Photo by Ioana Cristiana on Unsplash
The first in-the-wild dead body I thought I saw was caked in blood and makeup. If I'd only seen the face, I might have thought it was a joke—the garish Victorian ghost motif she'd caked her face in was a little too on the nose, a bit too community-theatre-bit-player's-time-to-shine, but the blood on her throat was realistic—gory, horrific, and all over the carpet, walls, and the once beige, now brown carpet all Berrington Village apartments had.
I'd been in 1-C for three months at that point and had never seen the occupant of 1-D despite our patios sitting just across a flock of air conditioning units from one another. I spent a lot of time on my patio—it'd been a long but mild winter, and getting out of the confines of the apartment and into the fresh air had kept me sane day after endless days of Zoom socializing.
I noticed the light would often be on in 1-D's sunroom, but the blinds stayed shut. One time, while I was sitting out on the patio reading, I caught 1-D's patio door open ever so slightly, and a hand (which I correctly guessed to be a woman's) stuck out as if to check the temperature. When I turned to look over, the hand retreated, and the door slammed fast but gently enough to keep the blinds motionless.
Ten minutes or so later, I heard a scream and the sound of smashing glass from 1-D. I probably should've gone over to check and see what happened, but I was too stoned and self-absorbed at the time. I'd been dumped via Zoom just 20 minutes earlier by Nathan, a podiatrist from Raleigh who drove three hours to see me twice a week despite being completely out of my league. Or so I thought. Two months later, I discovered that Nathan was the type of guy to post a shirtless selfie with both a #blueeyes and #doctorsofinstagram hashtag in conjuncture with a 3-paragraph missive about stopping Asian hate.
I was sitting on the patio two days after discovering Nathan was a douchebag, scrolling back to the mid-aughts on the guy's Instagram I suspected Nathan was now driving three hours twice a week to fuck when I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the door to 1-D was wide open, even weirder because 1-D's patio door had recently been decorated with an extra exterior lock—the kind I usually associate with Air BnB's.
Looking in, 1-D had the same shitty carpet as my apartment and a much shittier computer desk in the exact location in the sunroom as mine, only instead of a "the mountains are calling" wood carving above their desk, 1-D had an unframed Lion King the Musical poster that had seen better days. I stared at the door for a couple of minutes, waiting to see if anything would happen. Nothing did, so I spent the next hour doing more Insta-stalking before I got hungry and went inside.
The door to 1-D stayed open.
I made some dinner, showered, jerked off, watered my indoor plants, jerked off again, ate half a weed gummy, read four WandaVision recaps so I could keep up with the conversation at work, showered again, then returned to the patio to pretend to read The Atlantic while doing more Insta-stalking.
1-D's door was still open. It was dark now. I wondered if I should go check to see if everything was ok, but then I reminded myself I didn't want to be like my mother.
After a half-hour, I went inside and laid down on the couch. I downloaded what I was pretty sure was an intellectual podcast, pressed play, then promptly fell asleep. When I woke up, it was after 1. As I shuffled to the bedroom, I noticed my patio light still on. I shuffled over to turn it off—1-D’s door was still open.
I opened my door and stepped outside. I whisper-yelled "hello," then stopped and intently listened for either an answer or telltale sign someone was alive in 1-D—a muffled TV, light music…maybe a running shower? Nada.
I walked barefoot across the grass to 1-D's patio. Something seemed off. I knocked on the door frame. I didn't want to risk putting my hand inside. Nothing. I whisper-yelled "hello" one more time. Quiet, again.
I could see a little further into the apartment now. There was a bottle of "No Way Rose" on the part of the desk not visible from my patio. It was half empty and covered in dust. On the part of the wall not visible from my patio were three miniature portraits of Dia de Los Muertos skulls ascending diagonally. Last Halloween, Nathan and his best friend James were shirtless Dia de Los Muertos skeletons. He'd never told me that while we were dating (he’d lied and told me he couldn’t visit that night because he was doing virtual trick or treating with his nephews) but had recently showcased their glistening torsos from some lame-looking house party in honor of #TBT—don't worry, sisters—they're all from the same pod—that's what the caption read (19-sisters strong, naturally).
Something in 1-D smelled strongly like shit. That's when I decided to enter.
I saw the blood before the body. It was all over the living room walls, the tye-dyed "tapestry" behind the couch, and I think on the couch, only it was too dark a velour turquois to tell.
