Apartment 4b Novels & Stories

“It was the name we gave the boy when he was born. Then Dr. Hansen must have changed it.” “Let’s not stray from the topic,” Mark interrupted. “Where is that apartment?” “On Atlantic Avenue, I don’t know the name or number of the building, but it’s the only small diagonal to the subway station. The apartment is 6-B on the sixth floor. If the elderly are there they may help her, and if they are traveling she also has access to it because she takes care of it. If she was at home this morning, it means she shouldn’t be taking care of it.”

Kristen introduced and I nodded politely. "Nice to meet you Sofia," She said. "Shall we?" "Sure. Lead the way," I replied. We climbed into the elevator and she pressed the sixteenth-floor button. "Each floor houses two apartments," She declared pointing to the door on our left as the elevator stopped at the sixteenth. 16B was written in golden on the door. "This one is will be yours, if you like it," She said with a confident smile, opening the door written 16A with a key card. "Here you go,"

Now, I had my opportunity. After contacting the office of the apartment complex, I went in for a showing of the apartments available. Thankfully it had an elevator so I chose a beautiful three-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor. It was facing the street and had a lovely balcony overlooking the stone and glass buildings around it. The style was completely me and since I’d have the money, I informed the agent who was escorting me that I’d be buying the apartment, not renting it.

The blueprints were spread out, the address printed clearly at the top. Beatrice walked over to the desk and looked down at the papers. "So," she said, tapping a manicured fingernail on the blueprint, "this is the apartment you are designing for her?" "Yes," I said, walking over. "Zyran bought it today. It’s a rush job, but I’m going to make it beautiful. I want her to feel comfortable." Beatrice read the address on the paper: 1402 Lakeview Drive, Penthouse B. She froze.

Room 3B Benita Hayes The thick smell of burnt white sugar and cheap laundry detergent hit me the very second I pushed open the heavy, water-warped wooden door of the apartment building. There was no uniform security guard sitting behind a polished marble desk down here, there was no indoor waterfall to mask the street noise, and there was definitely no central air conditioning hum to cool the air. There was only a narrow, claustrophobic stairwell covered in peeling dark green paint and a single, low-wattage yellow lightbulb hanging miserably from the ceiling by a frayed black wire.

I stepped out, I lifted my hand just to ground myself—it was warm and real and pure. The lobby was quiet. Serene. A white stone bench, potted plants, and a soft jingle of the glass door behind me. I had wanted calm. A fresh start. This felt like both. I followed the corridor my steps even, deliberate. The door to Apartment 4B was as plain as any other, save for its newness. I opened it and stepped inside. The soft scent of fresh paint met me first. Then the pale, neutral walls. The sleek laminate floors. The big windows letting in gentle morning light turning every surface golden.

"Can you just imagine yourself on the 72nd floor of this 4019 square inch-" "Sorry, but I have this thing with heights." I cut her off. "No worries." We got to the next place, and it was Jasper who said he didn’t like it, and Cooper disapproved of the other apartment after that. “Now, we have this fully furnished 3 bedroom, 3.5 bath apartment, comes with a private parking space and access to a park across the road." "Fully furnished? Did someone die here?" Cooper asked. I gave him a look.

A pair of rats scatter when my shoes hit the steps. I hesitate under the awning, not because I’m afraid, but because I need to be sure of what I’m doing. The list said apartment 4B. That’s all. No name, no phone number, just a debt that could drown a city block and one that I intended to exploit to my benefit. I push the door open. The hallway yawns before me, narrow, claustrophobic, walls damp with age. Somewhere a baby cries; somewhere else, a television murmurs to itself.

"How long have you known where I live?" "Answer the question." "392," I said. "Apartment 4C."

“Unit 4A is occupied by a handyman in his late thirties.” Martins paused when he saw me still staring at the open window and the beautiful shade of pink that painted the walls. A light breeze blew past, and the equally pink curtains fluttered. A girl's room, most likely a little girl. My stomach tightened, so did my throat. I tore my eyes away and refocused on Martins. “Go on” “Unit 4B is occupied by two young men—a couple, and 4C is the newest leased. A pregnant woman moved in a week ago.”