Apartment 4C

James sat on an overturned milk crate, observing the display of papers that sat before him on the aged card table. The only light in the small apartment came from a weak light bulb hanging by a thin wire over the table. Besides the table and crate, the apartment was bare of furnishings.
A stained, crystal ash tray held but one smoldering cigarette, sending spiraling smoke signals over James’s head and out the small, cracked into the dark New York night. The typical chorus of traffic and night activity sprang through the window like a boom box with its volume continually cranked at high. The papers that sat on the card table were yellowed with age. A few were black and white photographs depicting a young couple, and a small child in several family activity scenarios. The other papers were collages of newspaper clippings, with dates from a long way back. A small gust of wind came through the window, blowing a small photo of the couple helping the child ride a pony onto the floor. James watched it scoot across the dusty wood floor, coming to a rest before the only door in the apartment. 
His attention was drawn from the picture to the window, as the sound of voice and closing car doors rang from the street below. James stood from the table and wandered to the window. Outside, three teenage boys armed with cans of spray paint began writing on the wall of the apartment building. James turned and went back to the table, and took a pen from the pocket of his sweater. He peeled one of the newspaper clippings off of the collage, scraping away the ancient, brittle glue. James circled the date on the page, November 15th, 1945, and wrote neatly underneath: "I need to ask a small favor of you."
James pulled a tarnished silver locket from his pocket, and wrapped it in the newspaper clipping. He trotted back to the window, and whistled softly. One of the boys looked up, afraid that someone had been watching their act of vandalism. James held his arm out of the window, and dropped the locket and clipping. One of the boys caught it, and saw a glimpse of an arm in an olive drab sleeve pulling back into the window. He turned the locket over in his hand, and looked back at the window.
The boy’s friend laughed nervously and got back into the car. “Probably some pedophile or something, lets get out of here.”
But the boy who caught the locket and newspaper clipping was hesitant. “I don’t know you guys…” The driver of the car smiled.
“Alright dude, it’s your funeral.” The car pulled away, the screeching of its tires echoing loudly against the cold night. The boy tossed his can of spray paint across the street, and unfolded the clipping. Inside was a small snippet of news, no more than a paragraph long, dated November 15th 1945. The handwritten note stood out against the fading ink. “I need to ask a small favor of you.” The boy turned back and glanced down the street. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a head pull back into the window. Above the words in bold type was a name. “Walker, Linda.” The boy realized the purpose of the article. It was an obituary.
The obituary was brief, and the words were hard to make out in the dim light of the street lamp. “Linda Walker, age 32, died Wednesday in an apparent murder. Killed along with her was her three-year-old daughter, Rose. Her parents and her husband, James, who is currently overseas fighting the war, survive her. Services held Sunday evening at 6:00 at St. Frances Catholic Church for both Linda and her daughter.”
The night was growing colder, and the boy’s hands were turning numb. He fumbled in his pocket for the old locket. It was hard to open, for it had been sealed with age. After a few tries, the locket flipped open. On one side was a faded photograph of a young woman holding a newborn baby. On the opposite side was another photo of a bride and groom, the bride obviously of the same woman from the other photo. The boy put the paper and the locket into the pocket of his jeans, and took of sprinting down the street. As he ran out of the rundown, deserted neighborhood, he couldn’t help but feeling like somebody was watching him depart.

____________________________________________________________________________

“DJ its stupid. Its just plain stupid.” The boy who had been driving the vandal’s car as they left their friend alone outside the apartment chuckled on the other end of the cell phone conversation.
“I know, it’s kind of… risky-“
“Risky? Come on dude, the guy could be a homicidal maniac or some sort of perv for all we know. Like I said last night, it’s your funeral.”
“But seriously. I have this weird feeling… I need to go back. Something’s pulling me, its weird.”
“Right. You’re physic, and I’m Oprah Winfery.
DJ sighed and snapped the cell phone shut, and settled into the driver’s seat of his mother’s ancient Cadillac. The car was parked at the end of the street at which they had encountered the strange man. No lights were present in any of the building’s windows. There hadn’t been people living in these buildings since the 1970s. The only people that came about in this part of town without a death wish were gangs, drug dealers, and the occasional homeless guy.
