Apartment 127

Sam's apartment is suspiciously cheap. There's an old lady sitting on his sofa whom he seems to be ignoring. And there's something strange about the doorman.

Credit: Chat GPT

A cold blast nearly blew Gerry's hat off. She clutched it to her head, cursing the way the chill got right into her ears and gave her a headache. The apartment block loomed ahead of her, bright white with balconies. Sam's was on the twelfth floor.

He had been very excited about it when he called her to brag about how cheap it was. “Oh, sorry, Gerry,” he’d said, “I keep forgetting about Salome. They don't allow pets here. It's really great here, though.”

Whatever. But he had promised to cook lunch, and the man—thoughtless and vain as he was—could cook.

She found a uniformed doorman standing to attention outside the front door. ‘Ooh, swanky!’ she thought. How in the world could Sam afford this? They were on the same wage. “I'm here to see Sam Allardyce,” she said, feeling somewhat intimidated. A chill settled under her skin that she could not explain, though he seemed friendly enough. There was something off about him, but nothing she could put her finger on. “Apartment 127.”

“I'll call him and tell him…”

“Gerry Daly,” she said.

“Excuse me.”

She stood waiting while he made the call, then said, “Take the elevator to the second floor, then you'll find it on your left.”

She thanked him and went up.

The foyer was bright and cheerful; soft bright beige walls accented with dark green. The elevator was old-fashioned—on the outside, at least. The buttons were clean and worked perfectly. The elevator rose smoothly. She found the apartment right where the doorman had said it would be. She pushed the bell button. Its chime sounded like something between a whoopee cushion and a kazoo.

Sam took his sweet time coming to the door, but the wait was worth it. Heavenly smells wafted towards her in waves from the kitchen.

“Gerry!” he said. “Come in, come in. Welcome to my home! Wonderful, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she said, amused by his enthusiasm.

He took her hat and coat, then ushered her into the living room, which abutted the kitchen and dining area. There, on the green velvet-covered sofa she had sat on so many times in his last apartment, was a little old lady, dozing in front of the TV with a big fluffy black and white cat on her lap.

Sam walked into the kitchen to check the lidded saucepans.

Gerry stood by the kitchen counter, feeling uncomfortable. Sam was thoughtless at the best of times—and was as giddy as a schoolboy with a new toy over this apartment—but he never completely forgot his manners. She didn't want to be rude (he sometimes said she was harsh, though she was never able to see it), so she said, “I thought you weren't allowed to have pets here.”

“We’re not,” he replied.

“Oh.” She couldn't take her eyes off Granny, who opened her eyes from time to time, shifted a little, then settled back down.

The TV channel changed to show a cheesy soap opera. Granny sat up a little straighter. The cat looked up, then tucked its head back in. She hadn't used the remote control!

“Whatchu lookin’ at, Gerry?” Sam asked, as he brought a saucepan to the table, which was already set. He frowned. “I'm sure I put my knife on the left,” he said, sounding a little lost. “Never mind.”

The table was set for two.

Gerry's head snapped back to Granny, whose whole attention was fixed on the TV. She scowled in disapproval as a handsome Latino kissed a blonde woman. The next shot showed her leg lift up to a right angle, her spike heel pointed to the right.

“Gerry?”

“What about…? She held out her hand, palm up, towards the old woman.

“Yeah,” he replied, “it keeps doing that. I've had the TV changed twice and the landlord says the aerial is fine. And my internet keeps glitching.”

Could he not see Granny and Fluffy over there on the sofa?

“Let's eat,” he said. He frowned at her. “I didn't know you liked soap operas.”

“I don't,” she said.

Granny was shaking her head as the man unzipped the woman's dress. The screen faded to black.

Consternation stole her appetite away. That cold, clammy feeling grew despite the warmth of the apartment.

“Mmm,” said Sam, “this chowder turned out well. Try some.”

Gerry replied with a tight little grin, and tried it. She could just about taste the marsala wine in the rich creamy peppercorn sauce, and the mussels were cooked to perfection. “This is good,” she said, tucking in. She was glad there was some left over for Granny. Perhaps she had already eaten.

They chatted about work, Sam's new relationship (they were taking it slowly), and the apartment’s amenities.

“This place seems very old,” she said. “It must have a lot of history.”

“Maybe you could write an article about it,” he teased, his eyebrow raised in jest. “You're the history buff.”

When they had finished eating, they shared the washing up, then Sam led the way to the sofa, where he sat right down on Granny and her cat, obliterating both for the most part.

Gerry gaped, her arms hanging limp at her sides.

“Gerry?”

She could see Granny's long skirt behind his long thin legs. She couldn't stay a moment longer. “I…I…I've gotta go!” she said. She grabbed her hat and coat, opened the door, and fled.

She was still shaking when she got home.

Her cellphone rang. It was Sam. She declined the call, then sat on her own sofa and wept.

Gerry and Sam barely spoke to each other for the next few days. The image of him sitting right on top of Granny and the cat, both of whom seemed completely oblivious to this, was fastened to her consciousness. She couldn't get it out of her head.

On the Friday, Sam cornered her. “Damn it, Gerry, what's going on? You owe me an explanation for ghosting me all week.”

Gerry burst out laughing, stumbling around like a drunk. She slapped the desks and went over to the hot desk, where she sat down and laughed like a drain.

Sam sat down beside her, worry etched into his forehead. He took her hand. “Honey, are you okay?” he asked, concern for her raising the pitch of his voice.

“Oh, Sam!” she said. “Ghosted. Ha ha ha!”

“Gerry?”

“Dude,” she replied, holding his hand, “your apartment is cheap because it's Spook Central. It's full of ghosts. When I went to your apartment I saw you sit right on top of an old lady and her cat. You went right through them!”

“No!”

“Yep! Who ya gonna call?”

Sam shook his head. “You've been working too hard.”

“And they're just giving high end apartments away in Greenwich Village.”

“Well…”

“That's why I high-tailed it, Sam,” she said, shaking her head.

“Okay,” said Sam. He stared at her, as if he had just noticed something new and unwelcome about her.

She got up, went to the water cooler, and returned to her desk. She could see Sam staring at her, pouting. Then he turned and left the room. Sadness welled up within her as the realisation dawned on her that he might never speak to her again.

---

Written for The Bookstack Catalog's weekly prompt.