Part One

The apartment was small but bright and as clean as a shoddy Victorian can realistically expect to be. The houses, once grand homes of the genteel dynasties, were now shabby hodgepodges of faded opulence. They had all been cut into labyrinths of bric-a-brac suites now more commonly used by students, people on fixed incomes, and young professionals who were sure that such dingy accommodations were only temporary.

The new renter fell into the latter category. He had just taken a job in the city. He felt it was the start of a real career and was certain that he would soon be moving on to better things. It was a lucky break – not many people found such opportunities straight out of college. He had been resigned to the experiences more common to his generation. Floundering around from one low-paying contract to another and collecting side hustles to make rent. Low wages and high rents were crippling a lot of his friends. He had been lucky. A family connection had got him in at the company of his father’s friend. The job had necessitated a quick move but the promise of a better start than he had rights to was more than enough to put up with such a small inconvenience.

He had had difficulty finding a place on such short notice and so close to the holiday season. University kids usually snapped up anything remotely affordable. The renter was grateful for coming across a small ad online. Spacious two bedroom available. Close to transit. Available immediately. The ‘spacious’ part had been a lie, but he’d expected that when he reached out to the landlord. A ready deposit had been enough to secure the apartment. The landlord had muttered about stupid kids who couldn’t handle the city and leaving without notice.

Move-in day had been easy. He didn’t have much stuff, just his student furniture. The downstairs neighbour had been nosy, asking endless questions. About him, his job, his family, his hometown. He had given short, polite responses in between slinging boxes. She was an older woman, short and roly-poly. Her wispy hair was dyed a startling shade of red and clashed jarringly with a Barbie pink cardigan embroidered with snowflakes and more tiny sequins that were within the bounds of taste. She had persisted in being ‘neighbourly’ for a half-hour or so until it was obvious that the new renter wasn’t interested in talking, which was practically a crime in her book. Somewhat huffily, she traipsed back down to her apartment on the second floor. He didn’t pay much attention until she stopped at the bottom of the landing. She looked at him and with a slightly pompous air and remarked that she hoped “he stuck around. No one stays long in the attic apartment. Not with all the weird things that happen.”

He didn’t thing anything of it. Surely it was just the parting shot of a disgruntled pensioner, upset that the younger generation had no respect for her. He had seen it before. It was the default setting of a certain kind retiree. The kind that spent most of their time on the porch noticing or at least trying to notice, everything that went on in their patch of the world and yelling at dog walkers that got too close to the begonias. They spent their winters ‘down south’ in mysterious places like Ft. Lauderdale, Florida where news stories about men harassing fast food workers with live alligators are what break up the monotony of playing bridge while wearing polyester elastic pants, waiting around to die, and complaining that their kids never call.

He continued to not think anything of it in the coming days, he was busy with his new job and with unpacking. The few times he’d seen her in the hallways they had exchanged hellos. Gradually he established a routine in his new place and began to feel at ease.

One morning while sitting by the big front window, the first odd thing happened. He’d seen a group of kids across the street. They seemed caught up with all the exuberance that children feel with the winter break fast approaching, running and laughing and kicking chunks of ice like footballs down the street. Once boy had caught sight of the light in the uppermost window of the old house. He shouted to his friends and pointed. The renter realized that his presence had a mild sensation amongst the group of kids. More points followed as the cheerful laughter was abrupted silenced and replaced with hurried murmurs. He thought this was a little weird and waved to them, thinking that they were just surprised at how quickly the old tenant was replaced.

The effect was immediate. Instead of returning the wave, the group of kids took off running. There had been other things since. People in the street were always polite but seemed to look at him with assessing gazes, like they were trying to puzzle something out. A few times someone had started to tell him something only to abruptly stop and change the subject. When he’d pressed them to continue, they were dismissive of what they called old rumours and gossip.

He began to notice odd little things. His keys would go missing only to turn up later in strange places. Once he had even found them inside the fridge. His sleep was no longer restful, his dreams plagued by a soft whisper and a feeling of dread, being trapped. Several times he was sure he’d seen a shadow in the darkened corner of his bedroom. Most disturbingly at night when he was drifting confusedly between the waking world and his troubled dreams, he thought he heard noises in the tiny room down the hall. Sometimes it sounded like a sort of quiet singing. Sometimes he swore he could hear a baby wail.

Exhausted and frustrated, he threw himself into his work. He put his experiences down to the stress and uncertainty of both the move and the pressure at his job. It would be a short time later that the renter’s experiences crossed the line from odd but possibly explainable, to downright uncanny and foreboding.