The 14th Floor

The realtor assured her that the space was perfect for a single girl. She’d be a fool not to look for a pre-furnished apartment, especially one this pretty.

It was a quaint little apartment on the 14th floor on the upper east side. The whole space was roughly 600 square feet. The bed was tucked up in a loft above the kitchen. It was narrow and small. There was a gorgeous arched floor-to-ceiling window that was covered with light linen curtains. The walls were a soft, dusty green. A wooden shelf hung on the wall just opposite the bed. A small pendant light filled the tiny space with a warm glow.

The kitchen, just below, had all of its original appliances. The fridge was a light teal and the freezer held almost nothing. The stove was old and creaked when the oven door was opened. There was a ceramic sink with the original faucet and curtains along the bottom to hide cleaning supplies.

Counter space was limited and there were open shelves rather than cupboards. The walls were a pale cream. The floor-to-ceiling window was in the east corner of the kitchen. In front of it sat a  table full of lush, green plants that soaked up the sun. A small drop-leaf table sat against the wall, with two mismatched chairs.

Opposite the kitchen was the living room. The walls were a dove grey. Against the far wall sat a forest green chaise sectional couch. A vintage coffee table filled the remaining space, covering an antique rug from a thrift store. It was woven with blues and greens and wild patterns.

An old bronze lamp sat in the corner. It gave off a moody glow. An old television sat on the opposite wall, near the kitchen. It was decrepit and big, but did the trick. The radiator clicked and clanged all night long.

Next to the front door, was the narrow, long bathroom. A claw foot tub took up half the space and the shower curtain encircled the entire thing. The sink was minuscule and there was barely enough cabinet space to hold much of anything.  The walls were a soft peach and the tile floor a gentle yellow. It was warm and inviting.

The building had a door man and an old elevator with a gate. The lobby was covered in black and white tile with a crystal chandelier in the center of the space. The light pinged off the crystals and threw rainbows across the floor.  

She felt safe here.

Well, she did.

Until last night.

As she crawled into bed, she turned on the light and, as she went to pull the curtains closed, stopped short. There, staring back at her from the darkness were two glowing eyes and a drooling smile. She screamed and leapt from her bed, nearly falling down the stairs.

As she rounded the corner, the face remained, following her. Strings of spit clung to the razor-sharp teeth grinning at her. Clouds of its breath fogged the window. She stared in pure terror as it raised its gnarled, filthy fingers and tapped it’s long, dirt covered fingernails against the glass.

The tapping became fervent and the fog from it’s breath had nearly covered the entire window. She quivered. She watched as a long, sticky tongue dragged itself up the length of the window. Thick strings of spit clung to it and dripped down the glass.

One sharp tap with its gnarled finger, and the window shattered. Shards of glass covered the floor and lodged in her skin. It lunged at her violently, cracking her skull against the ground. It unhinged it’s jaw and wrapped her in a rotten, vomit-inducing stench. She tried to roll over, bile creeping up her throat. It sucked her into it’s mouth, covering her in goo. She tried to scream but it’s teeth severed her windpipe and crushed her bones to dust.

I wonder if the next person who lives here will feel as safe as she once did. Mother is great at picking out the most tasty morsels for my insatiable appetite. And she can fix a window in a New York minute.