The Ghost of Apartment L
The bathroom floor creaked at the same time every night. The cat watched some invisible movement crossing the room. A deep sadness hung over the place. Did someone die in Apartment L?
Here’s one of my first stories posted on Ring Around the Basin during Halloween. If you’re a new subscriber, I hope you’ll enjoy this true story. And for my faithful long-term subscribers, thank you for sticking around and re-reading this tale.
The only disturbing thing about Apartment L was the squeaky floor in the bathroom. Usually, when someone stood in front of the vanity, the boards would whine and pop under the linoleum. Other than that, nothing. No shadowy apparitions. No voices in the night. No chains dragging across the floor.
Oh, there was that time my roommate, Leigh, and I were lying in bed and heard the sound of someone in heavy boots running across the roof. We sat up and gasped. “That was no paranormal manifestation,” Leigh said.
I just hoped whatever or whoever it was didn't try to open the balcony slider. "Did we lock it before we went to bed?" I strained to recall.
Months later, Leigh moved out. I must admit I was relieved to be roommate-free. Besides, with my boyfriend and I planning a wedding in the near future, I wouldn't be alone for long. And the apartment wasn't really that creepy. In fact, it was a spacious two-room flat with a balcony opening to a lush forest of eucalyptus and the wildlife that lived there. It was the best of both worlds: a woodsy home in the middle of downtown Santa Cruz, CA. So close to the action, yet serene and quiet.
Sometimes in the evening, though, the silence would almost hum in my ears. One night, I looked up from my reading to see my cat, Princess, gazing toward the bedroom door, ears perked. Nothing stood there, but her attention was riveted there for several minutes. Then she turned her head slowly as if watching someone moving toward the bathroom.
The apartment remained silent. Not even the neighbors were arguing. Then it happened. The bathroom floor squeaked. Not just one little squeak. No, it was like someone stood in front of the sink, their weight shifting on the floorboards. It lasted perhaps two or three minutes then stopped.
That happened many times. When there are other people in the apartment, such a subtle sound didn't register. But then there was the melancholy.
As my wedding day approached, I found it strange that a pall of sadness occasionally filled the bedroom. Nothing creepy or eerie. Just sad. Deeply, inconsolably sad.
Now this struck me as truly odd. I loved Jeff and looked forward to our life together. In fact, I was scared to death that something would happen to end the relationship. He was my best friend as well as my Beloved. No, there was nothing for me to be sad about at all.
I wondered if someone had died in the apartment. The idea entered my mind as if someone had whispered in my ear. Why not? The building had been around for a decade or two. Santa Cruz, while not crime-ridden, provided many opportunities for relationship disappointments and violence. I decided to ask Jerry, the manager, about the history of apartment L.
Jerry stared at me as if I'd questioned his marital fidelity. Some little secret lurked behind his eyes. He settled back with a deep breath and cast his eyes downward while he filed through his mental Rolodex.
“As a matter of fact,” he finally said, “there was a young woman named Mary who committed suicide in that apartment. She was about your age. Her boyfriend jilted her.”
Jerry's demeanor softened after he revealed this tale. An elderly man, he volunteered at the suicide hotline in town. He often asked me to volunteer, but I couldn't imagine myself advising people in such crisis. My own life had been tip-toeing the edges of stability until I met Jeff. Perhaps this was why Mary made herself known to me.
“Why do you ask?” he said, shoving his hands into his overall pockets. I told him about the squeaking floor and the gloomy atmosphere of the apartment.
He didn't seem the least bit startled. Instead, he shrugged and said he needed to go in for lunch. Not very much seemed to invade Jerry's emotional landscape. He was one of the more placid people I'd met in town. Then again, he'd undoubtedly seen worse and had grown complacent. Indeed, he was a calming presence for someone who's life is in disarray.
The information Jerry had given me satisfied my curiosity, though. As a young woman living alone in a community where most men were opportunistic, Mary's story of heartbreak came uncomfortably close to mine and that of many women I knew. I felt a deep connection to this strange little ghost who haunted my bathroom.
I reckoned she lived in apartment L during the 1960s or early 70s in this center of hippie culture. I wondered how deeply the changing sexual mores and challenges to childhood norms had effected Mary's ultimate turn toward taking her own life. They had certainly shifted my center of gravity. The old-fashioned social rules caused enough confusion for me; then I stumbled and faltered even further while examining new ideas and values.
Did Mary struggle with these cultural minefields? Or was her dilemma far more personal? Perhaps Mary's man was the love of her life. One day, she's riding high on love and trust only to have it all collapse around her. A lot of women, myself included, enter a dream state when a relationship seems to be going well. While no commitments or promises had been made, there is always that hope that a family will be in the woman's future: stability, children, being cherished by the person who holds her heart. Then that dream is crushed, sometimes with great cruelty.
