Something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of primary color, a sense of a person lurking just beyond peripheral vision. The gag reflex of strong perfume. When he spun around, nothing lurked outside his windows on Central Avenue, besides the ebb and flow of car traffic. Constant distraction right when he didn’t need it.

George Lynch had never suffered writer’s block before. He was a copywriter for hire. Wrote whatever needed to be said. Whatever paid. This project was different though. George had worked on a number of assignments for Judd McBrunt. And Judd insisted on calling, not texting, to further annoy and derail George’s train of thought. Yet he had to pick up. His office being the desk in an apartment in Bellington, a small city along California’s south coast.

Central was a busy thoroughfare like Main Street. George had grown used to the whoosh of buses, wheel noise, engine complaints. But sudden shouts or anguished howls of restless wanderers stabbed his mind and hampered progress. He wore noise-canceling headphones until they sandwiched his ears into eventual discomfort. He played ambient music, but that made him sleepy. So he tried to complete work before noon when street life peaked.

Just as he began a paragraph, his iPhone rang.

“Hey George,” Judd shouted. “I hope you’re wrapping this up. Make it happen. Deadline is Friday. Today is Tuesday, yes?”

“Sure, yeah,” he replied. “Just trying to get the correct wording, strike a delicate balance.”

Judd made guttural throat noises. “You’re not the architect on this apartment complex. You don’t draft diagrams like the big boys, just string sentences together.” He sighed. “The Commission turned down my last proposal, so you have to emphasize the benefits and…” His voice trailed off. “Not so much lie, as just leave out unfortunate facts that might sway votes in a negative direction.”

“Exactly what are those benefits?”

“You kidding? We specifically added five studio apartments at 20% below market value rent for any poor bastards making less than $100,000 a year. We’re not only catering to millionaires, my man. Equity. Diversity.”

“Diversity?”

“Filthy rich and just plain rich,” Judd replied.

“Those small apartments are off the basement garage parking area.”

“And they all overlook the river.”

“Can we really call them ‘river view?’” George asked. “Water only flows in that dry riverbed maybe three months a year. The rest of the time it’s a campground for the—”

“Not important,” Judd interrupted. “If water flows a single day, then technically those are river-view apartments.”

“But the windows are permanently sealed.”

“Of course. Extreme rain conditions could cause flooding. Not having our low-wage residents die of drowning. Lawsuits. We’ll install windows next to their front doors.”

“To open out into the garage?” George said. “Renters will be breathing exhaust fumes.”

Judd sighed. “Anywhere you live comes with variables, dangers. Not my fault. It’s the world we inhabit. I can’t control street crime, or protect anyone from a car hitting them when they brave a crosswalk.” He coughed. “Going to lunch with a councilman now. Get your ducks in a row. At the end of the day, someone is going to write this. You or a robot.”

George slid his desk against the opposite wall, so his back would be to Central Avenue. He lowered the blinds, but one tore apart, leaving a gaping view-hole. Afterwards, he started slinging horseshit on his laptop about safety features and community awareness regarding the Opulence Gardens project.

Again he felt a presence, causing him to swivel about. The after-image of a bizarre face peering into his window lingered, though no one was there. He checked, fearing a burly intruder jacked-up on street drugs. Not a soul loitered atop the slightly raised strip of garden just outside, nor nearby on the sidewalk.

George shaded his eyes to gaze across the four lanes of Central at three complexes he considered sketchy. Not criminal exactly, but halfway houses and Section 8 apartments. One bearded man, Clarence, would sit on his stoop drinking from a bottle, and engage with any pedestrian who passed. Housing was tight in Bellington so George endured it.

Worse, the people across the way partied outside on warm nights. Women laughing, boomboxes throbbing, guitars strumming. Living their best lives while George suffered in solitude.

