My husband died five years ago. Every single month, I sent $200 to my in-laws to pay off a debt. One day, my neighbor from the floor below told me, «Stop sending them money and look at the security camera.»
The next day, I reviewed the footage. The scene that unfolded before me left me frozen. The smell of peeling plaster, mixed with the odor of drains that hadn’t been cleaned in years, seemed to hit me the moment I turned off the engine of my old car at the foot of the building.
This old brick tenement had survived in the heart of Chicago for more than 70 years. It was just as worn out and decrepit as the people slowly wasting away inside it. I locked my burgundy sedan near the corner, right where a patch of red paint marked the spot it had occupied for the last five years.
Today was the fifth of the month. It was the day when I, Keisha, a 32-year-old widow, had to fulfill the obligation of paying my late husband’s debt. Five floors. No elevator. I adjusted my purse.
My hand unconsciously brushed against the bulging envelope in the inside pocket. $200 was an insignificant amount for the rich, but it was a sixth of my meager salary. It was money for Malik’s milk, for his tutoring, and for his basketball league fees.
Five years ago, so that Marcus could go work in the oil fields of North Dakota, his parents withdrew all their retirement savings. It was a total of $12,000, and they gave it to him. The day Marcus died, his mother pointed a finger at me.
She accused me, saying that because of me, her son had to leave home only to end up losing his life. She claimed he left them, two elderly people, empty-handed. She forced me to assume the responsibility of paying back that amount, divided into $200 a month for five years.
I gritted my teeth and accepted. I considered it the last gesture of love toward my husband and a way to have peace to raise my son. The stairwell was a dark, deep well, barely lit by weak rays of sun filtering through the dirty glass of the airshaft.
The echo of my footsteps rang out on the worn tiles. Clack, clack, clack. Every step was a dead weight. On the first floor, the superintendent always had the radio blasting.
On the second, the smell of burnt red beans escaped from a communal kitchen. On the third, a young couple was arguing loudly about the rising electric bill. When I reached the fourth, the silence became almost total. The fifth, where my in-laws lived, was a world apart, possessing a creepy stillness.
I stopped on the landing of the fifth floor, wiping the sweat from my temples. My chest felt tight, and my heart was pounding hard. It wasn’t just from the effort, but from the vague sense of unease that always invaded me in front of that iron door painted a peeling blue.
Apartment 504, Marcus’s parents’ house. I knocked three times with sharp, clear raps. Knock, knock, knock. Silence.
I knew they were home. They never went anywhere. Elijah, my father-in-law, suffered from arthritis. Viola, my mother-in-law, always complained of headaches and dizziness.
Both lived like shadows in that 600-square-foot apartment, with the blinds drawn and the door bolted tight day and night. I knocked again, louder this time.
«Pop, Mom, it’s Keisha.»
Almost a minute passed until I heard the shuffling of slippers inside. The sound of the deadbolt sliding back was dry, like the cracking of an old man’s bones. The door opened just a crack, barely enough for a wrinkled and grumpy face to peek out.
It was Viola. She was a little over 60 but looked much older. Her eyes, sunken and surrounded by dark circles, always looked around with suspicion, as if she feared someone would steal her soul.
She didn’t open the door all the way. She kept the security chain on, creating a cold barrier between her world and mine.
«Is that you?» Her voice was hoarse, lacking emotion.
«Yes. Hi, Mom. I’m here to bring this month’s money.»
I tried to keep a smile, though I felt my face muscles stiffen.
«Ah, give it here,» she said curtly.
I opened my purse hurriedly and took out the envelope I already had prepared. I offered it with two hands through the narrow opening.
«Here is this month’s $200 so you can buy your medicine.»
Viola reached out a bony hand crossed with blue veins and snatched the envelope with the speed of a bird of prey. Without counting it or looking at it, she stuffed it directly into the pocket of her housecoat. The gesture was so automatic and decided that I felt like a stranger in debt, not her daughter-in-law.
«Is Malik okay?» she asked without looking me in the eye. She shifted her gaze toward the stairs behind me as if watching to see if someone was coming up.
«Yes, he’s doing great. He doesn’t stop asking about his grandparents. This weekend if you want, I can bring him over to spend the day with you.»
I continued, «I’ve almost finished paying the debt. I’d like you to be more comfortable with him.»
Upon hearing that, Viola’s face soured, and she waved her hand nervously.
«No, no, your father is doing bad with his leg and I have a headache. A child in the house is too much ruckus. We aren’t up for noise.»
She added, «Finishing the payments is your business. We’ll call you when we’re feeling better so you can bring him.»
