So you might be wondering how I got an apartment in a building that doesn’t exist?

Well, the truth is, I don’t really know. By all rights, it shouldn’t have been possible. I shouldn’t have found the listing, I shouldn’t have seen the “For Rent” sign, I shouldn’t have even been able to find the building.

And yet, somehow, I did.

Let me back up a bit.

My name is Sam Evermore. Lots of jokes at the pub about my last name, but it is what it is. I’m what’s known (and will become apparent) as a baseline human. I’m 33 and am a kind of technical consultant. Means I work weird hours, encounter a lot of different kinds of folks, and, sadly, don’t get paid the best.

Being fair, I’m not complaining. My firm isn’t a bad one. It just doesn’t pay as well as other firms might. As far as why I stick with this firm, well a lot of that just comes back to job security and the hours. If nothing else, my bosses are sticklers for hours. Oh you can be on salary, but don’t you dare work overtime without approval. I’m told by some of my mates at the pub that such an attitude is actually really weird.

I don’t mind it though. Even with the occasional weird hours, I pretty much have a job for as long as the firm exists (and it’s been around a LONG time) and I never really have to worry about finding clients or looking for another job. But as I said, the downside to that is the pay. It isn’t great and this area is a bit expensive.

Oh, I should mention that I’m in New England, so while there isn’t quite as much history here as there is in some parts of the world, there’s definitely a lot of history and historical pride that goes with the area.

But as I was saying, my apartment building apparently doesn’t exist.

Or rather exists, but outside of the normal perception of things.

Naturally, I didn’t know this when I was apartment hunting. I just happened upon the listing (for a place down the street that does exist as it turned out), saw the sign and figured it must be the place. The listing gave the street, but not the specific address, so I figured I’d just drive it and see what I found.

The building itself looked halfway abandoned, several of the windows being blackened from the inside, a serviceable but probably early 1900s cast iron type fence, and a majority of the brickwork covered in some kind of ivy. It was three stories tall and sat a bit aimlessly amidst the other buildings. The only real signs of it being in use was that the sidewalk was clean and the wandering ivy kept clear of the door. The sign stating the need for a renter looked new enough that I figured it was worth a look. My place at the time was a converted house that leaked heat in the winter something awful, so getting into something brick wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

I wasn’t keen on the building, but figured I’d give it a look. At worst, it would be a years renting and then I’d move on, right?

Well, I called the number on the sign and the front door opened after the third ring.

“Yes?” came the crackly voice from the person in the front door, simultaneous to coming through the phone.

“I’d like to see the place for rent,” I said, giving my best client-facing smile. I hated using it, but unfortunately, clients love to actually meet the person doing the work. The smile itself was equal measures of disingenuous and disarming.

As I said, I hated wearing it, but it had gotten me through many a client-facing meeting with a minimum of questions, so it was a necessary tool of the trade at this point.

“Lose that ridiculous smile and come inside, I’ll show you up,” said the figure.

I tucked the smile back into its metaphorical pouch and stepped towards the door.

The figure resolved in my vision to be an elderly man. He might have been mistaken for being sharpei that someone had combined with a prune. He walked with a cane that he insisted on holding by the shaft instead of the top. It seemed an odd habit to say the least, but I ignored it. Many of my clients were peculiar folks who did things their own ways, so I often saw strange habits.

Slowly, the elderly man, presumably the landlord, since I couldn’t imagine him being the superintendent, led me up the stairs to the third floor. It was a third floor walk up, no elevator. That would be annoying, I remember thinking, when it came to moving, but in this area, you take what you can get, and if the rent was decent, it was worth the inconvenience.

There were several doors that I could see from the second floor landing, but I didn’t pay them too much mind except to notice that the place seemed to remind me of an old bed and breakfast once you got past the landing. The walls around the stairs were red brick that looked fairly faded with the passing of time, but in otherwise good shape. The stairs themselves were stone and the rail of rather delicate looking (but firm to the touch) wood. The rail looked to be both worn and new in the same instance. The same way a really old cast iron skillet that’s been well cared for looks - obviously used and not new, but still possessing that sheen of having just come from the foundry, freshly oiled.

The lights on the landing of the third floor clicked on as the elderly man’s cane reached the landing. There were five doors here. Each seemed to be fairly standard, except that they all appeared to be very different from one another. It was as though someone had gone to a thrift shop or perhaps antique store looking for carved wooden doors with matching door knockers. It wasn’t a bad look. Just an unusual one.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

I was perfectly prepared to overlook it though. Might be a fun conversation piece for friends or a date.

The old man walked to the first door on the right and pushed open the door with his cane.

“Have a look around,” he said. It seemed a bit like a command, but also like the voice of someone who is tired of having to show the place to everyone who passes by.

I went inside and had to stop myself from gasping. The apartment inside was like something out of a tv or movie set, which is to say, it was unnaturally big. The living room into the open kitchen alone was about 500 square feet and looking down the hall showed a probably equally sized pair of bedrooms and a rather nice (at a glance) bathroom. The whole thing must be at least 1000 square feet, which, in my area, means about $2+ a square foot in monthly rent, aka on the higher end of what I could notionally afford.

“What’s the rent like?” I asked.

“Depends on your currency,” came the old man’s reply.

I blinked at this and looked over at him.

“Currency?” I asked.

“Yes, currency. No one stays for free,” was all that he said, his face expressionless (although it was hard to tell through all the wrinkles).

“Dollars,” I said, deciding to turn my attention away from the wizened face.