Being morning, Clarence hadn’t started cooking over the fire pit yet. Instead, George saw an odd woman in an electric blue terrycloth bathrobe standing on her doorstep, one complex to the south. At first he guessed her to be fifty, with a mushroom explosion of frazzled brown hair and big black sunglasses. After further study, George decided she was likely seventy. Her pale face contrasting with dark dyed hair, and a slight smile creasing her lips. She stared straight into the street, not so much at George, but facing the whole world without a care or fear. Something sparked inside, convincing him that she had been the face pressing against his window just before. Even if she now loitered over sixty feet away—separated by four lanes of busy traffic.

George rushed to grab his phone and photograph her, but she vanished. However, Clarence sauntered from his apartment wearing only pajama bottoms to take the measure of the day. He scratched at his ass as if that was his job then belched with operatic volume. Once a fortnight, Clarence suffered a heart episode or brain seizure and got carted away on a stretcher. George endured the sirens and flashing ambulance lights without any contentment. The man always returned to resume his drugging and drinking.

Clarence squinted in George’s direction, registering him in the window. “Hey, old man. I see you.” He shambled back inside.

Old? George had just turned forty. Though a nice spring day, he shut his curtains. For a time he concentrated, but a powdery perfume tickled his nostrils. The stuff that made him allergic when he shopped at the neighborhood market catering primarily to senior citizens. George sneezed then blew his nose. As he made progress on the apartment complex details, he suddenly felt a hand stroke his hair then caress his neck. He jumped up, and there was the woman in a blue bathrobe—inside his apartment. Her hair a goth nightmare, lipstick-smeared lips a-tremble, complexion cadaverous. “Who are you? What do you want?”

She said, “Arthur…” then placed a gnarled hand over George’s heart. A tremendous electric shock shuddered through him as he fell to the floor. A pool of blackness enveloped him.

#

George woke reclining on a couch; a serious woman studied him. She appeared to be fortyish, dressed in conservative office clothes. Attractive if her hair hadn’t been tied back so severely. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“You were describing an imaginary intruder in your apartment, then you fainted.” She slid back on her swivel chair. “I’m Dr. Kleybur, remember? Your therapist.”

“What? Therapy is too expensive.”

“It’s paid for by your employer, Mr. McBrunt,” she replied. “He insisted I do whatever necessary to get you back to work, to meet your deadline.” She paused. “Are you up to talking about this apparition?”

“Not a hallucination,” George insisted. “I saw her outside, then somehow she got into my apartment, was touching me.”

“And was that arousing?” Dr. Kleybur crossed her legs. “My male patients wish women were interested in them enough to make the first move.”

“Wait. I’m forty and she’s about seventy. This isn’t a dating situation.”

“Or is it?” Dr. Kleybur stood. “How ageist of you to discount her due to a slight decade discrepancy.” Her smile resembled a sneer. “Rupert Murdoch dates seventy-year-old women and he must be a hundred.”

“When you’re that old you date anyone who’s still alive and can remember your phone number.” George felt exasperated. “It’s not about her age. She’s distracting me from my work.”

Dr. Kleybur’s eyes tightened. “Are you an incel?”

“Hunh? No. I was married for five years in my thirties.”

“Many married men are incels. Loveless marriages. Starved for affection.”

“Can you help me with this or not?”

“I don’t believe in your blue bathrobe woman.” Kleybur’s eyes checked the wall clock. “Next time she visits, embrace her. Remove the bathrobe that is triggering you. She will disappear the instant you take action.” The therapist wrote on a pad. “You’re overworked, lapsing into fugue states. Can’t discern the difference between vivid daydreams and reality. Try hiking and masturbating more often.”

“At the same time?”

“Whatever works. Just don’t startle the bears.” She stood. “Our session is over.”

#

The night passed without incident. George wrote, but felt unconvinced that his project claims would sway the city council. In the morning, he showered and upon pushing through the curtain, the woman in blue stood right there. “Gah!” he shouted, exposed and dripping.

