Blood Run Cold

So after I finished up my post about my evening last night, about 12:20 a.m., I had a knock on my door.

"Who would be at my door at this hour?" I asked myself. No one buzzed, so it was probably going to be someone from my building, or Otto, my caretaker, who I haven't seen since Christmas.

I open the door, and there stands a guy in a housepainter's smock, holding a paint roller. He loos like a cross between a VERY young Nick Nolte and Donnie Wahlberg as the adult patient from The Sixth Sense. And he had the mannerisms of the scary 80's Keith Richards.

Me: Hello?

Creepy Painter Guy: mutter mumble painting ceilings murmel mutter mutter

Me: (scared shitless) Okaaay.

CPG: mutter mutter know who lives?... In that apartment? (stares off into space)

Me: No. No, I don't.

CPG: (mutters for a bit, and then smiles) You know what I'm saying. You understand me.

Me: Right.

I promptly close the door and lock it. And make sure it's locked. And consider moving my couch in front of the door.

I then get the phone and dial my landlord's number.

"Hey, Otto. It's 12:30 in the morning. There's a guy who's out in the hallway, and he seems Fucked. Up. And I mean FUCKED. UP. And I'm not sure if he's supposed to be there, or what. All I know is he's trying to paint the ceilings, and he's drugged out of his mind, and I've got the crap scared out of me. Please call me back. Thanks."

I then see if anyone's on Messenger, just so I don't break down and can just unload all my fear and terror about this guy.

Luckily, Canton answers, and says I can sleep on the couch if I feel the need. I'd have taken him up on it, but then I'd have to leave my apartment and maybe walk past the guy who scares the hell out of me.

It took me about a half hour to calm down and stop shaking.

I don't think I've been that scared in a while. Hell, when I was assaulted, I wasn't scared at all by the drunked punk teens. I was pretty contemptuous towards them, but not scared in the least.

All I know is, it was the least safe I've ever felt in my place. Seriously, the doors on the apartment complex are to keep people who don't belong out.

Which made me come to a couple of conclusions/angles that might explain this whole situation.


a) The guy was hired to do the job. In which case, I'm sure he worked cheap if he was drugged up and doing it at 12 fucking 30 in the morning.

b) The guy happens to live in my building, and in a drugged state, decided to paint the ceilings. Unlikely.

c) He's some derelict who was able to get in, and just happened to be wearing a smock and painting ceilings.

Or, d) (my least favourite, but more likely option) I haven't seen Otto since Christmas. I have no clue if the management company has replaced him, and brought in this guy instead. In which case I should get the fuck out of this place. Because THAT is SO not good.

I mean, hell, Otto tended to unnerve some girls, but as a 6'2", 200 lb guy, I'm not really bothered by him. Sure, he's odd, but he's a nice enough guy.

Hopefully, Otto will return my message soon, and I'll know what the hell's going on. And maybe feel safe in my apartment again.

If not, the basement suite at the house is open...

No comments: