The Woman Upstairs

From Down A Crooked Road;

Tales of Mystery & Suspense

by Ty Treadwell

The music played non-stop, as if it were the

soundtrack to Margie Banyans miserable life. Not just one style, either. There was salsa courtesy of the Latin

couple next door, heavy metal from the teenage boy

across the hall, and rap from the brothers in the apartment

downstairs. The music bled through Margies walls, floor, and ceiling from every direction like a

schizophrenic chorus, the songs overlapping each another

until they formed one frantic, meaningless howl.

What bothered Margie even more than the music was

the vibration. Every time a heavy bass note boomed, the

artwork on her walls would shiver and her knickknacks and framed photos skittered across the

table. The sound they made brought back a disturbing memory from Margies childhood; opening her curtains on a hot summer night to find a huge moth trapped between her bedroom

window and the mesh screen. Five-year-old Margie had buried herself beneath the covers and

tried to ignore the mad tapping of wings against glass as the insect fluttered wildly in the small

space. When she peeked behind the curtains the next morning, the moth lay dead on the

windowsill.

Every now and then the music would pause and other sounds would take its place. The walls

in the building were so thin that Margie heard every cough, sneeze, and raised voice from the

surrounding apartments. A sudden laugh always made her jump, and if someone had an angry

phone conversation, Margie felt like she was the one being yelled at. The intimate sounds were

the worst, though. Moans of passion sometimes seemed so close that Margie had to press her

hands to her ears as she lay blushing in bed.

She had lived in plenty of small and dismal places, although none had been this noisy. First

was the one-bedroom apartment she grew up in. Her next stop was a college dorm room with

cement block walls which always reminded Margie of a fallout shelter. After graduation, a

studio apartment was all she could afford while she worked two jobs to pay off her school loans.

Margie had majored in business and dreamed of running a small landscaping company so she

could work outside every day. The years dragged on and the loans just never got paid off,

though, so that dream was eventually replaced by a new one where a kind man noticed Margie as

she waited tables at the diner or stocked shelves at the department store and whisked her away to

a huge house with a huge yard where she finally had the space she desperately craved.

Bob Banyan was the man who made that dream come true. He wasnt handsome, but he had a nice smile, good manners, and, best of all, a large house in the suburbs with a sun porch, three

bedrooms, and a den bigger than Margies entire apartment. Bob worked long hours at the construction company he co-owned with a man named John Bliss, so most of the time Margie

had the entire place to herself. Sometimes she would wander through the house with her arms

outstretched like a fairy tale princess enjoying her first castle.

Three years later, Bob Banyan threw cold water in her face and woke her up from that

delicious dream. Margie didnt know the details, but suddenly Bob and John Bliss were arguing constantly and the word embezzlement came up again and again. During one heated exchange,

John stabbed a finger at Bobs chest and snarled Anybody else wouldve had you thrown in jail. Consider yourself lucky, Bob.

The big house was put up for sale the next day, with Bob mumbling something about trouble

at the construction company and debts that needed to be paid. A week later, he and Margie

moved into a tiny apartment overlooking the highway.

Their new home was cramped and reeked of cigarette smoke. The carpet was dark graythe color of storm clouds, or grave dirt, or a dead moth lying on a windowsilland the walls were bumpy and dotted with nail holes. The building had six stories and their place was on the

fifth floor with neighbors above, below, and on three sides. There were only two windows, one

in the kitchen and one in the living room. The other rooms faced the inside of the building and

were as dark as caves.

At her other apartments, Margie always had an outdoor refuge she could escape to; a shady

bench, a peaceful lake, a quiet spot under a tree. She didnt dare look for such a spot at the new apartment, though. Shifty-looking men lingered on the buildings front steps, talking too loud and drinking from paper bags. The neighbors on her own floor scared her just as badly. The

woman across the hall spent most of her time yelling at her teenage son. The Latin couple next

door shot hostile glances at Margie every time they saw her. On the other side was an elderly

man who wandered around in shorts and a tank top, muttering vague obscenities.

Since she rarely left the apartment, the only thing Margie had to look forward to was Bob

coming home at night. After the move, Bob would leave each morning dressed in jeans and an

old shirt, carrying his heavy tool box. The first few days he came back before noon, drank three

beers with lunch, then slept on the couch until dinner time. Eventually he started coming home

later and later, usually covered with dust, dirt, paint, or a combination of all three. Bob said it

was great to work as much or as little as he liked, but the phone conversations Margie overheard

told a different story.

