The Building Across the Way
A Horror Story
The Building Across the Way
Sitting alone at the small table in the tap house at O’Hare International Airport, Vicky took the last bite of her caesar salad.
“Sorry to bother you,” the woman said.
The fuck? Vicky thought. She hid her mouth behind the cloth napkin. “No problem. Can I help you?”
“I assume you’re heading back to Baltimore.”
“Yes.”
“Do you recognize me?”
“Maybe?” Vicky replied. “You look familiar.”
“I work at TLP Business Plaza.—Same as you.”
“Oh, I do recognize you now,” Vicky said. “I’ve seen you in the elevator.”
“I’m a paralegal at Lockhart, Riley and Kahn. Sixth floor.”
“OK. I’m on the third floor.”
“Brewer Payment Processing?”
“Yeah. Been there a year now. My schedule’s a bit wonky. I work swing shifts most of the time, so I’m generally arriving about the time most people are heading home.”
The woman grinned sympathetically.
The waitress put the check on Vicky’s table and removed the plate and utensils.
What’s this woman’s deal? Vicky wondered. “Are you on the 2:23 flight to BWI?”
The woman nodded and looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you. . . OK?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well. . . You know that ugly building they’re putting up across the way?”
“Yeah. It’s been under construction for years from what I’ve been told.”
“Well, last Wednesday it rained and there were no workers onsite.—And, as you know, the upper floors have no outside walls. . . Anyway, my colleague and I saw you in the building.”
“Me?”
“You were on the third floor. And you just laid yourself down on the concrete. It seemed odd—a bit unsafe. You could’ve fallen.”
“That wasn’t me,” Vicky said. “I’ve been in Dallas for the last two weeks helping my parents move.”
“Really?” the woman furrowed her brow.
“Yep.”
“The girl looked just like you. I called the police because I was worried. But by the time I was patched through, my colleague said you were gone. She said you must’ve—”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Well, whoever it was. My colleague said she was gone.”
“Maybe it was a homeless woman.”
“Unhoused, you mean.”
“Unhoused,” Vicky repeated. Bitch.
“No, she wasn’t unhoused. She was dressed well. She looked just like you. Well, sorry to bother you. . . Safe travels.”
The woman left the restaurant. Vicky saw her again at the gate. They nodded curtly at each other as they boarded.
Vicky loved working on Wednesdays, because she had the entire office to herself. She spent Wednesdays opening envelopes and scanning checks while listening to ’80s soft rock. This was her first Wednesday back since the trip to Dallas. By the time her shift ended at 10:00 p.m., it had started to rain.
She made sure the computers and printers were switched off and that the desk drawers, file cabinets and flipper-bins were locked. Then she gathered up her belongings, opened the door to leave and turned around and faced the windows as she cut the lights.—She froze and moved away from the hallway’s backlighting, so that whoever was in the building across the way couldn’t see her.
The door closed on its own and the office was plunged into darkness. She edged toward the water cooler, which stood next to Gail’s cubicle, and strained her eyes, staring at the unfinished structure on the other side of the street. She could’ve sworn she’d seen one or two people on the third floor amid the buckets, bins and dangling cables. She kept the lights off and stood stock still in the silence for nearly five minutes. It must’ve been one of those plastic tarps blowing in the wind, she decided.
She left the office, locking the door and setting the alarm. She took the elevator to the lobby. The security guard, a middle-aged man in a blue blazer, was watching a film.
“G’night,” he said.
“Night,” she replied.
But she stayed in the lobby until she had ordered a ride on her phone. She always set the pin to the opposite sidewalk, since that way the car would be facing the way to her apartment. There were so many traffic cameras in downtown Baltimore that drivers tended to avoid U-turns that could lead to hefty fines.
The app indicated the driver was less than 3 minutes away. Vicky said “goodnight” a second time. But the guard was absorbed in the show and simply waved and pressed the button that unlocked the revolving door. Once outside, the intercom light went from green to red, indicating the door was again locked.
Vicky had remembered to bring her collapsible umbrella. She opened it and sprinted across the street to the sidewalk in front of the plywood overhang that ran the length of the chain-link fence. She stood near the curb, umbrella in one hand, phone in the other.
The app indicated her previous driver had cancelled and that “Thomas” was finishing his fare and was 8 minutes away.
“Dammit,” she mumbled.
Without warning, a man approached her from behind, cupped one hand over her mouth and seized her around the waist. She dropped the phone and umbrella and reached behind her, clawing at the assailant’s ears and cheeks. She tried to scream but couldn’t. She couldn’t breathe. The man pulled her toward a gap in the fence. Her shoes flew off as she kicked and squirmed. She caught her breath and was about to scream, but a violent blow stunned her. In a swoon, she was dragged into the unfinished building, then up the concrete staircase to the third floor.
The man threw her onto her back and she landed on a piece of rebar sticking out of the ground. It punctured her lung and blood welled from her mouth. In a low mocking voice, the crazed man imitated Vicky’s labored gasps and anguished moans. She never saw her murderer’s face. But as her head rolled to the side, her dying eyes saw herself turning off the lights of the Brewer Payment Processing office on the third floor of the building across the way.
That exceeded any expectations...to anticipate an observer to a tragic victim, I'm slapped with an observer who is the victim. Stunning when you've built a relationship to the observer, and ignored the telegram plain and simple!
Loved this!