“It’s just me, Arthur.” Her face, beyond the bird nest of hair and giant sunglasses, looked stiff, almost mummified. “I’ve seen you naked before.” Her voice raspy and labored. “You ain’t chopped liver. More like warm sauerkraut.” She smiled, big teeth breaking through her lips. “Remember, we used to eat the cold beet borscht at Canter’s Deli?” She laughed. “C’mere. Give me a little sugar, Ar-thur…”

With one hand covering himself, George twirled a towel around like a weapon while closing his eyes. “Go away. You don’t exist. I’m dreaming.”

George woke up splayed on the bathroom floor, puddled in his own post-shower overflow. I must have fainted, he thought while dressing. Outside in the living room he found a pair of sunglasses with a perfumy smell discarded atop his desk. He sneezed.

Later, he phoned his apartment manager. “Douchelle?”

“It’s pronounced de-shay,” the man said. “But Ryan is fine. Is this regarding the bathrobe woman you called about before? I have no knowledge—”

“I’ve had enough.” George needed to bluff. Unlike his complex neighbors, he paid his rent on time, caused no troubles, and had been there five years. “I’m turning in my 30-day notice.”

“Wait, hang on,” Ryan said. “Just because of her? Okay, I wasn’t at liberty to speak previously, but our complex used to be a motel. Your large living room was their front office.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“The owner was Arthur Feldberg, who co-managed it with his wife.” Ryan coughed. “He passed away fifteen years ago and the property got sold. His widow moved across Central Avenue to remain nearby. Crazy, but it’s a free country.”

“But she peered into my window, spoke to me, called me ‘Arthur.’”

“Yes, sure, it’s happened with previous tenants. She’s unstuck in time, confused. Once she realizes you aren’t her Arthur, she’ll stop. Totally harmless. No criminal record… in this state.”

“I don’t know.”

“Look, since you’re our best tenant, we’ll give you a free month of rent till this passes.”

George tried to get back into the flow but slumped onto his desk. A call roused him from a long nap.

“Earth to George,” Judd McBrunt said. “It’s Thursday afternoon. I need this by tomorrow morning or I’m having ChatGPT write it for me.”

“A.I.?”

“Yes. Live it up on your big writer money while you can,” Judd replied. “In a couple months you’ll be history, irrelevant.”

“I’m almost done,” George said, bluffing. “Have the presentation for you by nine a.m.”

“Put a pin in it,” Judd said. “We’ll circle back in the morning.”

George would pull an all-nighter like at college, hammer the thing out by dawn. After a break.

#

He met Dr. Kleybur at Mulch Winery in the warehouse district downtown after work hours. “May I call you Helen?”

“I suppose.” She sipped a pinot noir and looked preoccupied. “Are you related to David—

“No.” George studied his wine glass. “I’m having a syrah merlot blend, but I thought a merlot already was a blend.”

She ignored him. “You’re a writer. How brave, and sad.” Kleybur sighed. “No one reads anymore, and robots will write all content soon, mostly for other robots to read.”

“A.I. therapists will replace you too.”

She frowned. “Look, I agreed to meet you tonight, but there are boundaries.” Kleybur checked her watch.

“I wanted to see you again, socially.” George stared at her aerobicized calves. “I felt something in our session. Needed to prove to you I don’t hate women, that I like you.”

Kleybur guzzled her wine down fast and burped. “I sense you stumbling in the direction of asking me out.” She paused. “It’s very flattering and all, but I don’t date patients.”

“Well, if that’s the only issue, Helen, I hereby quit therapy.” He smiled. “Shall I order us a bottle of something now, as a non-patient?”

Kleybur shook her head. “I was hired by Judd McBrunt. So until you complete your project, I am your therapist.” She put her phone in a handbag and prepared to leave. “After that, however, anything is possible.” She winked. “You’re so different from the rich handsome men I’ve been seeing.”

“Wait, what?”

“You sound so much younger than your age and yet look older. Amazing.”

Dr. Kleybur left George confused and alone, staring at the surprisingly high wine tab. Have to finish this damn assignment.

