Updated Mar 9, 2026 • ~12 min read
Maya doesn’t go to work on Thursday.
She calls in sick—which isn’t entirely a lie, considering she’s had maybe six hours of sleep in three days and her hands won’t stop shaking. Patricia sounds deeply unimpressed, but Maya can’t bring herself to care.
She has research to do.
Real research this time. Not the surface-level searches she did yesterday, but deep diving into the kind of information that doesn’t show up on the first page of Google.
She starts with the Seattle Public Library’s digital archives.
Blackwood Apartments gives her dozens of hits. Historical preservation documents. Architectural reviews. A 1987 article about landmark status. She skims through them, looking for anything unusual.
She finds it in a 1952 newspaper article.
DEATH AT HISTORIC APARTMENT BUILDING
Catherine Cross, 24, was found dead in her apartment at the Blackwood Apartments on December 3rd. Police are investigating the incident as a possible suicide, though family members dispute this claim. Miss Cross was discovered by the building manager after neighbors reported…
Maya’s blood runs cold.
Catherine Cross.
Julian mentioned a sister named Catherine. Who died in the 1940s.
She does the math. If Catherine died in 1952 at age 24, and Julian is 29 now—or was, when he died—then he would have been born in 1990. Decades after his sister.
Which doesn’t make sense.
Unless—
Maya searches for more. Finds another article, this one from 1948:
LOCAL ARTIST FOUND DEAD IN MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES
Catherine Cross, 20, an up-and-coming portrait artist, was found deceased in her apartment at the Blackwood Apartments. Her brother, Julian Cross, 25, reported her missing when…
Wait.
Maya reads it again. Then a third time.
Catherine died in 1948. Not 1952. And Julian was 25 at the time, which would make him born in… 1923.
The year the building was constructed.
She searches for Julian next. Finds nothing between 1948 and 2019. Like he didn’t exist for seventy years.
Then, in 2019, an obituary. For a different Julian Cross. 29 years old, artist, died October 15th.
Same name. Same profession. Same building.
“What the hell,” Maya whispers.
She searches for more deaths at the Blackwood. Finds them scattered across decades:
- 1925: Thomas Ashford, architect, fell from sixth-floor window
- 1932: Margaret Winters, seamstress, found dead in bathtub
- 1948: Catherine Cross, artist, suspected suicide
- 1955: Robert Delacroix, musician, heart attack at age 31
- 1967: Elena Vasquez, dancer, fell down stairs
- 1983: David Park, writer, cause of death “unexplained”
- 2001: Sarah Mitchell, photographer, overdose
- 2019: Julian Cross, artist, accidental fall
Eight deaths in ninety-six years. That’s not necessarily unusual for a large apartment building.
Except.
Maya looks at the pattern.
All the deaths happened in October. All victims were artists of some kind. And all of them lived on the third floor.
She sits back, heart pounding.
The third floor has eighteen apartments total—well, had, before it was sealed. But according to these records, only one apartment has had deaths. Multiple deaths across decades.
Apartment 3B.
Julian appears while Maya is elbow-deep in property records.
She’s cross-referencing death certificates with building permits when the temperature plummets and she knows—without looking up—that he’s here.
“You’ve been researching.” His voice comes from behind her.
Maya closes her laptop and turns to face him. He’s standing by the window again, hands in pockets, looking uncomfortable. In the afternoon light, he seems more faded than last night. Edges blurred. Like he’s running out of battery.
“I found your obituary,” Maya says. “The real one.”
Something flickers across his face. “And?”
“And it says you died on October 15th, 2019. Accidental fall. Age 29.” She stands, facing him fully. “But I also found another death certificate. For a Catherine Cross, who died in 1948. Your sister. Who you said you grew up with.”
Julian goes very still.
“That was seventy-one years before you died,” Maya continues. “Which means either you’re the world’s oldest-looking 29-year-old, or something very strange is happening in this building.”
“Both,” Julian says quietly. “Both is true.”
Maya wraps her arms around herself. “Explain.”
