Cloudy Skies, Apartments of Daydreams and Nightmares

By CreativeBoyInSpring

Welcome to the Cloudy Skies tenement building.

Located in the heart of your city, there are hundreds of apartments, complete with low, affordable rent. Each unit has an identical floor plan, which is done to minimize space and keep the rent the same for all units. No need to worry, there is always an apartment for rent here.

And in each apartment lives a story. Some of the stories are dark and filled with terror, while others leave you with a sense of comfort and a smile. A few might even have happened to you.
Cloudy Skies can be a crowded place where many happenings are interconnected, whether the residents know it or not. It can also be a lonely place, even when residents are surrounded on all sides. It can also be a place where one person can experience great joy or even foresee their own death before it occurs. It can also be a place where you might meet someone special, such as the love of your life, or the Devil himself. With over 1,000 people living within the complex, each person’s experience at Cloudy Skies is different, which is exactly how it was designed.

If you are only visiting Cloudy Skies, let us give you a suggestion. That suggestion is to leave before night falls. For nighttime at Cloudy Skies is unique compared to all other tenement buildings in your city.

Only here will you experience the strangeness, the terror and the pure love that is built into the foundations of each and every room. Only here will you find what exists below the surface of your world.

Enjoy your stay here. And before you leave, always remember that even if you leave the world of Cloudy Skies, the world of Cloudy Skies will never truly leave you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CreativeBoyInSpring
• Release date: Mar 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215892787

CreativeBoyInSpring

Creative Boy (In Spring) is a professional writer of many genres. He's published his unique stories in various locations and his stories will stay with you long after you read them. From horror to erotica, he is prolific with what he can write and has over 100 highly rated stories published at Literotica.com.

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Introduction

Welcome to the Cloudy Skies tenement building.

Located in the heart of the city, there are over 600 apartments, each with their own personal space, complete with low, affordable rent. Each unit has an identical floor plan, which is done to minimize space and keep the rent the same for all units. There is always an apartment for rent here. And in each apartment lives a story, be it good or bad or worse.

Cloudy Skies can be a crowded place where many happenings are interconnected, whether people know it or not. It can also be a lonely place, even when all occupants are surrounded on all sides by other people. It can also be a place where one person can experience great joy or even foresee their own death. With over 1,000 different people living within the complex, each person’s experience at Cloudy Skies is different, which is exactly how it was designed.

If you are only visiting Cloudy Skies, let us give you a suggestion. That suggestion is to leave before night falls. For nighttime at Cloudy Skies is unique compared to all other tenement buildings in this large city. Only here will you experience the strangeness, the terror and the pure love that is built into the foundations of each and every room.

Enjoy your stay in one of our rooms. And before you leave, always remember that even if you leave the world of Cloudy Skies, the world of Cloudy Skies will never truly leave you.

Apartment 464; An Expert

Hello? I hear a woman ask from the hallway outside my front door. I take in a large, even giant, breath as I hear it, then release it as a sigh. There’s someone at my apartment door. Not again. Not so soon. Please, God, why so soon?

I get up from my Lazy-E-Boy chair and pull the needle off of the record that I’m playing. The sound of the needle scratching the vinyl just that little bit is enough to make the dread return. Without the sound of the music that the record player was providing, my apartment now seems empty and hollow, as if waiting for something horrible to come.

Yeah? I ask through the door without peeking out the peephole. H-H-Hi, Mister Davis? a scared woman’s voice replies. My…my name is A-Annabelle. Dona Susan told me to see you, she says very nervously and I sigh. I wish I could say that I had hope that maybe she’s selling something, or maybe she needs a date, but I don’t have any such hope. No one visits me unless it’s for one thing.

Now I peek through the peephole and see a very scared 20-something year old girl. She looks how so many of the people that visit me look: that she would be pretty if she wasn’t so tired or disheveled or so terrified. From the looks of her eyes, I would guess she’s had maybe 3 hours of sleep the past 3 days.

I open the door and as is normal, she takes a step backward when she sees me. You see, I’m 30 years old, 6’4, and over 300 pounds. When people come to see me, they expect to see an old frail man wearing chicken bones or feathers. Not a huge ex-con with a tattoo on his face and scars all over.

Yes? I ask, noting how tired my voice sounds. The woman looks at me and seems to forget what she was going to say.

I…Dona Susan said you would be able to help me, she says again, as if a record on repeat. Something has this woman shook up, and I doubt that it’s me.

Come in, I say while stepping aside, not unfriendly, but not exactly warm either. The tired woman hurries into my apartment without question. I motion for her to sit in the kitchen, but I purposely leave the front door open. She notices this and cocks her head.

You are going to leave the front door open? she asks in a worried tone. She looks back at the open door, then at me, surprised anyone would do this.

Yes, I reply but don’t say why. I let her think whatever she wants to think. For her, it’ll probably be so she’ll feel better if she needs to scream or run out of here. Or maybe because I want some air in here.

You…you were in jail? she timidly asks as I lead her to my kitchen in this small crappy apartment. The woman asks this in a way that seems to imply she’s trying to make small talk, but doesn’t know what to talk about.

