Chapter 1: The Rule No One Breaks

A strange new rule just appeared out of nowhere in the apartment residents’ Facebook Messenger group.

My phone chimed right after dinner—a cheerful sound that somehow felt heavy. I scrolled up, and there it was, staring back at me in bold, all-caps letters, like someone was yelling straight through the screen with a bullhorn.

"NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO PRACTICE ANY KIND OF FAITH."

"RESIDENTS ARE ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN FROM KEEPING ANY RELIGIOUS ITEMS OR STATUES AT HOME."

The landlord from Unit 101—who runs the group—tagged every single one of us, firing off a stern warning that was impossible to ignore.

He didn’t just tag us—he went down the list, name by name, like he was putting a spotlight on each person so there’d be no way to pretend you didn’t see it. I couldn’t help thinking, did he really expect us to just fall in line? The message itself was cold, clipped—almost like a threat hammered out in block letters. It made my skin crawl.

"Anyone caught secretly praying or hiding religious objects will have to deal with the consequences themselves."

Those words just sat there in the chat, heavy and dark, like a thundercloud that wouldn’t move on. The admin’s profile picture—him in a faded Cleveland Browns hat—hovered next to the warning, like he was daring somebody to push back.

Three days ago, I’d rented this dirt-cheap, rundown old apartment complex on the east side of Maple Heights—three-bedroom, two-bath, all to myself, which was rare at this price.

That price was so low, I almost thought it was a scam… The building looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint since before I was born—but hey, it had a roof, running water, and a working heater, which was more than I could say for the last place I crashed. I signed the lease with a ballpoint pen that barely worked, the landlord’s hands shaking as he passed over the keys. There was this weird kind of hush in the lobby, like the walls were holding their breath. For a second, I felt like I shouldn’t even be there.

But this place didn’t rent to just anyone. They only took people like me—down on our luck, written off by family and everyone else: the elderly, the sick, the disabled, even folks on their last legs.

I’d seen the crowd during move-in—old men with walkers, women clutching oxygen tanks, a guy in a faded Army jacket who coughed like he’d never stop. There was a sort of quiet camaraderie among us, the way you get in a waiting room at the ER. No kids, no young couples, no one with a spring in their step. Just folks trying to hang on, one way or another. You had to laugh, or you’d cry.

The dirt-cheap rent was just so people like us could live with a shred of dignity.

You could see it in the way people decorated their doors—handmade wreaths, faded family photos, a little plastic flamingo by 504. Everyone tried to carve out a patch of comfort, even if the world had already moved on without them. Me? I just taped up a magnet from my old job and called it good.

But as soon as I moved in, I was told—loud and clear—to follow the building’s one and only rule.

The guy from 101—the landlord—cornered me in the hallway before I’d even finished dragging my duffel upstairs. He gave me this long, searching look, then repeated the rule in a low voice, like a secret handshake: "No faith, no religious stuff, not even a cross necklace. You get me?" For a second, I wondered if I was being hazed.

He didn’t stop there. "No one is allowed to practice any faith, and absolutely no religious items allowed, or you’ll deal with the consequences." The way he said it, I felt like I was getting the rules to some secret club I never asked to join.

He said it again, slower this time, like he was making sure it stuck. I nodded, but the words just rattled around in my head, refusing to settle. Weird.

I stewed over it for a while, turning the rule over in my mind before finally firing off a message in the group chat.

"What happens if someone does? Why can’t we have any faith?"

I pounded it out and hit send, still confused.

I guess I was still naive, thinking you could just ask a straight question and get a straight answer. My fingers hovered over the keyboard a second too long. But I hit send anyway.

The group chat instantly blew up—everyone was mocking me.

"601, you’re new, huh? Just follow the rules, it’s not gonna kill you."

"Yeah, the landlord’s letting us live here for next to nothing and you’re questioning it?"

The guy from 301 even called me a dumbass.

Their replies came fast, piling up like a snowstorm. I felt my face flush. I could almost hear the eye rolls through the screen. Someone dropped a string of angry emojis, and another sent a GIF of a guy slapping his forehead. The tone was clear: shut up and fall in line.