DJ checked his watch nervously. It was 9:00 PM, around the same time that they had fled the previous night. He put his keys into the ignition, and slowly drove the car down the street. Every breath he took clouded up the windows, making it hard to tell where he was going. After what seemed like hours, he pulled up in front of the apartment complex; cans of spray paint still littering the ground. Counting the rows of windows, he figured that the man’s apartment was on the 4th floor on the west side of the building.
DJ patted his pocket to check its contents. One rusty old locket wrapped in a sixty-year-old news paper obituary, the Swiss army knife his uncle had given him for his birthday few years ago, the car keys, and his cell phone. With a deep breath, he got out of the car and started around for the entrance to the building.
The door was smeared with decades of filth accumulation, but the handle turned effortlessly. DJ noticed the handle of the door was gleaming, as if it had just been fixed and cleaned. As if somebody was expecting him. The front hall was lined with metal mailboxes, one of which hung open. Inside, a dusty newspaper sat, untouched as if the paperboy had just dropped it off. DJ peeked inside, and noticed a scrap of paper tied under the string that held together the paper. Carefully, he pulled the newspaper out of the box, and pulled the note out from under the string. This note was longer than the one scribbled on the obituary, but it was in the same shaky penmanship. “Thank you for coming back. I knew you would. Apartments 4C, knock twice. Be sure to bring the locket, its my prized possession.” The newspaper was dated December 4th, 1945. The front page article was headlined “Double Murder, No Suspect. Neighborhood in Shock.”
Next to the wall of mailboxes there was a door which led to a stairwell. DJ opened it, and made his way to the fourth floor. The halls of the fourth floor were dimly lit, and the carpet was stained with years of wear. He tiptoed down the corridor as though the inhabitants of the other apartments were still living there, just sleeping. Apartment 4A and 4B passed slowly, as if they were miles apart instead of ten feet.
Taking a deep breath, DJ stepped in front of 4C. He dialed 911 on his cell phone, and slid it into his pocket, his thumb strategically placed on the call button. With his other hand, he rapped twice on the wooden door. There were muffled footsteps inside, and the sound of papers shuffling. A manila folder was slid under the door, coming to a stop at DJ’s feet. On the cover of the folder was written a short sentence: “Please Read, then Knock Again. Thanks.”
Inside the folder was a portrait of the woman from the locket, another newspaper clipping, and a letter in the same distinguishable handwriting. The article read “Husband of Woman Killed in Last Week’s Double Murder MIA.” DJ didn’t bother reading the article, instead pulling the letter out.
“My names is James Walker. I have been considered dead by the US government for almost sixty years. I am not in good health. I need to know who killed my wife and daughter before I can pass peacefully. Please explain this to the police. I have another letter for you to deliver to them. Thank you.”
DJ slid the papers back into the folder, and knocked on the door. A long letter slid back out, with a Post-It note stuck to the top. “Please take to NYPD.” DJ put the letter in the folder along with everything else, his pulse beating rapidly. Sweating, he scrambled out of the building, and into the night. He jumped into the car, and floored the pedal. His uncle used to work at the police department, which was just a little over a mile away. Speeding, DJ drove recklessly as fast as he could away from the strange building.
He pulled up to the police department, and ran inside. “I need a detective, please.” He pleaded with the secretary at the front desk. “One moment. I think Detective Pierce was just about to leave…” She pressed an intercom button on her telephone. “Joe? You have a second? There’s a kid here who needs to talk to you.” A relaxed voice called over the speaker.
“Why not. Send him in.”
The secretary pointed to a door down the hall. DJ ran to it, and threw the door open. “There’s this man, dude, he wrote you a letter. He needs help.” He slammed the letter and folder onto the detective’s desk.
Detective Pierce was a middle-aged man with dark hair. He calmly exhaled, and read the letter slowly. When he was finished, he smiled. “Who sent you, son?”
         “The guy. James Walker.”
The detective thought for a moment. “And this man… James Walker… what did he look like?”
DJ sighed. “Well… I didn’t see him exactly. I saw his arm… sort of.”
“Right… can you wait for a bit?”
