Szonja Lengyel
The auction listing only showed three images of the property. Two of them were blurry images of sparsely furnished rooms, darkened by age and neglect. However, the third was different. It showed the exterior of the apartment with two enormous arched windows rising above the street, the carved details’ edges softened by age, yet still mesmerising to look at.
The flat was located in the older, quieter district of the city, pressed between two newly renovated buildings, their pristine appearance almost mocking the facade that was visibly carrying the exhaustion of decades. Cracks spread through the pale exterior walls, on which even the paint was worn dull by the years of rain. I fumbled with my keys, as I hadn’t paid attention when the auction clerk was explaining which key belonged to the apartment. Finally, after successfully opening the door I immediately went for the stairs, each step quick against the worn stone steps, the sound echoing in the empty stairwell. I had butterflies in my stomach since the gavel slammed down, but by now I couldn’t tell if it was due to excitement or unease.
I snapped out of my train of thoughts as I reached the second floor. My eyes were scanning for the number 7 as I made my way down the corridor. I found the brass number plate hanging at eye level on one of the identical crimson doors a little further along. I inserted the key, turned it twice, my hand on the worn doorknob, but hesitated before entering. This is it, I thought, my very first apartment. I gathered my courage and entered, stopping at the threshold and taking in the dim hallway that stretched before me. There was silence. Not the empty kind, but the kind that lingered in the air, like a vow. I took another step inside and closed the door behind me, sliding the keys in my pocket. I looked to my right, where a set of double doors stood, slightly ajar.
I pushed open the old door which gave way into the living room. As I stepped in I was immediately hit by the strong smokey odor of cigarettes, even though the apartment was last lived in eight years ago. The hardwood panels creaked under my feet, as I made my way to the centre of the room, stopping by the low coffee table. An ashtray stood on it. A cigarette still burned, smoke slowly curling into the air. I froze for a second, staring at the smoke, as it made no sense. The apartment was supposed to be empty. I told myself it was probably left by the estate agent or someone checking the place before the auction. I slowly spun around to take the whole place in. The yellowy wallpaper was tattered, peeling in places, like a snake shedding its skin. The missing parts of the wallpaper revealed the cracking paint underneath like a dry desert. On the wall opposite me, there were two large windows. These were the reasons I had decided to take a look at this apartment in the first place. A faint movement caught my eye. The curtain shifted a little even though the air was still in the room. The ornate, arched windows that allowed the afternoon light to illuminate the room were like portals connecting the bustling street with this time capsule of a flat. I gazed at the dust particles dancing in the air, and my line of vision shifted towards the wall behind me, where the greyish shadows of a tree outside appeared, as if it was a grand mural painted by the golden sunrays, its leaves gently swaying in the breeze outside.
For a moment, the smell of cigarettes emitted by room’s furniture faded and I remained alone with the windows,which stared back at me, glowing like a pair of curious eyes. My daydreaming was disrupted when I heard a distant sound, almost as if a cabinet door had opened and closed. I turned around and decided to head to the kitchen.
The kitchen was conveniently located left from the hall, just opposite the creaky oakwood double doors of the living room. It was surprisingly spacious, uncharacteristic of houses from the era it was built in, however it was just as run-down and hollow as the rest of the house, solemnly waiting for its owners to come back and bring life back to its gloomy state. Green square tiles lined the walls, some of them cracked or chipped in places. The cabinetry was painted an obnoxious orange-like color, as though someone had tried to mix apricot and rust. A few of the cabinet doors were scratched, and there was one slightly misaligned, sagging on its hinges as if the house itself had given up. Mocha and white chequered tiles covered the floor in perfectly uniform rows, seemingly flawless, but that appearance was broken by the stained and uneven grout threading between the chessboard of tiles.
A small table sat under the window; a pot of white lilies stood on it, beginning to wilt due to the lack of water. It surprised me that the lilies were alive. Someone must have kept watering them. But why? My attention shifted to the sink, as I thought about water in the plant. A coffee cup sat beside it, already placed there, as if it had been used recently. I hesitated as I thought again; The apartment was supposed to be empty. I didn’t look through the empty cabinets to find another one. Instead I filled the cup with water and returned to the plant, telling myself it had probably just been left behind by someone. Still, my hand trembled as I watered the plant. Standing by the window, I noticed that the lace curtain framed the glass like a spiderweb. As I turned away, the hanging cabinet door shifted slightly, settling back into place. The cigarette smell that had slowly seeped into the walls of the entire apartment was mixing with a faint echo of spices that had once filled the air. After taking one last look at the kitchen, I reached for the door and went on to explore the rest of the flat.
Once I had finished exploring the other rooms of the apartment, I finally reached the end of the hall, where the bedroom awaited me. Entering the space I was met with a cold stillness, despite the room having warmer tones. I had been told that the bedroom is the strongest echo of the person who used to live there. The room was tiny, yet the absence of time made it strangely expansive, even though it was fully furnished with antique pieces.