He’s quiet for so long she thinks he might disappear again. Then: “I’m not the first Julian Cross. Or the second. I’m the seventh.”
“The seventh?”
“The building…” He struggles for words. “It takes people. Every few decades. Same pattern. October. Artists. Apartment 3B. We come here, we die here, and then we’re trapped here until…”
“Until what?”
“Until we fade completely. Or until someone takes our place.” He meets her eyes. “Catherine was the first. My sister—the original Julian’s sister. She died in 1948, and he followed in 1952, trying to understand what happened to her. Then nothing for fifteen years, until the next person came. And the next. And the next.”
Maya’s mind is racing. “But you’re—you said you remember dying. Remember your life before.”
“I do. I remember being Julian Cross, born 1990, died 2019. I remember my apartment, my work, the commission I was finishing.” His voice cracks. “But I also have other memories. Flashes of things that happened before I was born. Catherine’s laugh. The building when it was new. Dying six different times in six different ways.”
“That’s impossible.”
“So is seeing ghosts. So is talking to dead men in your apartment.” He moves closer, and Maya can see the edges of him flickering. “The building recycles us. Takes the same souls, gives them new lives, draws them back here. Over and over. We’re trapped in a loop, and I don’t know how to break it.”
Maya sinks onto the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me? I barely believe it myself.” He sits beside her—or creates the illusion of sitting. “Some days I wake up and I’m Julian from 2019, angry about dying before finishing my commission. Other days I’m Julian from 1952, grieving my sister. Sometimes I’m all of them at once, and I can’t remember which life is real.”
“They’re all real.”
“Are they?” His laugh is bitter. “Or am I just one ghost with too many memories, slowly going insane?”
Maya looks at him. Really looks. At the way his edges blur and sharpen. The way his expression cycles through different decades of pain. The way he sits like he’s forgotten how bodies work.
“The others,” she says. “The other people who lived in 2B. Who saw you. What happened to them?”
Julian’s expression goes dark. “The building doesn’t like it when people see me. When they get too close to the truth.” He meets her eyes. “Please. You should move out. Before it’s too late.”
“What do you mean, before it’s too late?”
“There’s something in the building. Something that feeds on the deaths. On the trapped souls. It’s been here since the beginning, and it’s hungry.” His form flickers. “It took the woman in 2012. Made her step in front of that bus. And the one before her—she started having dreams. Violent ones. Three months later, she killed herself in the bathtub. Same bathtub where Margaret Winters died in 1932.”
Maya’s skin goes cold. “You’re saying the building is possessed?”
“I’m saying the building is alive. And it doesn’t want me to leave.” He stands, pacing. “When someone can see me—really see me, not just sense me—it means they’re… special. Sensitive. The kind of person the building could use. So it pushes them. Breaks them. Either drives them away or drives them mad.”
“I’m not going mad.”
“Not yet.” Julian stops in front of her. “But you will. The longer you stay, the more you’ll see. And once you see too much…” He shakes his head. “Please. I’m not worth dying for.”
Maya stands. “That’s not your choice.”
“Maya—”
“No.” She moves closer, until she’s near enough to touch if touching were possible. “You don’t get to tell me what risks to take. And you don’t get to decide you’re not worth saving.”
“I’m already dead!”
“So what?” Her voice is fierce. “You’re still here. Still conscious. Still capable of feeling. That means you’re still alive in the ways that matter.”
Julian stares at her like she’s said something profound. Or insane. Maybe both.
“Why are you doing this?” His voice is barely a whisper. “You don’t know me. Not really.”
“I know you’re trapped.” Maya wraps her arms around herself. “I know you’ve been alone for five years. And I know that if our positions were reversed, you’d help me.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you tried to warn me away. Because you called to tell me not to come to the third floor. Because even now, you’re more worried about my safety than your own existence.” She takes a shaky breath. “So yes. I’m going to help you. Whether you want me to or not.”
