It was the last building of the day: a tall gray rectangle on a humdrum street in a forgettable neighborhood. The kind of place where the average tenant was a pearl-clutching eighty-year-old who wouldn't buzz the door open for Christ himself.

In my work as a gas meter inspector, I'd run into a lot of types like that. Even with my official-looking vest and clipboard, people were suspicious…and I couldn't say I blamed them.

After all, any psychopath could buy an official-looking vest and clipboard.

By my third week on the job, I could size up buildings by sight. I could usually tell whether I'd be dealing with busy professionals working from home, families with multiple children who were almost sure to be out of the house when I buzzed, or packs of young people who left their doors unlocked and often didn’t even know what a gas meter was.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw a bucket propping open the exterior door. The corridor was gloomy, but I could just make out a pudgy retiree in a sweater vest mopping the hallway.

"Good afternoon," I waved from the street, "I'm for the gas company…"

"Well, come on in then, lad." His teeth glinted in the dim light, and for some reason, those words sounded like a threat.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I realized I did not want to step into that dark hallway, with its ugly wood paneling and wet tile floor that smelled like bleach. The old man leaned on his mop expectantly.

If I didn't register the building today, I told myself, I'd just have to come back tomorrow; it would be out of my way and off my route, and I was already barely meeting my quota…

I sighed and walked toward the janky, old-fashioned elevator.

"This is a safe neighborhood. Usually." The old man commented as I passed. I realized why his voice seemed to snarl and why the light reflected so strangely on his teeth: they were made of metal, some kind of weird prosthetic…

The old man must have noticed how I recoiled, because he held out a hand to steady me.

"A few weeks ago I was walking down that very street outside the door when a group of teenagers came running up behind me. They grabbed my wallet and my watch, and when I tried to scream, they smashed out my teeth with a bottle." He smiled, as if to demonstrate the delinquents' ghastly work. "Going up?"

At least the guy didn't follow me into the elevator, I thought, as I rode the rickety thing up to the top floor. As usual, I’d work my way down, knocking on doors and marking down the responses I received. No one was home in apartment 5A, and at apartment 5B, a handwritten note was tapped to the door:

Gas Meter: 8043.24 – We DO NOT Open The Door For Strangers!

I rolled my eyes and took note of the number before continuing down the stairs. There was no natural light in the hallway, which was lit only by dusty wall lamps. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up, but I couldn't figure out just what it was about the place that unnerved me so much. It wasn’t like this was the rundown tenement where a junkie had chased around me with a dirty needle, or the eerily-clean penthouse where I’d found a heiress floating in a bathtub with her wrists cut…

Even so, each time I knocked, I found myself hoping that no one (and no thing) would answer. When the door of apartment 4B opened just a crack, I think I actually jumped backward a little.

“Yeah?” A cigarette dangled from the lips of the overweight blonde woman peering at me from the other side of the chain. She looked me over with worry–maybe even fear–in her tired blue eyes. “What?”

“Hi, I’m here to–”

“Oh. Right. The gas. Well, c’mon in…” I could hear the echo of cartoons and squealing kids from deep inside the apartment. Something bothered me about the way the woman had answered the door, but I was halfway to the meter before I realized what it was: she’d opened up almost as soon as I’d knocked. Like she’d been listening for something…

As I scooted around overflowing stacks of cardboard boxes, I told myself that I was letting my imagination run away with me.

“Sorry,” the blonde woman coughed. “We’re still unpacking.”

“It’s alright,” I said, slipping on a child’s sock.

“I see why they can’t keep tenants, though.” She blew out a cloud of smoke. “Whoever’s in the apartment below us makes noise like you wouldn’t believe. If I had a choice, I’d get us outta here, but I can’t afford it. And even if I could, I wouldn’t wanna do that to the kids. The move was rough on them…they keep having these dreams, you know? ‘Night terrors,’ the doctor calls them…”

“Yep, well, change is hard when you’re young.” I was only half-paying attention; my work app had just crashed, and was taking forever to reboot. When it finally finished loading, I input the number and flashed her a smile. “All done. Have a good one!”

“You too…” she looked like she wanted to say something more, but she just gave me a tired little wave. She locked the door behind me as soon as I left.

I proceed down to 3A and 3B. A knock on 3A’s door received no answer; I was walking toward 3B when the door swung open wide.

