San Francisco, California. 1991
As I walked into the eighth floor apartment for the first time, I fell in love with its antique features immediately. Glassed french doors separated a walk-through closet from the main living space, leading to a bathroom which evoked 1920’s era opulence: a luxurious claw foot bathtub nestled against the right wall, and centered in the Art Deco tiled room, a stately porcelain pedestal sink rose like a gleaming sentinel, drawing the eye upward to a mirrored medicine cabinet surrounded by painted mill work. Crown molding framed the borders of the high ceiling with simple elegance. Inset in the wall above the tub, a small, frosted glass window gave access to an air well which descended eight stories down (and two stories up to a patch of sky), carrying the distant sounds of apartment life from the many identical windows below, dotted like golden flames in between pipes and soot-blackened bricks.
At the opposite end of the apartment, tall french windows opened outwards over a narrow alley, accessed by the complex framework of a fire escape, its metal painted a warm beige. Beyond, a view of tiered rooftops and neighboring buildings stretched into the far distance—a patchwork of concrete and reflective glass that captured the essence of urban downtown living. Also at this end of the apartment, through a rectangular archway on the right, a small kitchenette lay partially hidden by the main wall. This kitchen, like the bath, was ornately detailed with Deco tile counters and backsplash, complimented by painted wood cabinetry with beveled glass inlays, an old electric stove and ancient refrigerator. A second set of french windows filled the kitchen with afternoon sunlight.
With only a few trips needed to move my belongings, I got settled in rather quickly. I set up a small table and chairs at the french windows in the kitchen, opened them wide to let in the brisk summer breeze, then relaxed with a cup of espresso while enjoying the first sunset in my new apartment. As the sun set in the west, behind my building and out of view, gorgeous colors painted the downtown skyline a rich palette of gold, orange and red, the shadows in between a contrasting deep purple. I relished in my luck finding an apartment with such a fabulous view, as I got up and switched on the lights in the kitchen and main room, getting ready to prepare my dinner and continue unpacking. I placed some chicken into the oven, tossed a garden salad, then set the timer to alert me when my meal was ready to enjoy.
This was the perfect time to take a quick shower to wash away the sweat of hauling boxes throughout the day. I located some towels and toiletries, then ran water into the clawfoot tub. Taking less than a minute to become steaming hot, I added some cold water from the other handle, then pulled the stopper to activate a stream through the shower head. A quick sputter, then a glorious shower ensued, well pressurized and relaxing. I stepped into the tub and partially opened the small, chest high air well window. As I did so, I could see that the window directly across from mine was also cracked open, golden light piercing the darkness as well. It was a comforting sense of security to have another tenant occupy the apartment next to mine; we shared a common wall in between that stretched from the bathroom and all the way to the outer edge of the building. I assumed that their layout was a mirror image of my own, as the hallway wrapped around the floor in a U-shape, and their front door was exactly opposite on the other side. I finished my shower, then stepped out of the tub and began to towel off. No sooner had I finished my cleansing routine, I heard the squeak of handles turning in my neighbor’s bath, then the unmistakable sound of water beginning to fill the tub.
I switched off the light behind me as I left the bath, walking through the closet and out the french doors and into the warmth of my studio. A radiator hissed intermittently from beneath the windows on the outer wall as I made my way to the kitchen, the aroma of roasted chicken, garlic and potatoes filling the air. I checked the timer, and only had minutes to go before my dinner would be piping hot and ready. I was famished! As I reached to close the open kitchen window off of the fire escape, I could see my next door neighbor’s window was open, its glass and frame picking up the warm, yellow light of electricity. These windows were very old, and had a long, straight metal rod with hook on the end which needed to be slipped into an eye screw embedded in the frame, in order to keep the heavy frames from slamming open and closed in the wind. I noticed the hooks on her window catching the light, securely fastened, as I unslipped mine from the eyes and brought the glassed panels to a gentle close, turning the latch midway up the edge of the frame to secure them both together. As I did so, the timer began to ding, alerting me that my meal was ready.
