My grandmother and I moved into Apartment 3B at the historic Fenwick Building three weeks ago, adopting a stray hound named Buster who roamed the alley.
Part 1
Every night at 2:14 AM, Buster stands beneath the center ceiling beam, growling at the floorboards directly beneath Marcus Gable, our smooth-talking upstairs neighbor.
Marcus insists the dog is dangerous and demands animal control seize Buster immediately.
Yesterday, Buster scratched open a plaster gap behind our radiator, pulling out a faded collar smelling of wet earth and copper.
The silence of Apartment 3B was a fragile thing, always threatening to break. It usually did around 2:14 AM.
That was Buster’s hour.
He would stir from his spot at the foot of my grandmother Martha’s bed, a deep, rumbling sigh escaping him before his paws hit the worn Persian rug. The sound was like a clock ticking backward.
I always braced myself.
Buster would pad silently across the wooden floor, his nails making soft clicks, until he stood directly beneath the heavy, ornamental ceiling beam that bisected our living room. It was the exact spot that corresponded to the floorboards of Apartment 4B, right above us.
Then, the growl would start.
It wasn’t a bark, not usually. It was a low, throaty rumble, vibrating through the thin floorboards. His body would stiffen, muscles tense beneath his short, brindle fur. His hackles rose, a bristly ridge along his spine.
His dark eyes would fixate on the ceiling, unblinking, as if he saw something we couldn’t. Something menacing.
“There he goes again,” Grandma Martha would murmur from her armchair, her knitting needles paused in mid-air. Her voice held a weary resignation.
I would sit up on the couch, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The old building creaked and groaned around us, a symphony of ancient wood and settling plaster, but Buster’s growl always cut through it.
He was never loud enough to truly be a nuisance, not to us. Just persistent. Just unsettling.
Upstairs, Marcus Gable clearly disagreed.
He’d cornered Grandma Martha in the lobby twice already, his smile too wide, his voice too smooth. He’d called Buster a “rabid menace” and implied he’d been attacked. Grandma Martha, easily flustered by any confrontation, had come back shaking.
“He said he’d call the landlord, Leo,” she’d whispered, her hands trembling as she poured herself a cup of chamomile tea. “He said Buster was a danger to everyone.”
But Buster wasn’t dangerous. He was a gentle giant with us, lazy and loving, always nudging a wet nose into my hand for a scratch behind the ears. It was only 2:14 AM that he became something else.
Only toward Marcus Gable.
A few days later, a chill had settled in the air, a damp Rhode Island autumn. Grandma Martha insisted on a deep clean of the apartment. She said the draft was coming from the radiator.
“Let’s move that old chest, Leo,” she instructed, pointing a gnarled finger at the heavy wooden chest that sat against the wall, directly under the living room window. “And get behind the radiator with the vacuum. It’s probably a nest of dust bunnies back there.”
I grunted, pushing against the chest. It was heavier than it looked, filled with Grandma’s old sewing patterns and fabric scraps. Buster, usually sprawled out on his dog bed, suddenly became alert.
He stood up, sniffing the air, his tail beginning a slow, tentative wag. His gaze was fixed on the wall behind the radiator.
“What is it, boy?” I asked, panting from the effort.
Grandma Martha looked up from sorting her spools of thread. “He smells something. Probably a mouse, Leo. This old building is full of them.”
But Buster didn’t react to mice with such intensity. He usually just eyed them with a sleepy indifference. This was different. He let out a low whimper, a soft, anxious sound.
I finally managed to drag the chest away from the wall, scraping the floorboards with a screech. A fine film of dust covered the plaster behind it, and the old cast-iron radiator looked grimier than I remembered.
Buster shoved his nose into the gap between the radiator and the wall. He whined again, a little louder this time. Then he began to scratch.
His nails scraped against the old plaster, making a terrible grating sound. Dust flew into the air, illuminated by the afternoon sun streaming through the window.
“Buster, no!” Grandma Martha cried, but it was too late.
