- 4 months ago
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00:00I live alone in a third-floor walk-up on Maple, three blocks from the university where I teach
00:16composition to undergraduates who still don't know the difference between a semicolon and an
00:21m-dash. The apartment is narrow, shotgun-style. Kitchen flows into living room, flows into
00:28bedroom, each space visible from the next through open doorways aligned like frames.
00:35The radiator clanks at five every morning. My neighbor below me, Mrs. Okafloor, watches Nigerian
00:42dramas at a volume I can predict by the day of the week. Thursday means maximum volume. It's
00:49always Thursday when I'm grading. I'd driven to my sister's wedding in Vermont three days prior,
00:55sat through the ceremony with my jaw tight because our mother kept asking when I'd bring
01:00someone, and on the way back I stopped at a yard sale in some town whose name I've already
01:05forgotten. White colonial house, gravel driveway, card tables covered in the usual debris of an
01:12ended marriage or a death, books with broken spines, chipped mugs, a blender still crusted
01:19with something green. The typewriter sat at the far end. Black enamel, mostly intact, keys like crooked
01:27teeth. Remington Rand. The woman running the sale said it was her father's, that he'd been a journalist
01:34before the paper folded in 03. She wanted $40. I paid $25. It fit neatly in my trunk, heavier than I
01:43expected, metal frame cold, even through my jacket when I lifted it. I set it up on the desk in my
01:50bedroom, the one that faces the window overlooking the fire escape and the maple tree that drops
01:56helicopters all over the iron grating every fall. The ribbon was ancient, fabric gone stiff and faded,
02:03but when I tapped the H key, it struck the roller with a satisfying chunk and left a clear gray letter.
02:10I typed my name, Eleanor Voss. The keys stuck a little, needed oil, but the action felt good,
02:19mechanical and certain. That first night back, I went to bed at 11. The radiator had started its
02:27nightly tick and groan. I sleep on my side, always have, and I remember pulling the quilt up to my chin
02:34because the temperature had dropped and the landlord hadn't switched the heat to the winter setting yet.
02:40I woke at 7 to my alarm, the usual NPR murmur about infrastructure bills and overseas conflict.
02:48There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter. I stood in the doorway to my bedroom, coffee mug in
02:54hand, and stared at it. White page, neatly aligned, text covering most of the upper half.
03:01I didn't remember loading paper. I didn't remember typing. I crossed the room, linoleum cold under my
03:09bare feet, and pulled the page free. The roller released it with a crisp snap. The text described
03:17a library. Not the university library, but something older, wood-paneled, with green shaded lamps and the
03:25smell of lemon oil and dust. I was walking between the stacks, running my fingers along spines, and I
03:32couldn't find the book I needed. The call number kept changing. I looked down at the slip of paper in my
03:38hand, and the numbers bled into each other, ink spreading like a bruise. I put the page on the desk
03:46and looked at the typewriter. The keys were still. Dust motes hung in the light from the window.
03:54I picked up the page again and read it twice. The details were exact. I'd had that dream. I remember
04:02waking from it briefly around 3, disoriented, then falling back under. I taught two classes that day,
04:10came home, made pasta with jarred sauce, and went to bed at 10.30. I did not load paper into the
04:18typewriter. I made sure of that. I stood in front of it and checked. The roller was empty. In the
04:26morning, there was another page. This one described my old apartment in graduate school, the one with
04:33the broken heating vent and the shower that only produced scalding water or ice. I was looking for my
04:39keys, panic rising, because I was late for something important. I tore apart the couch cushions. I
04:45upended my bag. The keys were in the freezer, resting on top of a bag of frozen peas, frost coating
04:52the metal. I had dreamed that. Exactly that. I picked up the typewriter, heavy, solid, the metal cool and
05:02slightly gritty with old dust, and carried it into the living room. I set it on the coffee table,
05:08facing the couch. I could see it from my bedroom doorway. I left the roller empty.
05:15The third morning, there was a page. I was walking through a grocery store, fluorescent lights buzzing
05:22overhead, and every person I passed had the same face. Not a face I recognized, just the same face
05:30repeated on every body. They didn't look at me. They pushed their carts in silence, and the squeaking
05:37wheels made a rhythm that sounded like Morse code. I tried to leave, but the automatic doors wouldn't
05:43open. I pushed against the glass, and it flexed, membranous like skin. I called my sister. She was
05:52still in Maui on her honeymoon, and I could hear the ocean in the background when she picked up.
05:56I told her about the typewriter. She laughed, said I should write a story about it, said maybe I was
06:03sleepwalking. I asked if sleepwalkers could type coherent prose while unconscious. She said stranger
06:10things had happened. Then her husband called her name, and she said she had to go. I looked up Remington
06:17Rand typewriters on my laptop, found a forum for collectors. I posted a photo, asked if anyone knew of
06:24models that had unusual features, anything mechanical that might explain autonomous typing.
06:30Someone replied within an hour. Nice find. Standard office model. 1940s. Nothing special about it.
06:37Check the ribbon. Probably needs replacing. I went to an office supply store that still carried
06:43typewriter supplies. Bought a new ribbon. Installed it. The old one came away in my hands. Fabric
06:50crumbling slightly. Black ink residue on my fingertips that didn't wash off completely,
06:55even with soap. That night, I dreamed I was in my childhood home, in the kitchen, and my father
07:03was standing at the stove, even though he'd been dead for six years. He didn't turn around. I said his
07:10name, and he kept stirring something in a pot, wooden spoon scraping the bottom in a steady, circular rhythm.
