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"Thank you all so much for your continued support." "So would you call this architecture art deco or gothic or what?" I ask as the building's assistant manager looks my paperwork over. "I can't really tell. It's something," she says, her eyes locked onto the papers. "Is there a problem?" I ask, suddenly very concerned that the good thing that fell into my lap isn't going to materialize.

"My credit score should..." "We don't care about credit scores." She interrupts and waves a hand at me. "Be quiet." "Right." I reply and look behind me at the chair sitting in front of her desk. I go to sit down but she says, "No." Like I'm a puppy about to chew on one of her slippers. So I stay standing. She reads and reads and reads, then nods and looks up at me. "This all looks good." She says. "And you can work every day?"

"Um, you mean like every day? No weekends off?" I ask, a little confused. She only blinks at me. "The advertisement didn't say anything about a seven-day work week." She keeps blinking at me. "Um, yeah, sure. I can work every day." "Great," she says and lines up my paperwork. "Now I just need to see your identification." "Oh, I don't drive. I didn't ask if you drive." She says and opens a drawer in her desk, pulling out an ebony box.

She places it on her desk and slides it across to me. "Place your right hand inside the box, please." "What for?" I ask, not liking the look of the pitch black box. "For identification," she says and sighs. "The charter of the building prohibits the employment of non-human workers. This is a completely human-owned, operated, and occupied building, and that is what our tenants expect." "Only humans? Why does that matter?" I ask, my eyes still on the box.

"You ever woken up to the smell of a hobgoblin making queso dip at 3 in the morning?" she asks. I shake my head. "Then count yourself lucky. Plus, most humans are easy to kill, so if they get out of line, then we don't have to call in the authorities or an exterminator." She shrugs. "You never know what danger lurks in the shadows here in the city, so we like to control the environment and any contingencies as much as possible." "Oh, okay." I say and take a deep breath.

Then I let it out and slowly stick out my hand. "I just put it in there?" "Yes," she says and taps the top of the box. A panel on the end slides open. "In you go." I take another deep breath, then shove my hand through the opening. My skin goes ice cold, then lava hot, then just numb. "That'll do," she says and taps the box again. "Take your hand out."

I do and to my surprise, although I shouldn't be too surprised considering how the city is. The box sprouts legs and arms and crawls over to the assistant manager. She leans down and cocks her head like she's listening to something the box is telling her, even though I can't hear a thing. "Ah, good to know," she says then straightens up, placing the box back into the desk drawer. "All human," she holds out her hand.

You are hired, Mr. Pritchard. Welcome to the team and welcome to the Third Arms. Thank you, Miss Moscato. I say and shake her hand vigorously. Yeah, yeah, you thank me now, she says in smirks. I'll give you a day to get settled into your new apartment. But as per the terms of your residency, you do not pay rent or utilities as long as you work every day. Miss a day, and your stipend will be docked by 10%. Miss two days, and your stipend will be docked 50%.

"Shouldn't it be 20%?" I ask, fairly confident in my math. "Did I say 20%?" "Um, no." "What did I say?" "50%." "Then how much will you be docked if you miss two days?" "Um, 50%." "Good boy," she says and stands up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do my rounds." "Rounds?" "Yes, rounds. Where I walk the building and make sure everything is running according to the building's charter."

Without the charter, the Third Arms would devolve into chaos. She looks toward the window in her office and at the gloomy evening outside. And we all know the only way to survive the city is to keep the chaos at bay. I'm not sure I know that, but I don't argue with her. She smiles at me, and I smile at her. This means you have to leave, Mr. Pritchard, she says, and gestures to her office door. Call me Tony, please, I say in hurry to the door.

"I will not be doing that, Mr. Pritchard," she says and sees me out. "Now, like I said, you have a day to get settled. Tomorrow morning at 6 a.m., you will report to the front desk for your first day of work, of course," I say and give her a huge grin. "Thank you again, Miss Moscato. I really appreciate the op." But she's gone. She doesn't let me finish my sentence. She doesn't say goodbye. She doesn't really acknowledge that I exist. She just walks away.

