(This is Part 2. Part one is here) https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/wh2hrr/us_girls_have_to_stick_together/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3
Hello, it is me again. I was not sure if I should be continuing my story but all your comments were so nice and supportive. Plus telling someone lets me come to terms with what happened.
I ended my first post here on a note that I was trying to get Miss Lamia a new place to stay. Remember, the woman for whom money isn’t an issue? I wish I would be so frugal .
My boss came to me after she left and kept telling me how very important it is that I do not screw it up, that the agency can really use the money and that he expects the very best performance from me to secure this customer for us, seeing I am a woman and all and will probably understand the customer best. You can already notice that he doesn’t really care for her as a person but just wants her money, yes? This is the world of corporate I guess. You get what you bargained for.
I was quick to inform Miss Lamia who preferred to be contacted strictly by email (no phone calls!) that I have a possible flat we could look at in two days. After her quickly responding I sent her the address and the time when I would be there (it was last Monday at 3 PM in fact).
And the apartment was a gem. I would have taken it myself in a heartbeat but it was so outside of my price range that I can only dream of it. It was at the top of a highly modernized apartment complex that was outfitted with an underground parking lot for tenants, cameras on the outside of the building, security staff patrolling the premises and monitoring the inside and outside around the clock. It had a front desk that was staffed 24/7 in case you would encounter a problem. The apartment was isolated so well that you could reenact WW2 including the tanks and the gunfire and your direct neighbors wouldn’t hear it. It’s windows were overlooking the ever-bustling city but you did not hear the traffic and could instead enjoy watching the flashing lights of cars passing down deep below you. The apartment was actually split in two floors, with the kitchen and living room being downstairs and the master and guests bedrooms upstairs. The master bath had a jacuzzi and the guest bath had a whirlpool. Separate toilets. A built in security system that could send an alarm to the nearest police station and a ring camera above the door. A small winter garden that was left behind by the previous tenant and now was included into the apartment. The apartment had its own app. You could order it to close the blinds from the outside, to turn the heat down or up, you could program the multicooker that was part of the kitchen furnishing to already prepare your food while at work. As I said, a dream. And of course it had a storage , albeit I don’t think this word gives proper credit to the cozy little room filled with shelves and lit with motion-triggered multi-colored tiny lamps.
I have arrived a tad early, happy to toss the complaint of yet another tenant that he could hear children screaming from his window (the playground was built before the house you moved in, jackass) to my colleagues. I was looking at my phone, scrolling down for maybe half a minute when a shadow -for lack of better word- materialized itself in front of me. I let out a yelp before looking up and there she was, Lamia, looking exactly the same as the first time I saw her. Turning the head of every male that passed by.
“I did not see you arrive” I stammered to which she replied with “No. You didn’t” before walking towards the apartment building. In the elevator, relaxing classical music was playing as it softly took us up to the apartment while I attempted small talk “Have you had trouble finding the place, Miss Lamia?”. Her response was a hearty chuckle and a “I never have trouble finding where I have to be”. Once we reached the apartment I unlocked the door and stepped in but saw her linger behind in the hallway, looking around the corridor.
“Miss Lamia?” I called out and her attention snapped back to me “You may come in”. She quickly followed, while I was rattling off the advantages of living in such a luxurious building, that you would feel safe here as a woman ( as if there is anywhere you can be truly safe) and cut me off in the middle of the sentence “And where is the storage room?”. I pointed her towards this cozy little room and while she was grasping the door knob she looked at me with those slightly narrowed eyes of hers and spoke “I do not wish to be disturbed” before walking in and locking the door behind her.
Flabbergasted I stared at the locked door. What was that? She didn’t show any interest whatsoever in the apartment itself, barely sparing a glance for the spacious living room, enough to accommodate 30 people. No attention directed to the newly renovated master bedroom with the dark-blue tinned skylight nor to the kitchen where you could prepare a roasted pig if you so desired.
I quietly cursed. My first customer apparently was a case for herself. What was she even doing in there? I tried to listen in but couldn’t pick up anything. Was she making measurements of her own? Assessing what she could fit into that room? I slowly crept closer, my shoes drowning in the soft carpet that was partly covering the floor (imagine a wave-shaped separation between carpet in the living room and wooden floor in the kitchen). Then I heard a quiet sob which made me stop dead in my tracks. Was she crying in there? Maybe she was having an anxiety attack and that is why she locked herself in . It would explain the prohibition of me entering. I am not sure what to do with a person when they are so anxious so I just decided to stand and wait for a while.
10 minutes or so passed before I picked up another sound from the storage room. You know that sound a straw makes when you try to suck up the rest of a drink through it? I stared at the locked door, unable to fathom what was happening. Maybe she was taking her anxiety medication and drinking to get it down easier? Sounds plausible, right? Perhaps she just needed more time. I glanced at my phone briefly. How long was I willing to wait? And what would I do after that? Her facial expression left no room for interpretation when she issued the order of not being disturbed. If I would make her angry, she would not want to deal with me anymore and it would be back to email replies for me.
I crept closer to the door when I heard silent murmuring. I couldn’t make out the words entirely, but the language wasn’t sounding like anything European or Asian. African, perhaps? The flow of words was rhythmic. Was it a prayer? She wanted to have a storage room for praying maybe? I decided to give her 10 more minutes of privacy for practicing her religious beliefs.
She stopped speaking after a time but the silence was somehow more unsettling than the sounds she was making before. I decided that enough was enough and I would knock and ask her if she was okay. Yet the door opened so fast as if she was listening in to me the whole time. With my fingers raised to knock on the door I stared at her like a dumb-founded puppy. She didn’t look like she had been crying at all. No runny make-up, no puffed up skin..hell, she looked even better that she did before coming in there, her eyes shining and her ruby red lips (she definitely applied more make-up while in there) framing her weirdly elongated teeth in a wide smile.
“I appreciate you giving me the time I needed”. She grinned at me “I knew it from the start, you are a woman after my own liking! A woman who also..appreciates privacy”. I chuckled awkwardly before she continued “Sadly this apartment doesn’t suit me. I am looking forward to any other apartments you might find for me. Remember, it has to have a storage room! But no windows or different exits in the storage room, not even ones that have been bricked up “. And with that, she was out the door and I heard her heels clacking down the stairs.
I stared at the open door before slowly walking to the storage room and peeking inside. Apart from one busted light bulb, which was very weird because it was certainly functional when I looked into the room before there was nothing out of the ordinary.
I honestly have no idea what to do. She didn’t do anything dangerous per se, right? But what the hell was that? A lot of people come to Reddit, does anyone know of any religious practices that require you to be in an inescapable storage room? Was she really maybe just having an anxiety attack and did I act properly in dealing with that?
I just feel so lost.