Nineteen

This was the third morning in a row he had been awaken by ceaseless banging in the apartment upstairs. His usual anger fled as he realized, this morning, that no one had lived in that apartment for months. Old Man Saunders died there two months and three days and seven hours and three minutes ago.

You've got to be kidding me.

He grabbed a short broom from the closet near his from door, thinking it a suitable weapon against whatever interlopers he may find in the dead man's home. The stairs creaked mournfully as he ascended despite his attempts to stifle their protests. Saunders' door was shut tight, as it had been for two months and three days and seven hours and five minutes.

It took his shoulder two tries to open the door, even though it wasn't locked. This was not surprising to him, though, as most of the doors in the building were stubborn. Shifting walls or shifting foundation or somesuch.

Empty. There was no one there. His mind raced through every bad ghost story--

A woman entered, wearing a decade-old business suit that had a nametag over the chest pocket. "Oh good, did those damn movers finally get that ridiculous dresser out of here? Are you my nine o'clock showing?"