Yeah, I answer, but don’t ask how she knows, even if I am curious. I know Susan wouldn’t have told her. If not her, then who? Most that know me keep my name to themselves.

15 months, I tell her as I motion for her to sit at my kitchen table. To her credit, she nods as if this isn’t a big thing. The way she looks you would assume that she would instantly be scared of anyone that’s done time.

That w-where you got that face tat? she asks, pointing on her face above the right eyebrow. For a brief moment I don’t know what she’s referring to. Then I remember that I do have a tat on my face. It’s been there so long I often forget all about it, as one would do with a birthmark.

No, I got it when I was younger, I tell her shortly. She nods to this, as if it’s some intriguing piece of information and not idle small talk.

W-What were you in for? she asks as she sits in the chair, fidgeting nervously with her hands. Again, I doubt she really cares, or if she does, it’s not very important to her. She’s just not wanting to talk about the reason why she’s come here.

Manslaughter, I answer her honestly, too tired to lie or explain myself. Then I bring a bottle of Jack Daniels and a small glass and put both in front of her.

Drink some and tell me why you are here, I tell her plainly and sit across from her. To get her out of here as fast as possible is going to require her to start talking, and at the moment she’s too scared to say anything.

The woman nervously opens the bottle and pours a small amount into the glass. Her hands shake so badly that the bottle clanks repeatedly with the top of the glass. As she does this, I turn to look out the front door where I frown.

What’s…what’s with the scratches? Graffiti? she asks, looking up at the trim on the walls, right where the ceiling meets the wall.

I saw them on your door too, she quickly adds. I look at her with an expression that says without words that I’m too tired to play 20 questions. For her to just spit out why she’s here and what she needs.

I’m sorry, it’s just, I’m scared and nervous, and when I get scared and nervous I ask questions, she admits, her eyes watering. At least now we are getting somewhere.

It’s ok, just tell me what’s wrong, I say, attempting to be reassuring but honestly just wanting this to be over with. The sooner she can tell me why she’s here, the sooner she’ll leave.

It…it started a month ago, she begins after taking a huge gulp of the whiskey. As I knew it would, the whiskey steadies her some. Especially as she takes another sip before saying anything more.

I…I went with a friend to her Granddad’s funeral, she explains, looking at her glass. Her eyes gain that far-off look that one gets remembering some intense memory.

When…when we were at the service, I saw this shape, like a dark figure, in the distance next to this tree. It just stood there the entire service and didn’t move, she explains and takes another sip.

A-A-After, I was curious and wanted to see what it was, you know? I knew it couldn’t have been a person because it was just a big black mass, so I figured it was a bag or a loose trench coat, or a tarp or maybe a trash bag or something.

I…when….when I started walking towards it, it just, well, d-d-disappeared. And my friend, she didn’t see it. No one else saw it. It was there, then it wasn’t. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was so quick that it made me think maybe I imagined it, she continues, and gives a small smile that shows she just wants acknowledgement that it really was there. I simply nod and don’t say what I really want to say, which is, if you had taken that as a warning you wouldn’t be in this trouble.

"The…the place it was at….I think….but I’m pretty sure….was a grave," she says and gulps. Her face flashes with horror for just a moment at saying this.

And I didn’t see any coat or anything. But…growing all over the ground was this black moss-like stuff. It almost looked like fungus. It even was on the gravestone, she explains, her face making a grossed-out expression.

So, I thought that maybe the moss got loose and blew up off the ground or something, she says, trying to find a logical reason for what she say as any normal person would.

You stepped in it, I state. It comes out as a statement but is meant as a question. She nods her head, a bit perplexed that I knew what happened. It’s a look that I get a lot actually.

Let me guess. Since then you’ve seen a tall black figure that has what looks like white dots for eyes? I ask her without much emotion as I know it’s true.

Her mouth drops open with either shock or surprise. Maybe both. For several moments she stares at me with that all-too-familiar I didn’t believe what they told me about you, expression. I’ve grown very tired of that expression.

H-How did you know?! she asks in a soft squeak. It’s now and only now that she believes that she isn’t crazy. That there is something supernatural going on here. She knows this because I described what she’s seeing without her mentioning it. I will give this woman some credit, she’s strong. Most would have a nervous breakdown at this point, sealing their fate, but she’s still stoic.

"Sometimes when a truly evil bastard dies, his… well, let’s call it, his energy can hang around or leave an imprint, most often where the body is," I explain while I get up to get myself a glass. Since this is most likely not going to be over soon, I feel I need a drink not to so how badly I’m annoyed.

It’s nature’s way of warning us to avoid contact, I add as I walk back with a glass, now pouring myself some of the whiskey.

When you stepped on that black fungus crap, you basically gave the energy a chance to hitch a ride, I explain and drink the entire amount I poured in one gulp. Then I pour another round for myself. I wouldn’t call myself an alcoholic as I don’t think about drinking often, but I find that I do drink large amounts.

