Then, at 12:17 AM, I heard footsteps. Not shoes—a soft, deliberate pad-pad-pad , like bare feet on velvet. A figure passed my narrow sliver of light. Tall. Wearing a long coat despite the summer heat. Their face was obscured by a hood, but I saw their hands: pale, too long-fingered, holding a brass key that seemed to glow dully.
“They pay in cash,” Jerry said, scratching his neck. “Every first of the month. An envelope slides under my office door. No return address. Don’t ask questions, kid.”
Just the key to a door I’ve never seen. 1250 west glenoaks blvd., suite e-520 glendale, ca 91201
I was a process server, and for three weeks, I’d been trying to serve papers to a ghost.
But I asked questions. That’s what they paid me for. Then, at 12:17 AM, I heard footsteps
No envelope. No return address.
I never went back to 1250 West Glenoaks. I quit the job, moved to Oregon, and changed my name. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a soft pad-pad-pad outside my bedroom door. And when I check the lock—deadbolt thrown, chain fastened—I find a small brass key sitting on the welcome mat. “They pay in cash,” Jerry said, scratching his neck
The door was still ajar. I pushed it open.