Winterfell Court

From my parlor window, I gaze out across the city. Massive art deco spires loom in the distance, and, a mile off, the cityscape fades into a haze of snow. Below, the streets teem with cars and vans. Sidewalks are packed with people rushing home to beat the storm, forecast to be a bad one. 

Oh, what a home I have, perched up here, high above the masses, a cut crystal glass of whiskey in one hand, today’s folded Times in the other. With our own steam heat, I can enjoy the storm, not fear it. Besides, both my pantry and liquor cabinet are quite well stocked…

Winterfell Court is a grand old building – thirty floors of flats – luxurious and coveted for their elegant stone, wood, and metalwork, as well as their spacious interiors. It’s certainly true that they don’t build places like this anymore.

When I came to town and Fosgate, my realtor, said that a unit on the top floor of this historic building was available, I jumped at it. My move in a week ago took little time, but it’ll take years to properly furnish the place and make it my own.

----

“Why did the previous owner sell?” I ask. I stand across the spacious room from Mister Fosgate, a short, round, balding gentleman who, despite being a hopeless sycophant, really knows the realty market. “The concierge said that no one has lived on the top floor for more than a few months.”

Fosgate riffles nervously through a sheaf of documents.

“Yes, I heard that, too. No idea what he’s talking about.”

“But the building is fifty years old, right? Sounds like a lot of owners. Leaky roof or something?” I lean against a solid marble support column and relish its mass, its coolness.

“No, no – the place has a spotless maintenance record. Still, there is one other occupied flat up here. Owned for seven years now.”

“One? Out of ten?”

Fosgate’s eyes narrow and shift back and forth with disconcerting speed.

Despite my mild sense of unease that flats up here have been bought and sold on timescales of months, not decades, this place is a steal – a palatial home at only half the price of similar top-floor units around town.

I act on impulse.

“I’ll take it,” I say, then remove the flask from my inside jacket pocket, screw off the cap, and take a long, gurgling gulp.

----

The city has ground to a halt, its great cogs and pistons buried in drifts of wind driven snow. A classic nor’easter the Times called it. Heavy snow continues, the plate glass windows creaking in heavy gusts from the east. It appears the storm is scoring a direct hit on the city. The streets are deserted, while pools of orange light glow at the bases of light poles.

I sit in my favorite chair before the window, my radio playing Brahms while I sip on brandy by candlelight, just as the clock chimes midnight.

Then, a loud, muffled thump jars me fully awake. I jump in my chair and look about in consternation. What could cause that? Wondering if it was a knock at my door, I leave my chair but find the hallway empty. A quick check of all the rooms shows nothing is amiss.

I’m about to chalk it up as a random, one-off when it happens again. It’s just above the ceiling. From what the Winterfell staff has told me, the only thing above my ceiling is the expansive, flat roof of this building. I’ve been up there a few times – I have a key – but the absence of railings along the roof edge kept me from getting too close. And with the wind out there tonight, I’d rather stay down here.

But the deep thuds continue. Now there’s a pattern to them. Spaced about five seconds apart, they trace a line across my ceiling. As if some giant were clomping along, his footfalls penetrating the deep snow.

In spite of the weather, I have to know what’s going on up there, and whether the building’s structure has been compromised. I don my coat, cap, boots, and gloves – over my nightshirt and robe – grab a flashlight and the roof key, and head out the door.

The same key works both locks on the way up. First, the door at the bottom of the access stairs, then the roof-level door. I pause at the upper door and listen for more thuds. Silence. There’s only wind whistling through a seam around the door. I unlock it, then push with all my strength to open it against the deepening snow.

The wind and cold slam into me, numbing my face and chilling my legs. I fight my way outside and stand knee-deep in dry, finely flaked snow. Above, the moon appears as a wide, faint smudge of yellow in the sky. I sweep the light beam about and trudge across the rooftop. No matter where I look, smooth, virgin snow extends in every direction.

Numb to the core after five minutes of exploration, I re-enter the roof-top door and lock.

----

The next morning, I take the elevator downstairs. Chesley, the Chief Concierge, is standing at the main entrance, staring out at deep snow that continues to fall. I explain the loud thuds I heard last night, and his face goes blank.

“Around what time, did you say?” he says.

“Right at midnight.”

He nods, then looks me in the eye.

“That’s what everyone else says. Always at midnight. And only residents on the top floor.”

“What? You mean this has happened before?”

He explains how many other top-floor owners have heard strange noises at midnight. Some heard a screaming woman. Others a crying infant. Still others heavy footsteps. After his explanations, including noises that would’ve made me call the police, I realize – this is what drove the other residents away. Who could endure this, over and over, in the middle of the night?

“But what about the other resident on the top floor?” I say. “Have they mentioned anything? They’ve lived here for years, right?”

