2:47

Cerise couldn’t sleep. The clock on her nightstand screamed 2:47 at her. A.M. She had tried not to look in its direction because knowing exactly how much sleep she’d already missed would be disturbing. Calculating how much more she’d miss if sleep didn’t arrive soon made her anxious. And anxiety always robbed her of sleep.

This seemed to happen a lot in her new apartment. She’d waken almost every night, try not to look at the clock but, when she inevitably did, it always read 2:47. She’d heard of circadian rhythms and wondered if hers dictated 2:47 marked the midway point of her night’s sleep. That didn’t really explain why it happened, but she didn’t bother contemplating it too thoroughly. She knew it would make absolutely no sense to her.

On the nights she’d inadvertently caught the digital time shrieking 2:47, her bedroom felt strangely light. That was the only way she could explain the feeling that would come over her as she lay, worrying about getting sufficient sleep to make it through the coming day. The air around her bed would seem ‘spongy’, which made even less sense. It almost felt like her bed was resting on a cushion of air and, for a while at least – until she finally fell back to sleep – the full complement of her various worries dissipated.

There were many nights she awoke, but managed to avert her eyes from the face of the clock that seemed intent on provoking her. On those nights, she’d lie wakefully, playing counting games in her head or trying to imagine black velvet. That was a thing her mother had told her would work when, as a young child, she couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares that punctuated her slumber. She didn’t want to go back to sleep then. She didn’t want to return to the nightmares but, inevitably, the thoughts of smooth black fabric languishing across her eyelids would soothe her back to sleep until the alarm screamed at her to get up.

On those nights now, when she could avoid 2:47, the bed didn’t seem any different, nor did she feel herself lighter and floating. She continued to worry about all the usual things and, for some reason on those nights, remembered things she’d forgotten she had to worry about, then tossed and turned until it was time to ready herself for work.

She had only moved into the apartment two weeks earlier. It was exactly the sort of place Cerise had always imagined herself living when she was a kid and dreaming of the future she wanted for herself. One of the neighbors waiting with her for the elevator mentioned it had been empty for a very long time. Usually, these units were snapped up immediately. The neighbor, June, had no idea why Cerise’s apartment had no occupant for so many months, but thought perhaps there were renovations being done. That made sense. Cerise had noticed the smell of fresh paint immediately on entering the apartment when the Superintendant was showing her around. Perfect sense.

Cerise flung herself onto her other side and scrunched into the most comfortable position she could. A memory from her childhood, a particularly happy one, found its way from her subconscious world, into her imaginings and, happily, carried her into the pleasant dream place she managed to find when all things felt light and airy and possible.

***********

“I heard Conrad killed her,” Cerise heard the voice in the laundry room say. “I think it was the other way ‘round,” came the response. Cerise stopped and put her overflowing laundry basket on the floor in front of her. She strained to hear the conversation, and immediately recognized June’s distinct accent.

“And why was it empty for so long? I didn’t think they were ever going to rent it again. Seemed weird.”

“Well, try living next door to a place that has so much … mystery surrounding it. If they were renovating, I never saw any sign of it,” June said.

“What’s the new tenant like?” the other woman’s voice quizzed.

“Seems fine. Keeps to herself. Fine with me,” June volunteered. “She’s about the same age as Conrad’s daughter…”

“The one who…?” The other voice trailed away as the two women heard Cerise entering the laundry room, and turned to see her framed in the doorway.

“Hi there,“ June smiled as she welcomed her. “We meet again.” She looked nervously at the other woman, fearful Cerise may have overheard their conversation.

Cerise just smiled warmly and said, “It’s good to see a familiar face. This apartment building is huge. 500 units or something, the Super told me.”

“Yeah,” the other woman – Constance – agreed. “It’s a popular place.”

“How do you like your apartment? A one-bedroom, isn’t it?” June asked Cerise.

“It’s two bedrooms,” Cerise corrected, “but the second bedroom’s tiny.” She stopped then, in case she should be inviting her new neighbors in to see the place.

Constance just said, “Oh…still better than a one-bedroom,” and gathered her folded clothes to go.

