I guess I found my new apartment Mr. Ingle, the real…
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I guess I found my new apartment
Mr. Ingle, the real estate agent, held open the front door and waved me into the studio apartment. He was a slender man, taller than someone so thin had any right to be. Despite the heat, he wore a large black trenchcoat, buttoned loosely across his non-existent belly, and a matching bowler hat which clearly concealed a hairless head. His ears were a little too small, his smile was a little too wide, and his teeth were a little too sharp.
Standing there, at the bottom of the stoop, I felt as though some great earthworm had raised itself from the dirt, disguised itself as a man, and was now inviting me into its burrow. A twinge of hesitation (was it fear?) thumped in my chest.
I would be alone in there with him.
I’d toured a few different apartments so far. Some were beautiful and spacious and way out of my budget, and others were well within, but dingy and dirty and surely crawling with cockroaches when the lights cut out. From the listing, this place seemed perfect.
Had I felt this hesitation (fear) with those other realtors? *No. But they had looked normal; what you’d expect a realtor should look like.*
Then I’m someone who judges someone’s character by their outward appearance? *No. No, I won’t be that.*
Mr Ingle waved at me again from within the apartment, his smile so wide that its corners nearly touched his sharp little ears.
I smiled back and walked up the stairs into the apartment.
The listing didn’t do it justice--it really was a wonderful apartment. The kitchen was bigger than it looked in the photos. There was a neat little cutout and a half-wall to hide my bed, which made it feel more like a one bedroom than a studio, and the bathroom felt updated and modern. Everything was clean, even the clear plastic panes covering the ceiling lights. I didn’t think it was possible to have those without a few resident dead flies. I was sold, ready to sign a lease, almost as soon as I got in the door.
“The listing said something about a bonus room?”, I said to Mr. Ingle, who had been standing quietly in a corner, his smile still wide but his lips (thankfully) closed. He nodded eagerly and started towards the closet where the water heater lived.
In there, half hidden by pipes and metal scaffolding, was a door.
Mr. Ingle pulled it open and stepped in, his long body gliding through silently, like a snake into its den.
I followed.
The “bonus room”, as the listing had called it, was a hallway about fifteen feet long. It had no windows, but a bank of rectangular fluorescent lights sputtered on the ceiling. The floor and walls were dark blue tile. Mr Ingle, who had somehow made it to the far end already, cocked his head at me. His smile widened. The corners now seemed to wrap around the back of his neck.
And then his smile split down the middle.
The entire length of him split into strands like some sort of string cheese. Each fiber slapped the floor as it fell, bloodless but somehow still wet sounding, and slid out of the hallway through cracks in the tile. Gone. Trenchcoat, hat, pointy little teeth, everything. Back into the dirt I suppose.
Before I could begin to process Mr. Ingle’s spontaneous fission, the far end of the hallway began racing towards me, as if the whole thing was a taut rubber band and the other side had been released. I stepped back, trying to find the door, but it was no longer there. I closed my eyes and braced myself to be crushed.
The wall stopped just before my nose. When I opened my eyes it was dark. The fluorescent lights were gone. I felt around with my hands to discover the hallway had shrunk to about the size of me. The walls even seemed to bend in above my shoulders and below my arms. I took a few deep breaths (*in through your nose, out through your mouth)* and decided to decipher the impossibility of it all after I made it out of the room. With some difficulty I was able to fumble my phone out of my pocket, punch in 9-1-1, and hold it to my ear.
But the police can’t find me.
The detective said that my phone’s GPS is showing right here, but they can’t find it. They said they checked the apartment and the water closet, but they can't find a door. They checked the neighboring unit and the basement. They even cut a hole in the wall straight through to the other side, much to the chagrin of my would-be neighbor, but I didn’t hear any powertools if they did.
They spoke to the realtor, Gerry Weston (by the detective’s account; a short, circular woman with regular sized ears and a regular sized mouth), and she’s been at her mother’s in Florida for the past week. They couldn’t find any record of a “Mr. Ingle”, and no one else at Gerry’s agency (“*or anywhere on earth or in heaven”*, the detective had said), that matched my description of him.
They say that there’s no secret room. This whole thing is a hoax and they’ll charge me with “False Reporting” and “Misuse of 911” if I keep calling.
Yet here I am.
Standing upright in an impossibly dark room the size of a coffin, my phone the only source of light and it’s liable to die any second. By its account, I’ve been here for almost three days. But somehow, I haven’t felt hunger or thirst. I haven’t felt the need to use the bathroom, or sleep, or even blink. I’m not tired and neither are my legs. Not one strand of hair on my body has grown. I feel sharp and clearheaded and younger than I have in years.
Here I am, alone with my thoughts. And I can’t help thinking:
Would I rather die in this place? Or live here forever?