07:17I tried to move closer, but my legs wouldn't respond. I stood in the doorway and watched his
07:24back. The familiar hunch of his shoulders. The frayed collar of his flannel shirt. The typewriter
07:31page was waiting in the morning. Every detail. I started sleeping on the couch. Door to the bedroom
07:39closed. I set up my laptop on the kitchen counter so I could see the bedroom doorway while I made coffee.
07:45Nothing changed. The pages kept appearing. My dreams, transcribed with perfect accuracy.
07:53Details I wouldn't have remembered on my own, rendered in clean, factual prose.
08:00For a week, the dreams were mundane. Lost objects. Old apartments. Conversations I couldn't quite hear.
08:08Then they shifted. I dreamed I was in my apartment, in my bed, and someone was standing in the doorway.
08:16I couldn't see their face. The light from the street came through the window at the wrong angle,
08:21and their features stayed in shadow. They didn't move. I tried to sit up, and I couldn't. My body was
08:28locked, rigid. Only my eyes could move. I stared at the figure, and they stared back,
08:35and I couldn't tell if they were breathing. The page described it exactly. The paralysis. The angle
08:42of the light. The wrongness of the shadow. I called campus security, asked if there had been any break-ins
08:50reported in the area. The officer on the phone said no. Everything had been quiet. Asked if I wanted
08:56to file a report. I said no. I said I was just checking. I started locking my bedroom door from the
09:02outside before I went to sleep on the couch. I checked the windows. I checked the fire escape.
09:09Everything was secure. The dreams got worse. I dreamed someone's hands were around my throat.
09:18I couldn't see them. I was on my back, in my bed, and the pressure was immense, crushing,
09:25and I couldn't breathe. I tried to claw at the hands, but my arms wouldn't move. My vision went dark
09:32at the edges, a tunnel collapsing inward, and I could hear my own pulse, a desperate hammering that
09:39grew fainter and fainter until… I woke up on the couch, gasping, my hands at my own throat. The living
09:47room was gray with pre-dawn light. My heart slammed against my ribs. I stood up too fast, stumbled,
09:56caught myself on the arm of the couch. My throat ached. I went to the bathroom and turned on the
10:02light. There were bruises on my neck. Not faint, not ambiguous. Dark, distinct, the unmistakable shape
10:11of fingers pressed into flesh. Four on the left side, one on the right, a thumb's width.
10:19I touched them and they were tender, a deep soreness that radiated down into my collarbone.
10:25I checked the locks on the front door, still engaged. I checked the windows, latched. I checked
10:31the fire escape from the bedroom window, leaning out into the cold October air, and the iron grating
10:37was empty except for wet leaves and a plastic bag snagged on the railing. The typewriter sat
10:44on the coffee table, a fresh page in the roller. I pulled it out. My hands were shaking so hard
10:51the paper rattled. The text described the dream, the hands, the pressure, the suffocation, and
10:58then at the bottom, a single line I hadn't dreamed. You should check under the bed. I dropped the
11:07page. It drifted to the floor, landing face up, the words clear and black against the white.
11:14I looked at the bedroom door, still closed, still locked from the outside, the key on the counter
11:20where I had left it. I picked up my phone. My hands were shaking. I called 911, and the dispatcher's
11:28voice was calm, professional, asking me to state my emergency. I said I thought someone was in my
11:34apartment. She asked if I could see them. I said no. She asked if I had heard anything. I said no.
11:41She said officers were on the way. Stay on the line. Stay in a safe location. Do not confront
11:47anyone. I stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, and stared at the bedroom door.
11:54The dispatcher kept talking, asking me questions, and I answered automatically. Yes, I live alone. No,
12:03I didn't give anyone a key. Yes, the door was locked when I checked. The bruises on my neck throbbed
12:11with my pulse. I heard the sirens. Close, then closer, then stopping outside. Heavy boots on the
12:22stairs. A knock on my door, firm and official. I unlocked it, and two officers stepped in, a man
12:30and a woman, both with hands near their belts. I pointed to the bedroom. I said I thought someone
12:37might be inside. I said I'd locked it from the outside, but I hadn't checked under the bed.
12:43The male officer told me to wait in the hallway. I stepped out onto the landing, and Mrs. O'Coffer's
12:49door cracked open below, her face peering up through the gap. The female officer unlocked
12:55my bedroom door with the key I gave her. I heard them enter, heard the closet door open,
13:01heard the scrape of something heavy being moved, then silence. Then the male officer's voice,
13:09low and tight. Ma'am, you're going to want to call this in.
13:14They brought him out in handcuffs ten minutes later. I was sitting on the stairs, still on
13:20the landing, and I watched them guide him down. He was thin, maybe thirty, wearing a gray hoodie
13:28and jeans, and his face was pale, unremarkable, the kind of face you'd forget immediately in
13:35a crowd. He looked at me as they passed. His eyes were calm. He smiled just a little, and
13:43I felt my stomach drop.
13:46The female officer stayed with me while the male officer took him down to the patrol car.
13:51She asked me questions. How long had I lived here? Did I know him? Had I noticed anything
13:57missing? I said, three years? I said, no. I said, I didn't know. I hadn't checked.