He arrived home just before eight, the May sun beginning to set. Across Central Avenue, a full-on outdoor party raged. Clarence’s friends sang along with Ozzy and Deep Purple songs blaring through a PA speaker set on the curb. The host cooked meat that smelled like burnt rubber, bottles clinked and shattered, and one guy banged on a metal pot as if it was a cowbell. Because they shouted to converse, he gleaned that Tyrone, Muldoon, Raoul, and Debbie were present. Despite the lingering heat of the day, George sealed every window, turned on fans, and played classical music to block out the whoops and cheers.

At ten, George called the police non-emergency number to lodge a noise complaint. The dispatcher agreed to request a visit only if he gave his full name and address. George reluctantly complied. Twenty minutes later he watched through blinds as a police car pulled up, and two officers emerged to talk to the pirate. They all laughed, seemed to be familiar, almost friends. At various times they gestured toward George’s apartment. Clarence shook his head, glowering, while one cop nodded.

After the car departed, there followed a blissful interstice of peace where George fully focused on detailed descriptions of wheelchair access ramps and environmentally friendly sewer pipes. Then, “Paradise City” by Guns & Roses blasted across the avenue like a cannon shot of sound. Axl Rose’s voice pitched up near a squalling cat. George had to finish the copy.

He walked into the streetlamp-lit night. Maybe he could reason with the man by stating his dilemma, and as a last ditch, offer him $10 to buy more hooch. George waited for a break in the 40 mph traffic on Central before crossing. Somehow, Clarence noticed George standing there. He pointed with his index finger, then raised his middle one.

“I know you,” Clarence yelled over the party noise. “The old dude who wears pants. Been trying to stop our party, so we can all be as miserable and lonely as you.”

Old dude? Clarence was at least fifteen years his senior. George began to doubt his plan. How many locks were on the apartment’s front door? He just waved and smiled, hoping to deescalate the tension.

Clarence advanced to rest on a parked car in the street. He wore a beater, baggy boxer shorts, and a schmatte wrapped over his head. “I’m coming for you,” he shouted. Suddenly, the man lurched across Central Avenue holding a two-pronged granny fork with a hot dog impaled upon it. Perhaps due to thundering music ricocheting off apartment complexes, he didn’t hear the wailing siren approaching. George tried to warn him, but to no avail. The ambulance came rocketing around the blind curve on Central, striking the pirate at high speed. Clarence was thrown onto the hood of a pickup truck. The ambulance screeched to a halt and its occupants in uniforms dashed over to his sprawled form.

“It’s Clarence,” one of them said. “Jeez, didn’t expect to see him for another week.”

“I’ll bring the stretcher,” the other said. The music stopped as if a cord had been yanked, and the other partygoers drifted off along Central before the police returned.

George had to admit relief over the turn of events. Being skewered by a bacon fork had not been on his bucket list, and Clarence remained alive, though likely out of commission for a long time. His back ached though and he felt weary. Strange.

As George entered his apartment, he thought of finishing the assignment, getting paid, getting laid. Dr. Helen Kleybur undressing. Good things ahead. George locked his door and the lights inside sparked then died. Power out. Fuse box useless. He fumbled around in the dark until he saw her. Smiling wide in her electric blue bathrobe and fuzzy pink bunny slippers.

“Arthur,” she said. “I’ve waited so long.”

Make her vanish, George thought. He opened then pulled off her bathrobe, but she didn’t disappear. Instead, he found himself standing naked, withered and old. Just like her. His jaw animated on its own. “Gladys…”

“Arthur, it’s late now. Come to bed with mama.” Her sandpaper hand gripped him down low. “I’ll take care of you.” A perfume kiss. “Gesundheit. I’m so glad you found your way back home.”

– Max Talley

Author’s Note: This story was inspired by the distracting activity outside my apartment window on a very busy California street. None of the characters described are real, but I began to think of all the past people and families that have lived in apartments and homes, including my own place. In some way, our residences are haunted by past lives and experiences. What if such spirits and survivors remain nearby, trying to get back home?