Fiction: Apartment Fever by Terri Mullholland

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Two men met me outside the building to show me around. They were identical: same build, same dark suits, same dark hair. I asked if they were brothers and they laughed.

Before opening the door to the apartment, they put on surgical gloves.

The fever started as soon as I was in the hall, a moment of dizziness, as if the floor was at a tilt. I reached out a hand to steady myself. The wall was sweating too, my hand came away glistening with beads of water that looked like tears.

‘The plaster still needs to dry,’ said one of the men. ‘Please don’t touch the walls.’

The apartment was part of a new housing development:  Designed to live and breathe with you, was the advertising slogan. I hadn’t expected it to perspire with me too.

In the kitchen they poured me a glass of water. The surfaces were all steel and light and hurt my eyes. I tried to take an interest in what they were telling me about the apartment, about how it was designed to adapt to my needs, the thermostat regulating itself with my body temperature, but the men’s voices kept merging into a monotonous lullaby.

I put a cold, clammy hand to my forehead; my face was burning up. As we walked out of the kitchen into the dining room, a blast of cold air from the air conditioning hit me, and I shivered so hard I thought my teeth would break.

Despite the cold air, the fever continued. My vision was blurring, the men kept breaking apart into blots of light and dark. I stumbled, thinking I saw a cat with moon-white fur running underneath my feet. I’d always wanted a cat.

They took me to the main bedroom. One of them put his arm across the doorway, indicating that I could look but not go in.

‘This room is still regulating itself,’ he explained.

I nodded, as if I understood what he meant, and peered into the room. It was clean and white, fitted wardrobes across one wall, with a mirror. I couldn’t see the bed from the doorway, only its reflection in the mirror. There was a person sleeping in the bed, one arm flung out from the sheets, a fresh tattoo marked their forearm. It was my name spelled out in mirror-writing.

I glanced from the arm up to the man blocking the doorway, he avoided my gaze and looked over my head at the other man, a slight smile hovering around his mouth.

They showed me the empty guest room. I was allowed in there. It was small, white, sterile. It reminded me of a hospital room and I had an urge to lie down under the cool sheets.

‘As this is the last apartment, we can offer you a good price,’ said one of the men.

‘There may still be a few teething troubles, getting the rooms to regulate and adapt to your needs. But once they do, rest assured, you won’t want to live anywhere else.’

The fever was getting worse; I could hardly stand up.

‘How much?’ I managed to slur, watching as the lights flickered a celestial display across the ceiling.

They gave me a figure. A very reasonable one for a brand new, two-bedroom

apartment, in a good location, close to public transport links and the town centre.

I just wanted them to go, to leave me here to sleep. I signed the forms with a shaking hand, and they gave me the keys.

‘The apartment will take care of you now,’ said the men together. It sounded like a prayer. One of the men ran his gloved hand over the hall wall. It came away dry. He nodded with satisfaction. ‘It’s already adapting perfectly.’

I shut the door behind them, desperate to get back to the main bedroom. On the way, I stumbled over a white cat.

 Terri Mullholland (she/her) is a writer and researcher living in London, UK. Her flash fiction has appeared in various journals and anthologies. Her pamphlet of hybrid pieces Weather / Patterns was published by intergraphia books. 

If you would like to learn more about Terri, you can find her website here.