They stand in silence. Maya can hear her own heartbeat. Can see the way Julian’s form is stabilizing, sharpening, like her words are feeding him somehow.
“You’re insane,” he says finally.
“Probably.”
“This will end badly.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll hate me when it’s over.”
“Doubtful.”
The ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Why do I get the feeling you’re as stubborn as I am?”
“Because I am.” Maya sits back down, pulling her laptop open. “Now. Tell me everything you remember about how you died. All seven times.”
Julian hesitates. Then, slowly, he sits beside her.
And he starts talking.
They work until sunset.
Julian describes each death in painful detail. Catherine—the original—threw herself from the window after months of night terrors. The first Julian hanged himself four years later. The subsequent deaths were varied: falls, overdoses, one mysterious illness that killed in three days.
But they all had something in common.
“We all saw something,” Julian says. “Right before we died. Something that terrified us so badly that death seemed like the better option.”
“What did you see?”
“A man. Tall. Wearing black. His face was…” Julian’s form flickers. “Wrong. Like someone drew a person but forgot what faces look like. He stood at the foot of my bed every night for a week before I died.”
Maya’s blood turns to ice. “The Man in Black.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“No. But Mrs. Kowalski mentioned him. I thought she was being metaphorical.” Maya types notes frantically. “What did he want?”
“I don’t know. He never spoke. Just watched. And the longer he watched, the more I felt like I was disappearing. Like he was draining me somehow.” Julian’s voice drops. “The night I died, he was there. I remember falling—or maybe jumping, I’m not sure anymore. And the last thing I saw was his face, finally coming into focus. Finally showing me what he really was.”
“What was he?”
Julian looks at her, and his eyes are hollow.
“Nothing. He was nothing. Empty space wearing skin. And I realized that’s what I’d become too. That’s what the building does—it hollows us out until there’s nothing left but the shape of who we used to be.”
Silence falls between them.
Maya’s hands are shaking. “That’s not going to happen to you.”
“It already has.”
“No.” She closes the laptop. “You’re still here. Still fighting. Still capable of caring about someone enough to warn them away.”
“For how much longer?”
“As long as it takes.” Maya stands. “I’m going to figure out what this building is. How it traps people. And I’m going to find a way to set you free.”
“Maya—”
“You said the building feeds on deaths. On trapped souls. That means it’s some kind of entity. And entities can be fought.” She’s pacing now, mind racing. “I need to talk to Mrs. Kowalski. Really talk to her. She’s been here forty years. She must know more than she’s telling.”
“She won’t help you.”
“She will. She has to.” Maya grabs her keys. “Because if she doesn’t, more people are going to die. And I’m probably next on the list.”
Julian materializes in front of her, blocking her path. “Don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not joking. You said it yourself—the building doesn’t like people who can see you.” Maya meets his eyes. “So either I figure out how to stop it, or I end up like the woman who stepped in front of a bus. Those are the options.”
“There’s a third option.”
“What?”
“You leave. Tonight. Move out and never come back.”
Maya shakes her head. “Not happening.”
“Why not?”
Because she can’t leave him here alone. Because the thought of him fading into nothing makes her chest ache. Because in three days, this impossible man has become more real to her than anyone she’s known in years.
But she can’t say any of that.
So instead she says, “Because I’m stubborn. And I really hate bullies.”
Julian’s smile is sad. “The building isn’t a bully. It’s a predator.”
“Then I guess it picked the wrong prey.” Maya steps around him—through him, and the cold makes her gasp. “I’m going to talk to Mrs. Kowalski. When I get back, we’re making a plan.”
“Maya.”
She stops at the door.
“Thank you,” Julian says quietly. “For being insane enough to care.”
Maya looks back at him. He’s fading already, using up energy to stay visible. But his eyes are clear. Grateful.
Human.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
And then she leaves, before she can do something stupid like try to touch him again.
Before she can admit that she’s not doing this out of stubborn principle.
She’s doing it because somewhere in the last three days, she’s started falling for a ghost.
And she has no idea how that story ends.
But she’s going to find out.
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