The Man In Number 7 Read online

  “What?” Petra asked standing in the kitchen doorway. “Iced tea?”

  “No, it is nothing. Nothing at all,” Apolline glanced to the stairs waiting for her daughter. “I have the next two days off, so I will not need to bring her back until Thursday. Can you watch her then?”

  “Yes, of course. She is such a little joy to have in the house.”

  A light stomping came from the stairs as Elizabeth jumped on every step until she got to the bottom. She ran and leapt into her mother’s arms. “Mama,” her large brown eyes sparkled.

  Petra’s phone in the kitchen rang and she headed in to answer it. Apolline wrapped her arms tight around her daughter twirling to make the girl giggle, then sat down. The one thing she was sure of, was that Elizabeth was the glue that held her life together.

  “Are you ready to go home, cher?”

  “Yes, Mama. Can I play with Vicki?”

  “We shall see if she is home. Come,” Apolline stood up letting Elizabeth slide off her lap and to her own feet. She waved good-bye to Petra, and held her daughter’s hand as they left and headed down the alley back home.

  As they rounded the corner of the apartment house, Apolline stretched her neck looking in all directions for any sign of her husband. Branches on a large oak tree across the street bounced from a squirrel jumping from limb to limb. She slipped her other hand in her pocket and clutched the knife handle. Every shadow, every leaf that fluttered made her heart skip a beat.

  Panic thundered in her chest.

  All Apolline could think of was holding the tears back so her daughter wouldn’t see her weakness. There was a flood behind her eyes pushing to come out.

  They entered the front door to the apartment and knocked on apartment number 3. A pregnant Bernadette opened the door. “Yes?” she slid the bottle of beer in her hand behind her.

  “Can Vicki come out and play?” Elizabeth asked with hopeful eyes.

  “Um,” Bernadette turned to look at her daughter playing with colorful troll dolls in the middle of the living room floor. “Why don’t you come in and play here?” she looked into Apolline’s eyes. “I…uh…just would rather her not be on the stairs. At all. If that’s okay?”

  Elizabeth tugged on her mother’s arm. “Can I Mama? Can I play here with Vicki?”

  “Okay, but you have to stay in here. Please do not leave the apartment,” Apolline said as Vicki jumped up and ran to the door with a handful of troll dolls. Every doll had a different color of hair. “I will come back in one hour to get her,” she let go of her daughter’s hand.

  “They’ll be fine,” Bernadette sighed and closed the door.

  The hallway was empty. An echo of her breathing seemed to rise up the open stairwell. Apolline trudged up the stairs and sat down before reaching the top landing. Emotions rushed out of her in uncontrollable sobs. She was scared and alone. She missed her family, her home in Louisiana, and most of all her sanity. She felt unhinged and cried more. Apolline’s world was crashing in around her. She murdered her husband. How could she do that?

  She cried.

  Who was in the shadows? She felt Jules’ presence, she couldn’t explain it, but he was here.

  She cried more. She had to protect her daughter, but how could she? She couldn’t even protect herself. She dropped her head on the top step and cried. She didn’t have any more strength. Her world had fallen into tiny jagged pieces and so had she.

  Nothing made sense anymore. Apolline had fallen in a deep dark abyss lined with the blood of her husband. There were no doors to open, no stairs to climb. There was no way out. It was hopeless. In this moment, Apolline was hopeless.

  And she cried.

  “Madame, please let me help you up,” an older man held out a hand to her. “This is no place to cry,” he said with a foreign accent.

  “What?” Apolline could barely see through the tears. She wiped her eyes and took his hand. “I am sorry, I did not mean to…” her voice trailed off, she sniffled.

  “Come, I can fix you a drink to calm your nerves,” he held her hand and led her to apartment number 4.

  “I should not, I need to…” Apolline couldn’t seem to complete her thoughts, she was so rattled and afraid. “My husband…” She cried.

  “Come,” he held the door to his small apartment open. “I have tea, or if you prefer, Scotch,” he smiled. He scooped up the paint brushes and spatulas off of a folding wooden chair, wiped it off and pointed for her to sit down.