"How do I get my apartment key?" I call after her. She points at the front desk. "Thank you." I wander over to the front desk and to the middle-aged woman standing behind it. "Hello, Mr. Pritchard," she says and gives me the warmest smile I've ever seen. "I'm Miss Grace. Are you ready to get settled into the Third Arms? Call me Tony," I say and stick my hand out over the front desk. Her smile goes from warm to polite, and her eyes flit to my hand then back to my face.

"Are you ready to get settled into the third arms, Mr. Pritchard?" I take the hand back and let it awkwardly drop to my side. "Yeah, sure, I'm ready." I say a nod. "Um, Miss Grace was it?" "Yes," she says and leans down behind the desk. When she stands back up, she has a large iron box in her hands. With a loud thud that echoes throughout the lobby, she lets the box drop onto the desk. She undoes the top two buttons of her blouse and reaches inside.

I blush and turn away. I hear a rattle and clang and steal a quick glance at the box. Miss Grace has a large key in her hand, and she is methodically turning it counterclockwise and the iron box is locked. Over and over and over. It's almost mesmerizing. There's a very faint click, and the box pops open. Miss Grace places the key back inside her blouse and redoes the two buttons. She nods at me and then nods at the open iron box.

"What?" I ask, feeling very out of sorts. "The key to your residence is inside the box," she says. "All you have to do is reach in and take it." "You people really like your boxes here at the Third Arms, don't you?" I say and laugh. The warm smile left at my last faux pas, and now I watch the polite smile leave too. "You are now part of us people, Mr. Pritchard," Miss Grace says, and nods at the box again. "Your residence awaits."

"All you have to do is reach inside the box and take your key." "Sure," I say and reach inside the box. The pain is almost more than I can handle. I yank my hand back out and stare at it, looking for burn marks or cuts or some trauma. But it's only normal, unmarred flesh. Just my hand, unwounded. And in my hand is a room key. A normal key to a normal door, attached to a metal fob with my room number on it. "7:50," I say.

I turn the key over and inspect it, then look at Ms. Grace. "Are there really fifty rooms per floor? Sometimes more, sometimes less," she says and shrugs. Then the polite smile returns. "Seven-fifty is a wonderful residence. You will enjoy your time here." "That's good to know," I say and put the key in my pocket. "Why is it so wonderful? I wouldn't know," she says. "I have never been in room seven-fifty. Perhaps you will invite me over one evening after your shift."

"Um, yeah, yeah of course," I say. "What time does your shift end?" "The same as yours, Mr. Pritchard. Sundown." "Do you only work weekdays?" "I work every day, Mr. Pritchard. The same as you." "Oh, wow. That's surprising." She cocks her head and drops her brow. "Oh? And why is that?" "I just assumed that my job was entry level. So that's why I work every day. I didn't think it was the same for the front desk. What job here does get a day off?"

"We all work every day, Mr. Pritchard." "All of us? Everyone?" "All of us. Everyone." "What about the manager? I haven't seen him." "No one has seen management." I wait for her to say more, but she doesn't, so I smile and nod and pat the pocket with my room key in it. "Um, well, I'm going to go get settled in." "A wonderful idea, Mr. Pritchard. Maybe you want to come by this evening when you get off. I can run to the store and get some wine or beer or whatever you like."

"Not tonight, Mr. Pritchard. But one evening, yes. You should get used to working here at the Third Arms beforehand. It'll make conversation better." "Right, yeah. Sure. Good thinking." I kinda do a half-bow, then shuffle backward away from the front desk. "It was, um, good to meet you, Miss Grace." "And you as well, Mr. Pritchard." I turn and almost slam nose-first into the closed elevator door. My face goes beet-red, and I'm glad I'm turned away from Miss Grace.

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The elevator door opens and the oldest man I've ever seen in my life stands there dressed in a full elevator operator's uniform, including the cliched round hat with the chin strap. "Mr. Pritchard!" The old man greets me in a surprisingly strong, clear voice. "I am Mr. Ansel. Oh, hey." I say and hold out my hand. He doesn't take it, and once again, I let it drop to my side. "Please," Mr. Ansel says and gestures for me to step inside the car.

"Room 750, is it?" "Yeah, how did you know?" He only smiles at me as I step into the elevator car. I watch him slide the door closed and then press the button for the seventh floor all in one smooth fluid motion. "Miss Gray seems nice." I say as the elevator begins to rise. "She can be." Mr. Ansel replies. "You two may get along famously, maybe not." "Um, okay." I reply confused by his statement. We ride and ride.

