A Day Like Any Other

I’m feeling a little tense today, or maybe “anxious” is the better word. It’s odd, really, because there’s nothing unusual about today. It should be like any other day, get up, brush my teeth and hair, get dressed. Then a quick cup of coffee and a slice of toast while I scroll through the reels on Facebook. After that, it’s a dash to the bus stop for the ride into the city.

I work for a large real estate firm in Boston. We specialize in buying old buildings, or sometimes whole blocks, to renovate or tear down and rebuild. My job is to decide which path makes the most sense- restore what’s there or start fresh. Once I make my recommendation, the boss reviews it, and then I move on to my next assignment.

That’s how my days usually go, predictable, but this morning was different from the very start. I woke an hour before the alarm went off, eyes snapping open, breathing rapidly. For a few seconds, I just sat there on the edge of the bed, disoriented, trying to make sense of the pounding in my chest. All I felt was the dread—a deep, creeping uneasiness I couldn’t shake. Then, bit by bit, pieces of a dream began to surface, and I realized that must have been what had shaken me so badly.

In the dream, I’m walking down a quiet street in Charlestown, heading toward a brownstone row house. There are no distinctive landmarks, yet I somehow know exactly where I am. When I reach the house and knock, the door swings open, except there is no one there. Inside, the place looks like any other brownstone- a staircase straight ahead, a living room to the left with bay windows overlooking the street and, to the right, a spacious dining room that leads into a kitchen. I start up the narrow staircase. Each step feels heavier than the last, and the light fades as I climb. When I finally reach the landing, I find myself facing an impossibly long hallway. Gas lamps burn along the walls, their flickering light revealing endless rows of doors stretching into the dark. Suddenly, I feel a breath on my ear as a voice whispers, “You know that this house is haunted.” In the dream, I want to scream but I awaken instead.

I retreat to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Pushing my hair back with damp fingers, I stare into the mirror, trying to make sense of the dream. I’m too old for childish nightmares, after all. Deciding a shower might wash away the last of it, I let the hot water clear my head and start my day anew. By the time I board the bus into town, I almost feel like myself again.

I’m greeted at the front desk by Gale, the receptionist. “Good morning, Mr. Burns. Mr. Logan asked me to give you this assignment.” She hands me a folder. I tuck it under my arm and pour myself a cup of coffee.

“Any idea what it’s about?” I ask.

“He said it’s a brownstone row house in the business district in Charlestown. It might make a good storefront for several shops.” She smiles as she passes me a stirrer. But I stand there, frozen for several seconds.

Gale’s smile fades. “Is something wrong?” she asks.

I blink, pulling myself from my stupor. “No, no. I was just thinking that I haven’t been there in some time, that’s all.” As I walk to my desk, I’m confused as to why I said that. After all, I’d been to the Back Bay just last week.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Now Gale probably thinks I’m some sort of fool.” I smile to myself, “I like Gale, she’s cute.”

I sit at my desk, take a sip of coffee, and open the folder. The dream from last night still clings to me like a fog I can’t shake. “It’s just a coincidence,” I tell myself. “That’s all it is. Besides, I don’t even believe in ghosts, so there.” I shuffle through the paperwork until I find the address. 146 Hill Street.

Built in 1862, it’s a four-story brownstone standing on the corner of Hill and First. The current owner wants to sell and retire to Florida. My appointment with him is set for one o’clock.

At twelve-thirty, I’m inching through Fenway traffic in a company car, glancing at the clock every few seconds. I make it with five minutes to spare but have to drive halfway up Hill Street before I find a parking spot. The day is bright and clear, a light ocean breeze tugging at my jacket as I head down the slope with my briefcase in hand. I’ve never been to this particular part of Boston before, yet something about it feels oddly familiar.

At the foot of the hill, I stop and face 146 Hill Street, the Bunker Hill Monument looming behind me. I tilt my head back, squinting to take in the full height of the brownstone. For a moment, my vision swims. There’s a strange haze clinging to the upper floors, a dark smog that blurs the edges and makes it hard to see the top.

Putting that aside, I climb the three granite steps, their wrought-iron railings cold beneath my hand, and stop before a weather-worn front door. I knock once, and the door creaks open on ancient hinges. No one stands there. A chill runs up my spine.

“Hello?” I call. To my relief, a small round face peeks from behind the door.

“Hello. You must be Mr. Burns?” the man says.

I smile and extend my hand. “Yes. And you are Mr. Schwartz?”

Mr. Schwartz doesn’t take my hand. Instead, he gestures for me to come inside.

“Please, step into the dining room. We can sit and discuss the sale. Perhaps a cup of coffee?”

I politely decline, too eager to get down to business. Mr. Schwartz leads me through the apartment, explaining that each flat in the building is identical in layout. All are presently occupied, he adds, but the tenants have been notified of the pending sale and are now seeking other accommodations.

I catch a faint muskiness in the air, just enough to raise concern. I make a note to recommend a mold inspection. Schwartz offers me the keys to the apartments, but I decline, knowing each one is a mirror of the first. Instead, I tell him a visual inspection from each landing will suffice.

There’s no elevator, so the staircase is the only option. It winds upward in a switchback pattern, first to the right, then across the landing and up the left, and so on. Each step is narrow, forcing me to watch my footing. It would be easy to slip here.I’ll be sure to include that in my notes.

I climb fourteen steps to the first landing and pause. The hallway stretches in both directions, a small window at each end letting in a faint wash of daylight. The main illumination comes from old gas fixtures converted to electricity, tiny bulbs that cast more shadow than light. Beside a doorway, several boxes are stacked and labeled “Kitchen,” “Bedroom Items,” and the like. The dull wooden floorboards creak and pop beneath my feet. At the far end, a lone bulb burns at the base of the next staircase, I continue upward.

I swear there are more steps in the second staircase than in the first, but that’s impossible. Still, I’m winded when I reach the top. The air is heavier here, thick with a musk that burns my eyes and lungs. One of the lights has gone out, and, for some reason, one of the windows at the end of the hall is boarded up.

A ten-speed bike is chained in the hall, and I can’t help but smile. I can’t imagine a thief trying to lug it down those steep stairs and past the landlord unnoticed. The hallway itself is dusty and in desperate need of paint. The upper steps are worn to bare wood.

The smell is beginning to make me nauseous and I consider stopping here, but I want to finish the inventory. The light above the next staircase flickers weakly and, as I watch, I hear footsteps descending. I wait, but no one appears. Slowly, I step forward and glance up the stairs. Empty. My hand tightens on the railing as a shiver crawls up my spine. I’ve decided this building is in a bad location, in poor condition and, frankly, not worth buying. I turn toward the staircase, eager to make a quick escape, when my pad and pencil slip from my hands. My eyes grow wide as I freeze in place. Barely six inches in front of me stands a dark, wavering figure, an axe raised high above its head.

The blood drains from my face. My heart hammers so violently it feels ready to burst. My eyes sting with tears. I try to scream but no sound comes out.

Inside my head, a single thought pounds again and again: This is when I wake up! This is when I wake up!

When realtor Burns failed to return to work that day, it caused some concern. But when he still hadn’t appeared the next morning, the agency contacted the police.

Officers soon located the company car parked on Hill Street, a parking ticket tucked beneath the windshield wiper. At the brownstone where Burns was supposed to have been working, they found the front door nailed shut and a bank foreclosure notice posted in plain view.

An investigation followed, lasting nearly a month. In the end, authorities could only report that Burns’s whereabouts are unknown, and his file is quietly moved to the missing persons cabinet.