The Tenant

By Laura Payeur

The residents of The Crespen Arms each have their own dark secrets. It's the secrets hidden within the walls, however, that they should fear. One by one the building's seedy characters begin to disappear. What they don't know is whether or not the evil is of flesh and blood or something sinister.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Payeur
• Release date: Dec 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466199811

Laura Payeur

Wife, mother, grandmother with a passion for writing murder mystery, crime, and a bit of dark humor. Most of my characters are based on the real-life personalities of people I know and have known in my life. Although, thankfully, rarely are my tales based on real-life events. For example, my husband is still alive and well (for the most part).

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The Tenant

by

Laura Payeur

Copyright 2011 by Laura Payeur

Published by Laura Payeur at Smashwords

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the author's imagination are used fictitiously. The use of some licensed products have been used without permission, however, not in any defamatory manner. Any resemblances to actual persons living or dead, businesses, places or events is entirely coincidental.

The Crespen Arms

In the late fifties, Harvey Normand built The Crespen Arms, meant to be a hotel for upscale customers. It had been his dream. Every penny he'd ever saved went into was to be a glorious future for his family. A legacy for his sons. He had hopes of opening his own chain someday.

One day at a time, he proudly told his sons, as they stood by watched the foundation being poured.

Each of the three floors had three two bedroom suites, and one single bedroom suite. Kitchens and living rooms were open concept, but no expense was spared. All the living room and bedroom floors were lined with plush, navy blue carpeting - the best on the market. The corridors were papered with a soft red velor, with gold accents and matching carpeting was laid. On the walls between the suites hung a heavy brass light fixture, shaped like the old street lamps. They let off a light glow, enough for guests to find their rooms. He expected big profits and bigger favors, if he was able to indulge their fantasies. His mistake was providing the latter.

Through all his hard work, he had failed. His dream had become a refuge for drug dealers, murderers, prostitutes and child molesters. For years he simply drown himself in cheap whiskey and helped himself to a whore or two. But on a Sunday afternoon, early in the spring of 1968, Harvey Normand, husband of Gertrude and father of Lester and Bernard, took his own life. He was found hanging from the fancy brass chandelier of room 3D in The Crespen Arms Hotel, wearing nothing but stained white boxer shorts and high black socks.

***

Forty years later...The screams were deep, guttural. The screams of a man. Somewhere in the building, a man was in need of assistance, but the residents of Crespen Arms were used keeping to themselves. By the time the police arrived late that evening, he wasn't the only one.

Apt 2B

Seventy-two year old Shirley Barnes sat at her end of the sofa, crocheting yet another blanket for this year's Christmas Bizarre. She was a short, plump woman, five feet tall, on a good day. Her sister Evelina Tate, three years her junior and her complete opposite in many ways, sat at the other end of the sofa, was working at a crossword puzzle with the television on low.

Together the two women had lived in Apartment 2B for the last fifteen years. They were quiet, kept to themselves and tried not to notice too much of the chaos that went on in their building. Some days that wasn't easy to do.

Their apartment, one of eleven occupied in the building, was a small two bedroom apartment with few updates. The thin gray carpeting that ran throughout the apartment was worn, the wallpaper was peeling and, even on a slightly breezy day, the windows rattled. The place was in rough shape, but it was the best they could afford on their Social Security checks. They were old women cliches with lacy white doilies covering nearly ever piece of furniture in their apartment, right down to the round, white lace table cloth on the kitchen table.

According to Evelina, she had earned her money the honest way, working for it. It seemed she took pleasure in telling Shirley that because she had opted for being a housewife, she deserved the small monthly stipend. Although, she never mentioned that how she had acquired her Cadillac wasn't by being an upstanding citizen.

The screams echoed through the hallway. They were coming from another apartment on their floor. Looking at each other, the two went to their door to listen.

Who do you think it is? Shirley asked nervously. Her dark gray eyes widened.

Only one man who lives on this floor, Evelina said. That was true as far as they knew. Neither of them had any idea who or what resided in 2A. Sometimes they could hear noises coming from the apartment next door, but didn't know who it's occupant was.

Do you think it's that guy? Shirley asked, not missing a stitch. You know, the one with all the boyfriends?

Evelina shrugged. Could be one of his friends.

Shirley rolled up her crocheting, and tucked it into the large cloth bag at her feet. The bag with the creepy clown face and red handles. It had been a gift from Evelina, so she used it, but always kept it's face hidden. She tip-toed to the door.

What do we do? Shirley put her ear against the door. It sounds bad. Worse than. She pointed to the ceiling.

It's none of our business. Evelina trotted to the door, bolting it and strode back to the living room. Sitting back down on the sofa, she used the clicker to turn up the volume on the television, drowning out the noise. She had no intention of sticking her nose where it didn't belong. Whatever was going on out there had nothing to do with her. Picking up her crossword, she went back to work.

Someone could really be hurt this time, Shirley shouted over the television.

Someone usually is, Shirl. It's still none of our business. She put her bony finger to her lips, indicating that she wanted Shirley to be quiet.

Shirley knew what she meant about someone usually being hurt. On many occasions, more than she cared to count, the tenants above them caused a ruckus. And ten times out of ten it was the husband tossing