Chapter Text
"The place is good enough, close to the office, good view, but no competition with California, of course," Dean talks on the phone, pacing in front of the large floor-to-ceiling window that has the view of a running river right down below. The penthouse view. "But at least the rent is decent -- not crazy, in this economy -- says a lot already."
"Not like you need to worry about the rent." Jo laughs on the other side of the line. "Why don't you just buy it?"
"Hey, money is money is money. Think of it as a probationary period." Dean paces back to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of Master Cleanse and drinking a gulp. The taste still makes him grimace, but at least it's good for his health.
"Like all businessmen say."
"Yeah why am I not surprised, the whole industry says that -- hell, the whole world says that, that's how we make money, am I right?" He grins into the phone.
"I wouldn't know." Jo's voice is unimpressed. "Not like I'm going to be a business major or anything."
"How's school? Everything okay there?" Dean's voice gets more serious now, dropping the teasing tone.
"Why, if I get bullied, you'll dash in here kicking their asses?"
"I might worry more about the other guy, you know, call an ambulance before you kill them or do anything worse."
"Am I that bad?"
"You've been hitting dudes in the nose since like ten, Jo. I would know."
"That's because they're all jerks."
"No argument there, but still, I've got to look out for my little sister."
Jo snorts a laugh. "Bye Dean. Oh and, Mom and Dad said congrats on your new job."
Dean raises his eyebrows, even though no one can see. "There's no shame to congratulate me yourself, you know."
"Oh I know." Jo chuckles, hanging up the phone.
What a pain in the ass. Dean amuses, sliding the phone back into the pocket of the suit pants, walking back to the center of the living room.
The place was furnished when he moved in, the sofa, the TV stand, the bed, all included and in good shape. And not the cheap stuff, he can tell. The previous owner has a taste he can approve -- he doesn't think any estate agency would have this much upholstery aesthetic taste.
He's actually impressed with everything and the view, the rent should at least go double or triple. He has asked the renting company about the reason why a low-key luxury like this is so abnormally cut-price, but all he gets is a big vague "You find a good deal," as if they suddenly take an interest in the charity.
Every businessman knows the very first principle in all business is that there is no such thing as free lunch, and no one would let go of free money, so he did have suspicion before signing. But after inspecting the place for three rounds, there is still no problem he can find -- the building structure is compliant, the renting contract is legit, he even has his lawyer going through the lines, and there is nothing suspicious in the fine print. "Guess it really is a good deal then," his lawyer told him.
So he signs the contract and moves in, today. With all his necessary belongings that can fit into his Prius -- just a number of boxes with some clothes and books.
He's here, new job, new place, new life ahead. A fresh start.
Dean Smith feels good about life.
Probably just because it's the first night, in a new room, on a new bed. Dean tells himself, trying the yoga breathing.
He's still turning and rolling over in the middle of the night, feeling uneasy.
He opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The alarm clock on the bedstand shows around two now. He only has another four hours before he has to get up for the first day in office. He wouldn't want to be late for the first day, or with black eyes.
The sleepiness is there, hiding behind the eyelids; he can feel it, his head and eyes heavy from the usual biological clock, but something is disturbing his gut. The feeling of being watched by something unseen in the dark.
Dean forces his eyes to widen, trying to scan the room. There is nothing there, of course. A quiet night. So quiet he thinks he can even imagine his neighbor's light snoring through the wall.
He closes his eyes again, trying hard to hypnotize himself into sleep.
That's when he thinks he hears the dripping sound from the bathroom.
What the hell? Please not the leaking problem on the first day. Dean groans, dragging himself out of bed, turning on the light in the bathroom.
It's as fresh clean as any new bathroom can be. No dirt on the toilet lid, no stain in the bathtub. No leaking tap.
Then where the hell is that dripping water sound coming from? Pipes inside the walls?
Dean swears under his breath and glances at the walls, but he can't see anything except just feeling some chillness seeping through his nightgown, making his feet cold. The nighttime temperature is lower than he expected. He sees condensed moisture forming some wetness on the wall, a thin layer of frost. January is not a warm season in Ohio.
He lies back on the bed.