  “Scotch,” Apolline sniffled as she wiped the tears that ran over her cheeks.

  The apartment was a studio with a twin bed near the front window and smelled of a man living alone. Easels, canvases, and tables covered in paint occupied all the open space. The tall man bent with age, ambled with a distinct limp on his right side. His arthritic hands poured two glasses of Scotch, and he handed one to her. He sat down on a chair across from her.

  “My name is Pierre Lamoureux,” he smiled and sipped his Scotch.

  “You are French?” Apolline asked between gasps of air after heavy sobbing.

  “Oui,” Pierre tilted his glass to her as if giving a toast. “My wife and I lived just outside of Paris. And you?” he raised an eyebrow.

  “My name is Apolline Rose Dubois. But my maiden name is Cavaille. My family is Cajun from Louisiana. I miss hearing the language,” her voice was frail as her words intermingled with continued gasps to catch her breath. She swallowed the Scotch. “How did you get here from Paris? Where is your wife?” she glanced around the room. The walls were covered with paintings of European cities lined with cobblestone streets, castles, and peaceful country sides. Most of the canvas paintings hung with no frames, covering every available inch of the wall space.

  “My wife is dead,” Pierre’s eyes fell to the floor and his fingers trembled ever so slightly. His voice was wistful with memories.

  “I am sorry, I do not mean to pry.” Apolline closed her eyes momentarily as more tears fell.

  “No, it is fine. We hid a Jewish family in our basement during the German occupation of the war. When the German officers found out…my wife did not survive the struggle. I came here to forget, and yet I see her in every canvas I paint,” Pierre glanced fondly at the many paintings around the room.

  “The paintings are beautiful,” Apolline tried to force a smile.

  “But they do not let me forget. They are all how she saw the world. Colorful, radiant, and alive. They are all her,” Pierre finished his Scotch and looked at Apolline. “What brings you from Louisiana to here?”

  “My parents died when I was in school. I married young and my husband wanted to work in California. He said we could have our own restaurant there. We made it as far as Nevada, taking small jobs along the way,” her voice trailed off again and the tears resumed. She shook her head and wiped her face.

  “It is fine, we all have our ghosts that haunt us,” Pierre took the empty glass out of her hand and handed her a handkerchief.

  “So you are haunted too?” Apolline wiped her nose and eyes.

  “Mademoiselle, I think we are all haunted by one thing or another.”

  “Yes, well I better go check on my daughter,” Apolline stood up and smiled at the Frenchman with sad eyes. She stepped out into the hall and glanced first at the door to apartment number 7. It was closed. She sighed with relief. The Scotch helped. The tears finally stopped. She tiptoed down the hallway to her door. As she pulled her key out to unlock her door a creaking sound echoed in the empty space behind her. She turned slowly. “No,” she whispered. “Please stop. This has to stop.”

  The door to apartment number 7 was standing open.

  Again.

  Chapter 16

  Boise, Idaho

  Leaving Paris and his failures behind did not give Pierre the peace he’d wished for. His persistent dreams did not let him forget. They tortured him with heart-piercing images. His lovely bride Annie, limp in his arms, stained with blood caused by the German rifles. His tears spilling onto her
lifeless face.

  Rising up out of the dream, Pierre sat on the side of his bed and hung his head in his palms. A street light painted a pale-yellow line across his apartment, much like the streak of cowardice that shot through his spirit. If he had not been scared, could he have saved Annie? Would she still be alive today? Those questions and the guilt haunted his every breath.

  He rose and staggered through the maze of paintings stacked against the wall, blank canvases on easels, and stools covered with paints and brushes. He found the bottle of Scotch, returned to the twin bed and lit a cigarette. Pierre tilted his head back allowing the liquor to pour down his throat.

  Closing his eyes only produced the image of Annie in sharper focus. Pierre peered across the makeshift artist’s studio and drank. He drank himself into oblivion in an endless cycle. Pierre dropped the bottle that was as empty as his soul. He edged his way to the door and opened it, peeping out into the desolate hallway. His sight wandered to the far end. Apartment 6. The young and beautiful Apolline. She reminded him so much of Annie.