I might as well hang out at the gas station with the Mexicans, Bob muttered to one of his friends one night. Im lucky if I work three days a week, and Ill take any little piss-ant job they give me.

One day Bob came home covered in white powder that he called sheet rock dust. It was all

over his toolbox, too, which he always plopped down beside the front door. When Bob left for

work the next morning, Margie found a white rectangular mark on the dark gray carpet, like a

ghostly footprint. While she was trying to vacuum the mess up, someone pounded on the door.

Margie sneaked a look through the peephole and saw a man she didnt recognize. He was young, dark-haired, with huge diamond earrings in both ears.

Yo, Tiffany! Open up! The man dropped his fist and waited for a moment, then pounded again. Tiffany! I want my money! Open the damn door before I break it down!

Just then the woman across the hall stuck her head out and said something. The man

frowned at Margies door for a moment then turned and entered the other apartment. It took half an hour for Margies heart to stop thudding in her chest. With no job and no place to go, staying busy wasnt easy. Margie cleaned every day, not

just to give herself something to do but also because no matter how hard she scrubbed or

polished, the place always looked grimy. It was filled with bugs, too. Not just ants and roaches

but things Margie had never seen before, like fat centipedes with dozens of wispy legs. Every

time Margie saw one she would scream, then the old man next door would yell for her to shut up.

In a fit of boredom one day, Margie watched her first soap opera. She had always preferred

books to TV, but found the glamorous actors and exotic story lines instantly appealing. The

characters became her extended family and she remained glued to the set for hours a day, fretting

over Crystal and Brads strained marriage or scrutinizing the mysterious doctor who had just moved to Lookout Cove with a past full of secrets. The day Bob told her they would have to cut

off the cable because of money problems, Margie nearly fainted from anxiety. Bob wound up

pawning their flat-screen TV and listening to his ball games on the radio instead.

Without the distraction of her soap opera family, the dark little apartment seemed to grow

smaller every day. Sometimes Margie could feel the walls closing in on her like the sides of a

trash compactor. To fight the anxiety, she would open the living room window and lean out as

far as she could, pointing her face to the sun while she sucked in mouthfuls of fresh air. One day

while she was doing it, the men loitering in front of the building started shouting at her.

Jump! one of them yelled, raising his beer bottle as if he were making a toast. She aint got the guts, someone else remarked. Wait til she hits the ground, the first one said. Then well see what kind of guts shes

got. The whole group laughed as Margie ducked back inside and slid the window shut. It was

the last time she ever opened it.

One day Bob came home from work early. It was a chilly November day and he was

coughing and blowing his nose, which was full of both mucus and sheet rock dust. He left his

toolbox in the middle of the floor before he staggered off to bed, and after Margie tripped over it

the second time she finally tried to move it. It was too heavy to lift so she dragged it over to the

front door, leaving a long trail of sheet rock dust on the carpet. After she caught her breath and

straightened up, Margie noticed the voice for the first time.

sick of all this, and you should be, too. Its totally ridiculous. No music was playing at the moment, so Margie heard the words loud and clear. The voice

was female, calm but assertive.

The problem wont fix itself, you know. I need you to take a deep breath, focus, then get down to business.

Margie got a mental image of some lady executive with perfect hair and a thousand-dollar

suit giving orders to a subordinate. She stood and waited to hear what the woman would say

next, but there was nothing but silence. Margie was inches from the front door. Had the voice

come from outside? She opened the door and peeked out, but the hallway was empty. No

footsteps on the nearby stairs, either. The voice had sounded close, but since the walls were so

thin it couldve come from any direction. Bob went back to work the next morning, so Margie spent the day skimming through a stack

of travel magazines she found near the trash chute in the hallway. Instead of reading the articles,

though, she only looked at the pictures. Her favorites were the beach photos, especially the ones

facing the ocean. The turquoise water was beautiful, but what Margie really loved was all that

empty space surrounding it.

At one point, as she sat staring at a full-page spread of the Caribbean Sea, Margie thought

she heard the womans voice again. It was so low she couldnt catch the words, but the tone was firm and direct. Margie crept to the front door and looked through the peephole. No one was

there, but the voice seemed louder now. Was it coming through one of the walls? Should she

fetch a drinking glass and press her ear against it the way people did in the movies?

Margie walked toward the kitchen and the voice grew fainter. She stopped, went back to the

door, then moved a few feet in each direction until the voice was loud and clear again. She

looked down and found herself standing on the rectangular footprint left by Bobs toolbox, that ugly white mark that refused to come out of the carpet no matter how hard she scrubbed.

what I told you before? the woman was saying. The problem wont go away on its own, you know.

