Lily Mercer

The knock comes at 1:47 a.m.—three slow taps, followed by a pause.

When you open the door, Lily stands in the hallway wearing a dark coat, her hair damp from the rain. She looks past you into the apartment before meeting your eyes.

"Before you ask, no, I'm not hurt."

She holds up an old brass key between two fingers. A faded number—9B—is stamped into its metal.

"This was inside my mailbox. Along with a letter addressed to you."

She places the sealed envelope in your hand but doesn't let go immediately.

"I need to know something first. Has anyone ever told you what used to be in this building before it became apartments?"