The Red Unit

The day we moved into Unit 12, I told myself the cemetery across the street was a good omen. It meant quiet neighbors, a peaceful end to the cul-de-sac, and a safe place to walk the baby when she came. My husband, Marcus, laughed and said I was romanticizing death, but he was too busy trying to get our wheezing vacuum to pick up a dust bunny that was disintegrating under the brush. I left him to it and went to the kitchen to unpack the boxes, one eye on the window that faced the parking lot and the row of two-story units beyond.

Our apartment was one of four in a single-story building, and it sat at the very end, so we had a yard on three sides. The grass was patchy, the fence was peeling, but it was ours for the moment. The complex was old, built in the 70s, with cheap vinyl siding and aluminum windows that rattled when the wind blew. Across the parking lot, there was a long building with six units, each with its own little front door. The second unit from the left, #18, had a red door, and I noticed it within the first week because someone was always coming or going.

It started with a young couple, maybe mid-twenties. They moved in with a hatchback full of boxes and a cat that they let out at all hours. I saw them from my kitchen window, laughing, carrying in a new mattress. I waved once, but they didn’t see me. Three months later, I saw a U-Haul outside #18, and they were gone. The cat stayed behind, meowing at the door until the landlord took it away.

Next came a single man, a truck driver, I think. He was there for two months, and I never saw him except early mornings, pulling out before sunrise, or late nights, stumbling in with a fast-food bag. One day, he just didn’t come back. His blinds stayed closed, and a week later, maintenance came in and cleaned it out. I saw them bagging up clothes and a broken TV.

Then a mother with two kids, but that only lasted a month. She had a screaming match with someone on the phone one night, and by the next weekend, the moving truck was there. The kids looked scared. I remember thinking that was odd, but I had my own worries. My belly was getting heavy, and the baby kicked like a soccer player.

Marcus was at work, and I was puttering around the living room when I noticed a new person outside #18. It was an old man, thin, with a stoop, wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He was carrying a single cardboard box, and he set it down to unlock the door. I leaned closer to the window, and he paused, as if he felt my gaze. He turned slowly, looked across the parking lot, and stared right at me. I couldn’t see his eyes under the brim, but I felt a cold rush, like someone had opened a freezer beside me. Then he smiled—a thin, tight-lipped smile—and went inside.

I tried to shake it off. Cemeteries and old men, I told myself. It’s fine. But that night, I dreamed of a baby crying, and when I woke, the crying was real. I sat up in bed, my hand on my stomach, and the sound stopped. I listened, but there was only the hum of the refrigerator. I told Marcus, and he said it was probably a cat.

Over the next few weeks, I watched #18 more than I should have. The old man didn’t move in so much as *settle*. He rarely came out, and when he did, it was at odd hours—3 AM, 4:30 AM, dawn. He never carried groceries. He carried small things: a mason jar, a bundle of sticks, a shovel. The shovel made my skin crawl. What was he digging?

But the worst was the light. At night, sometimes a dim red glow would pulse from the windows of #18, like a heartbeat. I’d seen the red door, but this was different. It was a color that seemed to bleed into the night, and when I looked at it, I felt a pulling sensation in my gut. The baby kicked violently those nights, as if she felt it too.

I tried to rationalize. The apartment complex required a maintenance fee, and I’d noticed that people moved out without their deposit back. It was a transient place. But as my due date neared, I felt a growing dread. I started taking walks around the complex, and I found that the cemetery across the street was actually divided by an old stone wall. The back of #18 backed up to a narrow path that skirted the cemetery, and I saw fresh dirt there once. I told myself it was a gardening project, but he wasn’t gardening.

One afternoon, I was sitting on our tiny porch, hand on my belly, when the old man appeared at the edge of our yard. I hadn’t heard him step off the asphalt. He stood there, and he tipped his hat.

‘You’re about ready,’ he said. His voice was low, dry, like leaves rustling.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He took a step closer, and I saw his eyes for the first time—they were pale, like ice, with tiny pupils.

‘I saw you watching,’ he said. ‘It’s natural. But you should know—they hear you.’

‘Who?’ I managed.

He gestured over his shoulder toward #18. ‘The ones before. They want to come back.’ Then he smiled again, and his teeth were like old piano keys. ‘But don’t worry. Your baby will be fine.’ He turned and walked away, and I sat there shaking.

That night, Marcus had a late class, so I was alone. The red light started at 2:00 AM, pulsing stronger than ever. I felt a contraction—false, I thought, but painful. I counted, and they were irregular. I paced the apartment, trying to calm myself. I looked out the window, and I saw the old man standing at the back of #18, holding something in his arms. It was a doll. He was rocking it, and the red light grew brighter until it was like a sun setting behind him.

Then I heard the knocking. It came from our door, soft at first, then insistent. I walked to the peephole, and I saw a woman standing outside, a woman I’d never seen before. She was young, with a pale face and dark circles under her eyes. She wore a tattered dress, and she was holding a baby wrapped in a stained blanket. The baby was silent, but its eyes were open, and they were black.

I didn’t open the door. I backed away, and the knocking became pounding. ‘Help me,’ the woman said, her voice muffled. ‘Please, help us.’

I called Marcus, but he didn’t answer. I called the police, but I was so hysterical they said they’d send a car. But when they arrived, there was no one outside. The red light was gone. The old man was gone. And #18 sat dark, empty again.

The officer checked around, but found nothing. He dismissed it as a prank. But I knew. Something was living in that red unit, something that wore faces of the departed, and it was waiting for a new tenant.

I told Marcus we had to leave. We packed that week, and I slept on the couch with every light on. The baby came early—a beautiful girl with eyes like mine. We moved to Marcus’s parents’, and we never looked back. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear a baby crying, and when I look out the window, I see a red glow in the distance, and I know that red unit is never truly empty.

My daughter is one now, healthy and happy, but she will sometimes stare out the window with a look that makes my blood run cold. And I wonder if she sees them too—the family that lived before, and the one after, waiting for their turn to be reborn.