I should have known something was off when the rent was $400 below market rate.
The Meridian Apartments on Hawthorne Street looked decent enough from the outside—red brick, fire escapes that hadn't rusted through, windows that still had all their glass. Built in 1952, according to the brass plaque by the entrance that someone had polished recently. The super, Mr. Kowalski, showed me around unit 2A with the enthusiasm of a man who'd given this tour too many times.
Photo: Hawthorne Street, via 2ndstreetusa.com
Photo: Meridian Apartments, via medialibrarycf.entrata.com
"Good bones," he kept saying, rapping his knuckles against the walls. "These old buildings, they don't make 'em like this anymore."
He wasn't wrong. The hardwood floors were solid oak, the ceilings high enough that I didn't feel claustrophobic, and the radiator actually worked. When I asked about the other tenants, Kowalski shrugged.
"Quiet building. Mrs. Chen in 1B, been here fifteen years. The Rodriguezes in 3A just had a baby. Nice people. 4B's been here longest—Evelyn Marsh. Thirty years, can you believe it? Never missed a payment."
I signed the lease that afternoon.
The Details That Don't Add Up
It was the mailboxes that first made me pay attention. Each morning, I'd check for mail and notice that 4B's box would be stuffed full—catalogs, bills, what looked like personal letters. By evening, it would be empty. But I never saw anyone collecting it.
I work from home most days, and my kitchen window faces the building's entrance. I'd gotten into the habit of glancing up from my laptop whenever I heard footsteps on the front stairs. Mrs. Chen at 7:30 AM sharp, walking her ancient poodle. The Rodriguezes coming and going with their stroller. Mr. Kowalski with his toolbox, always muttering about something that needed fixing.
But never anyone who might be Evelyn Marsh from 4B.
After three weeks, I asked Mrs. Chen about her during one of our brief hallway encounters.
"Oh, Evelyn," she said, adjusting her grocery bags. "Yes, she's been here forever. Very quiet. I think I heard her humming last Tuesday, actually. Something classical."
When I asked what Evelyn looked like, Mrs. Chen paused.
"You know, I can't quite... she's very private. Keeps to herself."
The Laundry Room Discovery
The building's laundry room is in the basement, accessible only with a key that Kowalski gave each tenant. It's cramped—just two washers and two dryers that sound like they're trying to shake themselves apart. I usually do my laundry on Sunday mornings when the building is quiet.
That's when I noticed that the dryer on the right was always warm.
Not hot, like it had just finished a cycle. Just warm, like it had been running recently and was cooling down. Every single time I went down there, regardless of the day or time. I started testing it, going down at random hours. Tuesday at 11 PM. Friday at 6 AM. Always warm.
I mentioned it to Mr. Rodriguez when we were both folding clothes.
"Yeah, Evelyn uses that one," he said without looking up from a tiny pink onesie. "She does her laundry at weird hours. Very considerate, actually—never conflicts with anyone else's schedule."
"What's she like?" I asked.
He paused, the same way Mrs. Chen had.
"Nice lady. Been here since before we moved in. Maria says she heard her moving around upstairs last night, rearranging furniture or something."
But when I asked Maria the next day, she looked confused.
"Did I say that? I don't think... well, someone was moving furniture. Must have been 4B, right?"
The Lease Records
I probably shouldn't have asked Kowalski to see the building records. I told him I was curious about the building's history for a blog post I was writing about old Chicago apartments. He seemed eager to show off his filing system.
"Organized by year, then by unit," he said, pulling out a thick folder marked "4B." "Evelyn's been here so long, her file's the thickest."
The lease agreements went back to 1993. Same name on every single one: Evelyn Marsh. Same forwarding address for emergencies: 847 Oakwood Drive, which I later looked up and found was a vacant lot that had been vacant since the 1980s. Same phone number that, when I called it from a payphone outside the building, gave me a disconnected tone.
Photo: Oakwood Drive, via newbuss.co.uk
The rent had increased over the years, but the payments were always on time. Always by money order, purchased from different locations around the city. Never the same place twice.
"She's the ideal tenant," Kowalski said, closing the folder. "Wish they were all like her."
"When's the last time you actually talked to her?"
He scratched his chin. "Well, we don't really... I mean, if there's a problem, she leaves a note. Very polite notes. Good handwriting."
I asked to see one of the notes. He couldn't find any.
What I Found Yesterday
Last night, around 2 AM, I heard footsteps in the hallway. Soft, deliberate steps that stopped outside my door. I looked through the peephole and saw nothing but the empty hallway, lit by the flickering overhead light that Kowalski keeps meaning to fix.
The steps continued to the end of the hall. I heard a door open and close.
This morning, I knocked on 4B.
No answer, but I could hear something inside. Not movement, exactly. More like the sound of someone holding very still, the way you do when you're listening for something specific.
I tried the door handle. Locked, of course.
But when I pressed my ear against the wood, I could hear humming. Something classical, like Mrs. Chen had said. A melody I almost recognized but couldn't quite place.
I'm writing this now because I need to get it down before I forget. Before the details start slipping away like they seem to do for everyone else in this building. Because I have a terrible feeling that if I stay here much longer, I'll start giving the same vague answers about the woman in 4B.
And maybe, eventually, someone new will move into 2A and start asking questions about me.
