Chapter Text
Your apartment. It was shitty, but it was your own. Paint peeled more than it should, the ceiling a bit leaky, and once or twice you might've seen a mouse scurry by,
But for rent this cheap...and in Chicago?...
You could pretend you didn't see the furry grey silhouettes out of your periphery, pretend you didn't hear your neighbors screaming through the thin, cracking drywall and you could convince yourself to drown out the wailing sirens of barely distant cop cars at night with your headphones. Well, because if you were honest, rent this cheap was all you could afford.
All those grievances seemed minor in comparison to the only thing really, truly that had been bugging you recently.
Your weirdo neighbor.
Andrew.
Andrew moved in extremely quickly and with barely any furniture or personal belongings, and if that wasn't suspicious enough you never even saw a moving van; he slipped in quietly with no friends, no moving team, nothing - nada! Just one day, there he was.
You couldn't help but let your mind wander to all the worst places. You worried that he was some drifter, or that he'd convert the small apartment into a drug den or traphouse. Great! Just what you needed to worry about. Druggies drifting in and out of your building. You read something once in a newspaper once about how a meth lab exploded in a residential neighborhood, destroying its own plot of land as well as two neighboring homes. Oh God, what would it do to apartments? The whole situation wasn't kosher, it just didn't sit right in your gut.
You've had suspicious neighbors before, this neighborhood was no American dream, picture perfect postcard, but that didn't numb you to the sheer strangeness of it all.
You'd only met this man once and it was while he rushing down the hall haphazardly. He slammed into you rather violently causing the laundry basket you were holding at the time to be sent flying onto the grimy hallway carpeting. Still can't find that favorite pair of socks, had to rewash a good few things too. You got his name in a hasty, half-hearted apology. He always looked a mess; his moth-bitten flannel was somehow always buttoned unevenly and his beard was unkempt and devouring his face like a dead-grass, overgrown lawn.
You had tried your best to stay away from him if you're being absolutely honest with yourself, but nevertheless you were always a lucky one, and of course it'd be you who'd be caught by him in the hall. Of course.
———
You stumbled up the creaky stairs, internally cursing yourself for ever agreeing to an apartment on the second floor. It's good exercise! It's a safer apartment, less likely to be broken into if its higher up! Almost as if some terrible karmic God has heard your thoughts the cheap, thin plastic bag from the nearby bodega snaps as you're over halfway up the stairs. A can of off-brand Spaghetti-O's to go bouncing down the stairs and out of your line of sight. You are suddenly very aware of the heft of the three bags you're holding, and your arms squeeze desperately to keep the broken bag from allowing any more produce to make their escape.
Fuck, damn it!
You let out a frustrated sigh, resigned to walk back down to pick it up with what's available of your arms reach. The thought of you attempting to balance the bags you have while clawing desperately at the stupid can with what's available of your tiny t-rex grasp already pisses you off, but you turn around to retrieve the run-away can anyway.
And suddenly there's a man.
You jump and let out a startled gasp, not expecting someone to be standing right behind you. It takes your brain a second to register his face and — Oh, It's your neighbor. Your weirdo neighbor, Andrew. He's holding out your rogue can that's now sporting a nice dent, the knock-off, googley-eyed mascot on the side of the can looks even more ugly now that label's torn and distorted it from the fall. You frown.
"You drop this?" He smiles kindly enough, but the smile doesn't reach his blood-shot and heavy-lidded gaze. Your drug den fear flares up just seeing the glassiness in his eyes. He glances at all your holding, "Need any help with all that?"
"Thanks and no." You give a curt smile as you swipe the can from his hand, already turning on your heel.
"Hey, um." You try to pretend to not hear him and keep making your way up the stairs, "You live on the same floor as me right?"
A chill crawls up your spine at the thought of some man you barely know monitoring what apartment you go into every night. You turn and scowl at him, "Why?" it comes out sounding more like a statement than a question. You dare him with your eyes to try something, those self-defense classes you took at the YMCA were itching to be put to good use.