  A heavy thud from across the hallway startled Pierre. Another thud made the door of apartment 7 shudder. Pierre, clad in merely his trousers, stepped barefoot across the hallway. He gently rapped on the door to apartment 7. “Is someone in there? Is everything fine?” He waited.

  The silence haunted the vacant corridor. Pierre reached out and turned the doorknob, but it was locked. He knocked on the door again. “Do you need help?”

  No answer. Not a sound. Pierre gulped and backed away from the door, then spun and crossed the hallway to his own residence. He’d lived here for over ten years, and even though no one had ever resided in number 7, it was not empty. It had rented once a few years ago and people moved their things in, but within a day or two they moved right back out. He always wondered what it was about number 7. No one would ever say.

  Stopping in his doorway before going back to bed, Pierre looked back across the corridor. It wasn’t the first time he’d overheard a disturbance in the vacant space. Thumping, stomping, weeping, even screams emanated from the mysterious room over the years.

  Locking his door, Pierre stepped gingerly across his hardwood floor. He slouched down on the bed and stared across the room. He resisted the sleep that wanted to come, the slumber that only brought dreams of Annie. He gulped as a thought entered his mind. Danger clung to the dead silence of the night.

  In the morning light, Pierre sat in front of one easel and painted a sidewalk café in the center of Paris, streets glistening with a recent rainfall. Umbrellas shielded the people underneath them. Colors blended together, edges undefined.

  “Annie,” Pierre murmured, his voice was tinged with a sigh. “These are not my landscapes. They are yours,” he angled the bottle back for another drink. He painted everything she treasured. Eighteen years after her demise, Pierre still painted for his wife. And drank for himself.

  Stumbling into his kitchenette, Pierre made himself a slice of toast and opened a can of sardines. It was time to eat. A large pounding on the door jarred him and he dropped the sardines. Cussing under his breath, he traipsed over and opened the door. But no one was there.

  Peering across the hallway, his stare locked on the door to apartment 7, which stood wide open, inviting, chilling. The hallway was quiet, no one else in sight. How? Who? Pierre’s heart raced and his breathing quickened. He had witnessed many things over the years, but never this. He forced a foot forward, then the other and made his way across the hall. The apartment was bare. The radiator below the living room window sputtered and groaned. The air was frosty, Pierre could see his breath, which made the skin on the back of his neck prickle. He peered closer at the window. A man’s face was faint inside the glass. Not Pierre’s reflection, but someone else. Someone much younger. The face was replaced with blood. Splattered. Dripping. Pierre gasped and stumbled backwards into the hallway.

  Apolline’s door opened, and she tiptoed out with a bath towel and toiletry bag in hand. She smiled for a moment. The door to apartment 7 slammed shut in Pierre’s face. He felt dizzy.

  “Is everything okay?” Apolline questioned, taking a step towards Pierre.

  “Oui, Madam,” he rubbed his hand over his brow and continued to speak in a flurry of French. He paused when Apolline stared at him curiously. She was a natural beauty, but with an edge of darkness from whatever haunted her.

  “I am sorry, Pierre, but your pure French is so distant from our Cajun. I barely recognize a word, only one here and there. Do you need help?”

  “Pardonnez-moi,” Pierre stumbled back into his apartment and closed the door. He snatched up the bottle of Scotch and wandered over to the window that overlooked the front of the building. Apolline was not Annie. This was only a cruel reminder of his meaningless life. So alone. He gulped and glanced at the sidewalk outside.

  A man resting at the edge of the fence caught Pierre’s attention. The stranger looked homeless, disheveled, leaning against the chain link smoking a cigarette. The stranger glanced up and saw Pierre, and an evil sneer widened his face.