I knew then of two women who had managed to bring a relationship to the eve of the wedding. Their men convinced them that, since they were getting married the next day, why not consummate the union tonight? After the deed was done, prospective husband disappeared. And the woman is left feeling violated and sullied among her judgmental friends.
For Mary, who knows? Maybe he was just one more in a long line of users and abusers. It's an ancient story. Perhaps she couldn't see the end of that line of aborted dreams. Her personal drama mirrored mine all too well.
Until Jeff entered the scene, I also wondered if my present existence would be the pinnacle of my social success. I shuddered, thinking of the time or two I also had considered Mary's solution; standing in front of that vanity in the bathroom, wondering if it was worth the effort anymore. Career and family dreams seemed to drop away with the pages of my calendar.
Whatever her story, there was little more I could drag out of Jerry's memory. But there was something I could do for Mary. At that time, I was part of a religious group whose body of literature included a short prayer for the departed. It was one I bookmarked and recited often for those I loved; although for some reason I couldn't understand why I could never memorize it. Like the spirit world it acknowledged, committing it to memory was just beyond my reach.
O my God! O forgiver of sins, bestower of gifts, dispeller of afflictions. Verily, I beseech Thee to forgive the sins of such as have abandoned the physical garment and have ascended to the spiritual world.O MyLord! Purify them from trespasses, dispel their sorrows, and change their darkness into light. Cause them to enter the garden of happiness, cleanse them with the most pure water, and grant them to behold Thy splendors on the loftiest mount. ~~ Abdu'l BahaEvery day, I sat in silence to calm my thoughts. Then I read aloud the little prayer in Mary's name. Months passed. Jeff and I married and entered our new life together. A year later, when our daughter was born, the general hubbub of the household drowned out the creaking floorboards. Within a short time, the extra sounds on the floorboards came from our daughter crawling throughout the apartment.
I hoped my prayers on Mary's behalf had at least quieted her turmoil if not carried her through the Light. It very well could've been that Mary's presence was only residual energy imprinted in the bathroom's floorboards. Who knows? Yet, I felt, after hearing her story, like I had another roommate, one that I could very closely hold next to my heart. A soul mate of a more spiritual kind.
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All my books, Paradise Ridge, When the Horses Come and Go, and Ghost in the Forest are currently available on Kindle. Ghost in the Forest, is also available in paperback for ten bucks. Paradise Ridge is out-of-print, but the Kindle version is re-edited and better quality. Hard copies of “When the Horses Come and Go” are gone unless that dusty box in the corner still has some.
Book Review of Ghost in the Forest:
"Ghost in The Forest" is a great read! Take note People. If you love stories about environmentalism and nature, its clash with urban mindsets, as well as personal transformation, this is the book for you!
"Ghost in The Forest" is a quick 126-page read. It's the story of Dori, a woman trapped in a mix of grief over parental loss and refusing to accept how her hometown and her friends have changed over the years. Because of this, Dori has become a recluse and a self-imposed misanthrope who finds more comfort amongst the hiking trails around her hometown of Morristown than in her dealings with the raw reality of other humans.
The book, in some ways, resembled Edward Abbey’s “Desert Solitaire” in that the story follows a protagonist's love of nature and angst about humans encroaching on it. In this case, it’s how Morristown is transforming into a mountain biking destination where cyclists run rampant on trails and nature.
However, a tragedy involving said mountain biking becomes a major pivot point for Dori, leading to a series of events that eventually bring about personal evolution and discovery.
If you're a nature lover, this book is a must-read. It beautifully portrays the clash between environmentalism and urban mindsets and the journey of personal transformation. The book's vivid descriptions of nature and the protagonist's love for it will surely intrigue you.
Paradise Ridge Review by western author D. B. Jackson:
If you draw circle roughly around an area that includes northern Nevada, southern Oregon, and southern Idaho, within that circle exists a culture and people who live a lifestyle largely untouched by modern values. These are the "buckaroos" and Basque characters author Sue Cauhape brings to life in her literary novel, "Paradise Ridge".
Leandro, the illegitimate seventh son of patriarch Xavier Arriaga and his mistress, Gisela, is at the center of this intriguing story that travels exceedingly successfully at both the personal level of the characters, as well as the compelling level where the story is told.
Cauhape writes in a literary style that reminds me of Annie Poulx. Paradise Ridge, on the surface, appears to be an upscale Western novel...once inside the pages, you will soon discover a potential classic waiting to be discovered.
I rated this book a 5...because that's all the stars there were.
Such an inspiring story, Sue, and so tenderly told. One of my favorite Baha'i prayers. Thank you.
I wish I knew those prayers when I too lived in a haunted apartment. Of course I'm not sure the prayer would have worked against the lousy neighbors and landlord...