Chapter 2: Shadows in the Apartment

"If we hear anything, we’ll call you. If you know his hometown, maybe check with his folks too," the officer said.

I nodded again, even though I already knew the answer. Travis’s family was long gone—there was nobody left to call.

Travis was an only child—his parents had passed away years ago. He had no one left.

I remembered the funeral—just me, Travis, and the minister. The cemetery was quiet, the wind cold enough to sting your cheeks. Travis barely said a word the whole day.

I stood outside the Maple Heights police station, chain-smoking. Felt like I was stuck in place.

The night air was thick with humidity and the smell of exhaust from the main drag. I watched the headlights flicker past, feeling more lost than I had in years.

Without the cops, finding Travis on my own—when I didn’t even know where he’d gone—felt impossible. I was on my own.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me, wishing I’d brought a heavier one. The world felt bigger, emptier, with Travis gone.

I stubbed out my smoke and knocked my forehead with my knuckles. I’ve done that since I was a kid—a nervous habit that always earned me a scolding from my grandma. The dull ache helped me focus.

After a few knocks, the pain dulled, and I started to think about what to do next.

I took a few deep breaths, letting the cool night air fill my lungs. I ran through everything I knew, searching for a thread to pull.

Maybe there was only one way to find him.

I remembered what Travis said before he left—if he disappeared, check his place.

The words echoed in my mind, heavy with meaning. I knew what I had to do, even if I was scared of what I might find.

Travis’s apartment wasn’t far, but I’d avoided it since he vanished. Maybe I was scared of what I’d find. But he might’ve left something for me.

I stood at the curb, staring up at the dark windows. The building looked different without Travis’s lights on. For a second, I almost turned back.

Because I had a feeling that digging too deep into this might lead to something I couldn’t handle.

But curiosity is a stubborn thing. I couldn’t let it go, no matter how much I wanted to.

I’ll admit, I’m not the kind of guy who’ll throw everything away for someone else. But what really pushed me forward now was my curiosity about that photo.

I’ve always been a skeptic, but something about that picture gnawed at me. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

The little girl in the picture looked too much like Lila. I’d heard that sometimes people look exactly alike, even if they’re not related, but could it really be that much of a coincidence? That a girl who looked just like Lila would show up in a mirage?

I remembered reading about doppelgängers once, how they’re supposed to be bad luck. I shook the thought away, but it wouldn’t leave me alone.

Is that possible?

I stared at the sky, searching for answers that wouldn’t come. The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows on the sidewalk.

The bigger question was the 1988 newspaper. As far as I knew, Travis wasn’t into collecting old news, so where’d he get it?

I wondered if maybe he’d found it at a yard sale, or maybe someone sent it to him. Either way, it felt important—like a clue I was missing.

I decided to call Mikey.

Mikey’s real name is Michael Phelps. Yeah, I know. No relation to the swimmer. He, Travis, and I grew up together.

The three of us were inseparable back in the day—riding bikes, playing tag, getting into trouble. Mikey was the wild one, always up for a dare.

When we were kids, we all lived in the same apartment complex. Travis nicknamed Michael "Mikey" because he was always climbing trees. Later, for some reason, the two of them had a falling out and stopped talking, but Mikey and I stayed close. I’d tried to patch things up, but neither would budge.

I always thought they’d make up someday, but years passed and it never happened. Still, I knew if I needed help, Mikey would have my back.

We’d been through too much together—even if there were old grudges, it wasn’t enough to ignore a crisis.

I hesitated before dialing, but the second he picked up, I knew I’d made the right call. Some bonds never really break.

He picked up right away. I told Mikey the whole story. He didn’t say anything at first. After a long pause, he let out a heavy sigh.

I could hear him breathing on the other end, the weight of it all settling in. He didn’t say anything for a while, just let the silence do the talking.

"Where you at?" he asked.

His voice was steady, no-nonsense, just like always. I rattled off my address, and he promised to be there in ten.

Mikey showed up at my place fast. Because of work, we hadn’t seen each other in years—just the occasional call. He looked even skinnier than I remembered.

His hair was longer now, pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a faded Browns hoodie, the kind you only keep if it’s lucky. We hugged awkwardly, not sure if we were still those same kids from Maple Heights.

No time for small talk—I laid out everything I was thinking, pacing the living room, gesturing wildly as I talked. Mikey listened, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You for real?" Mikey looked me up and down.

He gave me a skeptical look, but I could see the gears turning in his head.

I shrugged helplessly.

"We haven’t talked in years. I only heard about Lila from you," Mikey sighed. "Could the shock have finally made Travis crack?"

He rubbed his jaw, thinking it over. He didn’t sound convinced, but he wasn’t dismissing me, either.

"I saw the photo—it really does look like her," I said. "And Travis didn’t seem crazy."

I pulled the clipping out of my wallet, sliding it across the table. Mikey studied it, his eyes narrowing as he took in the details.

"Guess we gotta see for ourselves," Mikey said. "See what he left for you."

He cracked his knuckles, like he was gearing up for a fight. I felt a surge of relief—whatever happened, I wouldn’t be facing it alone.

At dusk, we reached Travis’s apartment building. The sky was streaked with orange and purple, the air thick with the smell of rain. The building looked even shabbier than I remembered—peeling paint, cracked windows, the whole nine yards.

It was one of those old brick walk-ups, the hallway lights out, so we used our phones as flashlights. Our footsteps echoed on the worn linoleum. Every creak and groan of the stairs made my nerves jump. I tried to ignore the way the shadows seemed to stretch and twist around us.

