The Problem In Apartment 305

A Short Story Not For The Faint Of Heart

I looked up at the spot on the ceiling and realized how much I hated the bastard. Ever since he moved in, he was nothing but trouble. I always kept to myself, never bothered anyone. But this piece of shit thought he could move in and start slinging meth. It’s hard enough to find a decent, apartment that is not a hellhole. But this prick moved in and made my life hell ever since.

He was in his thirties or forties, skinny as hell, brown hair, both arms covered with faded tattoos. Nose ring. Always looked like he never bathed since the Reagan administration.

All day long he would have people coming by, getting their fix. Whenever he cooked a new batch, the smell was unbearable. It’s like cat piss combined with ammonia. Whenever he cooked, I left. And even when he wasn’t cooking, the smell seemed to soak into everything. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t do anything. I just needed the bastard gone.

I tried to get him evicted, but management wouldn’t do shit. I called the cops but drugs in Chicago are everywhere and they have more problems than they can handle. After I called the cops for the umpteenth time and got the usual run around, that’s when I came up with a plan. A fucked up plan, but a plan none the less. I noticed a pattern. It seemed that he only cooked on Thursdays. That was key. And I’d sure as hell use it against him.

The prick needed to stop flooding the streets with poison. I figured I’d take care of him on Thursday night, right when he started cooking. I could just sneak up on the asshole, take him out, and that would be it. End of story.

I took the day off on Thursday and waited all day for a new wave of the stench to seep through the walls. I made some screwdrivers to drink and waited while watching an old western. It was just a matter of time. In a few minutes, it would be over. I looked at the clock. 4:15. He usually started by 5 or 6. I smiled with delight knowing it would be over. The noise, the smell, the inconvenience would cease, and he’d be gone. I continued to sit and wait as the minutes rolled by.

I had a few more screwdrivers and fell asleep to the sound of gunfire and I must have passed out at some point. It was 8 o’clock now, and I was surprised that annoying cat piss smell was not assaulting my senses.

Maybe something happened. Maybe the bastard pushed his cook day back. Whatever it was, I continued to drink and woke up the next day. I noticed a cut on the back of my hand that was several inches long. It wasn’t too deep and didn’t require stitches, so I bandaged it up. I noticed a broken bottle on the floor and swept it up and then sat back down on the couch.

That was when I first noticed the dark spot in the middle on the ceiling. Some kind of leak above. The pipes were really old. I had the same problem myself a while ago. I called the building super and let him know. He said they’d send someone up. I went out to work and when I came back in the evening, the spot had gotten bigger — it was now about six inches wide now. I called the super again and got the same run around. I tried to ignore it, but every time I looked up at it, the spot was bigger. It had to be close to a foot now. Screw it.

I went up the stairs and knocked. The door was not locked and popped open. I glanced inside but the apartment was dark — pitch dark.

“Hello?”

Nothing. I flipped the light switch on but it didn’t work. Still pitch black.

“Hello?” I shook my head in disbelief and shut the door and went back to my apartment. I sat down on the couch and flipped on the television. A football game came on.

Right during the kickoff, I noticed a drip fall down from the ceiling. Then another. And another. I grabbed an empty pot to put under the drip and called the super again. Straight to voicemail.

Then I noticed the smell of a portable toilet. That and rotting meat. Then it went away. I took a drink of my beer as I watched drips fall from the ceiling. Faster. Faster.

Shit.

This had to stop. Now. I got up and grabbed a flashlight from on top of the refrigerator and walked out of my apartment.

“Excuse me,” a police officer said walking down the hallway.

“Uh — yeah?”

“Did you call us — something about a meth lab?”

“Yeah, the apartment right above mine.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Okay.”

“What makes you think it’s a meth lab?”

“The smells. Cat piss and ammonia. He usually cooks on Thursdays, and the smell is unbearable. People coming and going all the time to just that apartment.”

“I see.”

“So you’re in apartment 205, the one above you is 305?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Okay, I’ll go check it out.”

“Officer?”

“Yes. There’s a drip coming down from above my apartment as well. It just started. This morning. Think that’s anything to worry about?”

“Probably not, but I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks.”

I went back into my apartment and waited by the door listening to the sound of the officer’s feet move up the stairs. Then silence. I waited by the door and sipped my beer for a minute.

The sound of the officer’s footsteps again.

I stepped out and looked at the officer who was shaking his head.

“You don’t have to worry about the meth dealer anymore. I’d recommend moving. That ain’t water or meth dripping from your ceiling.”

“Wait. What? Really? What the hell is it?”

“Yeah. Use your imagination. Someone cut up that bastard pretty good. Looked like he’d been dead for a few days.”

“Oh shit.”

I stepped back into the apartment and gasped as I looked at the spot on the ceiling. And then I smiled as I felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

Jim Woods is a bestselling author, freelance writer, and writing coach. His work has been featured in Fast Company, Life Hacker, Goinswriter, The Write Practice, and other publications. If you want clarity for your writing, grab his free Storyfixer Sheet here.