The first thing Jeff noticed about Cornice Place Apartments was how out of place it looked. Set back from the busy street, the building stood like a relic of another time. Its L-shaped structure, four stories tall, framed a small, park-like courtyard. The courtyard itself was devoid of any traditional comforts—no pool, no kids playing, and not even a stray cat to disrupt the unnatural stillness.

The iron gate surrounding the property was black and imposing, its bars gleaming faintly in the sunlight as if polished to keep away rust and time. A small sign above the entrance read simply, “Cornice Place Apartments,” in bold, serifed letters. Beneath it, another sign added, “A Quiet, Safe Community.” To Jeff, the place screamed too good to be true.

He parked his black El Camino—shiny, well-kept, and completely out of place among the faded sedans and ancient pickup trucks populating the parking lot. The car had been his last real win, a prize from a poker game years ago. He hated the damn thing. The sleekness and shine felt like a mockery now, a reminder of everything he’d lost. Still, it was better than walking, and he figured he’d trade it for something less flashy once he hit a streak of good luck. Whenever that came.

Jeff climbed out of the car, a wiry figure with a frame hardened by years of military service and police work. His face was a roadmap of lines and wear, like leather stretched too many times over too many years. His salt-and-pepper hair, cropped close, seemed perpetually untidy, as if it had better things to do than cooperate. His eyes, though—a sharp, frozen stare that seemed to bore straight through people—were the kind of eyes that made folks uneasy. He looked like someone who had seen too much and decided to keep staring until the world blinked first.

He adjusted his jacket, a worn leather piece that still carried the faint smell of cigarettes from its previous owner. He wasn’t smoking these days, but the scent clung to him like an old regret. Everything about Jeff seemed like it belonged to a man who had once been somebody and was still trying to decide if he cared that he wasn’t anymore.

The apartment manager, Mr. Wallace, was waiting for him at the entrance, a wiry, hard-looking man with a mop of graying hair. He stood leaning on a broom, his sharp eyes scanning Jeff from head to toe like a bouncer deciding whether to let someone in. “You’re late,” Wallace said, his accent thick, though Jeff couldn’t quite pin down if it was genuine or exaggerated.

“Traffic,” Jeff replied, though there hadn’t been any. He just didn’t like being rushed.

Wallace smirked and opened the gate, which creaked on its hinges like a sound effect from a bad horror movie. “Welcome to Cornice Place. Keep to yourself, pay your rent on time, and we won’t have any trouble.”

Jeff followed the man across the courtyard, taking in the details as he walked. The grass was green but patchy, the benches scattered about were rusting, and a crooked birdbath stood as the courtyard’s centerpiece, leaning like it had been caught mid-collapse. Despite the flaws, the place had an unnerving sense of cleanliness. No litter, no cigarette butts, not even a loose leaf out of place.

“This it?” Jeff asked when Wallace stopped in front of an apartment on the second floor.

“Unit 207,” Wallace confirmed, handing him a single key. “Utilities included. Rent in cash, placed in the lockbox by the office, no exceptions. You got any pets?”

Jeff shook his head. “No pets.”

“Good. Pets don’t last long around here.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, colder than the shade cast by the building. Jeff shrugged it off and unlocked the door, stepping into what would be his home for the foreseeable future.

The apartment was modest but clean. A faded sailboat print hung on the wall above the couch. The furniture was generic, the kind you’d find in any cheaply furnished rental, but everything was in good condition. Jeff ran his fingers along the edge of the kitchen counter. No dust. Not even a smudge.

“It’s… nice,” Jeff said, though the word felt forced coming out of his mouth.

“Nice place,” Wallace echoed with a nod. “Anything else?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

“Great. Then I’ll leave you to it.” Wallace tipped an imaginary hat and left, his boots clunking heavily on the walkway outside.

Jeff closed the door and stood in the silence, staring at the sailboat print. The apartment was almost unnervingly quiet. No street noise, no distant hum of a lawnmower, no barking dogs. Just the faint buzz of the refrigerator and the sound of his own breathing.

He cracked open a beer—an import, of course—and settled onto the couch. “Imports are healthier,” he muttered to himself, parroting the lie he told everyone, including himself. Domestic beer? That was for real alcoholics. Jeff had standards. He chuckled at the absurdity of it all and took a long swig.

As he sat motionless, staring into the void of his thoughts, a knock at the door startled him—and the person outside as well. Jeff’s frozen, deadpan stare had a way of jump-scaring anyone who didn’t notice him until the last second, himself included. He answered the door, his body still tense from the jolt.

Nobody there.

Just the silence pressing in again.

He sat back on the couch, letting the emptiness of Cornice Place seep into his bones. The faint sound of Wallace’s whistling drifted through the window, the tune changing every few bars as though the man couldn’t decide on a song. Jeff chuckled to himself and leaned back, letting the strangeness settle into his weary, bitter bones.

It wasn’t much, but it would do.

For now.

Jeff wasn’t used to mornings without noise. No early city traffic. No distant hum of lawnmowers or barking dogs. Cornice Place was silent, eerily so. He sat on the couch, staring at the sailboat print on the wall, his third import of the morning sweating in his hand. His head throbbed slightly—remnants of last night’s overindulgence—but the quiet unsettled him more than the hangover.

