Kitabı oxu: «Apartment N 17»

A Supernatural Thriller

Naomi Sherman

Book Description

After inheriting an apartment her mother never told her about, Vera discovers photographs of strangers—and a picture of herself taken three days before she arrived. The building has no apartment with that number, the superintendent has been dead for years, and the neighbors remember events that do not appear in any records. Gradually, Vera learns that a place behind the door can restore lost memories, but every attempt to change the past comes at a price. To get out, she must decide what is worse: living without answers or losing the present for the sake of the past.

All characters and events in this book are fictional.

1. The Key That Shouldn’t Exist

The letter arrived on Thursday at 11:08 a.m.—at the exact moment Vera was about to delete her mother’s number from her phone. It had been seven months since the funeral. She had kept the photographs, the voice messages, and the habit of occasionally dialing the number, even though she knew no one would answer.

The notary informed Vera that she was the sole heir to an apartment on Sadovaya Street. Her mother had never mentioned the property. Vera could refuse the inheritance, but curiosity proved stronger than her unease.

The building was old, with black balconies and tall windows. The entryway smelled of wax and damp plaster. The resident directory listed apartments one through twenty-eight, but there was no Apartment 17.

The key fit the door on the fourth floor. The number had been removed long ago, leaving a pale rectangle on the wood. Inside, everything was clean, as though the owner had stepped out only a minute earlier. A cup stood in the kitchen, a blue coat hung in the bedroom, and dried lavender lay on the windowsill.

Behind the baseboard, Vera found a metal box containing seventeen photographs. The first sixteen showed strangers in the same room. The last showed Vera herself, wearing the coat she had put on that day. The picture had been taken from inside the apartment.

On the back, someone had written: “Don’t let her remember the windowless room.” At the bottom was a date—three days earlier.

A key turned in the hallway. Vera had locked the door from the inside. She remembered doing it perfectly clearly.

The handle slowly lowered.

“So you came back after all,” a woman’s voice said.

The notary’s office smelled of coffee, wet coats, and paper from old filing cabinets. An employee brought out a folder and showed Vera the documents: her mother had visited the notary several times, most recently a month before her death. Vera reread the date, checked the signature, and felt her confusion turn to irritation. Irina had known about the apartment and arranged the transfer in advance. Her silence had been deliberate. Outside, a fine rain fell, the wind crept under Vera’s collar, and wet leaves stuck to her soles. She put the papers in her bag and wondered for the first time whether the inheritance was not a gift but a request her mother had never managed to voice.