There was a strange, hard-to-describe smell in the stairwell, like burnt leaves mixed with dust. Not exactly bad, but not good either. For a second, it felt like being a kid again.

The scent triggered memories of autumns spent playing hide-and-seek, the way the world felt bigger back then. I almost smiled, but the feeling vanished as quickly as it came.

Travis’s place was on the fourth floor. I pulled out the key he’d given me and let us in.

The door creaked open, revealing a living room frozen in time. Dust motes floated in the air, caught in the beam of my flashlight. It felt like stepping into a mausoleum.

Mikey let out a low whistle, making me jump. I looked up and saw a wall covered in photos. The wall was a collage of memories—Lila at every age, smiling, laughing, playing in the park. I felt a lump form in my throat.

"They all look like pictures of Lila," Mikey whispered.

His voice was barely more than a breath. We stood there for a moment, taking it all in. It was like Travis had tried to freeze time, keep his daughter close even as the world moved on.

Travis had inherited his dad’s love of photography, but after his wife died, he stopped shooting landscapes and poured everything into his daughter.

Each photo told a story—a trip to Cedar Point, a birthday party, a lazy Sunday morning. I could feel the love and loss radiating from every frame.

A wave of sadness hit me.

It was almost too much to bear. I blinked hard, trying to keep my emotions in check. Mikey put a hand on my shoulder, grounding me.

The power had been shut off for nonpayment, so we used our phones to search the bedroom. The apartment was eerily quiet, every sound magnified by the darkness. We moved slowly, careful not to knock anything over.

The thing was easy to find—just open the drawer and there it was: Two brass keys and a note. They lay on a stack of old bills, like Travis had just tossed them there and walked away. I picked them up, feeling the weight of what they might unlock.

I was oddly disappointed. I’d half expected something supernatural, but it was just two plain brass keys—one a bit bigger, one smaller, the kind you’d find at Ace Hardware. I turned them over in my hands, searching for any markings. They looked ordinary, but the circumstances made them feel important.

I unfolded the note and, by the light of my phone, barely made out the word:

"Storage!"

The handwriting was messy, but familiar. It was Travis’s, no question. I could picture him hunched over the desk, scribbling the note in a hurry.

"You think he means the old storage unit at his childhood place?" Mikey caught on quick.

He was always the smart one, quick to connect the dots. I nodded, feeling a surge of hope.

I nodded. Two keys—the bigger one was probably for the storage unit door at the old apartment complex. I remembered the row of storage sheds out back, the way we used to sneak in after dark. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Old buildings like ours had a row of low storage sheds out back for bikes and boxes. My family and Travis’s family shared one—it was our secret base as kids, the place with our best memories.

I could still see the dusty old bikes, the stack of comic books, the secret stash of candy we thought our parents didn’t know about.

So the storage Travis meant had to be that one. But something didn’t add up:

A knot formed in my stomach. There was something off about the whole thing, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

Why not just spell it out in the note? Why be so cryptic?

Travis wasn’t the type for riddles. If he wanted me to find something, why not just tell me straight?

Then it hit me—maybe Travis was worried someone else would find it.

I glanced at Mikey, and he was already nodding. We were on the same wavelength, just like old times.

I looked at Mikey, and he was staring back at me. His eyes were wide, alert. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was—that we weren’t alone in this.

We both knew what the other was thinking. Our old place was on the west side of town, but it had been torn down years ago to make way for a Walmart. I remembered the day the bulldozers came, flattening our childhood in a matter of hours. We watched from across the street, helpless.

Giving us a key to a place that didn’t exist anymore didn’t make sense. I turned the keys over in my hand, wondering if there was another meaning. Maybe Travis had left something behind, something only we would know how to find.

Just as we looked at each other, the bedroom door suddenly slammed shut from outside. The noise was so loud it made my ears ring. My heart jumped into my throat. I spun around, searching for the source.

Somebody slammed the door from the hallway—hard.

The sound echoed through the apartment, rattling the windows. I felt a jolt of adrenaline, every muscle tensing.

The loud crash in the pitch dark nearly stopped my heart. I grabbed Mikey’s arm, trying to steady myself. My mind raced through every worst-case scenario.

"Shit!" Mikey cursed, and, almost by instinct, kicked the door hard. It was solid—even with all his strength, it wouldn’t budge.

He grunted with effort, sweat beading on his forehead. The door didn’t move an inch.

"Who’s out there!" I yelled. There were shuffling sounds outside, like someone digging through stuff.

My voice echoed in the hallway. I pressed my ear to the door, straining to hear. The footsteps sounded hurried, desperate.

"A thief!" Mikey realized first.

He grabbed the nearest heavy object—a lamp—and held it like a baseball bat. I fumbled for my phone, ready to call 911.

I started cursing myself for not locking the door, letting some crook sneak in behind us. I replayed our entrance in my mind, realizing how careless we’d been. I felt stupid, and angry at myself for letting my guard down.

"I’m calling the cops!" I shouted, kicking the door again.

My foot thudded against the wood, but it didn’t budge. I could hear the intruder rifling through drawers, tossing things aside.

The door held firm, and the rustling in the living room got louder.

It sounded like the guy was tearing the place apart. I imagined him pocketing whatever he could find—money, electronics, maybe even the photos from the wall.

"Move!" Mikey yanked me aside.

He planted his feet, took a deep breath, and charged the door like a linebacker. I braced myself for the impact. He backed up, lowered his shoulder, and rammed the door with everything he had. With a bang, the lock finally snapped, leaving a narrow gap.

The wood splintered, the door creaking open just enough to see a sliver of the hallway. I could smell sweat and fear in the air.