The gauge above the door shows a huge hand, like a clock, moving slowly from lobby to one to two and so on. "Not the speediest elevator," I say and laugh. "Oh, it can move when it needs to. Cool, cool," I say and shuffle my feet. Then I clear my throat and ask, "So are you retiring? Is that why they hired me?"

"Retiring?" he replies with a laugh and shakes his head. The round hat stays perfectly in place. "No, Mr. Pritchard. I am moving to the night shift. I will be working every night while you work every day." "You're taking over nights? But isn't that kind of backward? Shouldn't a rookie like me take nights?" "You cannot handle the nights." "Oh, um, if you say so." "The Third Arms says so, Mr. Pritchard." "Cool, cool."

The hand has moved from four to five. "So you've been working here how long?" "Every day for a very long time." "Like how long?" "Time moves differently here in the Third Arms, Mr. Pritchard," he says, and fixes me with a hard stare. "You would be wise to learn that sooner rather than later." So many questions pop into my head, but before I can utter a single one, the elevator bell dings and Mr. Ansell says, "Seventh floor, it has been a pleasure, Mr. Pritchard."

"Oh, we're here," I say and watch as Mr. Ansel slides the door open and gestures for me to leave. "That was sudden. It always is, Mr. Pritchard." I nod at the old man and step off the elevator. As I turn to leave, he grabs me by the upper arm and yanks me close, his mouth almost touching my ear. "When you see the button, do not press it," he says. "That floor is not for you. It is not for any of us.

"Ignore the button when it appears. You cannot handle the lies. They will devour you." Then he lets go of me and slides the door closed without another word, leaving me standing there in the hallway, my mouth hanging open and a million more questions in my head. After a few seconds, I pull the key out of my pocket and look one way then the other, trying to figure out which way my room is.

I pick a direction and walk, but quickly realize I'm going the wrong way. So I spin back around and freeze. "Hello?" A man says to me, only inches away. "Lost, are we?" He has to be older than Mr. Ansel by a couple decades or more, considering the state of his withered features and scrawny frame.

But there's a light in his eyes that's puzzling. Just turned around, I say and jingle my key. 750. How lovely, he says and turns on his heels in a crisp military fashion. I am across the hall in 748. Follow me if you will, Mr. Pritchard, I say, and then hustle to keep up with the man as he takes impossibly long strides down the hallway. Tony Pritchard.

"Mr. Pritchard," the man says, "I am Mr. Bernard. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." "Same," I say, a nearly trip over my own feet as I struggle not to be left behind. We zoom past the doors to other rooms, and I'm barely able to glance at their numbers. "Here we are," Mr. Bernard says, bowing slightly at a door that has "750" in large, ornate lettering on the center. "Your new home."

"Thanks. You are most welcome, Mr. Pritchard," he replies, and before I can say anything else, he strides off, already halfway down the hallway before I can blink twice. Suddenly, alone in a strange place, I feel a sense of dread creep up from my belly. Not fear so much as just a foreboding. "Would have been nice to feel that earlier," I mutter as I place the key in the lock and give it a twist. There's a loud, satisfying click.

I turn the doorknob and push the door wide open, staying out in the hallway as I stare at a dark entranceway that seems to stretch on forever into an unknown nothingness. Then I reach in and flip up the single light switch and the entranceway turns out to be about six feet long and opens up into a nice living room with a kitchen at the far end, close to the outside wall. "Home sweet home," I say and step inside.

The door swings closed behind me without me touching it, making me jump and spin around. I gulp and take a step back as I read the words carved into the inside of the door. "A button pressed is a call into the darkness." "What the shit?" I say and shake my head. The words are gone, leaving only unmarred wood. "This city…" I say and take a deep breath. Reluctantly, I turn my back on the door and move deeper into my new home.

It's already furnished, which is good, because I don't have any furniture of my own. My former apartment building was burned to the ground during a literal firefight between the police and a gang of kobolds. 26 people died that night.

