Curse these crummy entrance lights. The disgusting smell of engine exhausts that linger
in the air. And this outdated furniture. What I would give to have my own place—if only I had
the money. But living at Albacore Apartments isn’t all that bad. It’s cheap, for one. Another
thing: the neighbors are quite interesting. Plus, it’s close to my job. But seriously. Having my
own place would be all I could ever want.

I make my way past the lobby and up the stairs, when I accidentally bump into Gregory.
Ah, occupant of room 112. Now there’s a story. Gregory just moved in two weeks ago. From
what I know of him, he always wears the same chocolate-stained sweater and jeans every time he
takes his clothes downstairs to the laundry room. Doesn’t this guy ever wash that sweater? Even
if he did though, it would take a miracle to get a chocolate stain out of white clothes. Now when
I come to think about it, I wonder what he’s doing here. He usually never leaves his room unless
it’s during the day.

“Watch it!” he barks. He then looks me over, grunts, and drags his feet down the stairs.
Rude much? Well anyway—before I was interrupted by the man himself, rumor has it—he’s a
serial killer! Now, I don’t believe these rumors at all. If they were true, this guy probably hasn’t
served all his time in prison. Maybe he’s a runaway. Then again, I only heard this story from dear
old Wilbur. There’s his apartment right now.

Wilbur, living right across from Gregory in room 113, is the definition of paranoid. This
pasty elderly man constantly roams the roach-infested hallway, looking for items he claims “got
up and left on its own.” But really, that’s just his excuse to be nosy and snoop through everyone’s
apartments to get dirt on them. “Just in case”, he says. “I need to make sure I know what kind of
neighbors I have in case they try and do somethin’ funny.”

Sweet old man though. He gave me a jug of cranberry juice just the other day. I just don’t
know if I should be wary or befriend him. He’s the only one who gave me a proper welcome
when I first moved in.

Other neighbors often tease Wilbur when he bumps into Helen in the hallway.
She’s an elderly woman who lives further down the hall in room 118. He’s obviously into her.
Gross. Love is something I thought I understood.

Honestly, Helen—she’s something else. Her sunken, dull eyes are more close to a corpse
than a human’s. And that bulging vein at the top of her forehead could burst any day now. She
wears her iconic crimson red cardigan. Aside from the fact she likes to bring a new cat to her
apartment every week, what genuinely creeps me out is how dead silent her room is. The
moment she locks her door, she’ll stay in there for days at a time. No T.V. No sound of any of her
cats. Nothing.

I finally made it to the front door of my room nearing the end of the hallway, room 119.
That is—right after nearly slipping on a puddle of mop water.

“What type of person cleans the floor without putting a caution sign?” I shout. “I could
have died y’know!”

Typical. The least the new janitor could’ve done was finish cleaning the hallway tiles.
And why does this mop water smell so strange? A pungent, smokey, almost sweet smell of a
parking lot. And this strange yellow tint—it better not be what I think it is. Not Helen’s cat.
Without another moment to waste, I take out my keys and turn the knob.

Sigh. I sink to the floor the moment I close the door behind me. Home at last. 

Life in the apartments can get much repetitive, I feel. Eat, work, sleep, run into a
neighbor, you get the rest. It’s just exhausting. I wonder what could have been if I had…
nevermind. I won’t dare think of him. I don’t even know why I kept the stupid ring. Doesn’t
matter now. Lest I waste anymore time staying awake pondering my life’s choices, I made my
way to remove my makeup before going to bed.

Knock knock.

I turn around from my vanity. Who would be here to visit me? I thought. I glance at my
phone. And at this hour?

“Who’s there?” I say. I wait for a response. “I swear if it’s you Greg, I didn’t mean to…”

I make my way to look through the peephole of my door, but I don’t see anyone there.
“Okay… this isn’t funny. Who is it?” I hear footsteps approach.

“Hello dear, it’s me, Hellen,” she says with a big, toothy smile. “I just wanted to let you
know your car light is still on”.

I get to the nearest window and look outside. She’s right! I go back to the front door to
thank her, but the moment I do, with the flicker of a light, she was gone. Well, now I gotta go
back outside. How wonderful. I grab my keys and head outside once again. I could’ve sworn I
locked my car. There’s no other reason why the light would be on.

The lights in the parking garage seem dimmer than usual, almost nonexistent. If it
weren’t for my car’s bright headlights, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell where I was going.

Drip, drip, drip.

I turn around, only to be greeted by an elongated dark figure which spreads across the
pavement. I nearly jumped. How stupid of me to get scared like that by my own shadow. Wonder
what that sound is though. Could be the crummy plumbing and pipes.

Drip, drip, drip.

There it is again! Doesn’t matter though. It’s the landlord’s problem. I’m just here to
secure my car.

I sit in the driver seat and turn off my car’s lights. I flick the switch to turn on the air
conditioning then stare at the rows of cars that lay there before me. It almost feels too dark and
empty, if there weren’t any cars here. Just a dark void, perceivably endless by my eyes, yet a
garage that indeed does have an end. A soot-like appearance to compliment the frequent soot
smell in the apartments. There I go rambling again. These unnecessary observations of mine.
Enough to… yawn… put someone to sleep. My eyelids are like anvils… they feel so heavy.
I’ll…just close my eyes for a minute… there’s no harm in that.

…

Drip, drip, drip.

“Shh… sweet dreams. Enjoy it while you can. Almost a shame you won’t wake up to see
the light of day again. You could have lived, y’know?”

Swoosh!

“That’s the last of it. I’m DONE cleaning up after these people. It was only a matter of
time until I could get to you.”

Foom.

“Look’s like we weren’t a match, but this little wooden stick in my hand says otherwise.
We can live a life together amongst these fumes and gasoline… just you and me.”

“I’LL LIGHT YOUR WORLD ON FIRE BABY!”