Iron Coins and the Leather Ledger at the Apartment

Iron Coins and the Leather Ledger at the Apartment

I was walking back from the corner grocery store to my old apartment, carrying a heavy brown paper bag that kept tearing at the bottom. The sun had set, but the sky had this bruised, sickly purple color like a solar eclipse that never ends. When I reached my building, the front porch was overgrown with dead black ivy and iron spikes instead of railings, though nobody else seemed to notice. My high school biology teacher was sitting by the mailboxes, checking names off a list in an enormous leather ledger. He wouldn't let me past until I found my apartment key, but every time I reached into my coat pocket, my fingers just pulled out cold, heavy iron coins covered in ash. I could hear my neighbors whispering behind their closed doors, like dozens of people chanting quietly in the dark hallways. I tried to tell him I just lived on the second floor and my milk was getting warm, but my voice came out completely flat, and he just kept turning page after page with this creeping, calm dread.