The bed was the centre of the space, its wood was dark and worn, however the ornate carvings shaped like floral motifs remained sharply defined. The walnut colored shellac had become brittle over time, flaking at some parts. The finish had worn thin on the edges, dulled from glossy to muted with age. The bedding was pale rose, ruffled at the edges; it matched the three enormous pillows positioned against the opulent headboard. There were two additional decorative pillows with embroidered pillowcases showcasing tiny careful stitches. The final layer on the bed was a cotton quilt, soft to the touch. The quilting lines were slightly raised, made with pale pink thread for contrast. The patchwork squares had different colors and patterns. Some were muted raspberry, while others had a blush shade. A few squares had floral patterns on a white background, the flowers outlined with the same pale pink stitch. The quilt lay heavy and still while the canopy above it stirred at the slightest breath of air. It swayed gently, like wings, as if a colossal moth had settled over the bed. The ivory color was softened yet ghost-like as though the fine lace was from another world, woven into delicate motifs, looping like tiny vines.
The vanity had the same walnut, time-softened wood as the bed. The top was worn, covered in small nicks and scratches. That’s when I noticed something was off. The room was completely untouched in a way that felt unnatural. Perfume bottles with yellowed labels, a hairbrush, a comb with bent teeth and a shallow pale yellow colored dish holding silver rings all lay motionless on the vanity. Personal items, things that shouldn’t have been left behind, yet they were still here. I noticed the faint fingertips on one of the bottles. Someone must have handled it recently, maybe during a cleaning before the auction. I opened one of the drawers out of curiosity and found a velvet lined box. I cautiously scooped it up, opening it with care to find a pair of pearl earrings, perfectly matched like two identical moons. A pearl necklace was placed beside them, clearly part of the same set. I wondered about who they belonged to and where they came from. I gently placed the box back and closed the drawer with a scrape of wood sliding against wood.
I looked at myself in the oval mirror, which was clouded slightly at the edges. As I was about to look away, I noticed something behind me in the mirror, a shape passing through the hallway. I turned quickly., but the hall was empty. I told myself the flat was supposed to be empty. I took a deep breath before turning towards the window. It was just like those of the living room. The same arch, and the feeling that it held more than just aged glass. The curtain was like a silk waterfall spilling from the arch, the material pooling softly on the floor.
I sat down in the chair belonging to the vanity, admiring the light that the curtain filtered into soft broken patterns across the room. I realized this was the only space in the flat where the smokey odor couldn’t reach, instead there was a sweet rosey scent lingering in the air, soft and persistent, like a presence that has never truly faded.
The last piece of furniture in the bedroom was a bookcase. Dust covered the wooden shelves, which buckled slightly under the decades of knowledge. The leather-bound books have faded, deep crimson to brown, and blue to stale grey. The unopened pages had yellowed, the golden lettering on the cracked spines wore off, becoming hard to read. I ran my hand along them, stopping at one that seemed oddly out of place with no visible wear. I tried to gently pull it off the shelf, instead I heard a distinct click and the whole bookcase opened up inward with a groan, like a long-closed door.
The room on the other side was small and dim, lit by a round window. The space was sparsely furnished, the floorboards bore marks and scratches as if furniture was moved out in a careless hurry. A few chests remained, their contents spilling out in a messy pile, like a river breaking its banks. Clothes, loose papers, crumpled photographs were scattered around like fallen leaves after a storm. The walls were occupied by shelves, some only half secured, while others had tilted at strange angles, their contents slid to one end, like trees after a landslide. They carried old journals, a lot of them, framed photos, faded, the glass shattered like spiderwebs, leaving tiny shards that glistened like diamonds in the few stubborn sunrays that broke through the window. It seemed as though someone was here before me, someone who should not have been. They were looking for something, but left in a hurry. Who were they? Why were they here? What were they looking for? I looked toward the circular window as if it held the answers to my flood of questions.
I heard a creak outside the room. I rushed outside, slamming the bookcase shut behind me. Only once I reached the middle of the hallway did I finally stop. Where did the noise come from? The kitchen. No. Not the kitchen. The living room. The cigarette smell drifting from it had grown stronger, fresh again, as though someone had lit another cigarette moments ago. The double doors were wide open, almost as though they were inviting me in.
I stepped into the space slowly. At first I thought the room was empty. Then I noticed the figure standing beside the window. A man leaned casually against the frame, one hand in his pocket, the other was holding a cigarette between two fingers. He took a slow drag, smoke curling upwards in the golden light. He did not seem surprised to see me. His eyes followed the passing cars below on the street. “You took your time,” he said quietly, then turned to face me, taking another drag from his cigarette as though he had all the time in the world. The afternoon light caught the sparkle in his blue eyes for a brief moment. A slow, almost amused smirk spread across his face as he looked me over. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, his tone warm and casual, as if we had known each other for years. The words caught in my throat. My mind was screaming for me to leave, to run and never look back, yet I could not move. He shifted his weight slightly, waiting. When I still said nothing, he inhaled from the cigarette again and smiled faintly.
“You look exactly like her.”