14:05She said he'd been under the bed. She said there was a sleeping bag, a water bottle, granola
14:11bar wrappers. She said it looked like he'd been there for at least a few days. She asked
14:16if I'd been experiencing anything unusual, missing food, moved objects, sounds at night.
14:23I told her about the typewriter, about the dreams, about the pages. She wrote it down,
14:31her expression neutral, professional. She asked if I still had the pages. I said yes,
14:38they were on my desk. She bagged them as evidence. They cleared the apartment, checked every space,
14:45every closet, every cabinet large enough to fit a person. They found nothing else. They took
14:52statements. They took photos of my neck. They gave me a case number and a card with a victim
14:58advocate's phone number. They said he'd be held, that I could get a restraining order,
15:04that I should change my locks and consider a security system. They left at nine. The apartment felt
15:11too large, too empty. Every shadow suddenly deep enough to hold something.
15:17I called a locksmith. He came at noon, installed the deadbolt, gave me three new keys. I called my
15:26sister again. She said I should stay with her when she got back. I said, maybe.
15:34I didn't sleep that night. I sat on the couch with the lights on and watched the bedroom doorway.
15:41The typewriter was still on the coffee table. I hadn't touched it since the police took the page.
15:48At three in the morning, I heard a sound. Soft. Rhythmic. The distant, muffled, chunk, chunk,
15:59chunk of keys striking a roller. I stood up. My legs felt numb. I looked at the typewriter.
16:08The keys were still, but the sound continued, faint, coming from somewhere else. I followed it.
16:16Through the living room. Through the bedroom doorway. To the desk by the window.
16:23There was a page in the roller. Fresh. The typewriter I'd moved to the coffee table was behind me,
16:30silent and dark, but the page was there. Text appearing line by line as I watched.
16:36Letters forming with each mechanical chunk. No hands. No figure. Just the keys depressing on their
16:44own. The typebars swinging up to strike the paper. I grabbed my phone. I called 911 again. Same
16:52dispatcher. She recognized my voice. Said officers were coming back. Asked me to describe what I was
16:59seeing. I said the typewriter was typing on its own. She paused, then said, stay on the line.
17:08The typing stopped. The apartment went silent. Except for the radiator's tick and Mrs. O'Coffer's
17:17television below. A low murmur of voices. I pulled the page free. It described my apartment.
17:26My bedroom. Me, standing at the window, in my pajamas, phone in hand, reading a page. And then,
17:34I know where your sister lives. I know her new address. The one in Portland she just moved into
17:42with her husband. The yellow house on Creston Street. Second floor. The bedroom window doesn't
17:50lock properly. The officers arrived. Different ones this time. I showed them the page. I showed them
17:59the typewriter on the coffee table. The other typewriter on the desk. I explained about the
18:04man they had arrested. They checked the apartment again. They checked the locks. The windows. The fire
18:11escape. They found nothing else. They asked if anyone else had a key. I said no. They asked if I had told
18:19anyone about my sister's address. I said no. She'd just moved. I had only been there once for the wedding
18:27prep. They took the page. They took photos of both typewriters. They said they'd follow up. That
18:34the man they had arrested was still in custody. That this might be a separate issue. That I should
18:40consider staying somewhere else for a few nights. They'd left. I called my sister. It rang four times.
18:48Then five. Then voicemail. Her voice bright and recorded. Hey, you've reached Nicole. Leave a message.
18:57I said, call me back. It's important. I texted her. Call me now. She called at 8 in the morning.
19:06I was still awake, sitting on the couch, staring at the typewriters. She said she'd been asleep.
19:11What was wrong? I told her. About the page. About the address. About the window. She was quiet for a long
19:21time. Then said she'd check the window. That she and Marcus would say somewhere else for a few nights.
19:27That I should come stay with them. I packed a bag. I called campus, said I needed a few days for a
19:33family emergency. I looked at the typewriters. Both of them, silent and inert on their respective
19:40surfaces. I unplugged my desk lamp, left the bedroom door open, grabbed my keys and my bag.
19:48I found his name through the police report. Jeremy Cates. No permanent address. No prior arrests in
19:57the state. I searched online. Found a few social media profiles that might have been him, all private
20:05or abandoned. I found a news article from two years prior, about a missing person case in New Hampshire.
20:12A woman who'd reported someone living in her walls. It found evidence of habitation, but no suspect.
20:19Her name was Andrea Loomis. I sent her a message through Facebook. She didn't respond.
20:27I stayed with my sister for a week. They arrested Jeremy Cates on charges of criminal trespass and stalking.
20:33His bail hearing was scheduled for the following month. I got the restraining order. I went back to
20:40my apartment with my sister and Marcus. We cleared out everything. I donated the typewriters to Goodwill.
20:47Both of them. I didn't care where they ended up. I installed a camera in the bedroom. One in the
20:54living room. I put bars on the fire escape window. I started sleeping with a baseball bat next to the bed.
21:00I bought blackout curtains so no one could see in. I check under the bed every night before I sleep.
21:07I check the closets. I check behind the shower curtain. I test the locks on the doors and windows
21:13twice. Sometimes three times. I listen for sounds that don't belong. Footsteps. Breathing. The scrape
21:22of metal on metal. I don't dream anymore. Or if I do, I don't remember. I wake up every two hours my body
21:30locked in that same rigid paralysis from the dream. And I have to remind myself to breathe. To move my
21:37fingers. To turn my head and confirm the room is empty. I haven't been back to Vermont. My sister
21:45calls every few days. Asks how I'm doing. If I'm sleeping. I tell her I'm fine. She doesn't believe
21:53me. Marcus installed extra locks on their bedroom window. They don't talk about it. But I know.
