The Boy In Apartment 17

The Door

“Mom?”

Claire yanked the towel from the rack.

“Naomi, not now. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“But you knew him.”

“I said I don't want to talk about it.”

“Your name’s in the article.” Naomi’s eyes didn’t leave her mother.

Claire just stopped mid-motion, like she’d turned to stone.

Naomi’s voice dropped. “You knew Ethan.”

Claire glanced away, avoiding her gaze. “I was younger.”

“How much younger?” Naomi pressed.

“Naomi”

“How did you know him?”

Nothing. Claire just stood there, lips sealed.

Naomi got the message. She turned and went straight to her room. Her head was spinning she couldn’t shake the image from the photograph. Her mother was tied up in all of this. With Ethan. And she’d never even mentioned it.

When night rolled in, Naomi watched the clock instead of sleeping. 11:00. 11:05. 11:10. 11:15.

At 11:17, finally, the light in Apartment 17 flickered on.

Naomi stood, pulling on her jacket. This was probably a terrible idea, but she needed answers. No turning back now.

She slipped quietly into the hallway barely any light, just the humming silence. At the far end, Apartment 17 waited. The number itself was missing. Just a tarnished old brass plate: 17.

Naomi grabbed the handle. Locked.

She hesitated, but then noticed the door wasn’t completely latched. A sliver of space. She nudged it, slow, careful.

It creaked open. Her heart hammered in her chest.

Inside, darkness. She flicked on her phone’s flashlight. Dust everywhere. Furniture draped in ghostly white sheets. The air was stale, thick with history.

She crept forward, footsteps muffled. A sudden sound somewhere deeper inside. From the bedroom.

Naomi froze. “Hello?” Her voice barely carried.

No reply.

She moved closer. The door stood open. A desk, an old box on top.

She opened it.

Stacks of photographs, yellowed newspaper clippings, faded letters.

The first photograph on the pile Ethan. And next to him, a much younger Claire. Her mother, looking nothing like the woman Naomi had always known.

Naomi couldn’t stop staring. Her hands shook. Something slipped out of the box and fluttered onto the floor.

Another photograph.

She picked it up.

Three teenagers in front of Ravenwood Heights. Ethan. Her mom. One more a boy, but his face had been scratched out so completely it was nothing but a blur.

On the back, someone had scrawled: We promised we'd never tell.

Naomi’s phone buzzed, sharp and sudden in the quiet. She nearly dropped it.

Unknown number.

A message blinked onto the screen: You’re standing in the wrong apartment.

Naomi’s eyes shot to the open doorway.

A shadow slipped by in the hallway.

Someone was out there.