The landlord, a gruff man named Sr. Escalante, met him at the building the very next morning. The structure was old, its façade a little cracked and weathered, but it had a certain charm. “Are you sure you want to see this place?” Escalante asked as they stood at the entrance. His tone was cautious, almost hesitant.
“Yes,” Joaquín replied, confused by the question. “Is there something wrong with it?”
The man hesitated. “It’s... not for everyone. There have been... stories about the place.”
“What kind of stories?” Joaquín asked, his curiosity piqued.
The landlord scratched his chin, avoiding eye contact. “Just silly superstitions. If you don’t scare easily, you’ll be fine.”
Determined to save money and intrigued by the aura of mystery, Joaquín followed Escalante up the creaky staircase to the third floor. The apartment smelled faintly of dust and neglect, but sunlight poured in through large windows, revealing a space with incredible potential. It was exactly what Joaquín needed—a blank canvas to complement his photography work and a quiet space to develop his film in peace.
By the time they were discussing terms, the landlord’s reluctance had vanished, replaced by the eagerness of someone desperate to close a deal. Joaquín didn’t mind. He signed the lease on the spot and moved in the very next day.
On his first evening in the apartment, Joaquín set about unpacking and arranging his things. The place felt oddly still, as if it had been untouched for years, but he brushed it off as his imagination. After hanging a few of his favorite photographs on the walls, he opened the living room window to let in the cool night air. That’s when he saw it for the first time.
Across the narrow street was a crumbling building with an imposing presence. Its windows were mostly dark, save for one: a small, square pane faintly illuminated by a dim red light. Joaquín leaned forward, squinting. There was a figure standing in the window, perfectly still.
His first thought was that it might be a mannequin or some kind of odd decoration, but as he watched, the figure shifted slightly, its silhouette unmistakably human. Joaquín’s stomach tightened. He reached for his camera, instinct taking over, but by the time he raised it, the figure was gone.
Joaquín stood frozen by the window for several minutes, waiting to see if it would reappear, but the building remained silent and still. Eventually, he told himself it was probably just another resident across the street, albeit one with peculiar habits. He shook his head, laughed softly at his own unease, and got ready for bed.
Yet, as he lay in the unfamiliar bed, sleep refused to come. The image of the figure in the red-lit window replayed in his mind like an uninvited memory. Who had they been? Why had they been standing there, unmoving, watching the night? And why had their sudden disappearance felt so unsettling?
When Joaquín finally drifted off, it was with a sense of unease that he couldn't quite explain. Unbeknownst to him, his life had already begun to tangle with the dark secrets of the building across the street—and of the apartment he now called home.