  Falling onto his bed, Pierre kicked an easel over causing the painting on it to fly across the room and knock over other pieces and paints. He leaned forward and sobbed into his palms. Madness. It was the only explanation. He was going mad. He was hearing things and seeing things that were not there. Was the fellow outside even real? Or more of the lunacy that haunted Pierre?

  Chapter 17

  Boise, Idaho

  July fourth rolled in on a bright sunny morning. Apolline rubbed her eyes and glanced out the windows at the crystal blue sky. Elizabeth was still curled up fast asleep by her side. Independence Day, she thought, it was what she wanted more than anything. To be free of the past, her sins, the blood that seeped into her dreams, and the fear that followed her. If she was ever going to be free, the time was now. She glanced out the window at the fat ginger tabby that weaved in and out of the bushes by the back fence. On a clear day you don’t think about storms, but Apolline knew that no matter how blue the sky was, a storm was coming. A very dark and raging storm.

  Her husband was out there. She knew it. Whether he was alive or a ghost, it didn’t really matter; he was coming for her.

  Noise rose from the hallway. Voices, movement. Apolline sat up and slipped on the robe that was on the foot of her bed. Pulling the belt around and tying it, she opened her door and stepped over to the bathroom. A redheaded young lady carried a box into apartment 5.

  “Sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you,” the perky redhead smiled.

  “No, you are fine. Moving into Carlos’ apartment?” Apolline stood in the doorway to the bathroom.

  “I guess, I mean, I don’t know who lived here before. I’m a student at Boise Junior College. Not much of a dorm kind of person, if you know what I mean,” she set the box down inside the small apartment and headed back out into the hall.

  After brushing her teeth and washing her face, Apolline emerged from the bathroom to find the redhead still lugging boxes in. “Do you need help? I could get dressed and help you?”

  “Thanks, but this is the last one,” the redhead set the box inside her door and walked up to Apolline. “My name’s Steph.”

  “I am Apolline, I work at Murray’s down on 8th Street. I live here with my daughter, Elizabeth,” Apolline pointed to the door behind her.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not loud or anything. Not a party girl,” Steph’s freckled face scrunched up.

  “What kind of girl are you then?” Apolline asked, amused.

  “Ha! Good one. I like that, a sense of humor. Well,” Steph rolled her eyes around for a moment as if reading something on the ceiling. “I guess I’m a loner. I don’t run with a crowd or hang out with any group. I read a lot, I mean a lot! I want to be a writer, and my dad always said if you want to be a good writer, you have to read everything out there. So, half of those boxes are books. Most people have credit cards, I have a library card.”

  “A writer? How fascinati
ng, I like to read. Maybe I will borrow a book sometime,” Apolline opened the door to her apartment.

  “Sure, I’ll leave books by your door after I’m done reading them. Some of the better ones I keep, but I can’t keep them all. They take up too much space,” Steph chuckled.

  Warren came up the stairs and meandered over to the two tenants. “My wife found a second key for your apartment and wanted to make sure you had it.” He held the silver key out to Stephanie.

  “Thank you.”

  “She says you want to be a writer?” Warren smiled with interest.

  “Oh yes, that’s the goal,” Stephanie stashed the key in her jeans pocket.

  “Sad isn’t it?” Warren shook his head. “About that writer up in Ketchum, Hemingway.”

  “What’s sad?” Stephanie tilted her head with a questioning look.

  “They found him at home, dead. He committed suicide, they said.”

  Stephanie’s eyes welled up as if she’d just lost a close friend. She glanced over at Apolline and retreated into her apartment. Apolline gave Warren a friendly nod and backed into her apartment as well.

  Later, after a bowl of Cheerios, Apolline and Elizabeth got dressed. “I just met our new neighbor. She moved in next door where Carlos used to live.”

  “I like Carlos, he was nice,” Elizabeth tugged a brush through her thick unruly hair.

  “Me too, cher. I do not know where he went.”

  “Choo choo,” Elizabeth mimicked a train making chugging noises as she circled her mother.

  “There will be fireworks tonight,” Apolline told her daughter. “Maybe we can sit out on the porch at dusk and watch them.”

  “Can I play jacks now?”