Phantasm

Sherry Steele didn’t have many friends, nor did she want many. Tonight, she will regret that decision.

The day started with  the tapping of a leaky faucet in her kitchen at 10 a.m. She lived in a “humble” 500 square feet apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan, near the Bronx. It was a near ancient building in New York terms; so when she was rushing out the door and noticed the leak, she wasn’t surprised, just disappointed. She was going to be early to work for the first time in ages, and now she had to notify them that she would be late. She couldn’t afford a leak all day. She was skimming her bills as it was. She knew that work wouldn’t accept a leaky faucet as a valid excuse; but her boss, a dog lover, might let her go with “my new puppy threw up this morning.” She would be right, so she grabbed her tools and started working. 

Maxwell was laying next to her, silently wishing she would stay after fixing the faucet. But alas with the last tighten of her wrench, and a lightning quick check of it, she flew out the door. She was going to be 15 minutes late. Rushing down the eight flights of stairs that climbed to her apartment, she felt a cold hand slightly caress her shoulder as she neared the final step. Sherry flipped around, hoping to catch the culprit, but was only welcomed with empty air. She stood dead cold for a second, before feeling a slight chill, one that would make her jump and run. As she sat on the subway she could still feel the icy hand linger ever so delicately on her shoulder. 

As she exited the subway, she attempted to reason with herself — maybe she felt a cold breeze graze her shoulder — or maybe she had gotten a strange tingle in her shoulder. But these ideas fell like water, because nothing could recreate five fingers and the way their grasp felt. If the hand wasn’t so cold, she would’ve been sure it was a person. She walked in her building, decided to shove the thought in the back of her brain— she had a massive workload today— and being 23 minutes late meant she had a late night coming. 

Around 2pm she grabbed her lunch from the breakroom, a sandwich she had picked up from the shops last week, she brought it to her desk. She didn’t have any friends at the office. It was a cheap sandwich, and it tasted awful— money had been a lot tighter recently. She broke up with her boyfriend Adam last week. They had lived together, which made expenses significantly cheaper. She didn’t miss him as much as she missed having the extra cash. Sherry hated thinking of him, so she decided to call up some friends to see if they weren't busy tonight. If you would’ve asked her why she wanted someone over tonight, she’d blame feelings about her ex, but it was the hand that got to her. 

She began with Sue. Sue Devons, was a rich girl she became close friends with after they roomed together at NYU. After pleasantries were passed, Sherry discovered that Sue was flying out to the Maldives tonight, but she told Sherry to “call her if she really needs anything at all!” But Sherry knew she meant to say don’t bother her at all while she's gone. Stupid rich bitch. She then tried Maria. Maria Sanchez, she wasn’t as rich as Sue but was well off. Her issue was being a bit of a serial romantic; so it came to no surprise to Sherry that she would be on her third date of the week. She swore up and down the entire call that she was sure he would be the one. Diane, her last chance, and her least favorite of her friends, was already in the Maldives awaiting Sue.

She cursed after hanging up with Diane, quiet enough that no one in the office heard, but loud enough to feel like she let a weight off. She would’ve had more friends to see when she was with Adam, but the break-up took them too. Now she was stuck with her rich NYU friends, who she pretended for far too long to be in leagues with. She called off her lunch, tossing half of the sandwich in her trash. She was still behind, and thought she might be able to swing a normal leave time if she cut her lunch in half. 

Work began to pass quickly, the hand becoming a distant memory to her now. As 6pm rolled around and everyone began collecting their things, she stayed just a little longer. A presentation that she had due next week was at the forefront of her brain, not the puppy that would certainly make her pay for being home late. As she left work and entered the subway, the hand had now vanished from her mind. She had a more pressing matter, was her puppy smart enough to use the pad or hold it? Even as she met the same staircase, she thought nothing of it, flying up the eight flights of stairs hoping she could make it in time. 

As she hastily unlocked the front door to her unit, she heard the whimper of a near bursting puppy waiting for her patiently at the door. Maxwell was smart enough to hold it. She picked him and the leash up— she figured she could get the leash on by the time they finished descending the stairwell. After Maxwell had finished “exploring” the urban jungle, they slowly stepped to their building's doors, dreaming of a frozen dinner, wine, and the recent episode of “Love is Blind”. Yet as she scanned her card and stepped inside, instead of the usual gust of warm air, she felt as if the arctic had blasted her straight. She tried to move on, figuring the heater down there must have busted, she felt a tug on the leash. Maxwell was staring down the stairwell, growling— something he had yet to do with her. She scooped him up attempting to calm him down, but his gaze never left the edge of the stairs. The hand this morning all came back to her like a flood, and a lot less explainable. 

