Chapter 2: The Remnants of Jerry

Chapter 2: The Remnants of Jerry

The elevator doors groaned shut, sealing Zach in the small, foul-smelling box with the thing in the blanket. Its needle-toothed grin widened as its grip tightened on his jeans. A low, guttural clicking started in its throat, a sound of pure, primal hunger.

Desire: Escape the immediate, terrifying threat.

Zach scrambled backward, pressing himself against the far wall of the elevator. His hand fumbled for the control panel, slapping at the buttons. The one for the sixth floor was already lit.

“Hey, hey, easy there, little dude,” Ray’s voice, muffled through the closing doors, was a phantom of false calm. “He’s just playing!”

The baby’s intelligent, ancient eyes never left his. It began to pull itself up using his leg, its strength shockingly disproportionate to its size. Zach could feel the denim of his jeans straining. He kicked out instinctively, a clumsy, panicked motion. His boot didn't connect, but the sudden movement was enough. The baby lost its grip, tumbling back onto the floor with a soft thud. It didn't cry. It simply watched him, the predatory smile returning as the elevator lurched upwards.

The ride to the sixth floor was the longest ten seconds of Zach’s life. When the doors opened with a ding that sounded like a scream in the silence, he didn't wait. He bolted from the elevator, not stopping until he was fumbling with the key Ray had given him, jamming it into the lock of the door marked ‘6A’.

Obstacle: The psychological aftershock of the encounter and the unnerving sterility of his new "home."

He slammed the door behind him, locking and deadbolting it, his back pressed against the wood as he gasped for air. His heart felt like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest.

“Welcome home,” he whispered to the empty room.

The apartment was… clean. Impossibly clean. The small living area had a worn but spotless couch, a generic coffee table, and a small TV that looked like it was from the 90s. The kitchenette gleamed under a single fluorescent light, the chrome faucet polished to a mirror finish. There was no dust, no stray hairs, no clutter. Not a single photograph, no forgotten knick-knack, no sign that a man named Jerry had ever lived—or died—here at all. It was less like a home and more like a motel room that had been professionally sterilized after a crime. The only smell was the faint, lingering scent of bleach.

Action: Explore the apartment, searching for any sign of his predecessor.

Sleep was out of the question. The image of the baby’s eyes was burned into his brain. He needed a distraction, something to ground him. He began to search, driven by a desperate need to find some proof that Jerry had been real, that he wasn’t just a ghost story Mr. Rags had concocted. He checked the closets (empty), the kitchen cupboards (a single plate, a single bowl, a single fork), the bathroom medicine cabinet (a new bar of soap and a toothbrush still in its packaging). It was as if Jerry had evaporated.

Frustration mounted. He ran a hand through his hair, his knuckles brushing against a metal vent cover on the wall near the floor. It was slightly loose. He knelt, his handyman’s curiosity momentarily overriding his fear. He tapped it, and it shifted with a metallic scrape. Using his fingernails, he pried the cover off.

Inside the dusty duct, tucked away in the corner, was a small, spiral-bound notebook and a pen.

Result: The discovery of Jerry’s journal.

His breath hitched. He pulled it out, the cheap cardboard cover cool against his trembling fingers. The first page was dated six months ago. The handwriting was neat, precise.

July 12th. Replaced ballast in hallway fixture, 4th floor. Mr. Rags says the buzzing annoys Mrs. Gable. She gave me a cookie. Tasted funny, but it’s the thought that counts.

Zach flipped through the first few pages. They were mundane maintenance logs. Leaky faucets, flickering lights, a jammed lock on the laundry room door. Standard stuff. But as the weeks went on, the tone began to shift. The neat script grew jagged, frantic.

Aug 2nd. Pipes in 3B are making that gurgling sound again. It’s not air in the lines. Told Rags. He just said to pour some industrial drain cleaner down it. The sound stopped for a day, but now it’s back. It sounds… wet. Hungry.

Sept 19th. The walls are breathing. I swear it. At night, if I press my ear to the drywall, I can hear it. A slow, deep rhythm, like a sleeping giant. Rags just smiled when I told him. That damn smile. He knows. He knows everything. Don’t trust the smiles. Don’t trust the food.

Zach’s stomach churned as he remembered the Gable woman’s cookie. He flipped to the last entry. The handwriting was a barely legible scrawl, the pen having pressed so hard it tore the page.

Oct 5th. It’s not a building. It’s a body. We’re just parasites living inside it, and it’s getting sick. That’s what the jobs are. We’re not fixing pipes; we’re performing surgery. The nightly hum… God, the hum is its heartbeat. Or maybe it’s digesting. I have to get out. I have to—

The entry cut off mid-sentence.

Turning point: The journal confirms his fears, and a new, related task is assigned.

A cold dread, heavier and more profound than anything he’d felt on the highway, settled over him. Jerry wasn’t a ghost story. He was a warning.

As if on cue, a thin white envelope slid under his door.

Zach stared at it, his blood turning to ice. He crept over and picked it up. It was a standard work order slip. His name, ‘Zachary,’ was written at the top in elegant, cursive script. Below it was a single line.

Unit: 3B Issue: Clogged drain, bathroom sink.

The same apartment from the journal. The hungry pipes. It wasn't a coincidence. It was a test.

He grabbed the small toolbox he’d managed to salvage from his truck—Ray had called it a ‘courtesy’—and walked to the door. His hand hovered over the knob. Every instinct screamed at him to stay put, to barricade himself in this sterile box and wait for the sun. But the image of Mr. Rags’s placid, predatory smile flashed in his mind. Refusing the first order wouldn't be an option. Jerry’s absence was proof of that.

Apartment 3B was silent. He knocked. When no one answered, he used the master key Rags had given him and let himself in. The apartment was a mirror of his own, only this one was filled with dozens of porcelain dolls, all arranged on shelves, their glass eyes following him as he walked to the bathroom.

The smell hit him first. It wasn’t the normal sewer gas stench of a clog. It was thick, organic, and faintly metallic, like a butcher shop left in the sun. The sink was filled with an inch of black, foul-smelling water.

He got to work, his movements automatic. He placed a bucket underneath the U-bend, unscrewed the fittings, and pulled the pipe free. A thick, gelatinous sludge oozed out, but that wasn't the blockage. The clog was further down, in the wall.

He fed the thin metal snake from his toolbox into the pipe. It went in a few feet and then stopped, hitting something with a soft, fleshy thud. It wasn't hard like a normal blockage. It was… yielding. He pushed harder, twisting the handle. The snake broke through with a wet, tearing sound.

He slowly pulled the snake back out. As the metal coil emerged from the pipe, he saw what it had snagged.

Surprise/Ending Hook: The clog is a living, organic part of the building.

It wasn't hair or grease or soap scum. Clinging to the end of the snake was a quivering mass of grayish-pink tissue, shot through with dark, purplish veins. It was the size of his fist, and it pulsed with a slow, rhythmic beat, like a severed heart that didn't know it was dead. As he stared in horror, a thin, membrane-like film on its surface twitched.

Jerry was right. He wasn't a maintenance man. He was a surgeon, and his patient was the building itself. And it was very, very sick.