#entertainment
source
Mr. Ingle, the real estate agent, held open the front door and waved me into the studio apartment. He was a slender man, taller than someone so thin had any right to be. Despite the heat, he wore a large black trenchcoat, buttoned loosely across his non-existent belly, and a matching bowler hat which clearly concealed a hairless head. His ears were a little too small, his smile was a little too wide, and his teeth were a little too sharp.
Standing there, at the bottom of the stoop, I felt as though some great earthworm had raised itself from the dirt, disguised itself as a man, and was now inviting me into its burrow. A twinge of hesitation (was it fear?) thumped in my chest.
I would be alone in there with him.
I’d toured a few different apartments so far. Some were beautiful and spacious and way out of my budget, and others were well within, but dingy and dirty and surely crawling with cockroaches when the lights cut out. From the listing, this place seemed perfect.
Had I felt this hesitation (fear) with those other realtors? *No. But they had looked normal; what you’d expect a realtor should look like.*
Then I’m someone who judges someone’s character by their outward appearance? *No. No, I won’t be that.*
Mr Ingle waved at me again from within the apartment, his smile so wide that its corners nearly touched his sharp little ears.
I smiled back and walked up the stairs into the apartment.
The listing didn’t do it justice--it really was a wonderful apartment. The kitchen was bigger than it looked in the photos. There was a neat little cutout and a half-wall to hide my bed, which made it feel more like a one bedroom than a studio, and the bathroom felt updated and modern. Everything was clean, even the clear plastic panes covering the ceiling lights. I didn’t think it was possible to have those without a few resident dead flies. I was sold, ready to sign a lease, almost as soon as I got in the door.
“The listing said something about a bonus room?”, I said to Mr. Ingle, who had been standing quietly in a corner, his smile still wide but his lips (thankfully) closed. He nodded eagerly and started towards the closet where the water heater lived.
In there, half hidden by pipes and metal scaffolding, was a door.
Mr. Ingle pulled it open and stepped in, his long body gliding through silently, like a snake into its den.
I followed.
The “bonus room”, as the listing had called it, was a hallway about fifteen feet long. It had no windows, but a bank of rectangular fluorescent lights sputtered on the ceiling. The floor and walls were dark blue tile. Mr Ingle, who had somehow made it to the far end already, cocked his head at me. His smile widened. The corners now seemed to wrap around the back of his neck.
And then his smile split down the middle.
The entire length of him split into strands like some sort of string cheese. Each fiber slapped the floor as it fell, bloodless but somehow still wet sounding, and slid out of the hallway through cracks in the tile. Gone. Trenchcoat, hat, pointy little teeth, everything. Back into the dirt I suppose.
Before I could begin to process Mr. Ingle’s spontaneous fission, the far end of the hallway began racing towards me, as if the whole thing was a taut rubber band and the other side had been released. I stepped back, trying to find the door, but it was no longer there. I closed my eyes and braced myself to be crushed.
The wall stopped just before my nose. When I opened my eyes it was dark. The fluorescent lights were gone. I felt around with my hands to discover the hallway had shrunk to about the size of me. The walls even seemed to bend in above my shoulders and below my arms. I took a few deep breaths (*in through your nose, out through your mouth)* and decided to decipher the impossibility of it all after I made it out of the room. With some difficulty I was able to fumble my phone out of my pocket, punch in 9-1-1, and hold it to my ear.
But the police can’t find me.
The detective said that my phone’s GPS is showing right here, but they can’t find it. They said they checked the apartment and the water closet, but they can't find a door. They checked the neighboring unit and the basement. They even cut a hole in the wall straight through to the other side, much to the chagrin of my would-be neighbor, but I didn’t hear any powertools if they did.
They spoke to the realtor, Gerry Weston (by the detective’s account; a short, circular woman with regular sized ears and a regular sized mouth), and she’s been at her mother’s in Florida for the past week. They couldn’t find any record of a “Mr. Ingle”, and no one else at Gerry’s agency (“*or anywhere on earth or in heaven”*, the detective had said), that matched my description of him.
They say that there’s no secret room. This whole thing is a hoax and they’ll charge me with “False Reporting” and “Misuse of 911” if I keep calling.
Yet here I am.
Standing upright in an impossibly dark room the size of a coffin, my phone the only source of light and it’s liable to die any second. By its account, I’ve been here for almost three days. But somehow, I haven’t felt hunger or thirst. I haven’t felt the need to use the bathroom, or sleep, or even blink. I’m not tired and neither are my legs. Not one strand of hair on my body has grown. I feel sharp and clearheaded and younger than I have in years.
Here I am, alone with my thoughts. And I can’t help thinking:
Would I rather die in this place? Or live here forever?
#entertainment
source
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