The room steadily got colder, and more stuffy— how she imagined it was like to have the car run in a closed garage— suffocating. She would only allow the feeling for a second longer before she flew with her puppy in tow up the stairs. Like a child turning off the last light in the basement, she was sure someone or something was chasing behind her. As she entered her apartment, nearly throwing Maxwell inside, and slamming the door behind her, she took a second to sigh of relief. Whatever had chased her up the stairs couldn’t have gotten inside her apartment. She could only cling to the thought for a moment before the faucet started dripping again. It was just a drip so she was going to sit and catch her breath for just a little longer. Yet as the seconds passed it didn’t sound as calm as a drip, it started getting louder and louder, like someone every so slowly cranking the pressure higher and higher. By the time she was able to shoot back up and see the faucet in full, the handle had been pulled at its maximum. She rushed over in an attempt to pull it closed, but the damn knob wouldn’t budge. The water was hot, extremely hot, almost boiling. The steam from the water was invading her sight, blinding her as she tried desperately to figure out what had broken again. Yet she hadn’t the faintest idea what could cause the faucet to turn on its own. Her dad was a plumber, and in the years she had with him, they never discussed anything like this. Even worse, she used to joke that her building's water was at maximum, lukewarm; however, this felt nearly volcanic. 

As seconds passed, she felt her arms get that all too familiar prickly sting, sweat dripping like a waterfall, Maxwell started screaming, and the room began to fog. Even through all this chaos, she could only think of the stairwell. It was almost calming compared to the heat compiling around her, to think of that cool icy touch that had grasped her shoulder. If she thought about it hard enough she could almost feel it again. Not just almost, she could, she could feel the hand. The harder she concentrated she could feel each finger curl over her shoulder, slowly tighten, and then she felt a second hand. She hadn't felt two on the staircase. This scared her, but the ice of the fingers was the only thing keeping her going. So she shoved harder and thought even more so. It wasn’t until a breath grazed her neck that she finally screamed. Then Black. 

All her lights had shut off. A hidden blessing of her night as she felt the knob slightly loosen, so she shoved with all her strength, the last she could muster. It finally closed. Sherry fell to her knees, gasping for any air she could find in the mist that had consumed her apartment. Her heart was beating like a drum, fast and steady. Once her lungs had finally caught a breath of fresh air, she burst into laughter. Maxwell, who had been quite shaken from the last thirty minutes stared at her in confusion; he had never seen her make such a loud noise. What a day it had been for her, easily her worst since the break-up. She felt the weight of the stress she had been under, and had to release— even now in the dark, her biggest fear— all she could do was laugh. It was either that or cry. And Sherry may have hated crying a little more than the dark. She laughed until her lungs were about to burst, finally catching her breath. Maxwell’s deep concern had turned to appeasement, licking her the entire time to calm her down. She then heard an all too familiar noise. Her stomach growled. 

Damn, she realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch, the one she didn’t even finish, and now it was 8pm. She reasoned with herself, she decided she would light candles around the apartment, grab one of the salads she kept stocked in the fridge in case of the far too frequent blackouts. Another thing she despised was going hungry, it reminded her of being a teen again, something she wanted to be far away from. Those were cold hungry years. She’d rather go blind and face eternal darkness. She grabbed her phone from her back pocket, turned on the flashlight, and navigated her studio. As she reorientated herself, she found her linen closet, pulling out the bottom box, filled with candles. Most of them were halfway or less, but they could provide enough light for tonight—hopefully the lights would be fixed tomorrow. She started placing the candles in the kitchen, working in a very deliberate motion, making sure each candle provided the perfect amount of light in each space. As she finished placing the candles on her deep oak coffee table, she thought to check out the window. She was curious if it was a blackout for her entire block or just her building. It would also help to give her a sense of solidarity— a sense that it wasn't just her in the darkness— but as she peered out on the bustling city street, she noticed something quite strange. As the realization set in, she felt a cold chill dance on her spine. Nobody else's lights were off. In fact, most were on. 