I ate heartily, savoring the rich flavor. That is when I heard the melody of a woman’s voice, singing in an operatic style, coming from the bathroom. Her soprano was lovely, echoing through the air well like a concert hall. I got up and made my way back to the bathroom, peeking through the doorway. The song was coming from my neighbor’s window directly across the well. I could also hear the sound of bath water moving gently as she sang. “Wow!” I thought, as I returned to the small kitchen table and my dinner. “I wonder if she’s an opera singer? Or maybe a star in one of theatres in San Francisco?” She was definitely good. How cool it was to experience this art form right across the wall from where I lived. I’m going to like it here!
For several months, this routine repeated itself on a nightly basis. My neighbor and I had a similar schedule; she would come home in the evening an hour or so after me, treating me to beautiful song as she bathed. On calm nights, we’d both open and latch our windows, enjoying the cool breeze, and she was always considerate and quiet late at night when I’d be ready for bed to get a good night’s sleep before work the following morning. I was very happy in this apartment.
Soon, I visited the local humane society and adopted my first cat. I named him Little Boots. He was a sandy colored tabby, and was just as nervous about me as I was with him for the first few nights. He’d hide in the closet by the bathroom, behind a large army chest where I kept my art supplies. Once I gained his trust, he and I bonded and became inseparable. He was a wonderful companion, and gave me some much needed company. Soon, he was sleeping on my futon with me, curling up each night near my feet as I slept.
Early one day at about three o’clock in the morning, I woke suddenly with an eerie feeling that I was not alone. The apartment was dead quiet. As I tried to focus my eyes in the darkness, I could see a silhouette of a man sitting at my kitchen table, staring directly at me. He was completely solid, the skin along the side of his face nearest to the window catching the moonlight. His elbow was perched on the tabletop, chin resting on his palm. As my vision sharpened, I could see a glint of moonlight like silver on his eyes. Then the realization hit me—it wasn’t a glint at all. His eyes were silver! They were fixed on me, unwavering.
I felt my heart thumping in my chest like a mallet, polarizing fear causing me to remain perfectly still. It wasn’t sleep paralysis, just stone cold terror. How did this man get in? The windows along the fire escape were latched shut, and the front door locked. As I tried to rationalize his presence, I knew inside that this wasn’t an intruder. At least, not a living one. I shut my eyes, squeezing the lids closed as tight as I could. One, two three, four…I counted to ten, then opened them again, expecting to see an empty chair across from me in the kitchen. He was still there.
I closed my eyes again, this time, praying quietly to myself. Please God, Please God, pleeeease make this man disappear…. I opened my eyes again, heart beating faster.
He was gone.
Once the terror subsided, I gradually fell back asleep. But I didn’t sleep well that night, waking repeatedly over the next several hours to see if the man was back. He wasn’t, but that was small consolation to my unsettled thoughts. I knew I had seen a ghost, but didn’t want to admit it to myself. The reality was just too frightening to accept. Then I fell asleep one more time…
Things started disappearing from the apartment after that night. Not permanently, but long enough to be noticed. I would come home from work and place my keys and wallet on one of the bookshelves where I kept them religiously. Later, when I’d pass by to grab a book or place a cassette in the boom box, I would see that they were gone. I’d search the pockets in my jeans, my jacket, the laundry bag, every countertop and surface throughout the apartment. Nothing. As soon as I’d begin to feel a surge of panic, they’d be back on the shelf where I left them. Or in the middle of the bed. This didn’t happen every day, but frequently enough to be unnerving. I always put my keys and wallet in the same place without fail; it’s a habit of mine.
A few weeks passed, and I began to put the man at the table out of my mind, although not forgotten. Things were busy at work and I had started a new painting. I spent time with friends and enjoyed being home with Little Boots. I was pleased with my life.
Then I woke with an odd sensation again in the middle of the night. I was not alone.
There was a figure by the bookshelves, looking through all of my things. It was hunched over, moving books and objects, searching for something. It had on a thick coat, almost like a parka. The hood was pulled up over it’s head and it’s hands were gloved. Although I could see it moving things around and poking fingers in the empty spaces between, I couldn’t hear anything. It was completely silent.
I shot up in bed, fully awake, gasping as I did so. The hooded head suddenly turned my direction. There was no face! The circular space behind the tattered, clumped faux fir fringe was black, void of any features or even substance. It was a solid emptiness.