“Hmmm…. Dollars,” I heard him said, before muttering a bit inaudibly.

I continued looking around the place. It was radiator heating, which looked to be as old as the building, but still holding that same sheen of having just been installed. They were slightly odd-shaped, reminding me of 1920s art deco. There wasn’t any obvious air conditioning, but it looked like there were enough windows that I shouldn’t have too much issue, especially with the light summers that we usually get compared with the rest of the country.

“Make it a thousand,” came the old man’s voice.

I had to force myself not to immediately accept. That was an outrageous price for this amount of place. There had to be some catch.

“Utilities included?” I asked.

“Of course, but if you need anything apart from heat, electricity, and water, that’s on you,” was his only reply. His voice sounded happier than it had before.

“I’ll take it. How soon can I move in?” I confirmed in an instant. This place was too good to pass on and even if there were some issues that would rear their head, for that price, I could figure a way to deal with them.

“As soon as you can sign the contract,” came the pleased reply.

“Ah, yes. How long is that for?” I remembered.

“Month to month at a minimum. I won’t rent for less time than that,” was his reply.

My heart practically sang.

“Fantastic. I just need to get a moving service arranged then,” I said, grinning an honest grin.

“Whereabouts are you coming in from?” the old man asked.

“I’m living about 10 blocks down the road,” I said, expecting nothing of it.

“In ordinary housing? You must be braver than you look,” the old man said, giving me an appraising look.

“It’s nothing special and I don’t need very much,” I admitted.

“Yes, but for beings like us to be in ordinary housing. That’s dangerous that is,” the old man straightened a bit, but was still eyeing me up and down.

“Um… ok. So, uh, anything I should be aware of with the neighbors?” I tried to steer the conversation a bit. I’m used to clients having odd ways of saying things, so it wasn’t all that unusual to have strange words turn up in conversations.

“Not really. Although you might want to invest in some quality silencers. This place echos a bit without them,” he appeared to scratch his chin with his free hand.

“I don’t anticipate being loud,” I said.

“Oh, it’s not for you, although we do appreciate if you can silence yourself. It’s for the rest of the floor,” the old man said, gesturing with the curiously held cane.

“I’m not sure I follow,” my eyebrows crinkled.

“Just good practice. Your neighbors can be a bit loud at times, through no fault of their own,” the old man admitted.

“Oh. Well, I’m sure I can live with it,” I said, smiling again, wondering if it was too late to consider backing out of my verbal acceptance.

“You don’t need to worry though. These walls are spellproofed and about as invulnerable as plat-tin-ium coated granite,” said the old man, making platinum (after a bit of decoding mentally) sound oddly foreign.

But the word that caught my mind was ‘spellproofed’.

“Spellproofed?” I asked.

“Yes. You don’t seem to be one of the creatures, so that means you must be some kind of mage, right? Rather remarkable to be living amongst baselines without proper protection,” he said, waving vaguely with his free hand.

“Not exactly. I’m a technical consultant,” I replied, guessing that he meant something about my job.

“Much the same thing, although much less exciting in the baseline world I’m sure,” the old man said, he too was now smiling.

He reached into his worn looking cardigan and withdrew a small sheaf of papers, quickly sorted through them and pulled one out.

Still not stepping into the apartment, he proffered the paper towards me.

“The lease,” he said.

I pulled a pen out of my pocket.

“Oh, no. That won’t do. Inks not a proper signing instrument,” he said, pulling the paper back.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything else with me,” I said, tucking the pen back into my pocket.

“Come now. Even old mages still have blood,” the old man said.

“If I didn’t know better, it’d sound like you believe in making some kind of supernatural pact,” I suggested, smiling at the mere thought. The smile was not returned.

“I only deal in proper contracts. Either sign it properly or don’t bother me,” he snapped.

I looked around the place again. It seemed impossibly big for the amount of money he was asking for. I quietly guaranteed myself that I’d never find anyplace half as big for this amount of money. At least not until the next big real estate crash.

“Fine, but I’ll need to borrow a pen,” I concluded.

The old man handed over the paper and a strange looking pen. It wasn’t particularly notable. It just seemed oddly warm to the touch and looked to have been made from some kind of onyx or obsidian.

The lease seemed exceptionally straightforward. Rent was due on the first of every month, utilities and the property were taken care of by the superintendent of the property. There was no dedicated parking. Rent increases would require a new lease to be signed. And (this part was set off from the rest and bolded) all tenants were to respect all other tenants, on forfeiture of your lease.

It was an odd final statement, but I’ve signed worse in my time.

I went to sign it and the pen stun my fingers. I nearly dropped it or tossed it away, but somehow didn’t or couldn’t.

“Ouch,” I managed.

“You must not have signed a contract in a while,” the old man said.

“No, I haven’t, but I shouldn’t think that would be a problem,” I took the pen from my hand and looked at my fingers. There was a tiny pinprick of blood on my thumb.

“I think I’m bleeding on your pen,” I apologized, ready to hand the pen back.

“Don’t worry about it. Just sign,” the old man said, gesturing at the document.

I signed, my signature slightly reddish and seeming to shimmer just a tiny bit when I finished. I handed the document and the pen back to the old man, who tucked both into his cardigan.

“Welcome to the building. See to it that I get that check for the end of the week,” he said, and turned to head back down the stairs.

“What about the keys?” I asked.

“Keys? Oh, right, you’ve been living among baselines. No keys here. The door will recognise you,” the old man said.

I could only watch him slowly walk down the stairs and looked back around the apartment, with equal parts of confusion and wonder filling my mind.