Marble Springs

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple as you pulled your beat-up '89 Honda Civic into the parking lot of Camelot Apartments. The faux-castle architecture felt less whimsical and more like a crumbling facade against the backdrop of your tired existence.

You killed the engine, the car sputtering its last breath of the day. You were finally home, though 'home' felt like a temporary holding cell. As you climbed the stairs to apartment 239, the familiar anxiety began to coil in your gut. It wasn't just the weight of the day's work or the lingering grief from the fire; it was the knowledge of who was waiting for you inside.

You hesitated for a moment, hand on the doorknob. Another night, another encounter with the spectral residents who shared your space – and your secrets. Taking a deep breath, you turned the knob and pushed the door open, the hinges protesting with a long, drawn-out screech.