There was only darkness on the other side.

“Come in!” an elderly woman’s voice called out.

“Um,” I hesitated. “Could you turn on the lights for me, please?”

No answer. My heart was racing as I stepped into the gloom. I ran my hand along the wall, feeling for a switch–

The door slammed shut behind me. I would’ve sworn I heard an old woman’s voice whispering in the blackness: “Don’t worry. Grandma won't let him get you…”

Suddenly, I felt hard plastic beneath my fingers–a lightswitch!

The bulb flickered on…revealing a dusty, empty room with grimy yellow walls.

“H-hello?” I ventured. No answer.

I wanted to raise the blinds to let in some exterior light, but the cords had been cut…and besides, I wasn’t supposed to touch anything other than the gas meter. As I walked past the lightless kitchen, I chanced a look inside.

A pale man wearing nothing but filthy underwear stood with his back to me, holding himself and rocking back and forth..

I muttered an apology and kept moving. I’d walked in on worse things, but the feeling of wrongness in this place was becoming impossible to ignore. I told myself that all I had to do was get to the end of the hallway and read that damn meter, then it would all be over…

I heard movement in a room across the hall: a child, barely visible in the gloom. The glow of the apartment’s single lightbulb reflected in his milky eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The child snarled, taking a step toward me.”HE’ll see you.” Now I could see that his face was purplish and bloated…and that there were bruises in the shape of bony hands around his neck. “Grandma said she would save us. But she couldn’t…because this is HIS place, and NOTHING can protect you from HIM.”

I moaned and took a step backward. Another child appeared behind the first, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.

“What’s wrong with you?” it asked. ”Can’t you see that you’re in hell?”

The bathroom door creaked open; I ran.

Sprinting past the kitchen, I noticed for the first time the bloodless knife wounds in the pale man’s back. I could hear footsteps, but they weren’t coming from the hallway…they were coming from above me! Filthy footprints appeared on the ceiling, closing in on where I stood. Whatever was making them panted with wet, excited breaths…

I tugged on the doorknob. Of course, it wouldn’t open.

“Help…HELP!” I screamed, pounding on the door.

In a few seconds, the thing would be right on top of me–

A key turned in the lock and I practically fell into the hallway. It was the retiree from earlier, still holding his mop bucket.

“Did you get locked in or something?” he chuckled. “You’re lucky the super gave me a spare set of keys!”

I moaned something incomprehensible and gestured over my shoulder–

But there was nothing behind me but yellowed walls.

“Let me guess,” he snorted, “you saw that apartment wide open, went inside, then the door blew shut behind you? It happens all the time in this drafty old place. I keep telling the super that he needs to fix the damn lock so that door doesn’t creak open all the time, but he won’t lift a finger until he gets some renters in there. And good luck with that! I wouldn’t go in that apartment if you paid me!”

“What do you mean?” I gasped, trying to keep up with the retiree as he walked back downstairs.

“It was a tragedy, a real shame. We all knew the old woman who lived there was a bit batty, but nobody realized how far gone she was ‘til it was too late. She thought that there was some kind of ‘presence’ in the apartment–‘HIM,’ she called it–and she convinced herself that ‘HE’ was gonna take her grandkids away…so she strangled’em in their sleep. To protect them, she said. Can you believe that? Then, when her son found out what she’d done, she stabbed him to death right there in the kitchen…” the retiree shook his head as he locked up the mop and bucket in a grimy janitorial closet. “The strangest part was how they found the old woman afterwards. She was laying right in the middle of the living room with a face like she’d been screaming her head off, but there wasn’t a mark on her…it was like she’d been scared to death. But listen to me! Rambling on and on when you’ve got a job to do. It’s 1246.15.” The retiree finished cheerfully.

“Huh?” I mumbled.

“My gas meter. It’s 1246.15, and I’m in apartment 2A. Got all that?” My legs felt weak. I staggered toward the door. “Hey!” the retiree shouted after me, “where are you going? Don’t you have more apartments to check?”

I did, but I didn’t check them–not that evening nor any other. I turned in my resignation as soon as I got back to the office. My days of walking into strange apartments were over, but what had happened in unit 3B of that anonymous gray apartment complex stuck with me.

It made me think that every building–just like every person–has its own true story…

And some of those stories are horror stories.

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