The sound of dripping water continues.
He manages to count them in place of counting sheep, and finally gets a few hours before the alarm goes off.
The morning is filled with yawns, and his brain is only back online after the second cup of coffee.
Dean gets on his way to the office.
Seven to five isn't an easy schedule, but Dean gets used to it; at least it pays well with all the benefit packages. The room is already dark when he comes back. Dark, and empty, and quiet. Not like he's expecting a partner and a warm dinner waiting for him at home or anything.
He prepares his own dinner and finishes it in front of the TV.
Dishes done, trash taken out, he sits down with a book, and that's when he notices that prickling feeling is back, the feeling from last night that he almost forgot or would have thought of it as some lucid dream. The feeling that he's not alone. The feeling of being watched, being observed, being analyzed. The feeling of a prey right before the predator jumps on them. The feeling of a sitting duck.
Dean shifts in his ergonomic office chair, trying to ignore the strange sensation, mentally telling the standing hair on the back of his neck to ease. Two pages passed with no idea what he's reading, he has to put down the book and walk around the room, scouting.
He turns on all the lights in the room, every corner bright and lit up. He walks from one corner to another, inspecting the places where he already inspected during the apartment tour. There is nothing there. And of course there is no one there, either.
Dean laughs at himself. "Since when did you become paranoid?"
He turns off the lights, leaving only the one above his desk.
The lamp flickers, blinking and dimming, on and off, on and off.
"Come on!" Dean glares at the lamp, as if his gaze can make the light behave.
It does not.
He turns it off and back on. The light shakes worse. His eyes hurt from staring at the blinking light; it's giving him a headache.
He just turns it off.
I'll deal with it tomorrow. Dean thinks, taking a mental note for tomorrow's to-do items.
Standing in the dark, that is when he starts hearing sounds again. Someone is crying, he thinks, like a kid or a young woman. The sound is quiet and distant, like last night's dripping water sound.
Some neighbors might be watching some drama TV then. Dean tells himself, forcing down the unreasonable thoughts that are slowly creeping up inside his head. Not liking how they sound.
I'm not crazy. He thinks, hard. Just some electricity problem and the neighbor's TV and pipes in the walls. What else can it be?
He can't sleep, again.
Of all the things, this is the one that annoys him the most.
He can live with a busted lamp among everything else, but this feeling of being watched, being noticed, being surrounded by the darkness, not knowing what's in there, it's killing him.
Dean curses, and sits up, turning on the lamp on his bedstand.
Somber orange light showers over the room, taking away the dark shadow. The feeling does not ease, and Dean still can't close his eyes, can't fall asleep. He scratches his head, exhausted. It's killing him but he doesn't know what's killing him.
He leaves a wall lamp on in the living room when he lies back down again, trying very hard to ignore that corner of the mind that tells him he's being a crying baby afraid of the dark.
The night does not go by easily.
Dean snaps out of the dream in a gasp, his chest heavy with weight, his hands clenching his chest, panting. The vision from the dream slips away from his memory fast, like sand slipping between fingers. He stares at the ceiling with wide eyes and already can't remember anything from the dream, only the lingering feeling of the weight and tightness on his chest, the breathlessness, and the sweat on his back still reminding him of a dreadful, rough night.
He checks the clock; it still has another twenty minutes until his usual getting-up hour. He gets up anyway, trying to wash away the sticky sensation and the lingering feeling of uneasiness.
The shower water is freezing cold, for quite a while. He has to wait there, shuddering, cursing. And eventually it turns up, leaving the whole bathroom steaming with the hot vapor, covering the mirror with steam.
Dean is wiping his hair, when he has a glance at the mirror. And that freezes him dead on the spot. The steam on the mirror has four capital letters, unmistakably read: "DEAD."
He flees out of his apartment as fast as he can.
There is something in his apartment. Dean is sure.
They tell him there is nothing wrong with his apartment, the maintenance guys, after checking the lamp, the electricity, the pipe, and the AC. They tell him everything is working perfectly, the temperature warm and cozy, the lights bright and stable. They wish him a good night and leave.
Dean has to gather up enough courage to go back into this place that is his new home for merely two days and he is already thinking about moving out.