“Wait,” called June. “I’ll come with you.” She hastily bundled her neatly folded clothes into a ball, stuck them under her arm and hurried to join her friend.

“See you later,” Cerise said as they walked past her on their way out of the laundry room.

Why all the hubbub about her apartment? And what was the talk of someone being killed? The mystery intrigued her, and she promised herself she’d find out everything there was to know about her new digs.

When Cerise got back to her floor, she prayed silently that she wouldn’t run into June. She peeked around the elevator door to ensure the coast was clear, then made a beeline down the hall to her apartment.

That’s funny. Cerise was certain she’d locked the door. If there was anything she’d learned having house sat for a number of friends and relatives, it was never to leave any doors or windows unlocked, no matter how much or how little time you planned to be out. She fiddled with the key in the lock to make sure she had actually managed to secure the door, but could find nothing amiss with how she had left things.

Once inside, she took her time putting the laundry away, pausing periodically to stand back and look contentedly at how she’d arranged her scant bits of furniture. It did seem a bit on the stark side, but Cerise had everything she needed for now. She wanted to save until she had enough money to buy new pieces outright.

She was tempted to blast her stereo unit and get lost in music that suited her mood, but she didn’t yet know how sound carried on her floor and was loathe to give June any reason to complain. She adjusted the volume so the music followed her from room to room, until she sat down on the old sofa that had come with the place, and put her feet up on the small bench she’d brought from her parents’ foyer.

The rest of that Saturday afternoon seemed to drift lazily away as she cooked her favorite meal for dinner and had a leisurely bubble bath, just as she’d pictured in her childhood imaginings. There was no reason to rush things, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to be anywhere or do anything until Monday and planned to do just that. Nothing.

At 10:30 p.m., she shut off the small TV she’d set up in her bedroom and turned off the bedside lamp. Cerise decided that tomorrow would be a day of self-indulgence and exploration. She didn’t know anything about her new neighborhood, other than there was a park with a kids’ wave pool at the end of the next block. It would make for a nice Sunday afternoon walk. She hoped there was a dog park nearby as she loved dogs, but hadn’t wanted to bring one to live the apartment life, especially since she was out every weekday from 7 a.m. to at least 6:30 p.m. She had confidence there would be a perfect time for her to adopt the dog she’d always wanted.

She fell asleep fairly quickly, the book she was reading open on her chest, and her glasses slipped down her nose. She dreamed she was standing in her kitchen talking to a man she didn’t know. He was facing away from her so she couldn’t see his face. She walked towards him and reached out to tap his shoulder so he would turn to face her. As she did, the man strained his neck to look back at her, then slowly gravitated towards her. She was about to ask him his name when she gasped and stood frozen, mouth agape. Where his face should have been, there was only a dark grey cloth, stretched from top to bottom, side to side. Slits had been cut where the eyes would have lined up and a horizontal slash marked a sort of mouth opening.

He began to move towards her and she felt herself go weak, then jolted upright and out of the dream. She awoke, screaming. It took her a moment to recognize her bedroom. She was out of breath and beads of sweat covered her forehead. When she finally realized it had been a dream, she slid back against the pillows and waited for her heart to stop thumping heavily.

**********

She wasn’t sure she could get back to sleep, so decided to turn on the TV. The program guide on the television screen didn’t divulge the approximate time, so she turned towards her bedside clock.

2:47.

It shocked her. Cerise hastily threw back the covers and got out of bed. She hurried from her bedroom and went to the kitchen, where she rested her hands on the counter and closed her eyes trying to make sense of the secret 2:47 held. She wasn’t certain she was entirely awake, so pinched her outstretched left forearm for assurance.

After a few minutes of gathering her senses and catching her breath, she decided this was silly. It was a coincidence, she told herself. A series of coincidences perhaps, but nothing overly unsettling. She filled a glass with water and drank a small amount before putting the glass into the sink. As she did, something caught the side of her right eye and made her turn quickly towards the kitchen table. There was a newspaper clipping sitting beside the salt and pepper shakers. She hadn’t read a newspaper in years now that everything was on line. Her breath caught in her throat as she reached out to pick up the small piece of newsprint.

