The Apartment at Number 9 It started with the smell again. Metallic, damp, the kind that clings to a penny in your hand. I opened the window, then closed it, then forgot which I’d done first. The streetlight buzzed like a bad memory. The chair’s back is colder tonight. I ran my palm along the wood and thought of skin, then laughed at myself for thinking that. I should’ve thrown it out yesterday-no, last week-but it looks heavier now, like it would drag me with it if I tried. The power flickered once at 1:14 a.m. I checked the plug. Everything looked fine. The clock on the wall reset to 00:00. For a second the red digits painted the room into something else. I’m re-reading what I just wrote. Half these lines sound wrong, like someone edited them in my sleep. “Streetlight buzzed.” Did I type that or copy it from somewhere? The smell’s back. It’s sharper, not rain anymore, more like heat against iron. The chair’s by the window again. I didn’t move it. I’d swear to that if anyone were here. There’s a note tucked under one leg. My handwriting, I think. It says: leave it facing out. I don’t remember writing that, but it’s the kind of thing I might’ve done to calm myself. I tried sleeping on the floor. Could still hear the chair creak whenever I closed my eyes. Sometimes I think it’s just the building settling. Sometimes I think the building’s watching how I settle. 2:47 a.m. now. I typed my name three times in a row and deleted it. The keyboard feels wet. Maybe from my hands. Maybe not. The smell is inside the walls. No-inside the air. I’m going to stop writing soon. The clock’s humming again, and the digits keep flashing 9. Always 9. If anyone reads this, the chair’s probably still there. Face it away before you turn on the light. That seems to help for a while.