March 8, 2020
Apartment 206 in the Boulevard Apartment’s building was draped with quiet stillness. Decorated in whites, greys, and the peaceful greenery from indoor plants, the apartment was out of someone’s spring dream.
Nothing was out of place, not a dust could be seen on any surface of the house, not even the dazzling chandelier that hung from the ceiling.
There was a faded scent of corn in the air. In the kitchen, the earthy table was decorated with a humble display of dishes. Steam still escaping cleverly from the edges of the lid containing freshly prepared meat. The table was set for two. Pastel blue plates placed on the varnished wood. A vase with two days old orchids sat in the corner of the display, beautifully complementing the entire table... even the sealed envelope that was neatly placed beside the main plate.
On the other side of the table, beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, there was chaos brewing. Thunder rolled in the distance, angrily licking at the clouds with strikes of lightning in a display of its utter rage and power. Gusts of prickly raindrops smattered against the thick glass, a thin weak leaf lost from some tree also flew along with it, slapping against the glass helplessly as the water slid down its smooth body without a shame. Drip drip onto the balcony of apartment 205.
Drip drip in the stillness of the clear, quiet apartment. The muffled sound of the rain felt like an old century’s music playing on a Lo-fi beat. Calming and reminiscent of a time that had been missed.
There was nobody at home. The house was empty and yet it was not. It was full of regret, drenched in the melancholy of a broken heart that could not be heard, only felt in the heaviness in the air amongst the brightness of the sofas and cushions and throw overs. It was full of shadowy bitterness that cut through skin and yet left not a single drop of blood for the spectators to pitifully look at and turn away.
Outside there was a fresh storm slapping against the thin windows of apartment 206, and inside was the remains of the havoc left by the trailing ghosts of despair.
The house was empty and yet it was not. An ajar door that led to the bathroom. A bathroom with chilly stillness. A bathtub filled to the brim. Clearwater turned pink. Drip drip. A pool of blood on the floor, lazily dripping from the opened flesh of a pale woman’s wrist. Dressed in the same white fabric that was once wrapped around her silhouette on her wedding day. Thick black hair still neatly arranged around a face that was just as ethereally beautiful as it was when it could smile. Body bare of any other glamour, save a simple golden wedding band that felt out of place on the finger of a forgotten woman. Who was now dead.
Mrs. Rissaya Gooteka. Born on the 8th of March, 1998. Found deceased on the 8th of March, 2020.
Cause of death: Suicide.
A house filled with a hundred ghosts is still an empty house in the end after all.