Chapter 73
He killed himself right there in that apartment.
I listen to those words, and the world around me tilts as if I’ve become displaced in time and space. I reach out and grab the balcony railing to steady myself. My voice is croaky when I ask her, “What do you mean, he killed himself?”
“I came home from work one evening, and . . .” It sounds like Addison is weeping. She sniffs. “I’m sorry. You’d think I would be able to handle this better after so long, but—”
“You don’t need to apologize.” I feel dreadful for pushing her into this. Maybe I should have just let it be. Whatever was I thinking? “If it’s too much—”
“No. I’m fine.” It’s clear that Addison is anything but fine.
“Talking about it helps. At least, that’s what my therapist says.
” There’s a pause; then she seems to pull herself together.
“Anyway, I came home from work and found him lying face down in the foyer. At first, I thought that maybe he’d tripped and fell, that he’d hit his head or something .
. . But there was so much blood. It was all over the floor and on the walls.
Then I saw the gun lying next to him, and .
. . and . . . the back of his head. It was half gone. I could see—”
Again, she breaks down.
My stomach flips. I take a long, icy breath, focus my attention on the glittering Boston skyline beyond the balcony.
But in my mind’s eye, all I see is one thing.
A body sprawled in the foyer of this apartment—in our foyer.
And I can’t help wondering what drove Mark McGlocklin to take his own life.
Was he experiencing things in this building, just like I am?
I want to speak, but the words catch in my throat, which is fine, because I’m not sure what I’m even going to say. What is there to say?
Addison spares me the uncomfortable moment.
“I knew Mark was having problems, that he was struggling emotionally, but I never thought he would do something like that. I don’t even know where he got the gun.
We had never owned a gun. I don’t like them.
The police said there was no serial number on it, that he’d probably bought it on the black market specifically to . . . well . . .”
She trails off, which is probably for the best. Right now, I just want this call to be over.
I have the answer I was seeking. Catherine and the other residents of this building lied to prevent us from asking why the unit had been empty for so long, because then they would have been forced to tell us what happened here, and they were afraid we might not want to move in.
It also explains why the apartment was such a good value.
Who knows how long they’d been trying to offload this place before we came along?
I need to say something to fill the heavy silence between us, and only one thing comes to mind. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“I had no idea that anything like that had happened here. If I had known, I would never have contacted you. I feel positively awful for putting you through this.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Addison sounds more composed now—barely.
“Like I said, my therapist claims that it’s good to talk about it.
She says that I internalize too much. And I’m glad that you called, because honestly, by the time Mark did what he did, I already hated that place.
I loathed it. And even though I never experienced any of the things that Mark claimed to have seen and heard, I always felt there was something not quite right about the building.
Who knows, maybe it was just because of the way my husband changed after we moved in, but I felt like it had a dark energy.
Like it was capable of sucking the joy right out of the air.
When you asked if anything strange happened to me at the Glendale, I knew that I had to reply to your message.
I don’t want anyone else going through what Mark and I did. ”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, are you married?”
“No. Engaged,” I tell her, without elaborating on the dreadful events of the past few weeks. Addison McGlocklin has gone through enough without listening to my petty troubles.
“I see.” There’s a momentary silence, as if she’s deciding whether she should say anything else.
When she finally speaks, there’s a harsh note to her voice.
“A word of warning, Jordan. Be careful. I really do think there’s an evil presence inside that building.
A malignancy that’s soaked into the walls and floors like rot.
If you stay there, bad things will happen.
I know, because they happened to me and Mark.
The Glendale is not a happy place, and it will destroy everything you hold dear if you let it. ”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, caught off guard by her vitriol.
But I understand. And I’m not sure that I disagree with her, because the troubles between Sam and me only started after we moved in here.
My instinct is to end the conversation now, but I have one last question.
“Addison, have you ever heard of a woman named Jacqueline Burke? She went by Jackie?”
“I can’t say that I have. Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.” Telling Addison what happened to her predecessor in this apartment—that she vanished, and no one knows where she is to this day—feels unnecessary under the circumstances.
Like twisting the knife. I thank her for her time, tell her again how sorry I am about her husband, and end the call.
Then I linger on the balcony for a few minutes more, shivering against the biting wind as I run through the conversation in my mind, because going back inside fills me with dread.
But I can’t avoid it forever, and when I do step back into the apartment, I go straight to the foyer and pull back the rug.
Then I stand and stare at the dark, uneven stain beneath—the one we discovered on the day we moved in, the one that Sam thought might be varnish—because now I know what it really is, and how it got there.