All of the stuff that’s been happening, the nightmares, the hallucinations, shit turning on and off, all that stuff is the energy from whomever was in that grave, I tell her. Again, I know what she’s been going through if she wants to share it or not. It’s nothing new.

Her eyes widen so much that I see all the small red lines leading to her pupil. They look like eyes that have cried so much they can barely keep her eyes moistened. Her expression then changes from the scared, fragile one, to one of hope and wonder. She then leans forward as if I have the magic words that will perform a miracle to save her. This, too, I have grown tired of.

What do I do? she asks, both scared and eager. The way she says it is the way a kid would ask a magician how a trick is performed.

What did Dona Susan tell you? I ask, curious, and then follow with I take it you went to visit her psychic shop, and not because you are friends?

No, no, no, we…we… I went to school with her daughter, she quickly answers. I nod at this, as I find it odd the two would have any connection otherwise.

She…she told me she couldn’t help, not with this, that it was out of her realm. And she gave me your name and address and said I had to come see you, that if anyone could help, it would be you, she explains fast, as if she doesn’t say it fast enough, she’ll die.

And….she said to stay away from apartment 512, no matter how bad I feel that I want to, she adds as an afterthought, as if this doesn’t make any sense to her.

You stay away from that apartment! You hear me?! I yell as I stand up, scaring her so bad she knocks her empty glass over, shrieking and pushing back from the table.

I stare at her, my eyes very intense, but then they soften as I see the terror in her face. My body relaxes and I turn around towards my sink. I often forget just how scary and intimidating I can look, probably because I rarely leave my apartment. For someone like this chick, I’m what the gang member that robs her must look like.

Nothing good comes from that apartment, I warn in a softer tone, making sure she knows how serious it is. Neither of us talk for a long few moments as this hangs in the air, which is my point.

The energy that is latched on to you…oh hell, I’ll call it what you would call it, I say and then pause as I turn around to face her again. "That spirit, is hooked on you and has been feeding off your energy: your emotions, your fear. That’s how it grows," I explain so she knows the difficulty of the situation.

"Wait…wait, wait…h-h-hooked on me? Me? I’m haunted? Not my house but me?" she asks in disbelief. I nearly sigh at this as I never understood why people assume that only houses can be haunted. Everything in this world is made from some form of energy, even if the thing is dead. The fancy oak desk that you get was once a living breathing tree, filled with energy. And anything with energy can be haunted.

Yes, I answer, but say nothing more. This truth strikes her hard, so hard that she leans back in her chair with force, nearly knocking her over. If someone was passing in the hallway, they might think I just slugged her, from the sound it makes. She no doubt is like the others, wanting me to say something like, Move outta your house, you silly girl!

You have a few options, not many due to how strong it’s become, I inform her in a businesslike manner as I sit back at the table.

One, you can attempt to get a holy person of your religion of choice to perform on you a cleansing or exorcism or whatever they’ll call it, I tell her. I leave out the fact that this rarely works, except in movies. And the only reason why it works in real life is that the ritual is filled with such positive energy at the thought of their religion, and that energy forces the spirit to flee.

This does work…rarely, I say, not hiding the fact I don’t have much faith in this, but it has worked before. Again, I know this is one that most people would assume to do. It’s just when it doesn’t work, the victim becomes even more depressed, which opens them up worse for the spirit.

"What…can’t you do an exorcism? Can’t you zap it back to the ghost dimension?!" she asks in a pleading tone as if I’m the only one that can help her. That I must have special powers and am not offering to use them because I’m an ass or something.

I look at her and a part of me does feel bad for her. But mostly, I’m tired. Too tired to care that much any longer. There’s always someone that needs help. Always someone that is frantic about something strange that’s going on. Always someone. Someone that cares about themselves, and never about anyone else, even me.

Look, I say, trying to be sympathetic. There is no such thing as a ghost dimension where the things that haunt people live, I explain. I try to hide my annoyance that what most people believe is crap some movie said.

Each energy that doesn’t go where it should when its body dies, lives on in different ways. Some repeat what they did when they were alive because that’s the only thing they remember. Some are confused and feel the pain of being trapped and beg to be free. And some, well, some like the pain…and yearn to spread it, I explain calmly.

And each of these energies live on different planes that run concurrently with ours, I add. I pour myself another drink, hate having to explain this crap as it only ever leads to more questions and dumb ideas.

The woman looks at me, her eyes teary and her mouth open. I know she is listening, but I’m not sure how much she is really hearing. If I had to guess, I would say she is just waiting for me to say something like, This is what we do, or, Alright, I’ll do the ritual. If I’m not saying that, then I’ll keep getting that blank, half-expectant expression, which annoys the hell out of me.

So, no. There is no magic spell that can be cast to get rid of it, I tell her, becoming blunt again as this is the only thing she’ll understand. I’ve somewhat grown tired of her and just want her to leave.

The only options you have are one, to try an exorcism, which could send it away or could really piss it off. Two, you attempt to latch it to something or someone else. Or three, you give it what it wants, I tell her plainly, using my fingers to count.

Several long moments pass between us as I give her time to process what I just said. As she processes it, I take a long look