“Conrad Ballantine – Obituary” she read. She’d heard that name recently, but where? Despite her misgivings and growing alarm, she continued down the page. He had died almost a year ago, from what she could discern. Before she got to the last paragraph, she turned her attention to the next item. “Stephanie Ballantine – Obituary”. Cerise felt tears of fright building behind her eyelids. Her stomach was rife with something too terrifying to be butterflies. She checked both obits again. Conrad had died “in his 67th year”, Stephanie in her 31st. On the same day.

Cerise loved a good mystery, but this was far too real. She felt very alone and vulnerable and, despite the time, decided to call her cousin, if only to hear a sensible voice.

“Too much,” she repeated to herself. “This is too much.”

With her back straight against the kitchen wall, she stood looking out from the alcove into the living room. After three rings, she urged, “Come on, Jada, answer. Answer. Come on. Come on.” Finally she heard the sound of the phone being picked up. Then, nothing.

“Jada!” Cerise practically screamed into the receiver, only to hear a faint crackle and a strange voice whispering. At first she couldn’t make out what was being said but, as the sound grew clearer, she distinctly heard, “Stephanie…what do you want Stephanie?” Cerise was too stunned to answer. Instead she flung the phone away from her and ran back into the bedroom, where she closed and locked the door, though she was all too aware it wouldn’t stop whatever was happening.

Her mind turned over, “Stephanie”. Stephanie Ballantine? Suddenly she remembered where she’d heard the other name. June had referred to a “Conrad” when speculating about someone killing or being killed. At the time, she was too taken aback to connect what sounded like a murder to her apartment but, now….

Cerise tried deep breathing: six in, hold for five, out for eight. “Get hold of yourself, and think!” Not knowing what else to do, she got back into bed and pulled the covers completely over her head, squeezing the ends tightly as she tried to hide herself. She had to be dreaming. This was a nightmare and she just had to wake up. She would wake up.

“Stephanie, you can’t hide. I know where you are. Don’t be frightened. Daddy wouldn’t hurt his little princess.”

Before Cerise could react, she heard another, distant but distinct, voice. It was elevated to a scream. “No. Go away, daddy. Stop. Go away.”

Though she didn’t know what she was doing, Cerise sprang from the bed, unlocked her bedroom door, ran to the front door and out to the hallway. She pulled the apartment door closed and made her way down the 12 flights of stairs to the lobby. There she stopped and, looking around, saw she was alone. She crossed to the doorman’s desk, squatted down behind it, and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would all just end.

Cerise woke to see the Superintendant looming over her, a look somewhere between anger and befuddlement on his face. Before he could question her, she breathed a loud, “Thank God. It was a dream. Sorry, Mr. Courtemanche, I can explain… later. Sorry.”

With that, she punched the ‘up’ button for the elevator and, when it arrived, got in, turning to give the Super a weak wave and guilty smile. When the elevator arrived at the 12th floor, Cerise got off slowly and moved down the hall to her door. Stopping outside her apartment, she took a deep breath, then opened the door to what would become her worst nightmare.

Her entire apartment was in chaos. Furniture had been turned over; her bookcase lay in the center of the mess, the books spilling out like litter across the floor. The kitchen utensils looked as if someone had gathered them together and flung them into the hallway. Paper was strewn everywhere and the window overlooking the parking lot 12 floors below was shattered.

There must have been someone else in the apartment with her. But who? And why? And how? For no reason she could understand, Cerise suddenly felt very calm and clearheaded. She walked to the bedroom door she had left open and dared to look in, expecting a similar cyclone to have passed through it too.

But nothing. It was just as she left it, the TV droning quietly in the background. It all looked untouched. Lost in her thoughts, Cerise turned her head towards the clock on the nightstand.

2:47.

Though she never discovered the exact events, Cerise learned that Conrad and Stephanie Ballantine had been found dead in what was Cerise’s bedroom almost a year earlier, a revolver and bloodied knife on the floor between them. June was pretty sure he had killed his daughter, then himself, but Constance insisted it was the other way around. Cerise didn’t need to ask the next question. She knew they’d died at 2:47.

Cerise broke her tenant lease and moved to another apartment the very next day.