22:01Jeremy Cates took a plea deal. 18 months. Eligible for parole in nine. The prosecutor said it was the
22:08best they could do without more evidence. I didn't go to the sentencing. I got the notification
22:14by mail. He'll be out next summer. I still teach. I still great papers. I still live in the apartment
22:23on Maple. Third floor. Because I signed a lease and I can't afford to break it. But I don't feel
22:29like I live anywhere. I feel like I'm waiting. For a sound. For a page. For the moment the locks
22:37don't hold. Last week, I got a package. No return address. Inside was a single sheet of paper,
22:48typed on a manual typewriter. The letters slightly uneven. The ink a faded gray. It said,
22:56I've been practicing my typing. I reported it to the police. They said they'd look into it.
23:04That Cates was still incarcerated. That it might be a prank. They took the paper. They took the
23:10envelope. They said they'd follow up. I don't think they will. I checked the locks. I checked the
23:19windows. I checked under the bed. And when the radiator starts its 5am clank and the room is still
23:26dark. And I'm caught in that space between sleep and waking. I listen. For the sound of keys.
23:34For the chunk, chunk, chunk of metal on paper. For the proof that something is still writing my story
23:42one line at a time. Whether I'm awake or not.
23:46I find the music box on a Tuesday afternoon in a yard sale that smells like dust and lavender
24:05sachets gone stale. The swan is tarnished silver, its neck curved in a question mark, and someone has
24:13scratched initials into its base. EM. Deep enough to catch my thumbnail. The owner winds it for me with
24:20a gentle smile. The tune is simple. Repetitive. The kind that gets stuck in your head. $20. I pay in
24:28cash. My apartment is on the third floor of a converted textile mill. High ceilings. Exposed brick.
24:36Windows that rattle when trucks pass on the street below. I live alone. Have for two years now. Since
24:43the breakup. The music box sits on my nightstand next to a lamp and a water glass. I wind it before
24:49bed that first night. The melody plays out in 30 seconds. Then clicks to silence. I work remotely.
24:56Freelance editing. My days follow a rhythm. Coffee at 7. Emails by 8. Lunch at the kitchen table
25:03overlooking the parking lot. Afternoon calls with clients who need their manuscripts tightened.
25:09Evenings are for reading. Sometimes wine. Always the blue glow of my laptop screen reflecting off the
25:16windows after dark. On Thursday morning, I hear the music while I'm in the shower. Faint, muffled by water
25:24and tile. But unmistakable. I turn off the tap. Silence. I stand there. Dripping. Listening to my own
25:33heartbeat. Before I convince myself that it came from a neighbor's apartment through the shared wall.
25:39That night, the music wakes me. Not from the nightstand. From somewhere else.
25:44I lie still. Tracking the sound. It's coming from the kitchen. I get up, bare feet on cold hardwood,
25:54and find the music box still on my nightstand where I left it. The melody continues. A child's lullaby
26:01humming from the direction of the sink. I check the pipes. Nothing. I check my phone. 2 47 AM.
26:09I don't wind the box the next day. The music plays anyway. Friday afternoon, while I'm on a call,
26:17it starts from inside my closet. I excuse myself, mute the line, and open the closet door. Coats, shoes,
26:26a vacuum cleaner. No music box. The tune continues from behind the coats. I push them aside. Brick wall.
26:36The melody stops the moment I touch the cold surface. Saturday, I move the music box to the
26:43kitchen counter. Then to a drawer. Then to a cardboard box in the hallway closet. Each time,
26:50the tune finds me from different corners of the apartment. It plays from under the floorboards
26:55near the bathroom. From inside the oven. From behind the headboard of my bed at 4 AM. Close enough that I
27:02bolt upright, gasping. My t-shirt soaked through. Sunday night, the music changes location. It's not
27:11coming from inside anymore. I wake to it, drifting through my open window. I'd cracked it earlier
27:18because the radiator was pumping too much heat, and the sound is outside, below, in the garden
27:24courtyard shared by the four buildings in this complex. Nobody uses it much. Overgrown boxwood
27:31hedges. A stone bench. A path of broken pavers that leads nowhere. I pull on jeans and a sweater.
27:39Slide my feet into sneakers. The music is clearer now. Insistent. The October air bites. My breath fogs.
27:48The courtyard is dark, except for one security light near the corner of the adjacent building,
27:53casting long shadows through the hedges. The music is coming from the far end, where the property backs
28:01up against a fence and a line of oaks. I follow the path. Weeds push through the cracks in the stone.
28:08The tune grows louder. The ground changes texture under my feet. Softer. Loose. I stop.
28:18Look down. And see the pavers end. Ahead is just dirt and dead grass. And then…
28:26The music stops. I take another step. The earth shifts. Not a lot. Just enough. A hollow sensation,
28:36like walking on a board laid over a gap. I freeze. My pulse hammers in my throat. I crouch. Press my palm
28:44flat against the ground. It gives slightly. Not solid. Not stable. I brush aside leaves and dirt with
28:53both hands scraping. And my fingers find a wooden edge. Old wood. Rotted. Covered by years of debris.