I leaped out of bed and bolted in the thing’s direction. It immediately swiveled it’s head in the direction of the closet and began to scurry past the french doors and to the hanging clothes and army chest beneath them. I was going to get this thing! I was running full speed across the length of the apartment and reached out to grab it’s coat as I made it to the closet. I could see it move through the clothing. I grabbed the clothes on hangers with both hands and flung them aside to expose this intruder, and watched it pass right through the wall in front of me, vanishing without a trace. I stood in place, shaking with adrenaline. This was real, and I was fully awake. It was not a dream. It was now in the apartment of the woman next door, and there was nothing I could do about it.
I went back and sat still on my bed, staring at the closet across the room from me, trying to process what had just occurred. I was quickly losing the joy I had in this unit. Instead, I was beginning to feel a sense of dread. This is not cool! I thought to myself. This is not cool at all…
The next month, a friend invited me to go with him to Reno, Nevada, to visit his sister. We booked a hotel, and were going to enjoy a weekend of fun—my first experience at a casino as well. I asked my friend Carol to come over and take care of Little Boots while I was gone. She agreed. Carol loved cats, in fact she and her husband had four of them. I trusted her implicitly. I made a second key to the apartment and dropped it by her work later in the week in preparation for my departure. It was a much needed getaway, and I had a wonderful time.
I returned home the following Monday afternoon to a happy and healthy cat, with everything in the apartment just as I had left it. Carol did a wonderful house-sitting job. She dropped by that evening to return the key, and I treated her to dinner as a thank you for her kindness.
While we were eating, she became a bit nervous, and I could tell that she was struggling with wanting to tell me something. I didn’t push her, but just continued to enjoy our time together and give her the space she needed to get up the nerve. Then she confided in me.
“If I tell you something really bizarre, would you believe me? Not think I’m crazy?” she asked, hesitantly.
“Of course,” I replied, placing my utensils down to give her my undivided attention.
She paused for a moment. “On Saturday night, I came over after work, and stayed for a while watching TV. I cooked some dinner and curled up with Little Boots on the bed, but fell asleep.” She stopped, and looked down at her plate, getting up the nerve to continue. Carol took a deep breath. “I woke up really late. All the lights were still on.” Another uncomfortable pause. “There was someone standing by the bed, looking down at me. I couldn’t see a face or anything! I wasn’t sure if it was a man or not, but I was afraid it was an intruder, and that if it was, I was going to be raped…”
She looked directly at me, and I could see the fear in her eyes.
“Trey, it turned around when it knew I saw it, and walked into the closet and disappeared through the wall!” Her hands trembled, the fork clenched in her fingers tapping lightly against the plate below with her shivers. “Do you think I’m crazy? I swear to you I’m telling the truth! I think your apartment is haunted.”
I reached across the table and put my hand on hers. I felt a sense of relief wash over me. Although I was sensitive to her discomfort, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of validation that this all wasn’t in my head! This haunting was real, and a dear friend saw the exact thing I did! I confessed my own experiences, and her eyes widened with amazement. I hadn’t told anyone about what was happening in my apartment. I didn’t think anything would happen to her, as she was just going to come over, feed the cat, scoop out the litter and spend a little while with my baby then go home. It was just a fluke that she fell asleep and experienced the ghost. I apologized, telling Carol I was afraid she would think I was crazy, so I kept the occurrences to myself. We hugged, finished our dinner, then my friend went back home. Now there was no denying what I was going through…
Fall turned to winter, and a huge storm was moving into the San Francisco bay area. The weather forecasts were warning of high winds and severe rain, with the potential for flooding in low lying parts of the region. They were not wrong—by evening the next day, the sky was a fierce blackish grey, clouds heavy with moisture. The wind began to sweep along the sides of the apartment building, and the first droplet of rain hit the windowpanes with a steadily increasing staccato. By ten o’clock at night, the storm unleashed its fury in full. Heavy gusts shook the apartment building, and near blinding sheets of rain crisscrossed through the darkness, driven by the swirls of wind which howled around the brick facade and sharp corners of the high-rise.
As I huddled in bed, trying ignore the storm outside and sleep, I heard—and felt—a sudden BANG! The unexpected noise caused me to leap out of bed, terrified. What was that? A brief pause, then another BANG! The vibrations coursed through my body with the startling sound. It was coming from the apartment next door, which was right on the other side of where my pillow rested against the wall. BANG!……BANG!…………BANG!