"601, I’m watching you! Don’t you dare stir up trouble. The landlord’s a good man, practically a saint, letting us rent for this cheap because he feels bad for us. If you can’t be grateful, fine, but don’t you dare question him!"

"Kid, you better follow every single rule. If you mess this up for everyone and we all lose our place to live, don’t blame us for what happens next!"

The warning felt sharp, almost personal. I could picture someone glaring at their phone, jaw clenched, ready to storm up the stairs if I so much as sneezed the wrong way.

Come on, I was just curious. Did they really have to make such a big deal out of it?

I let out a little laugh—couldn’t help it. Maybe they were just superstitious, or maybe I’d stumbled into a cult without realizing. Still, the whole thing felt over the top. I stared at the blinking cursor, debating whether to just let it go.

I couldn’t help myself—I banged out another message.

"Faith is personal. As long as it doesn’t mess with building safety or bother anyone else, what’s the problem? We’re all people who’ve had it rough—having a little hope to hold onto seems pretty normal, right?"

I hit send, my thumb lingering on the screen. My heart thumped a little faster—maybe I’d gone too far. But honestly, what was the harm in asking? I imagined some of the old-timers clutching their pearls, but I stood by what I said.

Honestly, I don’t have any particular beliefs myself, and I’ve never prayed to anything. I mean, I get that the landlord’s doing us a favor, but this rule? I just don’t get it.

It’s not like I was planning to start a Bible study in the hallway. I just knew what it felt like to need something—anything—to hold onto. Sometimes a little hope is the only thing that keeps a person upright.

If it’s about stamping out superstition, that feels like a stretch. I mean, come on.

The group chat exploded again.

Here we go again. This time, the replies came even faster—memes, angry rants, a couple of folks typing in all caps. My phone buzzed nonstop, like a hornet’s nest had been kicked. It was almost impressive, the way they closed ranks.

Only my neighbor from 602 spoke up for me.

"He’s new here—cut him some slack."

Mark’s message was short, but it stood out—a little island of reason in a sea of outrage. I actually smiled.

But as soon as he said that, he got dragged into it too, everyone piling on and cursing him out just as bad. They said he and I were two of a kind. The person from 301 even threatened to come upstairs and teach the two of us a lesson.

It got ugly fast. Someone dropped a threat about calling the landlord. Another said, "Maybe 601 and 602 should just move out together if they don’t like it here." I glanced at my door, half-expecting a knock. The tension was thick enough to taste.

Finally, the landlord—also the group admin—sent a voice message and tagged me, trying to smooth things over with a gentle tone.

His voice was low and calm—with that practiced patience you hear from someone who’s had to break up too many fights. "Everyone, calm down. We’re all neighbors here. 601, you just moved in, so maybe you don’t know how things work yet. Just make sure you follow this rule, especially tonight."

That’s when it hit me—tonight was the night of the annual memorial vigil, the week after Memorial Day… Of course it was.

I glanced at my calendar, and sure enough—today was the first Thursday after the long weekend. In this part of Ohio, people still lit candles on their porches and left flowers by the old war memorial down the block. The air always felt a little heavier this time of year, thick and damp, like the humidity before a summer storm.

After the landlord spoke, everyone started piling on again, telling me to follow the rule. Otherwise, it’d be like I was picking a fight with everyone.

The chat filled up with a flood of "Just listen," "Don’t ruin this for us," and even a few "Please, man, just for tonight." It was the first time I’d seen them sound almost desperate.

I never expected a simple question to make them so sensitive.

It was like I’d poked a bruise I didn’t know was there. And now everyone was watching to see if I’d make it worse.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling they were hiding something. This rule felt off in every way.

The more they pushed, the more I wanted to dig. I’ve always had a nose for trouble.

This place was starting to smell like a locked closet full of skeletons.

I didn’t bother with them anymore.

I muted the chat, tossed my phone on the couch, and paced the living room, but couldn’t shake it. My brain kept circling back to 602—the one person who’d stuck up for me.

Then I remembered—my neighbor from 602 had just stuck up for me and gotten caught in the crossfire. I felt pretty bad about it. Figures, I’d drag someone else into my mess on day one.