#anyway yeah here's a short story that semi-directly caused one of my only bad panic attacks last semester! yipee~

[sleepylop]

One Night on Floor Seven: A Hallway Opera

Well, well… welcome to the hallway carpet! Hope you can learn to put up with the smell of curdled soymilk and sour-fragranced aerosol. Personally, I’d like to believe that unrelenting decay is what gives floor seven its character. A delightfully all-consuming “decay,” which extends past just mold caked with chemical lavender. Here, you’ll find five residual units, installed as an afterthought for the sake of filling out surplus space. (A cluster of tumorous apartments, if you will.) That being said, I’d like to introduce our cast—or, better yet, I’ll open the stage and allow them to introduce themselves.

Enjoy the show!

1. Friday, April 19th, 9:42 PM:

Tonight, he’s sat near the top of the stairwell, broadcasting his thoughts on the status of neo-Pagan reptilians and their rapid encroachment on social values:

“I am warning you all so early on, with what we all know is coming, but are too chemically possessed to acknowledge! Our creator died long ago, but a God greater than him has stepped up to rule us; and, he is testing our integrity each and every day! Still, we’re—” He lets out a feral, yet impassioned belch, before continuing, “—we… we’re failing! We’re failing his tests, and we are willingly submitting to witchcraft, and the demonic reptiles who wield it against us! We must come together through a shared blood offering, and repent for our stupidity! Blood! We must give him our blood! Evil will drown in our blood!”

He’s preaching to what seems to be an empty hallway, relying only on the possibility that his voice will slip its way into the surrounding units. For him, walls with the thickness of battered cardboard are a fantastic asset for his ministry.

Each slurred syllable is coated with a residue of cheap cider, as is the inner thighs of his sweatpants. “His” legal name is unknown. His apartment door sits just three feet to his left, and the dilapidated “worship space” he now rents out can be found just two blocks up the street.

He’s also been asked, on a series of occasions, for clarification on exactly what higher power he’s touting as humankind’s omnipresent foster parent. He has yet to give an explanation more concise than simply, “Well, I invite you to join me, for this week’s Sunday evening worship! Together, one day, we will have the honour to bleed for our beautiful, beautiful king. Join us in the only true path to holy redemption! You will soon understand all, I promise you that.”

It’s been just short of two months, and the residents of floor seven have come to a silent consensus: Do not engage with the righteous-ass preacher in room 703, lest you be roped into joining his non-denominational suicide cult. Do not speak or further enable him. Just walk past, again and again. And, most importantly, keep an eye out for any bold-faced, blood-centric news headlines.

Surely enough, morbid curiosity has become the collective vice of floor seven.

2. Friday, April 19th, 11:08 PM:

At the edge of the staircase, right where the carpet is beginning to peel away from water-corroded wood, the preacher has fallen asleep. Oh shit, his snores sound fucked. Possibly, maybe, suggestive of sleep apnea… maybe?

At least, this assessment of symptoms is what twists its way into Evie’s thoughts, via what is beginning to feel like a paranoid reflex. Having just reached the peak of the seven-flight climb, especially, her attention is already shrouded by fog and gorging itself on any thought that’s not this is where I tumble to my death, I’ve lost all feeling in my calves and I’m forgetting how to climb stairs.

The lone elevator is out of service, just as it has been for the past four years or so.

Ahead of Evie, the wallpaper is beginning to distort, her tired eyes directing a show of yellowed roses rearranging and twisting into one-another. Her room, 705, lies directly ahead, the front door bulging in synch with the walls.

It has been a miserable day. Like, an exceptionally shitty day. Far too often, as much as she cares for her own future as a registered nurse, Evie finds herself considering the legitimacy of the suicide cult. Sometimes, school and a lifetime of anxious baggage don’t mesh remarkably well.

Just as she raises her foot to proceed onward toward freedom, Evie feels a cold hand latch onto her ankle. And, before she’s able to come to a conscious halt, she hurdles toward the off-green carpet. Evie’s fall forward is then ceremoniously punctuated by her right knee jabbing into floor, sending a shockwave of pain down her calf. Her backpack presses its weight down onto her, prompting Evie to lose her balance and roll off to the side, twisting her captive ankle in the process. Well, if only I had fallen backwards, to my sudden, wonderful death.

Evie jerks her head around to see, as she had expected, the liquified form of the preacher brandishing her leg, his pale hand squeezing at her ankle. Before Evie can determine the most effective explanatives for the situation, the preacher mumbles, “G’evening, miss. I almost didn’t see you passing by. Can I talk to you ‘bout something, while you’re here?”

Evie doesn’t respond. Instead, she yanks her ankle away from the preacher, making a deliberate effort to at least dislocate his wrist in the process. This effort seems to have failed, as while Evie scrambles to her feet, the preacher continues to slur, “I noticed that you’ve been living what looks like, um, a homosexual lifestyle. I’d like to discuss that with you, maybe, just a bit?”

Growing rapidly more jaded toward the absurd universe that is floor seven, Evie keeps her mouth shut—which, is truly a test of will. God fucking damn, is this guy even a real person? Or is this just the start of my inevitable breakdown?

