The apartment smelled worse than usual, if that was possible. Moldy dishes lined the sink, some stacked like leaning towers. A Dinte Moore can sat on the counter, the metal lid still clenched tight, sharp enough to take a finger off if handled carelessly. Fruit flies buzzed around it, indifferent to our efforts.
Shelves, counters, and the sink were crowded with countless bottles of drain cleaners and fly killers, each promising to exterminate whatever had made the apartment its home. Most were half-empty, crusted at the edges, their labels smeared—but the problem persisted.
My siblings arrived and went straight to work, moving, lifting, stacking, sorting. Their presence was steady, almost anonymous, filling the space with quiet motion.
We worked for two hours. Two hours of scraping, tossing, and maneuvering around heaps of mail, old receipts, and the remains of meals no one would claim. Every corner held something that could draw blood, every drawer threatened a forgotten cut or bruise.
The apartment was heavy with fabric: blankets, sheets, old clothes, curtains. We bagged every piece, sealing it for the laundromat, like quarantining a contagion. Nothing would touch the floor again until it was clean.
Charlotte was gone, back with Leona for the next three days. She had already decided my presence was a nuisance; I didn’t argue.
My mother was coming to stay at my house. We found her a nightgown that wouldn’t tear in the wash and packed her remaining clothes to be laundered before they could touch any surface.
I moved from room to room, noting each corner left untouched, every small disaster the apartment had held. I didn’t speak much. Words felt heavy, like they might wake the space in ways it didn’t want.
By the time we finished, the place was marginally less hostile, though the smell clung stubbornly to every wall and curtain. The light from the hall hung pale in the windows, watching us leave the apartment as if it had been waiting all along.
My siblings and I loaded the twelve bags of fabric into the back of a truck and drove to the laundromat. Choosing a location should have been easy—there were only two in town, and one of them was closed. After dropping the bags, we each left in our own cars. By the very nature of the town, the trip sparked conversation about the corruption and drug-fueled chaos that had become normal. Most of it was joking, but there was truth there—just like the apartment complex, with its own quiet ring of deception.
I sat mostly quiet for the duration of the laundry cycle, my attention fixated on the odd encounters at the apartment. Was there truth to what Leona and Denise were saying? Or were they just the ramblings of the elderly, twisted by habit and fear?
And then I saw it—on the laundromat bulletin board, a flyer pinned askew. A single red circle, unmistakable, staring back at me.