“Oh, you mean Missus Thornbury. Yes, been here for years. But she’s stone deaf. Though I shouldn’t be telling you that. Privacy and all. But everyone living up there asked for help over the years – from police, each other, even private investigators, and nothing was ever found. It’s crazy, I know, and I feel for ya, livin’ up there. Some folks figure the place is haunted, or cursed, but I don’t believe in such nonsense.”

I asked if this has been going on for the entire life of Winterfell Court, and he shook his head. Said it started only a few years back. That really threw me – why only recently?

We converse for a while longer, until I suggest we investigate the mystery together. At first, he refuses, but I know he cares about all of us here at Winterfell, and it doesn’t much cajoling to convince him. Do this for Winterfell, I tell him. For the people who live here now and will live here in the future.

----

After dinner, and long after Chesley’s shift has ended, he knocks at my door. We have no idea where to start first, until he confides that he’s wondered if it has something to do with the pressurized steam lines. Such things are known to cause strange groaning and thumping sounds in other buildings, so perhaps this is s a good starting point.

As we step into the elevator, bound for the boiler room, Chesley points up at the floor counter – a new feature in elevators here at Winterfell. It appears as the top half of a clock face, with the floors – from one to thirty-one – embossed on the wall. 

“Wait a sec,” I say, as the door slides shut.“ Why does it say thirty-one? We only have thirty floors.”

“Superstition,” Chesley says. “Tall buildings like this never have a thirteenth floor. The fourteenth is right above the twelfth.”

I shake my head in wonder, surprised that I hadn’t noticed this oddity before.

We begin our descent. 

As we pass the seventeenth floor, there’s a deep thud, and a vibration rattles my ribs. The interior lamp flickers, and I feel a bit unsteady on my feet, as if the elevator is swinging pendulously back and forth.

My eyes go wide, and I grip the siderail to steady himself.

Sixteen…

The lamp winks out for a moment, the elevator vibrating, then shuddering. As the bulb turns on again, I watch the counter with growing concern. I’ve never had any problems with this contraption before.

“I feel like we’re about to fall!” I say, and feel the sweat on my forehead. “We’re going to fall! Oh my God, we’re going to die!”

Fifteen…

He grabs my forearm and stares me in the eye.

“It’s going to be okay. We’re safe in here.”

Fourteen…

A second later, the light goes out, and the elevator lurches to a stop, then bounces up and down for a few seconds.

“No!” I shout, as we both tumble to the floor in darkness.

The air in here suddenly feels stifling. I struggle to my feet when the door begins to open. Slowly, in creaking fits and starts. As it does, a gust of cold air blasts in from outside.

When it’s two-thirds open, something jams, and the door grinds to a halt.

Then the lights blink on again, including those in the hallway beyond the elevator. We scramble out, both of us terrified and realizing we’d better get out while we can.

“Holy shit!” Chesley says. He’s breathing hard as he leans back against the wall.

“We’d better take the stairs the rest of the way,” I say, and point to the end of the hallway. We set off at once, and then I stop dead in my tracks. The placard beside the door in front of me reads 1309.

“I think I’m seeing things,” I say, as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Chesley follows my gaze. His face suddenly goes slack.

“Isn’t your flat 3109?”

I nod. “Of course. I have flat number nine on floor thirty-one.”

“So, this is flat nine on… floor… thirteen?”

I hurry to the next door, then the next. Flats 1308, 1307…

We draw up to the door to 1307 and bring our ears within an inch of it, listening for signs of life inside. Silence. More rumbling from outside, as I reach out and knock on the door. As we wait, my heart begins to race.  Would I rather someone answer the door or not?

“Please, no one be home,” Chesley whispers.

Suddenly emboldened, I reach for the knob. With a turn, the latch clicks, and the door creaks open. Chesley stands a few feet behind me as I announce our presence and push the door wide.

The room beyond is unfurnished but flawless. The walls are unmarred, the huge, unadorned parlor window showing a raging thunderstorm outside. We step cautiously across the floor and gaze down from the window.

“My God,” Chesley says, his voice tremulous. “Are we dead?”

The landscape below is barren – a wasteland of dirt and rock dotted by large rain puddles in the storm. The world outside looks otherworldly. Something about the shapes and colors of the rocks, and that strange, dirty orange glow in the sky.

“I pray to God we’re still alive,” I say. Though I wonder if Chesley’s right. And if we are dead, it appears we didn’t make it to heaven.

A metallic bell rings, and I recognize it at once. It’s the elevator.

“Come on!” I say, and tear out the door and back down the hallway. The elevator door is now fully open, and we step inside, the lamp glowing warmly, as if nothing strange has happened. I press the button labeled lobby.

And hold my breath…