I ran to my window and craned my neck toward the unit next door to see if I could catch anything that would explain this horrific noise. And then I saw it: my neighbor’s french windows were open, the wooden frames sucked open by the wind, then slammed back again in the closed position. They rattled for a moment, then opened as far as they could go and—BANG! Slammed shut. Over and over and over again.
By now it was near midnight, so I called the apartment manager’s phone number. It rang repeatedly, then went to his answering machine. Frustrated that there was no response in an urgent situation, I threw on my robe and slippers and decided I would go down and see if he was home, and if so, could let himself into my neighbor’s apartment to secure the windows before they were ripped completely off their frames. I pushed the button to the elevator, still hearing and feeling the vibrations of the window being smacked against the frame with vicious force.
When I arrived at the lobby of the building and went to the property manager’s residence, I knocked several times on the door until he answered. He was visibly angry that he had been woken up, and scowled at me. I explained that my neighbor’s windows were left open and were at risk of being destroyed by the storm. He looked at me with confusion, then irritation, followed by disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he snapped at me. I actually saw the blood drain from his face. I repeated that my neighbor had left her windows open, and they were at risk of severe damage, requesting that he let himself into her unit to secure them to prevent further damage. I also needed to sleep, and there was no way that was going to happen with the thundering noise coming from the opposite side of the wall. The manager then slammed the door in my face, after telling me to get the hell away from his door and not to come back.
I will admit that this left me seething. I rode the elevator back up to the eighth floor, once again greeted by the rhythmic slamming of heavy wood and glass against the side of the building. I put pillows over my head and tried with all my might to go to sleep, but the enormity of the noise was simply impossible to block out. Little Boots was just as freaked about the situation as I was, for he retreated to his safe spot behind the trunk in the closet, eyes wide with terror at the disruptive cacophony. Finally, I’d had enough. If the building manager wouldn’t take care of the problem, then I would do it myself.
So I went around the U-shaped hallway to my neighbor’s door, checked the handle to see if by some miracle she had left it open, but I was disappointed. Locked. There was only one more thing I could do, and that was to climb the fire escape to the roof of the building, make it over to her side, and climb back down and let myself in through the opened window. I knew this was breaking and entering, a crime, but at this point I really didn’t care. I would leave a note on her door once I secured the window explaining what I had done, and hope for the best.
I put on some clothes and a winter jacket, grabbed a flashlight, then climbed out of my kitchen window and onto the fire escape in the frigid, driving wind and rain. I had a shoelace which I used to secure my own window so that it wouldn’t end up like my neighbor’s, then proceeded to climb the two stories up the slippery metal to the roof, holding on for dear life. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I kept telling myself over and over. This is so fucking STUPID! I made it after about eight minutes of sheer terror, then walked about thirty feet over to the ladder leading down the fire escape on her side. At this point I was soaked to the skin with rain, miserable, yet determined. Grasping the slick, icy cold ladder, I descended down to where her windows were ferociously slamming their frames, and grabbed the closest one along the escape’s platform to steady it. Miraculously, the glass had not broken.
I removed the flashlight from my soggy jacket pocket, clutching it as tightly as I could with my wet, shaking hands. I slid the button along the handle forward, instantly piercing the sheets of rain with blinding light. I aimed the beam into the open window, trying to keep the sturdy frame steady with my left hand while I observed the interior of the woman’s apartment. I froze in disbelief.
The entire unit was trashed! I literally mean TRASHED. There was debris, belongings and furnishings strewn everywhere—even the bed was on its side, the mattress leaning against our shared wall. Broken lamps and shattered shelving lay across crunchy carpet stained with years of neglect. Paper, books, kitchen utensils and every manner of possession were tossed about in a scene of chaos. What. The. Hell?
It suddenly became very clear to me that there was no one living in this apartment! The scene of disarray was so severe, it would have been impossible for anyone, even a hoarder, to even make it through the unit to the bathroom, much less get very far from the door once they entered. Heart pounding, I stepped inside. My disbelief turned to terror. For six months, I had thought there was a woman living in this apartment. I heard her take a bath and sing every night. I watched her windows open and latch in the evening, then close again. Her lights turned off and on.