The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was predatory. Even the faint hum of the refrigerator seemed too subdued, as if it didn’t dare draw attention to itself. Jeff ran his fingers over the damp beer bottle, the condensation trickling like cold sweat. For a building that looked like it had survived the ‘70s, Cornice Place was unnaturally still. Too clean. Too controlled.

He tipped back his beer, letting the bitterness coat his tongue. His gaze drifted to the bottle of water he’d thrown in the fridge the day before. It was still there, unopened. He grabbed it out of habit when he’d moved in, but every time he reached for it, his hand went to an import instead. “Hydration’s for rookies,” he muttered, then added, “But hey, imports are practically health food.”

Jeff didn’t believe his own bullshit, but it was the lie he needed to keep the gnawing edges of guilt at bay. Domestic beer was for alcoholics; he drank imports. Totally different league.

He stood, stretching, his joints crackling like old wood. Wandering to the window, he pulled the blinds back just enough to peek into the courtyard. The morning sunlight spilled over the patchy grass and crooked benches, but the light seemed too sharp, like someone had cranked the saturation up on reality. The birdbath, still leaning awkwardly, cast a long shadow that seemed out of proportion to its size. Nothing moved. Not a single leaf stirred.

Jeff shivered, though the room wasn’t cold, and turned toward the hallway. Locking the door behind him, he double-checked the bolt—an ingrained habit from years of police work. The hallway was dim, its shadows clinging stubbornly to the walls despite the sunlight outside. The air felt heavier here, and Jeff’s footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way toward the stairs.

Halfway down the exterior walkway, something caught his eye. A small metal sign bolted neatly to the wall at the corner. The lettering was bold and clean, etched in black against the brushed steel:

REMEMBER TO BE NICE.

Jeff frowned, stepping closer. The sign was unremarkable at first glance, but something about it felt off. Why would an apartment complex need signs like this? He reached out and ran his fingers over the cool surface. The edges were too sharp, too new. Beneath the lettering, faint scratches caught the light. Leaning in, he made out the words someone had etched into the metal:

“Or else.”

“Okay, then,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and heading for the stairs.

The courtyard felt larger than it had the day before, though it wasn’t a trick of distance. It was the quiet—an oppressive, unnatural quiet that seemed to magnify every sound he made. His boots scraped against the concrete as he crossed the patchy grass, passing the crooked benches and leaning birdbath. Two women sat on one of the benches, their voices low and indistinct. They didn’t acknowledge him, though Jeff had the uneasy sense they were watching.

Near the black metal lockbox labeled “Rent,” another sign caught his eye:

REMEMBER TO BE NICE.

The words hung over the box like a passive-aggressive warning. The lockbox itself looked old but well-maintained, its edges smoothed from years of use. The slit at the top gaped slightly, like a mouth that couldn’t quite close. Beside it, a smaller sign read simply: Cash Only.

Jeff smirked. “Cash only, huh? Real modern.”

Wallace’s whistling drifted down from somewhere above, the tune shifting mid-melody like the man couldn’t commit to a song. Jeff shook his head and pushed through the iron gate. The clang of it shutting behind him echoed sharply, lingering longer than it should have.

His El Camino sat at the far end of the lot, gleaming black in the sunlight. It looked as out of place here as a tuxedo at a backyard barbecue. Jeff hated the car. He hated its shine, its cocky air of a life he no longer lived. Yet he couldn’t let it go. Not until he won something better. And that would happen. He was due. Any day now.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Jeff let the engine roar to life. The sound was jarring against the unnatural quiet of Cornice Place, and for a moment, he thought about killing the engine just to make the noise stop. But then laughter floated across the courtyard. He glanced back to see the two women on the bench, their voices louder now.

“Nice car,” one of them called, her tone teasing but edged with something else.

Jeff waved half-heartedly, trying to ignore the weight of their stares. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, as unease settled into his chest. Cornice Place wasn’t right. The signs, the quiet, the sterile cleanliness—it didn’t add up.

Grabbing his phone, he typed “Cornice Place Apartments” into the search bar. The usual listings popped up—rent prices, a few poorly lit photos. One review stood out:

“They don’t allow pets, and they mean it. Don’t try to sneak in a cat or a gerbil. Animals die around here.”

Jeff frowned, glancing back at the courtyard. No pets. No strays. Not even a damn squirrel.

The stereo erupted suddenly, the blaring static making him flinch and slap at the controls to kill the noise. When he looked back at the courtyard, one of the women was gone. The other was staring directly at him. Unblinking.

Adjusting the rearview mirror, he scanned the lot. No sign of her.

“You should watch your noise,” a voice said from the driver’s side window, startling him. Jeff turned sharply to find the missing woman standing there, too close, her face calm but her eyes sharp.

“What? I didn’t mean to—” he stammered, but she walked away before he could finish.

“Fucking opioids,” Jeff muttered as he pulled out of the lot, the iron gate closing behind him like the lid of a coffin.