He flinches at the bite in your voice, "I'm sorry, that came out wrong, I'm not trying to be weird or anything I just needed someone to do me a favor," You're already briskly walking away, "House sitting, just for the weekend." He follows quickly behind you. "You think you could watch the place? Are you busy? Real simple," You finally turn to face him, with full intent of telling him off, "and I'll pay you!"
You stop. The mention of money has your ears pricked up.
"How much?" You ask, not at all trying to hide the skepticism in your voice.
He gives you an eager, albeit a little suspicious smile. The anxiety is right behind his teeth and twitching corner of his lip. "A cool 250$ how does that sound?"
"I...I don't know" you lie. It's not that you are overly materialistic, or high-maintenance and need a lot of money, but to put it plainly...you're kinda broke. Your minimum wage job sure as hell doesn't pay you enough, and even with small side hustles you're barely cutting all your bills on a monthly basis.
"Ok 300$!" He nearly jumps at you, "300$ and you don't even have to go inside! Just watch the door for me." He seems more stressed now, his eyes widen a little. "I'll even pay you before hand."
Part of you still wants to say no, turn 180 and march right into your apartment but, these heavy groceries remind you to make your decision quickly lest your arms grow long and fall off. You know in the back of your mind that the rent is due soon and that amount of money would really help.
"Ok fine." You give him a serious glare, "but I will not be going in there no matter what."
His face floods with a look of relief, "Perfect, that's all I need!" he agrees.
Weirdo.
———
An uncomfortable thought comes to mind: what would you do anyway if anyone even tried to break in his place? Is the money enough to justify fighting off some robber or assailant? Was it worth it? You grimace and lean your head back against the door with a heavy thud. The hallway has dingy carpeting and you try not to think about it rubbing off on your pants or anything as you readjust to sit as comfortably as you can against the apartment door. Maybe you should've asked for more pay, a fee in case anyone tries to break into what you are now positive is a some sort of drug operation.
You can barely have a laugh at your stupid, anxious thought before you hear something rustling inside the locked apartment. Does Andrew have pets? You desperately search your memory but can't recall the slightest indication of a Fido hanging around. Your stomach knots as the noise continues, and as you listen, you realize doesn't sound much like the rustling of an animal at all — It sounds like a muffled voice.
The mere idea that your simple job going so wrong already makes your knees a little weak but you don't notice as you shoot to your feet and and shove your ear against the door.
Waiting a moment, all you can hear is your uneasy heartbeat and the couple in apartment 208 arguing distantly...but then very clearly a thud, a thumping...and yes, it is definitely a muffled voice. It sounds like someone who has had their mouth stuffed full of cotton. Oh God! It finally clicks. A gag?! Is someone tied up in there?!
You knew it! A cold sweat breaks out on the base of your neck and you shiver, your suspicions are confirmed, Andrew is way worse than just being a drug dealer, he's probably a serial killer! You're up before you can wrap your head around the situation you're pacing quick lines in front of the door.
What do you do? What do you do? You contemplate calling 911 but you know in your heart that at best the cops avoid this side of town, and at worst don't send anybody at all.
Oh god, oh god you have to help! Someone's in there you need to do something!
Your hands are shaky as you fumble to pull your wallet out, ripping an old plastic K-Mart gift-card out. You jam in in the crook of the door and work your magic; a trick you learned from your roommate during the first semester of college when you were both drunk and locked yourselves out of your dorm after some crowded party a friend of your friend's was having. You never would have considered yourself heroic, not in any sense of the word but you're something about knowing a human being is possibly tied up like a Christmas present in there makes you act in a way you never thought possible.
Fumbling with the doorknob for a few moments, after your sweaty hands stop slipping, you hear a telltale click and the door ominously creeks open, exposing the deep, black apartment to you.