I was busy getting drunk at the Corner Tavern after being laid off from my job as a delivery driver for Porter's Antiques and Antiquities. No one would ever tell me the difference between an antique and an antiquity, but whatever the difference may be, they deliver the same. Which is to say by a rundown truck that has shitty brakes. Brakes that gave out just as I tried to stop at a red light. I t-boned a hearse and that was that. Fired on the spot.

Literally, Jonas Porter, the owner's son, drove down to the accident and handed me my walking papers. I handed him the keys to the truck and limped the 15 blocks to the corner tavern, then sat down and started drinking. The furniture in my new home is a strange mix of styles, kinda like the Third Arms. Some Victorian, some modern, some rustic. I set my key down on the kitchen counter and look out of the window over the sink.

The view is of the city, of course. But it's a view I've never seen in my life. Instead of looking out at a garbage-filled alley or a broken cobblestone street filled with muck and crap, I'm staring at a long view that overlooks the grove. The trees sway in a wind I can't detect, and I swear I see shapes moving in the shadows. But that's the grove for you. A place of nature that is unnatural as the city itself. Not somewhere you want to find yourself after dark.

or in the middle of the afternoon for that matter. A knock at my door tears me away from the view. "Coming!" I call out and hurry to the door. When I open it, no one is there, but a beautifully designed box sits on the hallway floor. A note, attached to the top. "Your uniform," the note says and is signed. "Management." I bring the box into my room and set it on the metal and glass coffee table. Then I plop down on the couch that is all overstuffed, worn leather.

Lifting the lid off the box, I stare at my new uniform. It is exactly like the one Mr. Ansel was wearing, hat included. I pick it up and turn it in my hands, as if it'll tell me the secret to my new job. It doesn't. I set the hat aside and take the uniform out. First the jacket, then the white shirt, then the trousers. Under it all is a pair of shiny black shoes, no socks.

That makes me realize that I never brought what little luggage I have left up to my room. But when I take the uniform and its box into the bedroom, I see my single suitcase laid out on a bench by the bedroom window. It's open, so it shows the meager items I have to my name: another pair of jeans, three black t-shirts, a few pairs of socks, and some boxers. That's all that's left of Tony Pritchard. Some hastily bought clothes, and a fourth-hand suitcase.

I hang the uniform in the closet and put the rest of my clothes and the chest of drawers opposite my bed. It's a king bed, which is a luxury. I'll probably get agoraphobic sleeping in it the first night. There's so much space. My stomach rumbles and I head to the kitchen, hoping to find something in the fridge. But no luck. It's empty. I remember seeing a corner market down the street, so I check my wallet to make sure I do have some cash. Which I do.

and head out of my new apartment and down the hallway to the elevator. The elevator door opens almost as soon as I press the call button. "Hungry?" Mr. Ansel asks as I step into the car. "Um, yes," I say, frowning. He laughs and rolls his eyes. "The Third Arms provides a lot to its employees, but free meals is not one of the perks," he says and closes the door. The ride down is done before I know it, unlike the ride up.

I thank Mr. Ansel, give a wave to Miss Grace, then head out onto the street and into the bustling noises of the city. A 38 Packard speeds by and splashes gutter water up into the air. I barely dodge it as I hurry down the sidewalk to the corner market. A '56 Ford slows down and a gang of Haints all stare at me. "You look lost," one of the Haints calls from the passenger window. "Hop in, we'll get you to where you need."

"No thanks, just going to the market." "Market's closed," the Haint says. His semi-corporeal skin is mottled green and blue, and one of his eyes is completely bloodshot. When he grins at me, I see row after row after row of very sharp teeth. The Ford comes to a stop, and the Haint's grin widens. "You should get in," he says as the car doors open, and the gang all step out onto the sidewalk.

In seconds, I'm surrounded by less than friendly looking haints. All I wanted was to get some cans of soup for dinner and some cereal for breakfast. Maybe pick up a deli sandwich if they don't look too old. But instead, I'm facing six haints, and none of them look like they led healthy, happy lives before they expired.

But that's the difference between Haints and regular ghosts. Haints are mean. They see their deaths as offensive. And they want to take that offense out on anyone and everyone they come across. Why a gang of Haints is this far uptown in the city, I don't know. But they are. Now I'm dealing with them.