I guess I was weirdly calm for someone stumbling into a gruesome murder scene. I wasn't calm when the body sat up, but I was calm walking around the apartment, making macabre observations a few minutes before that happened.
That's what Cheryl told me anyway. Cheryl is my 1-D neighbor. Not is. Was. She's not dead. I don't think. But I moved into a bigger, better, much more expensive downtown "loft" after my 6-month Berrington Village lease expired. I wanted to get as far away from Cheryl as possible, even though I loved Berrington’s rent prices.
I only talked with Cheryl that night. She told me she was a cosmetologist, an RN, and an event planner. I'm not sure which of those are true. I'm not sure any are. She also told me she was an amateur makeup artist whose obsession with Halloween and murder started when she first saw A Nightmare Before Christmas, which tracks.
Cheryl had been waiting for hours for someone to find her, she said. She'd been dying to see if her artistry would allow her to pass for dead. I remember solemnly telling her the My Chemical Romance face makeup was a bit too much—she excused herself, went to her desk, pulled out a neon pink moleskin notebook, and wrote that down. She asked me if I had any other critiques—if you're wondering why I went along like this was normal, please feel free to blame the weed gummy.
Cheryl told me she liked to observe me on my patio. I gave her inspiration for her sketches—she didn't draw, mind you, but took improv classes. I wasn't sure if I should take that as a compliment or not. I vocalized this much. She said I should. Maybe. After all, she didn't know me. She just projected what she wanted onto my body and presence. Cheryl said she'd watched Nathan give me head on the patio once. The lights were off, but she could see clearish and hear just fine. I smiled and laughed politely like this was a normal conversation.
Cheryl said she'd written a sketch about watching me get my dick sucked, and it got her into trouble. I asked why. Her improv instructor Brett was gay, she said, and when she told him she'd written a sketch about gay men and their wanton ways, Brett got upset. She asked me if I knew Brett because he didn't live far from here. I told her it was offensives to assume all gay men know each other. She apologized profusely. I accepted. I said no, I didn't know Brett, even though we'd gone on a date once when I first moved down—Cheryl pronounced wanton "wonton."
I knew Cheryl was insane but still accepted a glass of the "No Way Rose" when she offered. The shit smell got worse the more she moved around her apartment.
I left when Cheryl told me for her next stunt, she would stab herself for real a few times. Just flesh wounds, she said. Again, I nodded politely like this were par for the course. Cheryl explained how she'd concluded that the Victorian ghost face had to stay—it was part of her brand, but since it was so garish, she'd have to be more realistic in other ways. She wanted whoever found her to smell real blood, hence stabbing herself in the fleshy parts of either her arm or thigh.
I told Cheryl I needed to get something funny I wanted to show her from my apartment. When I got back, I locked the door, barricaded it with my couch, then slept on the carpet outside the shower in my locked bathroom.
The following day there was a letter addressed to me on the patio. I never opened it. I never touched it. I let the sun fade it, and the rain melt it, and finally, the elements or an animal made it disappear. I never went back onto my patio. I hardly stayed at my apartment after that.
I started dating this guy Jeremy I'd messed around with once before Nathan, an architect with a very trendy River-Arts loft. Jeremy was sober but kind and liked companionship more than sex. He served a purpose for me and I for him. We parted ways soon after I took up my new, less-trendy downtown loft. I think we both felt ok with how things shook out.
Jeremy helped me move. I had him get my patio chairs and the lemon tree I'd shelled out $400.00 for three months earlier that my fear of Cheryl was killing.
After he'd put the sad-looking lemon tree in the back of his truck, Jeremy asked if we should check on the occupants of 1-D before we left. He said the door was wide open, and the carpet inside was covered in something red. Blood? I asked, panicked. No, he said. It's not that viscous. It looks more like a red wine stain—your carpets are so cheap here.
Pat Brothwell is a writer, marketer, and Pennsylvania ex-pat living and working in Asheville, North Carolina. He currently writes at www.ashevilleexplorer.com, a blog exploring his new(ish) home city, is a regular op-ed contributor to the Asheville Citizen Times, and writes marketing content with such illustrious titles like "Five HR Trends You Need to Know for 2022" for his 9-5. He was a featured culture blogger on The Good Men Project. His short stories have appeared in The Wilderness House Literary Review, Bookends Literary Review, a Weasel Press Anthology, and Litro Magazine.