Beach Reads #1: Maureen

fish out of water

Welcome to Beach Reads for Goth Kids. All summer long, I’m sending out quick tales that pack a haunting punch: creatures-of-the-week, summer camp slashers, heatwave madness, and things that go bump in the cul-de-sac. These will be sticky stories with summery themes, best consumed in a beach chair. Just when you thought it was safe to open your windows, meet your new neighbor Maureen.

When the cops showed up was when I learned my neighbor’s name was Maureen. How sad is that? You live right above a person for thirteen years.

Can’t say I saw her in the building ever, not one time. And she lived here longer than I did. She got a lotta deliveries. I figured she was sick or somethin’ and couldn’t get out much. I never checked on her, probably coulda brought in her mail come to think of it.

I knew she was dead pretty quick though. Because of the smell. I called the City a hundred times. 911, 311, Channel 5 news, I even called a couple funeral homes in the neighborhood. But days went by before anyone bothered to show up. Don’t die on Memorial Day weekend I guess.

Then when they finally did show up they kicked in the door like it was some kinda emergency. Cops.

The smell got worse before it got better. Once New York’s Finest kicked down the door, I mean. They took Maureen with ‘em, but they don’t exactly tidy up. Whatever’s on the floor just stays on the floor, unless your family shows up to clean it, get all your junk, move your nephew in for the rent control, ya know? These cops, they just propped her busted door in the entryway like we wouldn’t notice.

Landlord’s a bum, believe me. He ain’t fixing nothing in this heat. So we all put our fans on extra high and tried to stay outta the way. Rosa on the fourth floor came down and lit saint candles all around Maureen’s door but them saints don’t do nothing for the smell.

After a few days, with the door just propped there in the entryway, I was dyin’ to see what Maureen’s place looked like. Sick, right? It’s New York, makes you loco. You always wanna check— make sure your landlord didn’t redo your neighbor’s kitchen and not yours, you know?

Well he ain’t redo shit. I’m tellin’ you, it was not right in there.

That smell of death? Once that smell gets in you, you know it forever. I could recognize it from a mile away. But there was something else mixed in. Low tide and wet sand. Sour, fishy smell. Like Fulton Street market on a Monday.

It’s a basement apartment so there’s just one little window, right at sidewalk height. Well Miss Maureen had that little window papered over with the Daily News, whole layers of it, so it was real dark and cool inside. So much cooler than my place, I start to think maybe I should paper over my windows for the summer, eh? Not a bad way to keep from roasting up there. But in a basement apartment? Why bother?

All the walls were damp with little drops like when you pull a beer outta the fridge, and when I put my hand on the wall it was soft and squishy. Apartments can’t be wet like that, you know, especially a basement. You get mold. The floors were wet too, but not clean wet. The whole place soaked through.

There’s no furniture, not even a friggin’ chair, and I ain’t seen no one come in with a moving truck. This lady, she was just sittin’ on the floor or somethin’? I dunno man.

Then right on the middle of the floor there was this big stain. I figure that’s where she kicked it, right? Just sittin’ there in her spot on the floor. Gross, I know, but I went over to it. Something about Maureen, how she lived and how she died, it got under my skin.

I noticed the floorboards didn’t line up right, like part of ‘em was cut out and replaced. I was really looking hard at it and I see— no shit— the edge is kinda uneven. This thing’s a friggin’ trapdoor.

Well I’m thinkin’ she’s got cash in here, right? Creepy old lady, no friends, they always have diamonds or some shit. So, I’m gonna get it open, come hell or high water.

The crack was so tiny, you could barely see it and with everything wet, I couldn’t get a grip. I was diggin’ at these boards with my fingers, you know? Then I start to notice Maureen dug at it too— there were scrapes in the wood and tool marks all over the place. Something musta happened and she couldn’t get it open. She wanted to get in there real bad.

When I couldn’t pop that sucker I went upstairs and got my crowbar. Well this shit was so weird. It was some kinda pool under that door. Bigger than my bathtub, lined with a blue plastic tarp. Fulla water— dirty water like the ocean at Coney Island. And it had all this stuff floating in it. Shiny little bits, reminded me of fish scales. That fishy smell? Ground zero.

I poked my crowbar down there and stirred it around just to make sure there wasn’t like jewelry inside or nothin’. All that came up was those shiny fish scales, loads of ‘em. Couldn’t wait to see my landlord’s face when I tell him this lady had a fish tank in her floor.

I got a guy works at the precinct so I called him up. He’s on the cleaning crew so he sees everything and he’s got loose lips. I said, did this lady die from mold poisoning or somethin’? You know, we got a right to know if there’s mold.

And I’m not shitting you, I swear on my grandmother’s grave he said when they got her body it was All. Dried. Up. Like beef jerky, man. Like a fish out of water, she just dried up down there in the basement, trying to claw her way into that little trapdoor swimming pool.

Now you tell me if you can figure that shit out.