"How about you spill a little blood for some poor Haints?" the grinning Haint says. The one from the passenger seat. "I bet you got plenty of blood to spare. Plenty of blood." The others murmur. "Yeah, um, I'm anemic," I say and smile at my little joke. I can tell by the looks on their faces that they don't know what the word "anemic" means. "Davey? Davey Bryant?" the voice calls out. "Is that you?"

The lead haint whips his head around then sighs. "Fuck, Peyton. What do you want?" "What do I want?" a man says as he walks up to us. "Can a guy say hello to an old friend?" "We ain't friends, Peyton." The haint, Davey Bryant apparently, says. "Aw, man, come on, don't be that way," the man says when he reaches us. He holds out his hand to me. "Name's Peyton. I shot this son of a bitch about six years ago and he's never forgiven me."

"You killed me, Peyton," Davey snarls. "Kinda hard to forgive." "I know, I know." I look him up and down. Nice suit. Overcoat that cost as much as the Haint's Ford. Shoes just as expensive. The fedora on his head, though, is older and well-worn. I shake Peyton's hand, and the Haint's all grown. "What's this guy to you, Peyton?" Davey asks. "Look at the kid. He's a nothing. How about you forget that little protection shake you just did and let us take him?"

"I can't do that, Davey," Peyton says and opens his overcoat to show the Haints a very large pistol strapped under his left arm. "Aren't you boys a little outside your usual stomping grounds?" Davey eyes the pistol, then growls low and hops back into the Ford. The other Haints glare at Peyton, then follow. "The lines in the city are blurring, Peyton, so watch yourself," Davey says as the Ford's engine roars to life. "See you later."

"I hope so," Peyton says, and closes his overcoat as the Ford races off, its back tires squealing on the wet pavement, the rear end squirreling back and forth before the driver straightens out and speeds down the street, ignoring the red light at the intersection. "No T-boning a hearse for them," I mumble. "What's that?"

"Nothing," I say and smile at him. "Thanks. That was nice of you to help me out." "Nice?" he replies and laughs. "Sure, kid. It was nice of me. I'm 29," I say. "So you can stop the kid shit." "Sorry, sorry," Peyton says and holds his hands up and mocks surrender. "No offense meant." He claps me on the shoulder. "How about I buy you dinner? You look hungry and I know an amazing Chinese joint around the corner. Best Sichuan beef in the city."

"Um, thanks. But I was just gonna grab some soup from the market," I say and look at the corner. And at the dark windows that had been full of light just a few minutes ago. "They keep strange hours," Peyton says and shrugs. "So, how about it? Will you let me buy you dinner? Consider it a housewarming gift." "Housewarming?" I ask, wary. "I'm 1015," he says and points down the street. "The Third Arms. I live there. Makes us neighbors."

"I work there," I say. "So I'm not sure if that makes us neighbors so much as that means I get to serve you. I don't know what the Third Arms policy is on employees and residents socializing, so it's probably best if-" "Stop whining and shut the fuck up, kid," Peyton snaps. "When someone saves your ass from a gang of haints, then offers to buy you dinner, just say yes. That doesn't seem like a sound policy." "Jesus Christ," Peyton mutters and rubs his face.

Something howls from the grove and he whips around. "Fuck off, Lewis!" When he turns back to me, he rolls his eyes. "That's Lewis," he says. "You'll get used to him. He's a reverse werewolf." "A reverse werewolf?" "He only becomes human during the full moon," Hayden says and shrugs. "Best to avoid going into the grove if you can." "I've never been in there and don't plan on it," I say and turn to walk back to the third arms.

I need a favor, Peyton says and the words hang there in the air. I could really use your help. I stop and turn. His face is all scrunched up in a sorta apologetic and semi-hopeful way. What kind of favor? The kind that is talked about over plates of Szechuan beef and barbecue pork, he says and smiles, then gestures toward the corner. It's a block at the most. My stomach growls and Peyton's smile beams. Fine, I say and walk past him.

but dinner doesn't mean I'm doing you any favors. I haven't told you what the favor is yet, so you'd be pretty stupid to say yes already," Peyton says and claps me on the shoulder again as he walks with me to the corner. "At the very least, you'll get a free meal and I get to show someone one of my favorite restaurants in the city. We're both already ahead of the game, if you say so."

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