29:01A cover. Planks laid over something. I pull my phone from my pocket. Turn on the flashlight.
29:09The beam catches the outline of a circle. Roughly three feet across. Someone built over this. Tried to
29:17seal it. And the wood has degraded. I clear more dirt away and see gaps between the planks. Black spaces
29:24underneath. The music starts again. Not from above. From below. From the well. I jerk back,
29:33scrambling to my feet. And the ground beneath my left foot collapses. Not just shifts. Collapses.
29:40The planks snap. And my leg punches through into nothing. Into open air and open space. And I drop.
29:48My knee slams into solid wood as the rest of me pitches forward. I throw my arms out. Catch the edge
29:53of another plank. My phone tumbling into darkness. I hear it hit something far below. Very far. The sound
30:00echoes. My right leg is still on solid ground. My left is dangling. I try to pull myself up. And the
30:09plank under my hand splinters. Cracks spiderweb outward from where my fingers grip. I can't get
30:15leverage. I'm sliding. My sneaker scrabbles against the inside wall of the well. I feel rough brick,
30:23moss, slime, and finds nothing to brace against. I'm going in. Something closes around my ankle. Tight.
30:34Cold. The pressure is immense. A vice. And it yanks downward. Not gravity. Not slipping. Pulling. I scream.
30:44The sound tears out of me. Raw and animal. And I claw at the dirt. At the grass. At anything. My nails
30:51break. The thing around my ankle pulls harder. I'm being dragged into the well. My hips sliding over
30:58the broken edge. Splinters digging into my stomach. And the air is different down there. Thick. Stale.
31:05Wrong. I can't breathe right. My chest is constricted. My vision grays at the edges.
31:11A hand closes around my wrist. A real hand. Human. Warm. A man's voice. I've got you. Don't move.
31:24And another hand grabs my other wrist. Two people. Neighbors. Someone heard me scream.
31:31They haul upward. The grip on my ankle tightens viciously. Then releases all at once. And I lurch
31:37out of the hole. Dragged backward across dirt and grass until I'm ten feet clear. I'm sobbing.
31:44Shaking. My jeans are shredded at the knee. Bleeding. And my hands are filthy and torn.
31:50The man is older. Sixties maybe. In a bathrobe and boots. The woman with him is younger. Thirties.
31:58Holding a phone with the light on. She's already talking to someone. Yes. Behind the main courtyard.
32:03There's a well. It's open. She almost fell in. And I'm gulping air that tastes like copper and rot.
32:12They walk me back inside. The woman. Her name is Lauren. She lives in building C.
32:17Stays with me while the man, Derek, goes back out with a flashlight and a long stick to mark the area.
32:24Police arrive. Fire department. They cordon off the courtyard with yellow tape and floodlights.
32:29I sit in my apartment with a blanket around my shoulders, giving my statement to an officer who
32:35keeps asking if I was drinking, if I took anything, why I went out there at all. I tell him about the
32:42music. He writes it down without expression. And this music box. Where is it now? I point to the
32:49hallway closet. He opens it, pulls out the cardboard box, unwraps the swan. He winds it.
32:56The tune plays. Thirty seconds. Clicks to silence. He hands it to me. Do you want us to dispose of this
33:04for you? I shake my head. I don't know why. He leaves it on the coffee table. They're out there until
33:14dawn. Bringing up lights, equipment, someone with a camera. I watch from my window. Derek stops by
33:22before he leaves. Asks if I'm okay. If I have someone I can call. I lie and say I do. After he's gone,
33:30I try. My sister doesn't answer. It's 6am on a Monday. I text her anyway. Something happened.
33:38Call me when you can. I don't sleep. I sit on the couch as the sky goes gray, then blue, then fills with
33:46the ordinary sounds of mourning, traffic, voices, a dog barking. And I wait for my hands to stop shaking.
33:56The police come back Tuesday afternoon. They've identified the well. It's pre-1900, part of the
34:03original property when this was farmland. City records show it was supposed to have been filled
34:08in during the mill conversion, but someone cut corners, just sealed it with planks and covered
34:14it. Negligence. Lawsuit territory. The officer asks again about the music. Was there anyone else in the
34:22courtyard? Did I see anyone? I shake my head. I don't tell them about the hand around my ankle.
34:31Lauren texts me that evening. The Historical Society is involved now. They're saying the well might be
34:36connected to something from the 1800s. There's talk of remains. I don't respond.
34:44Wednesday night, the music comes back. I'm lying in bed, rigid, staring at the ceiling when the tune
34:51starts. Not from the music box. I haven't wound it since Sunday. It's playing from inside the wall
34:58beside my bed. The same wall that backs up against the courtyard, three stories down where the well is.
35:04The lullaby hums slow and patient, and I feel the vibration through the plaster against my spine.
35:13I don't move. I barely breathe. The tune plays three times, four, then stops. The silence afterward is
35:22worse. I lie there listening to my heartbeat until the sky lightens and I can pretend morning is close
35:29enough to get up. Thursday I call a locksmith. I have him change the locks, install a dead bolt, add a
35:37chain. I buy blackout curtains for every window. I move my bed away from the exterior wall to the center
35:44of the room. I start sleeping with the lights on. I look up EM online, Ellis Mills, the textile factory that used to
35:54operate here. Built 1867, shut down 1923. In between, there are records. Labor disputes, unsafe conditions, a fire in 1891 that killed four workers.
