Hello. Here's a creepy story I published today over on The Hairpin:
I think everyone who lives in Chicago has rented the type of apartment my then-boyfriend, now-husband Steve was living in when this happened: an old, dusty brick building with hallways that featured windows that don't open, worn carpeting and the smell of shoes. The apartments themselves are usually one- or two-bedrooms, with hardwood floors, dinged-up walls and bathrooms with tubs that have seen much better days. They're not modern at all, but they're roomy enough and they'll do from the ages of approximately 23 to 29.
Steve lived on the second floor in his building in Lincoln Square. It was an upgrade from the flimsy apartment he rented when he lived in the howling wastelands of Logan Square, but I still didn't come visit too often, thanks to his cats, to whom I was allergic. But since he kept them out of the bedroom and the place was adjacent to several cute restaurants, I slept over maybe once a week.
Steve didn't know his neighbors that well, but one week noticed that the door to the apartment below his was slightly ajar for a day or two.