Chapter 7: A Door Opens, A Secret Remains

Ten minutes later, I finally opened the door and replaced the lock cylinder. The old one wasn’t actually broken—I could use it again for another customer next time. That’s what I call making a big profit from a small investment.

It’s recycling, I tell myself. No harm, no foul. I pocketed the used cylinder, wiped my hands, and stood up, stretching out my back.

I charged her $100—a very fair price in this line of work. Other locksmiths might charge extra for a late-night call. Maybe because she saw me working so hard, the woman didn’t say a word—she just handed me a hundred-dollar bill and went inside, closing the door behind her.

She didn’t even look at the change, just pushed the crisp bill into my hand, her fingers ice-cold. I watched her slip inside, the door closing slowly on its squeaky hinges. I could hear her shoes shuffle on the hardwood, then silence.

But just as the door was about to shut, it suddenly stopped. The woman stood inside and, through the crack in the door, lowered her voice to ask me something.

The hallway felt colder all of a sudden, the air thick with a tension I couldn’t place. Her eyes peeked out from the narrow gap, the shadows turning her face half-ghostly.

"Excuse me, when you came upstairs and got out of the elevator... did you see anything?"

Her tone was urgent, almost pleading. I felt my heart skip a beat.

As she spoke, she gestured toward the hallway behind me.

Her hand trembled as she pointed, her sleeve sliding back just enough to reveal pale skin and a faint bruise. For a split second, I debated whether to ask about the bruise, to break through the professional wall I’d built, but I stayed quiet. This was her business, not mine. I told myself I was just staying professional, but the truth was I didn’t want to get involved. I wondered what else she might be hiding.

I was caught off guard and looked back down the dim corridor.

The building was silent as a tomb, the only light coming from a dying bulb above the stairwell door.

She continued, "I mean, at the stairwell directly across from the elevator."

Her words sent a shiver through me. The stairwell was one of those old ones—metal railings, a draft that always smelled of mildew and stale cigarettes.

I looked. Sure enough, in the middle left of the corridor was a stairwell leading up and down, right across from the elevator. From where I stood, I could just barely see the stairwell entrance. It was pitch black inside—nothing visible at all.

My eyes struggled to adjust. For a second, it looked like the darkness itself was moving, but I blamed it on exhaustion. Nothing there. Nothing at all.

I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I said, "I was in a hurry to help you, so I just got out of the elevator, turned left, and saw you. I didn’t really notice. Is there something at the stairwell?"

She hesitated, eyes flickering to me, to the door, then back to the darkness. I braced myself for a story about a prowler, or maybe just a stray cat.

"Did you see a... a white figure, just standing there?"

A chill ran down my spine. "A white figure? In the stairwell?"

She nodded repeatedly. "Yes. A woman in a long white dress, with her hair hanging down, completely covering her face. She was just standing there, facing the elevator doors, not moving at all."

Every hair on my arms stood up. I tried to keep my face neutral, but my voice cracked anyway.

Seeing my disbelief, she went on, "Could you go over and check for me? See if that figure is still there? Otherwise, I won’t be able to sleep tonight."

She looked like she might start crying. I hesitated, but the request was simple enough, and frankly, I was just as curious now. Plus, if it calmed her nerves, it was worth the extra couple minutes.

Her words gave me goosebumps. I hadn’t paid attention to the stairwell earlier, but I was sure I hadn’t seen anyone there. Still, I had to check—after all, I’d have to pass by it to leave anyway.

I took a deep breath, told myself not to be silly. Just nerves. This city has a way of getting under your skin late at night.

For a second, I envied her, even with her nerves—at least she had a place to lock herself inside.