36:06Children work the looms. Children work the looms. The city archive has photographs. I zoom in on their faces,
36:13looking for anything familiar, anyone who might explain the scratched initials on the base of the swan.
36:19I find one. A girl, maybe 10, standing beside a loom. Dark hair, hollow eyes, wearing a gray dress too big
36:30for her frame. The caption reads, Ellis Mills, 1889. Workers included children as young as eight.
36:39Many injuries and fatalities were unreported. No names, just faces.
36:45The music plays again Friday night. This time, from the floor vent in my bathroom when I'm brushing my
36:52teeth, I drop the toothbrush back against the sink and wait. The lullaby hums, then underneath it,
37:00a voice. High. Thin. Singing the same melody but with words I can't quite make out. Child's words.
37:10When I lean closer to the vent, the singing stops. I call Lauren. She tells me the well is still roped off,
37:19but they brought in an excavation team. They found bones. Old bones. Small bones.
37:28The investigation is ongoing. I stop winding the music box. I stop touching it. I leave it on the coffee
37:36table under a dishcloth, as if covering it will help. Saturday morning, I'm at my laptop when the
37:43music starts from the closet. The hallway closet where I'd stored the box days ago. I get up, walk
37:50over, open the door. Nothing inside but coats and the vacuum. The tune continues. I pull everything out,
37:59piling it on the floor, and press my ear to the back wall. The music is coming from the other side.
38:05From the shared wall. From Lauren's apartment. I text her. Do you hear music? Her reply is immediate. No.
38:15Why? I don't know how to answer. The music stops. I put everything back, close the door,
38:24sit down at my laptop. I can't focus. Can't work. I open a new search tab and type,
38:31children, workers, Ellis Mills, deaths, 1880s. The results are sparse. One mention in a local
38:39history book digitized by the library. During the winter of 1889, several child workers disappeared from
38:48the mill. Families reported the missing, but no formal investigation was conducted. It was
38:53believed they had run away or succumbed to illness. I close the laptop. Now I check the courtyard every
39:02night before bed. I stand at my window and watch the floodlights they've left up. The shadows moving
39:09in the wind. The yellow tape fluttering. The excavation team finished their work Thursday. The well is sealed
39:18now professionally. With concrete and a steel cap. The police closed their inquiry. Accidental hazard.
39:27No foul play. But the music keeps playing. Not every night. Not on any schedule I can predict. Sometimes
39:37from the walls. Sometimes from the floor. Sometimes from nowhere I can pinpoint. Just hanging in the air of
39:44my apartment like smoke. I don't sleep more than three hours at a time. I keep the lights on. I keep
39:52my phone charged. Volume up. Next to my pillow. I've started sleeping in my clothes. Shoes nearby. Just in
39:59case. In case of what? I don't let myself articulate. My sister finally calls. I tell her I had an accident.
40:08that I'm fine now. She asks if I want her to visit. I say no. I don't want anyone here.
40:16Because the music isn't random. I've started to notice. It plays after I've been still too long.
40:23After I've let my guard down. After I've closed my eyes. It plays like a warning. Or an invitation.
40:31And I think about the grip around my ankle. How deliberate it was. How strong. How the fingers
40:40felt. Small fingers. Child-sized. And how they knew exactly where to hold. Exactly how to pull.
40:49The music box sits on my coffee table. Still wrapped in the dishcloth. I haven't touched it in days.
40:56But every time the tune starts. I look at it. Expecting it to move. Expecting the swan's neck to
41:04turn toward me. It never does. But I don't think I bought the music box. I think it was meant to find me.
41:14I think EM carved those initials because she wanted someone to remember. And now every night when the
41:21lullaby hums through my walls. I lie awake and wonder if remembering is enough. Or if she's still
41:28waiting at the bottom of the well. Singing to anyone who listened. I haven't been back to the courtyard.
41:35But I hear her.
41:36I buy the rug on a Thursday afternoon from an estate sale three blocks over. The house smells like
41:54ammonia and lavender sachets. And the woman running it keeps saying how her aunt collected textiles from
42:00all over. The rug is rolled tight. Bound with twine that cuts into my palms when I carry it home.
42:07It's heavier than it looks. My apartment is a studio conversion on the second floor of a brick
42:13building built in 1912. One main room with a galley kitchen. A bathroom the size of a closet. And
42:21windows that face the alley where the dumpsters sit. I work remote for an insurance company. Processing
42:27claims from a desk shoved against the radiator. The floors are scuffed hardwood. Cold in winter. And I've
42:34been meaning to cover them for months. I unroll the rug that evening after microwaving leftovers. The
42:42pattern is dense. Interlocking geometric shapes and rust. Navy and cream. With a border of stylized flowers
42:50I can't name. It fits perfectly in the space between my bed and the kitchen counter. Which surprises me
42:56because I didn't measure. The wool has a coarse texture. Almost abrasive under my bare feet. I push
43:04my furniture back into place. And sit on the bed. Eating cold low main and scrolling my phone. The
43:10apartment feels warmer somehow. Fuller. I go to sleep around 11. The room looks different when I wake.
