Page 8 of Claimed By the Mothman
They shook hands. His palm was cool and dry.
“H-hi,” Nell stammered. “I’m Nell Townsend.”
Mr. Lyle merely nodded his head and made a graceful swoop with his hand. “This way, if you please,” he said, smiling faintly. “I believe you shall find Greymarket accommodating.”
The elevator was brass and mirrored, the old-fashioned kind with a grate that had to be pulled down, and shuddered faintly when it began to move, like it needed to consider the request. The mirror panels reflected Nell back at herself in strange, slightly warped proportions—her arms longer, her face narrower, her eyes...flickering?
She looked away.
Mr. Lyle pressed the button for the fourth floor. “Vacancies at Greymarket Towers are rare,” he said as the elevator groaned upward. “We do not advertise. We wait. The building prefers to select its tenants on its own terms.”
Nell glanced sideways at him. “That’s…interesting.”
The elevator sighed open with a sound like fabric being torn and re-stitched. The hallway beyond was dim and warm, lined with antique sconces that cast soft golden halos along the walls. The wallpaper was patterned in curling green vines that seemed to sway if you stared too long. The carpet was thick and plush, the kind that swallowed footsteps like secrets.
They had only taken a few steps when something darted across the hallway ahead of them. It was a small creature, bipedal, maybe three feet tall. It had oversized ears, luminous yellow eyes, and wore a too-big red hoodie.
It paused, looked up at Nell, and waved with uninhibited delight. “Hi!”
“Um. Hi...?” Nell stuttered.
“This is Theo,” Mr. Lyle replied pleasantly.
The creature gave her a cheerful thumbs-up, then zipped around a corner, humming what sounded like the theme toDuckTales.
“He’s a resident?”
“Oh yes. Very enthusiastic and sweet. His family is nocturnal, so be advised that he may knock on your door in the middle of the night.” Mr. Lyle chuckled. “His parents are attempting to teach him politeness, but Theo is young, social, and stubborn.”
They stopped in front of a tall, sage green door. Its paint was smooth but slightly uneven, like it had been repainted often but always by hand. Mr. Lyle unlocked it with a quiet click and stepped aside.
He didn’t sayafter you. He didn’t need to. He simply gestured inward.
Nell stepped forward and discovered a sun-drenched, lovely-smelling apartment that was…perfect.
Her feet were met with hardwood floors, dark and rich with age. Nell took a few steps forward and peeked into the living room on the right. Tall windows that looked out over the city skyline flanked the walls, their panes slightly wavy with antique glass. To one side, a balcony waited, the ajar French doors fluttering shyly like they’d been given an unexpected compliment.
Nell looked to the left to discover the kitchen. The advertised window seat sat at the far end of the room. She could alreadyseeherself there, curled up with tea and a book—the kind of book with creased spines and other worlds inside.
Nell stepped in and stopped short. There, nestled beside the refrigerator, was a walk-in pantry. Anactualone, not a glorified broom closet.
Deep shelves. Smooth wood. Space for things she hadn’t dared dream about in years: glass jars, stacked tins, heavy ceramic crocks filled with baking ingredients, looseleaf tea in rustling paper bags.
She laughed, suddenly breathless. She remembered so clearly the first time she’d ever brought up the idea of a walk-in pantry to Edward. She’d pointed at the (in her opinion) too-small kitchen and said, “Maybe we could add some shelves? A pantry?”
Edward had smiled, the tired-yet-accommodating way he always did when he thought she was being unreasonable. “What would we even put in it? You don’t even cook that much.”
She hadn’t yet stopped suggesting things then. But it had been the beginning of the end of her opinion-forming.
Now, standing in this sunlit kitchen, her hands brushing the edge of the doorframe, she felt something loosen in her chest.
“It’s lovely,” she breathed.
“I am glad you think so,” Mr. Lyle said behind her. She turned to find him just inside the threshold of the apartment, hands folded neatly over the clipboard. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening for something only the walls could hear.
“The apartments tend to shift,” he continued, “to suit those who belong in them.”
Nell coughed. “Shift?”
