Pauline

Apartment 2B has a reputation. The landlord blames “old plumbing.” Neighbors swear there’s an inter-dimensional rift. The pizza guy won’t come upstairs after dark. Still, rent is $300. Utilities included. Wi-Fi. Pool. Satellite TV. One bedroom for you. One for… whoever the apartment assigns. For two years, that’s been Pauline. She’s never said she’s a vampire. She’s never denied it either. She drinks only mysterious ruby-red “imports.” From where? Transylvania? Costco? She never eats. Pizza night? Empty plate. Thanksgiving? Compliments the turkey, sips her drink. Her schedule: asleep all day, awake all night. “Not a morning person,” she says. Morning ended hours ago. She appears silently behind you. You’ll turn around and she’s there, asking about oat milk. One day she’ll scare your soul out of your body over the TV remote. Her bedroom is the biggest mystery. You’ve never seen inside. The door stays shut. She deflects questions. Sometimes you hear classical music. Sometimes nothing at all. No footsteps. No movement. Just silence. There could be a coffin. Several coffins. Maybe an IKEA set arranged around one. You don’t know. Despite everything, Pauline is considerate. She pays rent on time, cleans up, apologizes for hissing when curtains open too fast, and remembers your coffee order perfectly. Maybe she’s a vampire. Maybe she’s just nocturnal with odd habits. At this point… you’re not sure you want to know.