He was relentless, his strong paws tearing at the brittle, crumbling plaster with surprising force. A section of the wall, already weak, gave way with a soft crack, revealing a dark, hollow space behind it. The smell that wafted out was damp and earthy, like overturned soil. And something else, metallic and faintly acrid, like old pennies.
Buster plunged his muzzle into the opening, snuffling deeply. He gave a sharp tug, pulling something out.
It was a collar.
Not a new one, but old and worn. The leather was stiff and discolored, faded from what might have once been a vibrant red to a dull, rusty brown. It was stained in places, mottled with dark patches that looked suspiciously like dried mud. Or something worse.
Grandma Martha gasped, dropping her spools. They rolled across the floor, scattering like marbles.
I knelt, reaching for it carefully. The leather was cold against my fingers. There was a faint scent clinging to it, the same wet earth and copper smell that had come from the wall.
Buster nudged it with his nose, then looked up at me with those big, soulful eyes, as if presenting a prize.
The collar was too large for Buster. It belonged to a much smaller dog.
My thumb traced the metal tag still attached to the collar. It was tarnished, almost black with age and grime, but the engraving was still visible.
I cleaned it with my shirt sleeve, rubbing vigorously until the name became clear. My breath hitched in my throat.
“Clara Danforth,” I read aloud, my voice barely a whisper.
Grandma Martha froze. Her eyes were wide, suddenly seeing something far beyond a simple dog collar.
Clara Danforth.
That was the name Marcus Gable had mentioned just last week. The woman who had lived in Apartment 4B before him.
The woman he’d casually told us had “moved to California” a little over two years ago.
Part 2
“Clara Danforth,” I had said. The name hung in the air, a cold, heavy thing.
Grandma Martha looked at me, her face pale. “But Marcus said she moved, Leo. To California.”
I clutched the collar, the worn leather feeling strangely alive. Something wasn’t right.
The next morning, as I walked Buster through the lobby, Marcus Gable stepped out of the elevator. His smile was fixed, too bright for the early hour.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our little menace,” he said, eyeing Buster with distaste.
Buster, for his part, gave a low, questioning rumble. Not the aggressive 2:14 AM growl, but a wary, distrustful sound.
“Good morning, Mr. Gable,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
He didn’t return the greeting. Instead, he leaned in, his voice dropping. “I hear you found a little souvenir yesterday, Leo. Behind your radiator.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. How did he know?
“An old dog collar,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Belonged to Clara Danforth, actually.”
Marcus’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes hardened. “Yes, Clara. Sweet girl. Moved to sunny California two years ago. Said she wanted a fresh start.”
He straightened up, shrugging. “Must have left it behind. People leave things.”
“But it was in the wall,” I pressed. “Inside the plaster.”
His gaze flickered, just for a second. “Old buildings. Things get stuck. Now, about that dog.”
His voice grew sharper. “He’s a hazard, Leo. Animal Control will be here if he’s not gone. I’ve filed formal complaints.”
He turned, walking towards the exit. “California. Good for her. You should really get rid of that dog.”
I watched him leave, a knot forming in my stomach. “Moved to California.” It sounded too rehearsed. Too smooth.
Later that day, after Grandma Martha went to her sewing circle, I sat at our old kitchen table. The collar lay beside my laptop.
I pulled up the city’s municipal records website, a public database of property deeds and tax information. It was slow, clunky.
I typed in “Fenwick Building, Providence, RI.”
Then I searched for Apartment 4B. I wanted to see who officially owned the lease.
The records loaded, a long list of digital entries.
Marcus Gable was the current tenant, effective 26 months ago.
But scrolling down, I found something else. Something that made my blood run cold.
There were regular, monthly payments for Apartment 4B, specifically for “lease maintenance and utilities.”
Every single payment, for the past 26 months, was listed under the name of “Clara Danforth.”
Marcus wasn’t just living there. He was paying for Clara’s ghost to keep the lease active, preventing anyone from renovating or inspecting Apartment 4B.
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