The Fourth Setting

I have three siblings, and this happened about two years ago, when we had just moved into a newly built apartment complex on the outskirts of the city. The building was still mostly empty, with only a few families on our floor, and the hallways echoed with the sound of our footsteps. My father was abroad on work, and my mother managed the household with the help of our part-time maid, who came in the mornings.

One Tuesday, I returned from college later than usual. The sky had turned a bruised purple, and the streetlights flickered to life as I trudged up the five flights of stairs because the elevator was out of order. When I reached our door, I knocked twice. A few seconds later, my youngest brother, Ethan, opened it with a blank expression. He didn’t say a word, just turned and walked toward the kitchen. I thought it odd because Ethan was usually bouncing off the walls, but I was exhausted from a long day of lectures and just wanted something to eat.

I called out, ‘Ethan, can you make me some instant noodles? I’m starving.’ He didn’t respond, but I heard the sound of a pot being filled with water. I collapsed onto the couch, my bag slipping to the floor. After about ten minutes, I realized I hadn’t heard the usual clatter of him searching for the spices or the sizzle of the stove. Curious, I called my mother’s mobile. She answered, sounding out of breath. ‘Where are you? I’m at the supermarket with Marcus and Lily. We’re buying things for the new apartment.’ I frowned and said, ‘Mom, I just got home. Ethan is here. He’s making noodles for me.’ There was a pause, then my mother’s voice turned sharp. ‘What are you talking about? Ethan is right here with me, picking out cereal. You’re alone in the apartment.’

I felt a chill crawl up my spine. I sat up, my eyes fixed on the kitchen doorway. ‘No, Mom, I saw him. He opened the door for me. He’s in the kitchen right now.’ My mother’s voice trembled, ‘That’s impossible. We’ve been here for an hour. You’re scaring me. Stop this nonsense.’ But I wasn’t joking. I stood up, my heart thumping, and walked slowly toward the kitchen. The floor seemed cold under my bare feet. As I reached the doorway, I saw the pot on the stove, water gently boiling, but there was no one there. The bag of noodles lay untouched on the counter.

I backed away, my mind racing. I called out, ‘Ethan?’ No answer. The apartment was silent except for the bubbling water. I turned to run to the front door, but it was ajar. I slammed it shut and locked it. My hands were shaking as I dialed my mother again. ‘He’s gone. The kitchen is empty, but the water is boiling.’ My mother was silent for a long time. Then she whispered, ‘There was a boy who lived in this building before we moved in. He drowned in a bathtub in this very apartment. His name was Daniel. The previous tenants moved out because they saw him in the mirror one night.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the living room with all the lights on, clutching a kitchen knife, staring at the door to the kitchen. Around 3 AM, I heard a faint sound—the clinking of a spoon against a bowl. I crept to the kitchen and peered in. The pot was still on the stove, but now there was a steaming bowl of noodles on the counter. A single chopstick rested across it, as if someone had just left it. I ran to my room and locked the door, and I didn’t come out until morning.

The next day, we found out that the apartment had been built on the site of an old asylum. The building’s foundation had been poured over the remains of a forgotten child who had been institutionalized and had died on the fourth floor. Since then, whenever we are all together, we set an extra place at the table. We leave a bowl of plain noodles for Daniel. And sometimes, late at night, I see him standing in the kitchen, watching me with hollow eyes, his lips moving as if to say, ‘I was just trying to make you something to eat.’