Page 1 of Claimed By the Mothman
Prologue
Most people do not notice Greymarket Towers.
That is not magic—that is just how cities work. Some buildings are landmarks. Others are shortcuts. Most sit somewhere in between: just a name on a lease, a shape in your periphery, a place you think you might have visited once, though the details never stick.
Greymarket fits neatly into that category: visible, documented, reviewed (3.7 stars on Yelp), and largely forgotten the moment you look away. Until something inyoustops looking away.
Apartments here do not often open up. But when one does, it is never listed. Not in any paper or app. No “for rent” signs in the windows, no open house on Saturdays. It simply appears as a recommendation from a friend of a friend, or an open tab on your laptop that you do not remember clicking. And if you are meant to live here, you’ll find your way to the front door with surprising ease.
Some say the building was erected atop the ruins of a forgotten temple. Others say it is balancing on top of a hellmouth sealed with good intentions and bad brickwork. I could not tell you for certain, and frankly, I do not need to know. As apartment manager, I am responsible for fixing the plumbing, gathering the appropriate permits when necessary, and ensuring a safe, respectable, and healthy environment for my tenants.
The building is, in many ways, unremarkable. Seventeen floors. Two elevators (one reliable, one prone to sighing, but only on Tuesdays during a new moon). A rooftop garden with a community plot that grows excellent tomatoes, kitchen and ritual herbs, and bumper crops of runner beans, all of which come in handy for our building’s twice-annual social gatherings. Luxury units with walk-in showers (some with adjacent tubs), stainless steel appliances, quartz countertops, and bi-weekly trash pickup. I am proud to say we also offer complimentary carpet cleaning that isverygood at removing blood and other fluids.
My tenants are a mix of the usual and uncanny, though everyone is quite friendly once you get to know them. Hollis and Jen in 4A are known for their banana bread and always welcome newcomers with a basket of delightful goodies. Thess in 7D has taken over duties for the weeklyGreymarket Gazetteand dutifully solicits tenant stories and ideas once a month—they live for new tenant spotlights. Please be advised, however, that The Thornfather in the atrium has very firm opinions about holiday decorations. Respect is appreciated.1
Of course, we try not to label anyone, but Mr. Caracas in 17C has been here since long before the drywall was put in. He is old and cranky; you would be too, if you had seen the rise and fall of civilizations. Still, he has paid in full every month since the crumbling of Mesopotamia, and you’ll find that he is quite soft-hearted under that (literal) shell of his. He enjoys watching his daytime soaps in the common room, so ifDays of Our Lives2is not your cup of tea, we respectfully ask that you refrain from using that space during that time.
As for me? I am Mr. Lyle, your apartment manager. I look after things. Schedules, security wards, air filter rotation, the usual.
New tenants sometimes ask if this place is safe. Well, yes. Of course it is. So long as you follow the rules. Do not poke the graffiti.3 Do not answer knocks that come in threes after 3 a.m.4 Do not adjust the hallway thermostats.5 It is the usual mix of standard apartment safety and the added considerations that come from housing dozens of individuals atop one another, some of whom were never meant to live above ground.
But here is the truth: people don’t come to Greymarket because it issafe. They come here because it isright.
Something about this place fits the jagged pieces—the ones you thought would never make sense anywhere else, the ones you never dared to believe would allow you to feel comfortable, welcome, accepted…loved. And once you are here, you tend to stay. Not because you cannot leave. But because, for the first time, you might notwantto.
I suppose that makes me a bit of a matchmaker in my way. I have seen tenants find connection in the oddest corners. Some of them quite literally. And Greymarket has a funny way of lining things up justso,where one individual’s sharp, monstrous edges meet another’s tender, curious ache.
That is not fate, exactly. It is just tenancy.
Oh yes, one important note: The Lustrum. It appears as a pair of red doors. It is not always in the same place. Sometimes you will find it behind the game room on 3. Sometimes it is a shimmer in the lobby mirror. Sometimes you only find it when you are meant to. Tenants who return6 from the Lustrum emerge with something changed: a deeper understanding, a bond formed, a hunger stirred.
But do not let that deter you.
HOA dues are $25 a month and are included in your rent. Trash days are Monday and Thursday (please place bags outside your door before 6 a.m.; there is a trash chute at the end of your hallway for the rest of the week). If your walls are whispering, they are just loquacious, and you are free to politely ignore them. You will find your place here—and perhaps even someone to share it with. Stranger things have happened.
Welcome to Greymarket Towers.7
Chapter 1
The café was called Brimstone & Butter, and Nell was reasonably sure it used to be a tattoo parlor. The smell gave it away—the faintest whiff of antiseptic under the cinnamon, burnt sugar, and cloves. It somehow made the scent of coffee and croissants that much more delicious. Her tea came in a floral teacup that was chipped at the edge, which made it that much more charming.
She'd always been drawn to places like this—spaces with character, with stories pressed into their walls. Even as a child, she'd gravitated toward the oldest sections of libraries, the dusty corners of antique shops where other people felt uncomfortable. Edward used to tease her about it.
You collect weird places like other people collect stamps,he'd said. She'd thought it was charming then. Now she wondered if it had been a warning.
She pushed that thought away and looked out the surprisingly clean, streak-free window.
Outside, the sun filtered through thick downtown haze, turning Bellwether’s sharp edges into watercolor. She still wasn’t used to saying the city’s name out loud.Bellwether.It felt too storybook, too pointed. Big enough to be anonymous. Small enough to accidentally recognize someone at the farmer’s market. Not that she knew anyone here. Not really.
She checked the time again. 3:57 p.m.
She was early, of course. Always early. A habit left over from years of needing to prove she wasn’t difficult. Wasn’t a burden. Wasn’t a problem.
She shifted in her seat, tugging at the hem of her thrift-store sundress. Her brown, shoulder-length hair had frizzed at the temples from the walk over from the parking lot, and her cardigan—once a favorite—now sagged off one shoulder in a way that looked less charming and more defeated. She sat straight anyway. Hands folded, chin lifted. Trying to look like someone who belonged in public.
She twisted the ring on her finger absently.
Not her wedding band—that one was buried in a sock drawer with the rest of her illusions. This one was chunky, cheap, and opal. She’d found it in a pawn shop on the edge of town, the kind with dusty display cases and incense curling through the vents like a ghost’s breath.