Detective Pierce left the office for a few minutes, and returned with a thick folder. “Son, are your parents here?”
DJ shook his head. “Drove myself.”
The detective leaned back in his chair, sighed, and opened the folder. “What’s your name, son?”
“DJ… what’s going on?”
“DJ, this James Walker that you mentioned, the one from all the articles. We checked some of the papers from the time period that the articles you brought me are from… we found something else.” Detective Pierce slid a small scrap of paper across the desk. It was in the same format as Linda’s obituary. The heading made DJ’s stomach sink.
“Walker, James. Beloved husband and father of recently departed Linda and Rose Walker, respectively. Sergeant in the US Marines. Died overseas in combat this week, following the news that his wife and daughter had been murdered. Police have ruled out suicide, the death was purely coincidental. Services will be held at 5:00 Thursday evening at St. Frances Catholic Church.”
Detective Pierce opened the folder. “DJ, James Walker has been dead for almost 60 years now. Where exactly did you say you talked to him?”
DJ thought for a moment, although his head felt as if somebody had popped it with a pin, and it was deflating. “The old apartments on the corner of Washington and 9th.”
Detective Pierce excused himself again, and came back in with an advertisement for a new construction project on Washington and 9th. “DJ, those buildings will be knocked down tomorrow night. We have press photographs from Sergeant Walker’s funeral. Unless he’s pulling some sort of magic trick, he’s dead, and there’s nobody living in those apartments.”
DJ jumped up from his chair. “No, I’ll show you. I was there tonight, before coming here. The doors are unlocked and there’s somebody living inside, I heard him!”
Detective Pierce nodded. “Show me then, DJ, and we’ll stop the demolition.” Five minutes later, Detective Pierce’s squad car pulled up to the apartments. The duo walked over to the doors. Detective Pierce touched the door handle. “Look, DJ. There’s no way these doors could’ve been opened.” He was right. The handle was rusted shut. It didn’t even budge when Detective Pierce pushed on it with his whole weight.
“But it wasn’t rusted before… seriously.”
Detective Pierce nodded. “I believe you… if there’s somebody in there we need to get him out. Stand back.” He pulled out a pistol, pulled the trigger, and shattered the door. “Careful you don’t get caught on any loose pieces of glass.”
As the two walked towards the stairwell, DJ noticed that every mailbox was rusted shut, much like the front door. He felt a chill run down his spine. Detective Pierce stood in front apartment 4C. “This the one?”
DJ nodded, as Detective Pierce kicked the door down. Proudly, he smiled. “Twenty years NYPD SWAT Team.”
DJ inhaled sharply at the sight of the inside of the apartment. There was no furniture, no lights on, nothing to prove that anybody had lived there. The windows were painted shut. Detective Pierce looked at DJ sympathetically. “See, son? Nobody is in here. Nobody has been for decades.”
DJ stuttered. “But there was a light on yesterday night when me and my friends were- walking past…”
The detective walked to the center of the room, and inspected the light fixture. “Not a single bulb. The demolition permit stated that electricity and plumbing has been cut off since the 70s. DJ, I think I’ve seen enough. I’ll drive you home.”
DJ sat in the back of the squad car, as Detective Pierce started the engine, trying to prove to himself that he wasn’t crazy. Slowly, he put his hand into his pocket. The locket was still inside. He pulled it out, and opened it. A tiny scrap of paper, no bigger than a penny, fluttered into his lap.
Thinking that it had been one of the photos, DJ picked it up. He turned white as he saw what was on the paper. The same handwriting as all of the notes and letters, written in black ink. The paper hadn’t been inside the locket before. “Thanks for your help. It was worth a try.” That was the only thing written.
Detective Pierce noticed DJ’s pallid expression. “DJ, you alright?”
DJ nodded blankly, and rested his head on the window. He hadn’t been looking outside for more than half a second, when he noticed something in the apartment as they drove away. A single window on the forth floor was lit. A young man in an olive drab army uniform, like the kind he had seen in his history books from WWII, stood in the window. DJ caught a smile cross the man’s face as the car pulled away. DJ blinked, horrified, and looked back. The window was dark.