought tomorrow was a workday. She put in her earbuds, played music, and eventually fell asleep without knowing when they stopped.

The next day she'd almost forgotten about it. Neighbors living their lives. In old buildings, sound travels in strange ways. No big deal.

On Tuesday night, Sarah was reading on the couch when she heard the dragging sound. She checked her phone: 11:01 PM. She set the book in her lap and waited. Two minutes later, the footsteps. Exactly the same rhythm. Exactly the same circle. She counted them again: fourteen steps, turn, fourteen steps. She thought it was curious that it was the same time, but people's nighttime habits could be very regular. She went to the kitchen, drank some water, went back to the couch. At 11:20 PM they were still going. At 11:50 PM. She went to bed with the footsteps still active above her head and had trouble falling asleep. When she woke up at 3 AM to use the bathroom, she heard nothing. She told herself that it was twelve-oh-eight in the morning, and that sleep had just overtaken her. She made a note on her phone as if it were unimportant. It wasn't.

Chapter 2 · The Empty Apartment

On Wednesday night, Sarah stayed up waiting. Not because she was scared—not yet—but because she wanted to confirm it. She settled onto the couch at 10:30 PM with some tea and waited. At 11:01 PM, the dragging sound. At 11:03 PM, the footsteps. She started the stopwatch on her phone. Forty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds later, the footsteps stopped. The time on the clock: 12:08 AM. Twelve-oh-eight in the morning, again. Sarah looked at the ceiling for a moment, then threw a coat on over her pajamas, grabbed her keys, and went up to the fourth floor.

The fourth-floor landing had two doors. 4A and 4B. There was light coming from under the door of 4A. Sarah knocked with her knuckles. A woman around sixty-five opened the door, wearing a fleece robe and a face that looked like she hadn't slept—or didn't want to sleep. Behind her, peeking from the living room doorway, a man of a similar age watched without saying anything.

Sarah apologized for the hour. She explained about the noises. She said they were clearly coming from 4B. The woman listened with an expression Sarah couldn't read at first: it wasn't irritation, wasn't confusion. It was something closer to the discomfort of someone hearing something they'd rather not hear. When Sarah finished, the woman glanced briefly toward the door of 4B and then looked back at her.

"That apartment has been sealed for two years," she said. And she closed the door.

Sarah stood on the landing. She looked at the door of 4B. It had a seal from the building administrator stretched diagonally across the frame, with the homeowners' association stamps and a date from two years ago. The lock was different from the other doors in the building—newer, sturdier, installed over the original one. Along the bottom of the door was a strip of perfect darkness. No light. No sound. Nothing.

The next morning she called the building administrator. It took her twenty minutes to get transferred to someone who knew anything about 4B at the Postigo Street building. The person who finally came on the phone had a voice that didn't want complications. He told her the apartment was sealed by order of the authorities, the situation was being resolved, and he couldn't give her more details. Sarah asked what had happened. The person on the phone paused and said, "The previous tenant died in the unit. The apartment is under investigation. I'd appreciate it if you didn't press further." And he hung up.

That afternoon, Sarah knocked on the doors of the neighbors she knew by sight. The couple on the first floor didn't answer. The man in 2A told her he was new too, been there six months. He recommended she talk to Doña Carmen in 3A, who'd lived in the building for decades and knew everything.

Doña Carmen took a while to answer. She was a small woman with white hair and light-colored eyes that seemed to see everything at once—one of those people who sizes you up before deciding what to say. She invited Sarah in when Sarah mentioned the noises. She served her coffee without asking if she wanted any. They sat at the kitchen table, and for a moment Doña Carmen said nothing, just held her cup in both hands and stared out the window.

"His name was Álvaro," she said finally. "Álvaro Reyes. Thirty-four years old. He'd been living in 3B for fourteen months when they found him."

Sarah took a second. "3B is my apartment," she said.

Doña Carmen looked at her. She nodded slowly, as if she already knew and had been waiting for Sarah to say it out loud. "I know," she said. "That's why I let you in."

She told Sarah what she knew, in a low voice, with pauses, like someone measuring what she said. Álvaro had moved into the apartment a little over a year before he died. He'd come to the city for work, alone, with no close family around. He was quiet, polite, paid on time. For the first few months, there were no problems. Then, at some point—Doña Carmen couldn't remember exactly when—he started knocking on doors. Asking about the noises from upstairs. Whether the other neighbors heard them. Whether anyone lived in 4B. "4B has always been empty," Doña Carmen said. "Long before he got here. Long before."