Jeff spent most of the morning driving aimlessly through the city, the El Camino devouring gas as if it had something to prove. It wasn’t about the destination—there wasn’t one. He just needed to put distance between himself and the eerie stillness of Cornice Place. The silence clung to him like damp clothing, refusing to let go, no matter how fast he drove or how loud the engine roared.

By mid-afternoon, Jeff found himself back at the apartment complex. The parking lot was as lifeless as it had been earlier. The same weather-beaten sedans and rust-riddled pickups were parked in their identical positions, like props on an abandoned stage. The El Camino’s glossy black paint stood out even more against the backdrop of faded metal and cracked asphalt.

As he stepped out, a faint metallic scent tickled his nose, mingled with the chemical sharpness of industrial cleaning supplies. It was the kind of smell that lingered in hospitals or after violent crimes—sterile but unsettling. Jeff paused, frowning, before shaking it off and making his way toward the gate.

The iron gate screeched shut behind him, the sound ringing in the unnatural quiet. Jeff scanned the courtyard, half-expecting something to be out of place. The crooked birdbath, the rusting benches, the patchy grass—all still there. But it felt different, like a photo that had been retouched so subtly you couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong, only that something was.

He climbed the stairs, boots echoing off the stucco walls, and unlocked his door. The apartment was as he’d left it—silent, cold, and immaculate to the point of being unnatural. Jeff lingered in the doorway, scanning the room like a detective surveying a crime scene. The furniture sat in perfect alignment, the sailboat print hung straight, and the air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner.

Yet, something was wrong.

The knock at the door came so suddenly that Jeff flinched, his heart skipping a beat. Swearing under his breath, he set his keys on the counter and opened the door.

Standing on the walkway were two people—a man and a woman, both smiling with an enthusiasm that felt just shy of sincere. The man was tall and gangly, with glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose and hair that looked like it had been styled by a strong gust of wind. The woman was petite, her dark, cropped hair framing a nervous smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hey there!” the man said, his voice unnervingly cheerful. He extended a hand. “I’m Martin. This is Zoe. We’re your neighbors.”

Jeff hesitated before shaking Martin’s hand, his grip firm and brief. “Jeff,” he said, his tone guarded. “Nice to meet you.”

Zoe offered a small wave, her fingers twitching slightly. “We just wanted to stop by and introduce ourselves,” she said, her voice softer, almost timid. “You know, be neighborly.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jeff replied, scratching the back of his neck. His social instincts, rusty as they were, told him something about this encounter wasn’t quite right.

“So,” Martin began, leaning casually against the doorframe, “how are you liking Cornice Place so far?”

Jeff shrugged, his eyes narrowing. “It’s quiet.”

Martin chuckled, the sound a little too loud for the moment. “Yeah, it’s definitely that. Some folks find it a little too quiet, if you know what I mean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeff asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

Zoe shifted uncomfortably, her eyes darting to Martin before returning to Jeff. “Oh, nothing,” she said quickly. “Just that it takes some getting used to. The quiet, I mean.”

“Right,” Jeff said, his skepticism growing.

Martin clapped his hands together. “Anyway, if you ever need anything, we’re just down the hall in 213. Don’t be a stranger.”

Jeff watched as they walked away, their cheerful chatter fading as they turned the corner. He closed the door, leaning against it with a sigh. Something about Martin’s easy demeanor and Zoe’s jittery energy didn’t sit right with him. They were too friendly. Too… rehearsed.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of restless boredom. Jeff tried to drown his unease in imports and daytime television, but the apartment’s suffocating quiet seemed to seep into his bones. Even the TV’s blaring laugh track felt hollow, as if it couldn’t quite fill the void.

By evening, Jeff couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed a jacket and headed out, determined to walk off the oppressive tension.

The hallway was dimly lit, the flickering bulbs casting erratic shadows on the beige walls. Jeff’s boots thudded against the concrete, the sound oddly muffled, as if the building itself were absorbing the noise. Every few feet, he passed one of the signs bolted to the wall:

REMEMBER TO BE NICE.

The words seemed to loom larger in the dim light, their black lettering almost accusatory. Jeff stopped in front of one, running his fingers over the cold metal surface. His touch lingered, searching for the faint scratches he’d seen earlier. But this sign was flawless, unmarked.

Jeff moved on, his unease growing with every step. The farther he walked, the more the silence pressed against him, like an invisible weight bearing down on his shoulders. When he reached the courtyard, he spotted Martin and Zoe sitting on one of the benches. Their heads were close together, their voices low and conspiratorial.

Jeff considered joining them but decided against it. He wasn’t in the mood for more forced cheerfulness. Instead, he wandered over to the birdbath. Up close, it looked worse than he’d realized. The basin was cracked, the water inside dark and stagnant. A few dead leaves floated on the surface, their edges curling like withered fingers.

Jeff’s gaze drifted to the building, his eyes tracing the rows of identical windows and balconies. Something about the symmetry was unnerving, too precise, too perfect. It reminded him of a crime scene staged to look natural but failing in subtle, telltale ways.

“You’re losing it,” Jeff muttered, taking a long swig of beer.

But even as he said it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.