Page 2 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

When I got there, the doorman from apartment 1B was already gone. Only his white plastic chair remained in the old lobby, glowing faintly under the front light like a ghost that hadn’t realized it was time to leave.

I headed toward the elevator on the right. The wall beside it flaked with peeling paint in the corners, like it was shedding its skin. Just before the metal doors, a scrap of lined notebook paper caught my eye—ripped, crooked, and scrawled in thick black letters:OUT OF SERVICE.

I let out a breath, turned around, and made for the stairs at the end of the hallway. Four flights. My steps grew heavier with each level, my thighs burning by the third. At the top, I bent forward, palms on my knees, lungs dragging in the air like it owed me something.

“This is fine, Lenore,” I muttered between breaths. “It’ll make your ass tight.” Another sharp inhale. “Tight and hard,” I added, straightening up and fishing my keys from the bottom of my bag.

The hallway lights flickered as I walked. Of course, they did.

The whole building felt worn out—just like me.

At last, I reached the door. I leaned against the frame for a moment, catching another breath, slid the key into the lock, and turned it open.

There was a sound. A whisper coming from inside. I didn’t pause. Troy was probably asleep. Probably the radio again—he always left it on. Late-night talk shows, or one of thoseslow, moody documentaries with weird soundscapes and sleepy narrators.

The apartment was tight. The kitchen sat to the right—dark wooden cabinets, a fridge, an oven, two cupboards. A narrow wall tried to divide it from the living room, but space didn’t allow much. Just two chairs. No sofa—we couldn’t swing it. Off to the right, the bedroom led into the bathroom.

Exhausted, I moved to the chair and put my bag on it.

The whisper turned into moans. Short, breathy ones, followed by another moan—a sharp cry, then a low groan.

“Troy?” I called out, stepping toward the bedroom door, already cracked open. I pushed it wider.

My eyes widened.

The radio was off.

But Troy was on.

To be precise—he had his dick buried inside our second-floor neighbor. Her back arched like a cat in heat, ass raised high as he slammed into her with frantic, greedy thrusts. His hands gripped her hips, his head thrown back, moaning like it was the best orgasm of his life. They didn’t even notice me.

I should have run. Should’ve turned and walked right out. But this was my apartment, too. I had nowhere else to go.

“What the fuck?” I shouted.

He froze mid-thrust and turned toward me, face draining of color. She flushed red, giggled, and scrambled to cover herself.

“Lenore?” he stammered. “What... Why are you home early?”

He told me he loved me last week. He kissed me this morning.

And that’s what he has to say?

“I can explain, baby,” he started toward me, hand out like I was something breakable. I backed up.

“Explain?” I snapped. “Explain your dick inside her?”

“Please,” he begged, stepping closer. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“It’sexactlywhat it looks like!“ I threw my arms up, motioning to my hips like I was mimicking his goddamn rhythm. From the corner of my eye, I caught her slipping out of the room and vanishing through the door, not a word spoken.

Troy lunged forward, grabbed my hands, and pulled them against his chest. His chin dropped to my shoulder.

“Baby, it won’t happen again,” he whispered.

But itdidhappen.

I squirmed in his arms, trying to peel myself away from the smell of her—sweet, cheap floral perfume clinging to his skin. His grip tightened, strong, like I was something to be held down.

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