Shaking, I pulled both windows closed and turned the latch, securing them tightly in place. I made it carefully across the debris strewn floor, moving furniture and broken items out of the way as gently as I could to gain access to the door, as well as to prevent injury to myself. It took me several minutes, but I finally made it, my entire body trembling with fear. The deadbolt was locked, as well as the handle’s locking mechanism. This apartment was completely secure, and hadn’t been opened in a very long time. The garbage on the carpet near the door had not been disturbed either. Thoughts were swirling in my mind as my shaking fingers released the deadbolt and turned the handle. I stepped out into the safety of the hallway as quickly as possible, slamming the door closed behind me.
I ran back around the hall to my apartment and jumped inside, locking the door (I had the foresight to leave it unlocked for this very reason, knowing that I was going to be coming back out into the hall once I made it into my neighbor’s unit). Breathless, I tried to process what I had just been through, terrified. I removed my soaked clothes and threw them into the bathtub, then toweled off, still shivering not only with cold, but with adrenaline and fear. Instinctively, I closed and latched the air well window—I didn’t want to even think about hearing anything coming from next door!
When I was back in my pajamas, I coaxed Little Boots out of his hiding place, then snuggled up with him on the bed, turning on the television for a distraction. I finally fell asleep on top of the covers, the lights and TV still on until morning.
The next day, I woke late (luckily I didn’t have to work), and after making coffee and breakfast, I dressed and nervously took the elevator down to the lobby to tell the building manager what I had done the night before. As I was approaching his door, I heard him coming up the stairs from the basement around the corner, then went over to greet him. Thankfully, he was no longer angry at me, although I was fully prepared for a verbal fight if that’s where this was heading. I explained to Jim calmly that I had let myself into the neighbor’s apartment via the fire escape, and he actually had a shocked look of amazement cross his features. That’s when I asked the million dollar question: “There’s no one living in that unit, is there?” He shook his head and exhaled with an audible sigh. Then he told me the story.
Two years ago in 1989, during the Loma Prieta earthquake which caused significant damage and loss of life in the San Francisco Bay Area (I was there and experienced it myself), the woman who lived in the apartment crawled under her bed and had a massive heart attack. She died of fear while the building rocked, creaked and swayed, belongings falling to the floor around her. It wasn’t until about two weeks later that she was found, due to complaints from neighboring tenants about the smell from her decomposing body. She was a recluse, and rarely ever left her unit except to stock up on supplies, so no one noticed the lack of her presence around the building during that time.
Once her body was removed, the building owners contacted the next of kin on her residential lease, who came soon thereafter and ransacked her apartment. Apparently, she was extremely wealthy, and had stored a large sum of money in her unit which she lived on for the decades of her tenancy. Her relatives, suspecting this, completely tore everything in her apartment to shreds looking for the cash. It is unknown whether they found it or not, but once they were finished, they left and the building management never heard anything further.
Shortly after, the property maintenance engineer was given the task of going up to that apartment, clearing out her destroyed possessions, and fixing up the unit to lease out to a new tenant. After less than an hour into this task, he ran out of the apartment in sheer terror, refusing to ever step into the studio again. His fear was so extreme, he threatened to quit on the spot if they made him go back up there. So the building manager informed the owner, who dispatched a cleaning crew to complete the task. They, too, left the unit in fear, and never set foot on the property again. So the manager made sure the apartment was secured and locked both the door handle and deadbolt. No one else had dared go in until I did, two years later.
When I returned to my studio after hearing this story, I was amazed that for the last six months I had been experiencing a ghost next door, thinking that this spirit was a living person, going about her routine just as I did on a daily basis. The strange thing was that after all this occurred, there was no more bathwater being run into the tub, no windows opening and closing, lights on and off…nothing. It was completely quiet. I don’t know why she stopped haunting her home; it remains a mystery. I’m just glad I didn’t see what the others saw when they attempted to go in and clean up the mess after her death. I was thankfully spared that trauma… But one question remains, even after all these years. Was the ghost rummaging through my shelves that one night this unnamed woman, looking in vain for the money she had hidden? I’ll never have an answer. And I’m okay with that.