It was the same excuse as always. In five years, the times little Malik had stepped into that house could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Every time, they kicked us out after fifteen minutes with some pretext.
«Okay, well, maybe another time.» I lowered my head, swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat.
«Go on, leave now. Standing in the draft, you’re going to catch a cold and then it’s worse.»
Saying this, Viola slammed the door shut. The deadbolt sounded with a definitive click. I stood there planted, looking at the cold and impersonal iron door.
There was not an invitation to come in, not even a glass of water. I pressed my ear to the door, hoping to hear my father-in-law’s voice or at least the sound of the television. I waited for any normal noise of an inhabited house, but no.
Inside reigned absolute silence. It was a terrifying silence, as if that house were a giant tomb devouring any sound of life. The wind sneaked through the stairwell, chilling my back.
I shivered and pulled up the collar of my jacket, turning around to go down. My heart felt heavy.
Marcus, you left and stuck me with this debt. I’ve almost finished paying it. Why are your parents still so cold to your son and me?
The question floated in my mind, getting lost in the void of the dark staircase. I didn’t know that in the precise instant I turned around, a pair of eyes was watching me through the cracked blind. It was a look that wasn’t that of an old man, but one sharp and calculating.
I went down to the courtyard, feeling like I was escaping an airless basement. The afternoon sun, a pale yellow, filtered through the branches of the trees, drawing spots of light on the concrete ground. The atmosphere of the courtyard contrasted with the stillness of the fifth floor.
Some kids were playing basketball, shouting at the top of their lungs. Several women sitting on benches were snapping beans and gossiping animatedly. I was heading toward my car, ready to start it to go pick up my son, when a wrinkled but firm hand grabbed my wrist.
«Keisha, is that you, baby?»
I turned, startled. It was Miss Hattie. She had been the president of the Tenant Association back in the day. Although she was retired, she kept that air of authority and the taste for knowing everything.
She was sitting on a stone bench, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard, and looking at me intently with narrowed eyes.
«Yes, hi Miss Hattie, enjoying the breeze?» I greeted her politely.
Miss Hattie didn’t answer my trivial question. She made me sit beside her and looked around as if she feared someone would hear her. Then she leaned close to my ear and whispered with an air of mystery.
«Did you go up to pay the debt to those two again?»
It surprised me she knew about such a private family matter, but I nodded. «Yes, today was payment day.»
Miss Hattie clicked her tongue and shook her head with an expression of compassion mixed with certain fear. She lowered her voice even more.
«Poor thing, working like a mule to support people who don’t deserve it. Listen to me good. Next month, don’t give them a single cent.»
I frowned, not understanding her. Miss Hattie was known for being a gossip, but she wasn’t a bad person who would incite children to be cruel or not pay their debts.
«Why do you say that? I only have a couple of months left. It’s for the $12,000 Marcus borrowed to go to North Dakota. I have to fulfill my obligation.»
Her hands squeezed my arm tightly. Her eyes opened wide, staring at me, and her voice, though trembling, pronounced every syllable with hardness.
«They say around here that the dead sometimes ain’t that dead.»
A chill ran down my spine. I got goosebumps. Miss Hattie’s words were like a blast of freezing air from the beyond in broad daylight.
«What are you saying? My husband died five years ago. We have the death certificate. We even brought his ashes back.»
She interrupted me with a wave of her hand. «I ain’t talking about ghosts. I’m talking about flesh and blood people. Haven’t you noticed?»
She continued, «That house is quieter than a church during the day, but around one or two in the morning, you hear noises. One night I couldn’t sleep. I went out on my balcony to smoke a cigarette and saw the shadow of a man going up to the fifth floor.»
She paused for effect. «The way he walked looked real familiar to me. Real familiar.»
My heart started to beat hard.
«Yes, that way of limping with the shoulder dropped a little, just like Marcus after he broke his leg in that motorcycle accident. And the strangest thing is that whenever you come to bring the money, that same night or the next, that shadow appears.»
I stood paralyzed, my mind blank. Marcus died in a work accident in North Dakota. A representative from the contracting company brought us the urn with his ashes.
«Surely you’re mistaken. Your eyesight isn’t what it used to be.» I tried to find a logical explanation, but my own voice was trembling.
Miss Hattie shot me a sharp look. «I’m old, but I ain’t senile. Besides, I saw him. He was wearing a cap pulled down to his eyebrows and a face mask.»
She leaned in closer. «If he was a thief, he’d be lurking around. But this one took a key out of his pocket and opened the door like it was his house. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem.»