I should have deleted it the first time I heard it. That's what you do with landlord voicemails, right? Listen once, maybe twice if you missed something important, then clear it out to make room for the next complaint about late rent or broken appliances.
But Frank's message won't delete.
Photo: Frank, via www.annefrank.org
It came through Tuesday morning at 3:47 AM. I know because I've checked the timestamp about fifty times now. The phone didn't ring—I'm a light sleeper, and I would have heard it. Just appeared in my voicemail like it had always been there.
"Hey there, it's Frank from the office. Just wanted to give you a heads up that I'll be stopping by tomorrow around two to check on that issue with the water pressure in your bathroom. Should only take a few minutes. Thanks."
Nothing weird about that. Frank's been our building manager for three years, and he's always been professional about maintenance visits. Gives twenty-four hours notice, shows up when he says he will, fixes whatever's broken without much fuss.
Except I never reported any water pressure issues.
I called the office Wednesday morning to ask about it. The woman who answered—I think her name is Linda—said Frank was out sick and hadn't been in the building since Monday. No maintenance visits scheduled for anyone on my floor.
Photo: Linda, via www.namious.com
"Maybe he meant next week?" she suggested. "Sometimes these things get mixed up."
I agreed and hung up, but something felt off. Not just about the timing, but about the message itself. So I played it again.
"Hey there, it's Frank from the office. Just wanted to give you a heads up that I'll be stopping by tomorrow around two to check on that issue with the water pressure in your guest bathroom. Should only take a few minutes. Hope you're settling in well. Thanks."
Guest bathroom. He said guest bathroom.
I live in a studio apartment. There's one bathroom, barely big enough to turn around in. There's no guest anything in this place.
And that last part—"hope you're settling in well"—I've lived here for two years. Frank knows that. He helped me move my couch up three flights of stairs when the elevator was broken.
I tried to delete the message. Hit the delete button three times, but it just stayed there, sitting at the top of my voicemail list like a stubborn stain.
Thursday morning, I played it again. Had to. Something about Frank's voice was bothering me, like trying to remember a word that's right on the tip of your tongue.
"Hey there, it's Frank from the office. Just wanted to give you a heads up that I'll be stopping by tomorrow around two to check on that issue with the water pressure in your guest bathroom. Should only take a few minutes. I know you've been having trouble sleeping lately. Hope you're settling in well. Thanks."
The trouble sleeping part was new. And he was right—I had been tossing and turning all week, waking up at strange hours with this feeling like someone was watching me. But I'd never mentioned that to anyone, especially not my landlord.
I called Frank's cell phone directly. It went straight to voicemail. His outgoing message said he'd be out of the office through Friday due to a family emergency.
Family emergency. Frank doesn't have any family. Told me once that his ex-wife moved to Oregon with their kids fifteen years ago, and his parents passed when he was young. It's one of those sad details you remember about people, the kind that makes you feel guilty for complaining about a leaky faucet.
Today I played the message again, and Frank's breathing is different. Heavier. Like he's trying to catch his breath between words. And there's something else—a sound in the background I didn't notice before. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps on what sounds like wooden floors.
My apartment has carpet throughout.
"Hey there, it's Frank from the office. Just wanted to give you a heads up that I'll be stopping by tomorrow around two to check on that issue with the water pressure in your guest bathroom. Should only take a few minutes. I know you've been having trouble sleeping lately, and I think I know why. The previous tenant had similar problems before she moved out. Hope you're settling in well. Thanks."
Previous tenant. I was the first person to live in this unit when the building opened. Frank told me that himself when I signed the lease.
The message is four minutes and thirty-seven seconds long now. It was barely thirty seconds when I first heard it. And Frank's voice sounds different at the end, like he's talking through water, or from very far away.
I think I'm going to stop listening to it now. I think I'm going to put my phone in a drawer and maybe take a long walk, maybe visit my sister across town for a few days.
But I can hear it playing even when the phone is off.
And tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow at two o'clock.
Someone's coming to check on the water pressure in my guest bathroom.
I think I hear footsteps in the hall