Margie glanced around the room, then she looked up. Directly above her head was an air

vent with a rusty metal cover. The voice must be coming from the apartment upstairs, snaking

its way through the vent like a breath of warm, salty sea air.

Are you just stupid? the woman asked. Really, now. How much longer before you take care of this?

If the voice hadnt come from above, Margie wouldve assumed it was the angry woman across the hall. She called her son stupid all the time. Margie sometimes saw people on the

stairway leading to the top floor, but she had no idea who lived directly above her. She

remembered a black woman with lots of tattoos, and there was also a plump older lady who

walked with a cane. She had seen that woman with a younger girl who had similar features. Her

daughter? And was the older woman now giving her a lecture?

A burst of salsa music suddenly exploded through the wall. Margie stayed under the vent

and listened for the voice again, but the music was so loud it swallowed up any other sounds.

The man with the diamond earrings came back the next day, but he picked the right door this

time. When Margie heard him pounding, she crept to her normal spot at the peephole and

watched. The teenage boy answered the door with a nervous look on his face.

Get your mama, the man snarled. The boy shook his head but the man with the earrings shoved him backwards then followed him inside and slammed the door. Margie heard shouting,

both male and female, then the sound of something breaking. A moment later the man came out

with a wad of bills in his hand. The angry woman followed him, grabbing for the bills, but the

man slapped her away and she fell to her knees. The woman stayed on the floor and cried as the

man vanished down the stairs.

Later that day Margie was scrubbing the white imprint left by the toolbox when she heard

the female voice again. She stood up and cocked her head, straining to get her ear closer to the

air vent on the ceiling.

once and for all, thats what Id do, the woman was saying. Why do you let him treat you that way? The mans nothing but trouble.

Was she talking about the man with the diamond earrings? Margie had no idea how air

ducts worked. What if they zigzagged up and down the walls and across the ceilings and floors

like a maze? She could be hearing a conversation from across the hall, two floors down, or even

from the other side of the building. There were vents in every room, though, and the voice only

seemed to come from the one near the front door. What if she could find a blueprint of the

building? Could she figure it out then, or would it be nothing but a tangle of crisscrossed lines

that shed never be able to decipher? Margie sighed and went to the living room window, pressing her face against it so she could

peer out over the highway to the open space beyond. It was winter and the glass was cold, but it

felt good against her cheek, like putting ice on a wound. How long had it been since she left the

apartment? Five days? Six? Since the last time Bob drove her to the store to buy food. Margie

stared at the bare trees, simple and beautiful without their leaves, and at the calm blue sky above.

Bob found her standing that way when he came home from work. He shook his head, muttered

something under his breath, then stripped off his filthy shirt and headed for the shower.

The man with the diamond earrings came back twice the next week, and the soap opera

across the hall became Margies prime fixation. Why did the man always ask for money? Was he a pimp, and could the angry woman be a hooker? Maybe she was an addict who bought drugs

from the man. But then why was he always so mean to her?

Still pondering , Margie went to the kitchen to make some tea. As she reached for a cup, a

huge roach crawled over the rim and fell to the counter top. Margie jumped back and stood there

trembling as the roach vanished beneath the stove.

Whats your timeline? the voice from the air vent said. A week, a month, a year? Margie ran to the front door and put her eye to the peephole. No activity from the apartment

across the hall, and she hadnt heard anyone enter or leave all day. Get it through your head, the woman continued. That man is no good for you. Silence again. Why did Margie never hear the other side of the conversation? Could the

woman be talking out loud to herself? Or maybe she was talking on the phonebut that would rule out the angry woman as the one being spoken to. A moment later Margie heard banging

sounds and peeked outside to find the plump older lady with the cane coming down the stairs.

Had she been the one talking? Giving advice to her daughter over the phone, maybe?

Bob came home miserable that night, still fighting a cold that wouldnt go away. He ate dinner in silence then grabbed a beer and headed for the couch. Margie followed with a travel

magazine in her hand and started describing the vacation spots shed read about. Vacation? he mumbled. Hell, Margie, we cant even afford Christmas this year. The gray December days made the apartment seem even smaller. Sometimes Margie spent a

whole afternoon huddled beneath the window with her travel magazines. If she lay in a square of

sunlight as she flipped through the pages, she could almost picture herself lying on one of those

beaches with a warm breeze in her hair and miles of glorious emptiness stretched out before her.

