Not a window was broken/ And the paint wasn’t peeling,/No balcony sagged -/And yet there was the feeling/ Once past reception/And out of the hall/These were the homes of/No one at all/ No one who breathed/Nor laughed, nor ate/Nor said “I love,”/Nor said “I hate.”/Yes something walked/Along the stair/Something that was/And wasn’t there./And that is why keys/Wait at reception/For apartment owners/Who’ll never collect them/For something walks/Along the stair –/Something that is/And isn’t there.
I slipped out of my room and made my way to The Denizen. Keeping my revolver handy, I made my way up to the floor on which Jason’s flat was situated. I hung a protection belt of garlic around my neck and the smell of it seemed to fill the corridor and give me assurance. It is a wonderful protection against the more usual Aeiirii forms of semi-materialization, by which I supposed the whistling might be produced. Though at that period of my investigation I was quite prepared to find it due to some perfectly natural cause, for it is astonishing the enormous number of cases that prove to have nothing abnormal in them. In addition to wearing the necklet, I had plugged my ears loosely with garlic and as I did not intend to stay more than a few minutes in the luxury apartment, I hoped to be safe. When I reached the door and put my hand into my pocket for the key, I had a sudden feeling of sickening funk. But I was not going to back out if I could help it.
"Then there is The Denizen," said Meagle, "full of luxury apartments available at absurdly low rents and nobody will take them. It has taken toll of at least one life of every family that has lived there - however short the time - and concierge after concierge has died there. The last caretaker died just a few weeks ago."