She could not comprehend how the blackout could’ve been so centralized to her apartment. If she had only one bulb, she could file it under one going out; but she had six lights in her apartment, this just didn’t make sense. Her hunger had vanished, and in its place stood a pit of fear. There were far too many coincidences tonight. Her mental file cabinet might as well have been on fire.  In the midst of the chaos, her thoughts turned to Adam. Just a few months ago, he would have entered from the other side of the building. Now... her rich posh friends got to travel to the Maldives, enjoying the sun and cocktails. Yet here she was working her fucking ass off, barely skirting by her bills, and stuck in this haunted hell hole of a flat. She heard a whimper from below, Maxwell sensing something was off, gave her his signatured cocked head. She bent down to pet him, and maybe rationalize her fear, but it had already become rage. At least rage was swallowable. Then she heard a knock on the door.

She jumped, on edge from the rest of the night. Maxwell let out a faint bark, but the mini warrior had lost his fearlessness from the night. She stared at the door, which didn't have a peephole, so her choices were quite clear: Answer or ignore. The latter was her preferred option, yet the knocking just wouldn't stop, it wasn’t loud per say, just persistent. She finally gave in making strides towards the door, she swung it open. She normally would crack the door, but her rage — built further from the knocking—, evaporated her fear of whoever could be on the other side.

“What the fuck do you… Adam? Why the hell are you here?”

“Oh, hey Sherry, sorry I got this bad feeling when you didn’t answer the door right away…” The ‘away’ trailed in a way that made Sherry very uncomfortable. He wasn’t being fully honest, and Adam was only not honest when he had done something bad. Extremely bad. 

“Well unfortunately Adam, that still doesn’t answer why the hell you’re here. What do you want?” Her gaze locked onto his eyes, she hoped it would work as well as when they were together.

“I, um, I-” he paused, thinking, and restarted as if he chose to say something else, “I wanted to see if you could lend me any ca-”

Sherry slammed the door before he could finish. She couldn’t believe that she gave him the time of day anyway, this was Adam at his best, a user. What made it worse was that she was almost excited to see him. If any night, this would’ve been the night she would have forgiven him. Irrational, something odd for her, but love was love. Her mood had gone from bottom of the barrel to that of a bottomless pit. She wanted— no rather— needed sleep. She started grabbing her things to head to the bathroom out in the hall. She had a small bath basket she kept by the door, so she swung that over her shoulder and left with her key. She made it halfway down the hall before she saw the “Out of Order” tape wrapping the door. Fuck. She couldn't even wash off this bullshit of a day. She headed back to her room, and in a desperate attempt to salvage any part of this night, reasoned with herself. She will call maintenance tomorrow, for the lights and bath, and by the grace of god they may be done when she gets home. For now she would use mouthwash and just spit it out in the sink; and since her water was busted, there was no brushing. She then would finally get to sleep, and start the day anew. If only things worked like they did in Sherry’s mind.

She was awoken at three in the morning on the dot. It wasn't a light lift from a slumber, but rather a violent shaking of the walls. It sounded as if a hurricane was going through the room singularly. Sherry stared in disbelief from her half-sleepy eyes as she saw her walls physically move— it looked as if they were expanding and deflating like lungs. Heart pounding, she went to clutch Maxwell but he could not be found next to her. Instead he was clawing at her fire escape window, screaming at the top of his poor tired puppy lungs. She was frozen for a moment, too scared to leave the safety of the bed, clinging to the childhood hope that it had some protective powers. Maxwell started screaming louder, and louder until Sherry’s body couldn’t stand the dog's distress. She went to the window, desperately attempting to pry it open but just as the faucet, it wouldn’t budge. All over again, she felt that steam like a phantom linger, she started burning from inside and out— sweat dripping in an act of desperation. 

Then click. All her lights were back on again, and the window unlatched, setting free Maxwell, who leapt into Sherry’s strained arms. He licked her face for a moment before returning his attention towards the window to the fire escape. Sherry stared, exhausted and emotionally strained, at the window. Sherry was sick of it. She was tired of being scared. She was going out to the fire escape, and putting whatever this was to rest. To Maxwell’s dismay, she opened the window and crawled through. She didn't see anyone or anything on the fire escape, even looking above revealed nothing. Sherry walked towards the railing, to see if something was down below. Maybe she could catch whoever or whatever that could’ve been tonight. Yet as she peered down the ledge she felt something all too familiar. The hands gripped her, she felt the breath of air, and the wind as she was flung off her fire escape. And as she hurdled to the ground, only one thing crossed Sherry’s mind. The hands were warm.