The Ghost of Northamber Avenue

   The apartment was small, grubby, and smelled slightly like last week’s leftover pizza, but it had a view, and wasn’t too pricy. And as it turned out, it came with an adventure.

   It was summer. I was twenty-two. The world was a big, scary, expensive place. Graduation toasts had faded completely from memory, and I couldn’t even remember the days when my bills had all been forwarded to my father without the slightest qualm of conscience. In what seemed like a few short weeks, I had gone from a freewheeling college kid, livin’ the dream, to a very poor, very ambitious, very desperate adult, clambering clumsily around the real world with a completely pointless teaching degree, and no survival manual.

   However, I connected the dots soon enough and figured that the most important thing to do was to find myself a job. Once some family connections had been exploited and a place at the high school secured, the next thing to do was to find a roof, preferably one that came with air-conditioning. Enter 3B at 55 Northamber Avenue. The best AC it could offer took the shape of three gigantic fans, but it was well suited for a young history teacher looking to have an enjoyable summer. The former tenant was looking for a sublet, and as I wasn’t too picky about holes in the wall or carpeting left over from the seventies, he thought I would do.

   “Hope you won’t mind the stairs. Third floor and all. You look like they won’t be too much trouble for you.”

   “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I had naively remarked as I made the first of many hikes up the creaking flight that was to be my enemy over the next few months.

   Barry Hamlet, (who was in no way reminiscent of his Shakespearian namesake) a balding, stout man of about forty-five, smiled. He had a deep smile, which made me wonder what his dreams had been before the world had done to him what it had to make him into what he was. Perhaps the smile was one of sly humor at my staircase-innocence. I can never know for sure.

“Well, here we are.” He puffed, arriving at the top. I was proud of myself for not being winded. “Welcome aboard.” Barry opened the door to reveal 3B in all its glory.

  “It looks nice.” I said, generously. Nice was stretching it. Bearable maybe, but not nice.

It had grandmotherish wallpaper of a faded plumb color, comfortable looking saggy furniture and a smallish TV, equipped only with an old VCR. The windows were foggy with dust, but there were a few hundred books encased in a funny, old set of cherry-wood shelves.

   “The bedroom’s back there. And the couch is a pullout, in case you have company. The kitchen comes with a microwave and a refrigerator.” He said this as if it was a big bonus.

   “Wow.” I said, feeling that it was really the only thing to say.                                                        

   “So what do you think?” Barry picked at his index finger. Apparently he was nervous that I would be as critical as the countless others who had turned up their noses at this domestic bounty.

   “It looks fine to me. When will you be back?” I shrugged good-naturedly.

   “Oh, not until October, at least. You can stay until then, if you want. But you probably start school before then. I heard you were a teaching student.”

   “Not anymore. I graduated a few weeks ago.”

   “Got a job lined up?”

    I could see dollar signs lingering anxiously behind his eyes.

   “Sure do.” I said confidently. The thought of my job gave me both a tremendous sense of security, and an uncontrollable stomach spasm at the same time. It was like having a man-eating shark for an anchor: big enough to keep the ship from drifting away to stormy seas, but then, it might end up eating you.

   “Good,” Barry exclaimed, looking relieved. “So will you take the apartment?”

   “I will,” I said, and we shook on it. From what I could see the little place looked alright. And there was no hope of finding anything better in my price range, of that I was sure.

   “Good,” He said again, glowing. “You can move in straightaway as soon as we get the sublease signed. Oh, there’s the question of the mail to be answered though.”

   “Mail?”

   “Yes.” He said nonchalantly. “Your box is number fourteen, but you won’t mind picking up the mail for number fifteen and dropping it outside the door will you? It’s right across the hall.”

   “Sure, I don’t see why not.” I said, readily agreeable.

   “Thanks. I’ve been doing it for years and I think they’ve gotten used to it.”

   “They don’t like getting their mail?”

   “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them.”

   “Who lives there?

   “Don’t know that either. The name on the mail is always A. Miles. Whoever he is, he’s shy.”

   

   Maybe you’re not familiar with the breed of people who become teachers. Generally they are idealistic, ambitious and have good imaginations. They envision themselves changing the world, nay, the future even, through their students. They are affecting the grand scheme, and it thrills them to their core, at least at first.

   But a good imagination is a dangerous treasure.

   

   And if you will but use your own imagination, you can understand that by this point the apartment was starting to look worse and worse. The rent was basically the only good thing about it. I was a flexible human being. I mean, I’d survived four years of college, mostly spent in a clammy dorm room. I could have easily contended with holes in the wall, no air-conditioning and the leftover smells of Barry Hamlet’s raucous, book-worm life-style.

   But ghostly neighbors were a different thing entirely. I had heard this story before, and it didn’t end well for me, in any version, ever. If this had been a movie, I, as the unsuspecting victim, would have discarded the creepy feeling in my stomach as nothing but foolish jitters and gone on with life, only to be haunted to death later. But this wasn’t a movie, and I didn’t have the satisfaction of even one peaceful night in 3B. From that very moment, I began counting down the days to October.