43:20Not dramatically. Not in a way I can point to and name. But the distance between my bed and the opposite
43:27wall feels longer. The ceiling sits higher. I stand in the center of the rug and turn slowly. Trying to catch
43:35what's wrong. The walls are the same pale yellow. The radiator hisses the same way it always does. My desk is
43:43exactly where I left it. I measure the room with my eyes. Then with my feet. Pacing heeled toe from wall to
43:51wall. 15 steps across. It's always been 15. I shake it off and make coffee. Over the next few days I notice
44:01small things. The echo in the room sounds different. Voices from the hallway seem farther away. My neighbor's
44:09television which usually bleeds through the wall in tinny bursts is muffled. I catch myself looking
44:16at the rug more often than I should. Watching the way shadows pool in its woven grooves. On Saturday
44:23morning I find a faint smudge on the floor near the kitchen counter. It looks like a footprint. Bare.
44:30Too small to be mine. I wipe it away with a damp cloth and think nothing of it. By Monday there are three
44:37more. They appear overnight always in the same path. From the edge of the rug toward the bathroom then
44:45looping back. The prints are distinct. Narrow heel. High arch. Four toes visible. I photograph them with
44:53my phone before scrubbing the floor. That night I check the locks twice. The door is solid. The windows
45:00don't open more than four inches because of the safety latches. I live alone. I've always lived alone here.
45:08Tuesday morning the proportions are wrong again. The rug seems larger or the room seems smaller. I
45:16can't tell which. When I stand in the doorway and look at my bed it feels like I'm seeing it through
45:21the wrong end of a telescope. Distant and miniature. I call my mother during lunch break but I don't
45:28mention it. She talks about my cousin's wedding and the new pharmacy that opened on her street.
45:33Her voice sounds thin like it's traveling through more space than usual to reach me.
45:40That night I lie awake. Not the normal silence of late hours but an absence. No traffic hum. No building
45:48creaks or radiator click. Just my breathing and the faint whistle of sheets. I lie still staring at the
45:56ceiling. Then I hear it. A soft rhythmic padding. Footsteps moving across the rug. I hold my breath and
46:06don't move. The sound continues. A slow circuit from the rug's edge to the kitchen then back. Barefoot
46:14weight on wood. When I finally turn my head toward the sound. The room is empty. Moonlight from the
46:21alley cuts across the floor. Illuminating nothing but furniture and shadow. The footsteps stop. I reach
46:29for the lamp. My hand shakes. The light blazes on, flooding the room in yellow glare. Everything is
46:36exactly where it should be. I get up and check the door again. Locked. Chain latched. I stand in the center
46:44of the rug and look down. The footprints are there. Fresh. Slightly damp. Leading from the bathroom to a
46:53spot near my bed then stopping abruptly at the rug's edge. Right where my feet are now. I don't sleep the
47:01rest of the night. At dawn I roll up the rug and shove it into the closet. The room immediately feels
47:08smaller. Tighter. Normal. I scrub the floor until my knuckles ache. Bleach every trace of the prints.
47:16But when I open the closet to grab a jacket before work, I see the rug has unrolled itself. Just a
47:24little. Just enough that one corner spills onto the closet floor. I leave it there and go to work at my
47:32desk. But I can't focus. My supervisor pings me twice about missed deadlines. I close my laptop at
47:39noon and stand at the window looking down at the alley. A man is loading trash bags into the dumpster.
47:46A cat picks through a cardboard box. Ordinary. Real. When I turn back to the room,
47:54the rug is on the floor again. Fully unrolled. Perfectly positioned. I didn't hear it. I didn't see
48:02it move. It's just there. Like it never left. That night, I don't fight it. I leave the rug where it is
48:11and lie in bed with my phone clutched in one hand, ready to call 911. Around 2am, the footsteps start again.
48:21This time, they don't stop at the rug's edge. They continue past my bed toward the bathroom.
48:28I hear the door creak open, except I never closed it. The footsteps move inside. Water runs briefly,
48:37then stops. When I force myself to look, the bathroom is dark and still. I wait. The footsteps return.
48:47Closer now. They stop beside my bed. I can feel the presence. A weight in the air. A shift in temperature.
48:57The smell hits me. Old dust. Dry rot. Something faintly chemical. I squeeze my eyes shut and count my
49:07breaths. One. Two. Three. When I open them, the room is empty. But there's a new sound. A faint
49:18scraping. Metal on metal. Coming from the far corner of the room near the radiator. I turn on the light
49:27and cross the floor following the sound. The radiator sits flush against the wall. Same as always. But to
49:34its left, in the corner where I keep a cardboard box of old tax documents, there's a door. A small door.
49:43Maybe four feet high. Painted the same yellow as the walls. Easy to miss. The handle is black iron,
49:50shaped like a bent finger. I've lived here for two years. There's never been a door. The scraping
49:57sound is the latch moving on its own. Lifting. Dropping. Lifting. Dropping. I back away slowly,
50:08my spine pressing into the opposite wall. The latch lifts one more time and stays up. The door swings
50:16inward. Revealing darkness and a smell so thick that it makes my throat close. Stale air. Old earth.
50:25Something sweet and rotten underneath. I should run. I should leave. I should call someone. Instead,
50:35I watch the footprints appear. They form on the floor in real time, one after another,
50:42leading from the door toward me. Bare feet. The same narrow heel, the same four toes. They cross the
50:49rug, leaving faint impressions in the wool's pile, and stop two feet from where I stand. I can't see
50:56what's making them, but I can feel it. Breathing. Waiting. The latch on the door clicks shut.
