Apartment 4b Novels & Stories

It was not so loud that it could wake the whole building up. But it was just loud enough. For it to torment me. It was like a constant reminder that somebody was upstairs. And that person was having the time of their lives. While I was laying down here alone. Counting the cracks that were in the ceiling. The first week that I was here. After moving in. I thought that I had found paradise. Quiet neighborhood. Cheap rent. The walls looked thick enough to hold a hurricane. Ha. Lies. Turns out, the walls weren’t thick — just deceptively polite. They let me hear every little thing happening in Apartment 4B, whether I wanted to or not.

I said. He raised a brow in the rearview mirror. "Address please." "The private dorms. Building C. And don’t stop until we get there." The drive was quiet. My fingers tapped against the leather seats. "Ma’am?" my driver said. "We’re here." I looked up. I checked the file again. Apartment 3B. "Wait here," I said. I stepped out and walked through the front door, up the steps, and down the hallway, ignoring the curious eyes of a girl in pajamas holding a bowl of popcorn.

The apartment was a fifteen-minute walk from the station. It was exactly as the listing had described and slightly worse in person. Fourth floor, no lift. A window that faced a fire escape rather than anything worth looking at. The carpet was the particular beige of something that had once had a color and had been slowly losing the argument. When I touched the radiator, it clicked once and then produced nothing. I stood in the center of the empty room and did a full inventory. Broken radiator. Ancient carpet. Fire escape view. Four walls with nothing on them.

I kicked it open. "Stairs," I warned him. "Fourth floor." It was a nightmare. Every step was a battle. Julian hissed in pain with every movement, his face burying itself in the crook of my neck. I could feel the heat radiating off him. The fever was back. By the time we reached apartment 4B, I was sweating and shaking. I reached up to the top of the door frame. My fingers brushed dust until they found the cold metal of a key.

"It's this one." The guy covered his nose as well and pointed his torch at the ceiling and floors for some seconds before he continued to walk forward. Four brown doors were on each side of the hallway, two on each side and just like the others, a chipped off archway stood at the front of the apartment doors. I squinted my eyes at it and saw a faint writing scribbled at the top. Block 3AD.

I said as stepped into their apartment. Apartment 4B was a lot like apartment 3B,where I stayed. It was spacious and it had large windows too. It was literally the same model but yet it felt different when I stepped it. It was more homely. There were actually pictures of real life people hanging around on the walls, not frames of flowers. The coasters were hand knitted and the air was filled with the smell of pancakes. "Is Asher around?" Ginny eyes squeezed almost shut as she slowly mouths the word. "No."

Renzo The address Alessandro sent was a studio apartment in the West Loop. Tenant: a Mike Floyd. The building was a bland, modern thing. I took the stairs, my footsteps silent on the concrete. Apartment 4B. I stood in front of the brown door and knocked twice.

I typed back. "Show me how?" The reply came immediately. "Her address is 47 Maple Street, Apartment 4B. Go."

~*~*~ [Erica] The building was divided into apartments. In each apartment, 4 students were staying. The moment she had walked in, she saw the reception area, which was crowded with students. After wrestling for a while, she finally got through and got to know her apartment number - it was no. 42 on the fourth floor. "Erica!" Lana squealed the moment she stepped into her allotted apartment. "Hey," she chirped, pulling her into a hug. "I can't believe you are here! But I am so happy," the redhead said cheerily. Erica's room was next to Lana's.

APARTMENT 1B BULLET Monday, 3:24 PM Five blue. Seven red. Four yellow. He blinked the sleep from his eyes. Lifted his head from the mattress. Saw the shit hole on Eidolon Avenue he called home. The TV with the cracked screen sitting on the plastic crate. The yellowing walls with the rust colored streaks running from ceiling to floor. The scattered pizza boxes and cheeseburger wrappers. And his friends . . . five blue, seven red, four yellow