Death in the Duplex

It was dark on the third floor of the old duplex. Even if the sky wasn’t draped in the black cover of night, the boy’s windowless room would still be veiled in that wicked darkness.

The house creaked in summer’s oppressive heat, but Kevin slept soundly. The stark night, the house’s weary bones, neither bothered him much. He’d slept in the attic for years.

Not even the shrill cries of the owl on the gnarled branch outside woke him. No, what roused him that night were gentle fingers shaking his foot.

“Lydia, go to bed,” he grumbled at his sister, then shoved his face back into his pillow. The hand on his ankle shook him again. “Lydia. Go away.” Shake, shake. “What?!” His eyes flew open, and he readied himself to walk her back down to her room, but froze. It wasn’t Lydia at the bottom of his bed. It was the old woman from next door, Mrs. Graff.

Kevin tried to speak. Tried to ask why the hell she was in his room—how she even got into his side of the duplex—but the old woman shook her head and pointed to the wall connecting their homes.

“What?” he managed, fear and confusion overtaking his exhaustion. He couldn’t place the expression in her eyes, not in the dark. She pointed at the wall again, and Kevin realized something was wrong with her hand. Even in through the sheets of shadow it shouldn’t look so… white. He rubbed his eyes, and when they cleared, she was gone.

✴✴✴

The next morning, Kevin woke and sought Lydia out before breakfast.

“What were you doing in my room last night?” he asked.

She stared. He didn’t like the confusion on her face. “I wasn’t in your room?”

“Yeah, you were.” The rug at the foot of his bed was askew, and it hadn’t been when he went to sleep.

“I really wasn’t.”

Ice clawed down his back. If it wasn’t Lydia… no. There was no way. No way that dream was real. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. With every bite of toast, he imagined Mrs. Graff and her finger pointed at the wall.

“Kevin, get the paper, will you?” his mother called over her shoulder.

The front door groaned as he tugged it open, and he caught Mr. Graff’s eye from his place on the porch. “Morning, sir,” Kevin said, trying not to stare at the empty chair beside him. “Where’s Mrs. Graff today?” The old man grunted and went back to his paper.

The next five mornings were the same. No Mrs. Graff, no answers.

He confided in Lydia on the sixth day. They sat up in his room where it all started and he told her everything he could remember. He expected her to be scared—she was. He expected her to be confused—she was. “Do you smell that?”—he hadn’t expected her to ask that. He did smell it. The air in the attic was ripe, like groceries left in the sun.

“It’s probably a squirrel trapped in the walls or something,” Kevin said with a shrug.

“No,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “I think it’s coming from next door.”

That… it couldn’t be, right? “Should we tell mom?” he asked.

They did, and their mother did whatever adults do—called the right people, asked the right questions—and within a few hours, the police came by for a welfare check.

Through the shared wall, Kevin listened to the thudding footsteps and low, mumbled voices.

Knock, knock, knock. A hand rapped on their door. His mother insisted they wait in his room while she talked to the officer. Begrudgingly, they did. Five minutes later, she made her way up to the third floor and met his eyes.

“Mrs. Graff has been dead for a week.”

No words fell from his lips. No thoughts brewed in his mind. All he could do was stare at his mother as she detailed the rest.

Mrs. Graff died of natural causes, but Mr. Graff refused to accept it. He left her body in her art studio on the third floor for seven days. No air conditioning, no light, no movement.

“That means…” he trailed off. The night after she died was the night he saw her, standing at the foot of his bed. “She wanted me to find her. She was asking for help.”

That night, a hand shook him awake. He opened his eyes slowly and took in the pale form of Mrs. Graff. She smiled, and then she was gone.