As the weather got worse, Bob worked fewer days. Once he spent an entire week at home,

slouched on the sofa with a beer in his hand the whole time. It seemed like beer was the only

thing in the refrigerator. Margie couldnt even remember the last time they bought groceries. The voice spoke from the air vent at least once a day now. With Bob home so often, Margie

started using his toolbox as a step stool while she listened to it.

You need to finish this once and for all, the woman said one day. I dont care how you do it, just get rid of him now. A chill raced down Margies spine as she strained to hear the next comment. Get rid of who? A husband? A boyfriend? The man with the diamond earrings?

What the hell are you doing? Bob asked. He stood in the hallway in his bathrobe, his hair still damp from the shower.

Nothing, Margie whispered as she stepped down from the toolbox. Well, instead of doing nothing, why not clean this place up? Its a disaster area. Margie nodded and went to the closet to take out the vacuum cleaner.

The brothers downstairs were especially noisy that night. Probably throwing some kind of

party. Margie woke at three in the morning feeling cold and hungry. Was it the rap music or the

painful knot in her stomach that had woken her up? She slid out of bed, careful not to disturb

Bob, and made her way down the dark hallway to the kitchen. The heavy bass thumps followed

her, making the pictures on the walls shiver.

That sound. The vibration. Like a moth trapped between a window and a screen, fluttering

madly as it tried to escape.

Margie opened the refrigerator. Four cans of beer, one egg, and half a bottle of mustard.

Its time, the womans voice said. You cant wait any longer. Margie paused, lit by the glow from the open refrigerator. She never heard the voice this

late at night. Of course, she was hardly ever up this latebut how had she heard it so clearly this far from the air vent? And with the music blasting from downstairs, too?

She shut the refrigerator and walked to the front door. Bobs toolbox sat in its usual spot below the vent. Margie stood beside it and looked up.

Once you start, youll see how easy it is, the woman was saying. But you need to do it now, while you still have the strength.

What a strange time of night to be talking about something like this. Maybe the daughter of

the woman upstairs had called in hysterics. She might have been beaten. Abused. Maybe the

mother was only trying to save her daughters life. You were finally happy, then he took it all away with his greediness. His stupidity. Didnt

he know what this would do to you? How could he be so damn selfish? Margie stood there waiting for the next comment, but all she heard was the loud bump-

BUMP, bump-BUMP from downstairs and the skittering sound of her knick-knacks moving

across the table. Fluttering like moth wings.

Bam! Startled, Margie looked down at Bobs toolbox. Did the lid just slam shut? But it had been closed a moment ago.

Swing as hard as you can, the woman said. What was that supposed to mean? Margie looked around the empty room and shivered. Bob had turned the heat off to save money and the

apartment was as cold as an igloo. She had to get back to bed before she froze to death.

Dont stop until youre free, the woman said when Margie was halfway down the hall. Strange that she could still hear the voice so clearly. Was it coming from one of the other vents

now? Maybe all the vents? Just keep bringing it down, over and over. No, it was actually coming from somewhere closer. Just a few inches above her head, maybe. Right behind her ear.

Firm but quiet. As intimate as a whisper.

The hallway was dark and Margie put her hands out in front of her so she wouldnt bump into anything. One hand felt different than the other, though. Heavier. And the fingers were

curled into a fist. Holding something.

Bump-BUMP, bump-BUMP. Pictures shivering, just like Margie in the cold apartment.

Shivering like a moth caught between the window and the screen. A moth beating its wings until

they were tattered and bloody.

Dont be afraid, the voice said. Think about what might happen if you dont do it. How will you end up? Starved? Frozen? Lying dead on the windowsill?

Margie crept quietly into the bedroom, but Bob was already awake. He grunted, rolled over,

and clicked on the bedside lamp. The light was only a foot from his head, and Margie felt

strangely drawn to the glowing bulb.

Fluttering madly, wings torn, desperate to get out get out get out Bob rubbed his eyes and blinked, hair sticking up in all directions. He looked at Margie and

frowned. What are you doing with my hammer? Over and over, the voice said again, so close to Margies ear that she could almost feel the

womans breath on her skin. Raise it up and bring it down, just like I told you. Bob stared at her, still blinking, his eyelids fluttering like a moth trapped between a window

and a screen, its wings ripped to shreds, frantic, angry, screaming, desperate, pounding at the

window, pounding and pounding, over and over, over and over, until it was free.

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