As Evie makes the short dash to her front door, she hears the preacher continue to babble from the floor. “It’s just, I wanted to have a little discussion, y’know? Homosexuality isn’t, uh, innately bad, I guess, but sometimes it is the product of psychic population control, and I just wanted to let you know, so that our New World Order is never able to—”

The sound of Evie’s door creaking on its rusted hinges is directly followed by a thunderous slam. The preacher’s words catch in his throat, seeming to choke him in the process.

No, really, he’s suddenly gagging on air. He’s beginning to go blue in the face.

Neither he nor Evie notice: Her wallet is now buried in the carpet, just a foot from where the preacher’s head hovers barely over the ground.

Left with no opportunities for further harassment, he dozes back to sleep, cuddling his empty bottle of cider into his chest.

3. Saturday, April 20th, 12:31 AM:

A grey-haired man, dressed in loafers and a faded tie-dye shirt, is approaching room 702. He’s certainly not a resident of floor seven, but he has a very important appointment.

He notices the familiar shape of the preacher curled into a tight lump, snores echoing throughout the narrow hallway. Still, the sight is unsettling, even for a frequent visitor. Something about this strange situation will never, ever sit right with him.

In his peripheral vision, as the visitor raps softly onto the door of room 702, he notices a metallic glint, nestling against his foot. Is that… oh, a lost wallet? Jesus, it looks like the kind of wallet a little girl would strap to her matching purse. Do any kids even live on this floor?

Shrugging to himself, the visitor kneels down, scooping up the glitter-dusted wallet. It fits oh-so snuggly into the palm of his hand. Maybe Mistress Delia will know who this little thing belongs to.

After a moment more spent on standby, the door eases open.

Snores continue to cannibalize the airspace.

4. Saturday, April 20th, 2:06 AM:

A lopsided smile softening his face, the visitor steps back into the hallway of floor seven. He shuts the door softly behind himself. A half-formed bruise is visible on the meat of his bicep.

He swivels around on his heels, readjusting to the sound of snoring and the smell of asbestos and rot. And, before he can even will himself to take a step deeper into reality, the visitor is hit with a second resounding noise: A hollow tapping, rising from the nearby stairwell.

Then, within seconds of the visitor’s panicked acknowledgement, a new man reaches the crest of floor seven. A batlike man, dressed in an elaborate mixture of dark, free-flowing fabric and romantic embroidery. His face and hands are deeply wrinkled, and his platform boots only emphasize his height—which, towers well over the visitor. White roots are beginning to tease his otherwise purple-black hair, which has been tied back into a tight ponytail.

With a relaxed smile and a custard voice, he addresses the visitor. “Oh, hey, have I seen you around here before? I feel like I’ve seen you comin’ in and out, before.” He follows this up with a string of deep breaths, still recovering from his upward journey. Clearly, the fabric wings are entirely nonfunctional.

Feeling heat rise to the surface of his face, the visitor shrugs. “Yeah, you may have,” he says, staring over the other man’s shoulder, eyes losing focus. “I’ve been around here a few times, before.”

With a curt nod, the retirement-bound vampire begins to stretch his right arm across his chest, his silver jewelry chiming faintly. “Cool, cool. Anyway, don’t mean to hold you up. I’m Oscar, by the way; feel free to say hi, next time, alright?”

“I… I can remember that, okay,” the visitor replies, his voice barely audible over the violent snoring, which has practically become ambient noise. “Do you live here?” he asks, after a beat of hesitation.

Oscar hums. “Indeed, I do. I was just gettin’ back a bit later than usual. Had an interesting night,” he says, then hums again, softly.

“Where are you coming from?” the visitor asks, before any social phobias can drag him back down to hell. He’s still baking in his own endorphins, as he often is after some therapeutic-grade flogging. Mistress Delia may be a professional domme, but she places spectacular concentration on the emotional relief of her clients.

“Well, since you ask, I just got done with ‘goth night,’” Oscar says, air quotes included, paired with a dramatic eye roll. Which, is made exceptionally dramatic, thanks to his purple lenses. “The last goth club ‘round here closed years back, which continues to suck profound ass, but occasionally I hear about a ‘goth night’ happenin’, usually at some club downtown. This one had been… not brilliant. Mainly just played a grating loop of 2000s industrial. And, major points off for all the Marilyn Manson tracks. Do people still think the dude’s music is ‘goth’? Really?” Oscar yawns, as if the freshly branded memory is enough to further exhaust him.

Still, the visitor responds with a nervous smile. “That’s, um, interesting. I… didn’t know about any of that.” He pauses. Snoring takes over again, for a moment. “Anyway, I should be going, now. It was nice meeting you.”

With that, the visitor makes a beeline for the stairwell. As he weaves around Oscar, the elder goth offers a quick, “Nice meeting you too, man. Hope good ol’ Delia is treatin’ you right.”

And, finally, the visitor is no longer a visitor of floor seven. Or, of anywhere, currently.

Oscar retreats to room 701, boots tapping in rhythm with the preacher’s sour attempts at breathing.

5. Saturday, April 20th, 4:38 AM:

Later that morning, after a violently disoriented and hungover preacher returns to his own apartment, the door to room 704 opens for the first time.

Out comes Sal.

Sal’s a normal guy. He works in accounting. He’s gluten-free and recently took on a side gig in multilevel marketing. He calls his mom every night, just before 8 PM.

Sal just wants to catch the bus.

Sal’s been searching for a new apartment.

Wish Sal luck.