I stopped.  Something was holding me back from storming off.  I wasn’t sure what.

When I turned back Fingers was nodding to Doctor Dave.

“Alternatively, it is still entirely possible that this Billingsly character was working on his own. And that Mr. Smith is not exactly right. You might find that this man was probably drawing his own blood for months,” he continued, “from the day he moved in here – that this particular location was somehow vital for him to work his magic.”

He sighed.

“There are a lot of ways that this could turn out, just so you know.”

“So his actions could have something to do with this building, this particular apartment?” Fingers was clearly listening to what MacIntyre was telling him.

“Well yes and no,” The now ambiguous Doctor decided to straddle both sides of the fence. “But there is some sort of placement, some sort of issues at the references I’ve seen here again, to this thirteenth.”

So, so brilliant, I thought.  I turned back, thought I’d offer some overlooked wisdom.

“This is apartment 213,” I offered.

The doctor looked at me, nodded slowly looked like he was thinking about something hard. But obviously not too hard. I couldn’t smell any wood smoke..

“I’m going to  go back to my office,” I told Fingers, “And get to that paperwork you wanted, and get copies of the surveillance discs.  You know, and the footage from the lobby and the stairwell cameras.”

He nodded.

“Yes,” Doctor Dave replied. “I'd like to take a look at that as well, and also if you have any other complaints or notices from other tenants about this man's activity in the apartment building that you have on record that would be handy as well. Even a casual remark might be important.”

“This isn’t a condo building, Dr. Dave,” I told him. “We don’t have regular meetings to talk about whether or not to redecorate the lobby in marble.  Or complaints, about whose neighbor has the most tacky balcony furniture.”

“Oh, I can see that.  ” he told me condescendingly “There is something to be said for updating the décor every decade, Mr. Smith.”

“Thanks, but this isn’t quite my style,” I offered.

Man, I thought to myself, why aren’t I leaving?  Was some perverse part of me enjoying this?

I looked at the both of them, then I nodded in reply.

“I'll see what I can dig up,” I told them. And I hoped whatever mundane paperwork Teresa and I found, would keep them busy for a while, and maybe even help them decide whatever happened here had absolutely nothing to do with me or anything I did in the studiously forgotten past, not to mention having nothing to do with the actual occult.

“Thank you very much,” Macintyre said to me, held out his hand for more clammy handshaking.  I took my punishment like a man.

“It's good meeting you Mr. Smith,” he told me, “And I really do mean to help resolve what happened here so you and your tenants can go on with their regular lives with the calm understanding that they won’t be troubled by this sort of thing again.”

“I hope so too,” I replied, and then I got the hell out of there.

I didn't look back, I headed straight for the elevator punched up and waited nervously until the number three elevator opened its doors.  Looking down at the lobby I was happy to see only a couple tenants heading out and not more of the media lurking for some sort of imagined rating’s winning scoop.

Thankfully the elevator was empty, and I could relax.

I leaned against the wall of the elevator, felt its comforting hum as it pulled me back up to the fourteenth floor, hoping it would provide at least some support, as I was sure at this point my legs had only been holding me up out of respect that we've been together for thirty-two years. They certainly shouldn’t have been interested in holding me up otherwise.

God, I hadn’t heard the number thirteen thrown about so much, in, well, thirteen years. I didn't like hearing it even at the best of times, in the same way that most people don't like hearing about time that they did something stupid and painful and life-altering, you know, in a bad, horrible, nightmare inducing kind of way.

I've been a thirteenth once upon a time. And that had it worked only slightly better then for the late tenant of apartment 213.

As I mentioned, I recognized enough of what I’d seen in the apartment to start seriously worrying about my future.  I was now certain my dream of Billy and the rest  hadn’t blown in out of the blue.  It was a warning.  A message   A reminder. I considered the size of my bank account, the value of my investments.  Could I liquidate them without it costing me an arm and a leg in penalties?

Could I just drop everything I had here?

Could I find someplace to disappear again?  Could I find what I needed to re-invoke the anonymity I that had now possibly been completely torn asunder?

that would be rather suspicious of me, though, wouldn’t it?

I did not know what to do.  And I did not know anyone I could trust with the truth, or at least what I believed might be the truth.