The week before I moved out of my old apartment, where I'd lived for almost five years, a neighbor stopped me in the hall and ominously whispered, "Did anyone ever tell you what happened in that apartment before you moved in?"
At 18, and brand-new to the city, I had been shown the apartment by a broker/friend. It was morbidly dark and ridiculously small, but the right price. After moving in, I had my share of strange incidents over the years, including the night that thousands of termites swarmed out of the walls.
My neighbor continued: "After 15 years of living in that shoe-box, the last tenant hanged himself."
I sat in bed that night and stared at the large pipe that ran above my bed, from which I was convinced he had hanged. I reasoned that many people have died in apartments throughout New York, but this one struck closer to home, literally. I didn't sleep well that week, ending up more sad about the whole situation than creeped out.
When I saw my current place, there were dog and a baby living here, so I figured that was good energy to inherit. As curious as I am to learn about who else lived here, I sometimes think about that poor man who hanged himself, and remember that sometimes it's enough just to know that I'm here, now. TF