Jo would never stop taunting him with that. Dean grimaces, slumping down on the swiveling chair, spinning absent-mindedly.
They tell him the mirror is clean, but it might be a previous prank from past tenants, maybe some kid drew the letters on it for Halloween, leaving a small trace of skin oil or something behind that they couldn't detect. They try heating up and steaming again, but no words show up this time. "Probably nothing," they say before leaving.
But "probably" is not the same as "exactly" or "absolutely", is it?
Dean still cannot sleep. And after the words on the mirror, it's getting worse. He always has to leave a wall lamp on at night now. And he has to use some melatonin to help.
He stares at his own image in the mirror, seeing the bag under the eyes growing larger and deeper and darker. He asks, "What the hell is going on?" The reflection stares back at him, exhausted, having no answer for him.
The water tap turns on by itself in front of him, steam covering the mirror from bottom up. The letters start writing themselves, one stroke at a time, by some floating invisible hands: D - E - A --
Dean yells in terror and runs out of the apartment.
He sleeps in a hotel that day. And the next.
"Something is in my apartment!" He can't stop himself from snapping at the person on the other side of the line, someone from the housing management.
"Mr. Smith, there is nothing in your apartment. We had undergone multiple rounds of thorough inspection, both before you moved in and upon request. The latest one was only two days ago," the operator answers, tone monotonic, not too different from a robot.
"I'm telling you, I can feel it! And apparently, with all those Death Notebook memos, I'm given an early warning notice, and I'm not gonna ignore it!" Dean rubs his eyes, feeling his temples throbbing. The lack of sleep is tearing him apart atom by atom.
"You will still have to pay all the rent for the rest of the year, as well as the deposit money, if you end up deciding to move out early. It is written under section twenty-six of the rent release, stating the situation where early termination is unavoidable." The robot tone tells him flatly. Too smooth.
Damn it. Yeah, he knows the clause. He frowned at it before signing, but it's kind of standard protocol.
"I could have been dead! Or will be, probably! The threat message is pretty straightforward!" he tries again.
"The term for the death of the tenant is covered in section thirty-three. In that unfortunate case, you or your representative will only need to give two months' written notice and continue the payment until then."
Dean snaps the phone shut, cursing.
He goes back to the apartment, eventually, before the week is over.
Not that he can't afford another night in the hotel, but double-paying hotel and rent? That's going against his financial plan for the year. Especially when he can't give his reasonable, business part of the brain enough convincing reasons -- haunted apartment doesn't count.
This is ridiculous, he tells himself, what he thinks he saw couldn't be real. They live in a world of science.
Simply keeping distance from the disturbing source of trouble would usually make the situation look less insane and more optimistic by itself. It works the same for the cool-down period before quarreling couples go into divorce, as it's the same for a mysterious mischievous room. Which must be the case why Dean feels his courage growing back slowly.
He opens the door carefully, scanning the quiet room.
See? Nothing weird or wrong here. He tells himself, takes a breath, and steps over the threshold.
The door slams behind him, locking itself.
All the light in the room, regardless it's on or off, connected or not, starts frantically flickering. Blinking and flashing, dizzy and blinding, like the worst kind of club lighting.
The coffee machine and the blender on the kitchen counter turn on by themselves, motors and blades humming and running, spinning in vain.
He can hear the tabs turning on, water overflowing in the bathtub and sinks, flooding to the floor.
His desk printer starts printing automatically, eating blank papers and spitting out ones with letters. At a glance, he can see it repeats the same message over and over: a lot of D's, E's, and A's.
Dean jumps on his heels, turning around to try the doorknobs desperately. It holds still under his grip.
He shouts "Help" and pounds on the door -- no one comes to him. He fetches his phone for an emergency call -- the phone has no signal.
The air temperature is dropping rapidly, his breath condensed into white fog. He glances back, white smoke swirls and flutters in the center of the room, forming into some shape.
His throat already starts to get hoarse from the vain yelling, his hands and feet freezing cold.
Dean Smith thinks he is two seconds away from having a heart attack -- the kind that is commonly known as: "scared to death".