51:05I lunge for the main door, but my legs won't work right. The air feels thick, resistant. Every step
51:14takes effort, like walking through gelatin. My hand reaches the doorknob and closes around it,
51:20but it won't turn. The chain is still latched, but the knob itself refuses to move. I yank it harder.
51:28Nothing. The footprints behind me start moving again. They walk slowly toward the small door.
51:35I follow them with my eyes, my body frozen against the main door. The small door swings open again,
51:41wider this time. The darkness inside isn't empty. It has texture. Depth. I can see rough stone stairs
51:50descending. The footprints stop at the threshold. Then they turn and come back toward me. I press myself
51:59flat against the door. The smell intensifies. I taste it now, mineral, like licking a battery,
52:06mixed with something organic and spoiled. The footprints stop inches from my own feet. The air
52:12in front of me shifts, and I feel it. A hand, cold, dry, pressing against my chest. It pushes. Not hard,
52:22just a steady pressure, moving me away from the door. I stumble backwards, and the pressure follows,
52:29guiding me across the room. My heels hit the rug's edge. The hand on my chest becomes two hands,
52:35one on each shoulder now, though I still see nothing. They turn me to face the small door.
52:42The darkness inside the doorway moves. It breathes outward, a gust of that choking stale air. The
52:50hands on my shoulders tighten their grip and push me forward. I dig my heels into the rug, but it's
52:55useless. The wool slides beneath me. I'm moving toward the door, whether I want to or not. My hands
53:02shoot out to brace against the door frame, catching the sides. Splinters bite into my palms. The stone
53:09stairs descend into absolute black. No light reaches the bottom. The air coming up is cold and wet and
53:16wrong. The hands shove harder. My feet cross the threshold. The first step is slick under my soul. I slip,
53:24catch myself, and the momentum carries me down two more steps. The door is above me now. The frame of
53:31yellow light from my apartment shrinks. I try to climb back up, but the hands are still on me. On my shoulders,
53:38my back, my head now, pushing me down, down, down. My vision tunnels. The darkness swallows me. I can't
53:46breathe. The air is too thick. It coats my throat, my lungs. I cough and gag, my legs giving out. I'm on my knees
53:55on the stone steps, and the hands are still pushing, pressing my face told the cold rock. I hear a sound
54:02from above. Distant. Muffled. Three sharp knocks. Then three more. The hands release me. I gasp and
54:13scramble upward, clawing at the stairs. My shoulders slam into the door frame. I haul myself through,
54:19collapsing onto the rug. The small door slams shut behind me. The sound like a gunshot. I cough until
54:25I retch, my lungs burning. The knocking continues. Someone is at my door. I crawl across the floor,
54:34my hands shaking so badly I can barely unlatch the chain. I wrench the door open. A man in a blue
54:42uniform stands in the hallway, holding a package. His badge says USPS. He's older, maybe 60, with gray
54:53stubble and tired eyes. Delivery, he says. Needs a signature. I stare at him. My throat is too raw to
55:04speak. He looks past me into the apartment, and his expression shifts. You okay? I nod.
55:13Then shake my head. Then nod again. He holds out the electronic pad. I sign with a trembling finger.
55:21He hands me the package. Something for a neighbor. Wrong address. And lingers in the doorway.
55:28You need me to call someone? No. I manage. My voice comes out hoarse. I'm fine.
55:36He doesn't believe me, but he leaves anyway. I close the door and lock it. The apartment is silent.
55:46I turn slowly. The small door is gone. The corner where it appeared is just a corner again. Yellow wall,
55:57radiator, cardboard box. I cross the room and press my hands against the wall. Solid. No seam. No handle.
56:08No door. No door. But the rug is soaked. A dark stain spreads across its center, as if something wet
56:18walked across it and didn't dry. The smell of rot lingers. I touch the stain, and my fingers come away
56:26damp and gritty, like mud mixed with ash. I roll up the rug again, drag it to the hallway, and shove it down
56:35the trash chute. The next day, the rug is back. I find it in the morning, unrolled on the floor,
56:44the stain still wet. I call the building super, and he comes up with a dolly. We carry it to the basement
56:52together and toss it in the industrial dumpster behind the building. I watch the garbage truck
56:58take it away on Thursday. On Friday, it's on my floor again. This time, there are footprints leading
57:08from the corner, from where the door used to be, straight to my bed. I move out that weekend. I stay
57:17with my mother for a month, sleeping on her couch, telling her I'm having the apartment fumigated.
57:22When I finally go back to get my things, the rug is gone. But the corner where the door appeared
57:31feels wrong. The air there is colder. The wall, when I touch it, vibrates faintly, like something is
57:40moving on the other side. I hire movers. They pack everything in four hours. I don't look back.
57:48I live in a different building now. Third floor. New construction. No radiators. No hardwood. No
57:56corners that don't make sense. I check the locks every night before bed. I leave lights on in every
58:03room. I don't buy rugs. I don't attend estate sales. But sometimes late at night, I hear it.
58:11The soft padding of bare feet. The scrape of a latch. The smell of stale air creeping under my door.
58:21And I wonder if the door followed me. Or if I brought something back when I crawled out of the
58:28dark. I wonder if it's waiting for the right moment to open again. I don't sleep much anymore.
58:40so
58:47about
58:49On
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