THE DIVINE ENTITY IS MY LANDLORD

Rules of the Third Floor

Pedro stared at the human molar resting in his palm, the dried, black blood on its root catching the pale green glow of his phone screen. His stomach did a slow, sickening flip.

"Is this what's left of the last guy?" he whispered to the empty room.

Suddenly, a faint, muffled cry echoed from the hallway, filtering through the gap beneath his door.

"Pedro? Are you there? Please, help me..."

Pedro froze. The voice belonged to Elisa, but it sounded strained, as if she were in pain.

He scrambled to his feet, threw the tooth onto the counter, and wrenched his door open. "Elisa?"

He ran to unit 403-A and pounded on the wood. "Elisa! Are you okay? Did you call me?"

"What are you screaming about?" Elisa's voice came from inside, dry and annoyed. "I'm trying to patch my ceiling. Go to sleep."

"But I heard you," Pedro said, his brow furrowing. "I heard your voice. It came from the stairwell."

"Don't go down there," Elisa warned, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper near the door. "The third floor is active tonight. It's a playground for mimics. They'll use any voice to bait you."

"Are you sure?" Pedro asked. "It sounded exactly like you. It was perfect."

"It's never real, Pedro," Elisa snapped. "They steal pieces of us to lure the rest. Just go back to your room and stay inside."

"I can't just ignore it," Pedro said, looking toward the stairwell. "What if it's another tenant? What if they're actually hurt?"

"You're an idiot," Elisa muttered, her footsteps receding from the door. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Pedro stood in the hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Pedro... help..." the voice drifted up from the stairwell again, softer this time, dripping with agony. "I tripped. I think my leg is broken. Please."

Pedro clenched his fists. He couldn't just sit in his room while someone suffered. "I'm coming! Just stay still!"

He hurried down the concrete steps, descending to the landing of the third floor. The door to the corridor was slightly ajar, a sliver of pale, flickering light escaping into the dark stairwell.

He pushed the door open. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

At the far end of the narrow hallway, a figure stood in the shadows. It looked like Elisa, but her posture was bizarrely stiff, her arms hanging limply at her sides like a discarded mannequin.

"Thank you for coming, Pedro," she said.

Pedro stopped in his tracks. Her lips hadn't moved. The sound had come from her throat, but it was perfectly flat, lacking any human warmth.

"You're not Elisa," Pedro said, his voice cracking.

The figure giggled. The sound was a perfect, digital recording of Elisa's laugh from earlier, looping twice. "You're not Elisa. You're not Elisa."

"What are you?" Pedro demanded, backing toward the exit. "What is this?"

The figure stepped into the light. Its face began to melt, the skin bubbling and shifting like warm wax. Within seconds, the features of Elisa dissolved, reforming into a perfect mirror image of Pedro's own face.

"What are you?" the entity repeated, using Pedro's exact voice. "What is this?"

Pedro opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He gasped, clutching his throat. His vocal cords felt entirely numb, as if they had been injected with liquid nitrogen.

"Don't waste your breath," the Mimic said, wearing Pedro's face and using Pedro's voice. "I have borrowed your voice. It is a temporary deposit."

Pedro stared in terror, shaking his head. He desperately searched his pockets and pulled out his small drafting notebook and a stubby pencil.

He quickly scribbled on the page and thrust it forward.

Give it back to me.

The Mimic leaned closer, squinting at the page. " 'Give it back to me.' Oh, how demanding! But that is not how the lease works on the third floor, neighbor."

Pedro scribbled furiously. Who are you?

" 'Who are you?' " the Mimic read aloud, laughing with Pedro's voice. "I am the tenant of the third floor. I am the echo of what you lose. If you want your voice back, we must play a game."

Pedro held up his notebook again, writing: What kind of game?

" 'What kind of game?' " the Mimic mocked. "A simple test of wits. I will ask you three riddles. If you answer them correctly, you may leave this floor with your life. Your voice will return to you in twenty-four hours."

Pedro's eyes widened. He wrote: And if I lose?

" 'And if I lose?' " the Mimic smiled, a sickeningly wide grin stretching Pedro's mirrored face. "Then I keep your voice, your tongue, and your throat forever. You will become just another silent brick in the wall."

Pedro swallowed hard. He had no choice. He wrote: Ask the riddles.

" 'Ask the riddles.' Excellent," the Mimic chuckled. "Let us begin with the first. I have a heart that does not beat, a mouth that does not eat, and I grow stronger the more you starve. What am I?"

Pedro stared at the entity. A heart that doesn't beat... a mouth that doesn't eat... grows stronger when starved. He thought of the glowing veins on his walls, the hunger of his apartment.

He wrote: The Aethelgard.

The Mimic's smile twitched with mild disappointment. " 'The Aethelgard.' Or simply, the building itself. Correct. A bit too easy, I suppose. Let us try the second."

The entity stepped closer, its arms lengthening unnaturally, the joints popping.

"I can be stolen, I can be bought, I can be sold," the Mimic whispered, its breath smelling of dry paper. "But I am nothing without a mind to hold me. I can make you rich, or I can drive you mad. What am I?"

Pedro's mind raced. Stolen, bought, sold... nothing without a mind... rich or mad. He remembered the empty void where his grandmother's face used to be.

He wrote: A memory.

" 'A memory,' " the Mimic read, its eyes narrowing. "Yes. Correct again. You are quite boringly clever, aren't you, architect?"

Pedro kept his pencil poised over the notebook, his hands trembling.

"Now for the third and final riddle," the Mimic said, its voice dropping to a harsh, grinding hiss. "Get this wrong, and you stay here forever. I have no voice, yet I speak to all. I have no legs, yet I travel far. I can bring war, or I can bring peace, but once I am spoken, I can never be recalled. What am I?"

Pedro froze.

No voice, yet speaks to all.

No legs, yet travels far.

Can bring war or peace.

Once spoken, can never be recalled.

He thought of "a secret." But a secret doesn't speak to all.

He thought of "the truth." But the truth isn't always spoken to all.

He thought of "a word." A word has no voice of its own, yet it speaks to everyone who reads it. It travels across the world without legs. It can start wars or make peace. And once you speak a word, you can never take it back.

He pressed the pencil to the paper and wrote: A word.

He held the notebook up to the Mimic's face.

The Mimic stared at the page. The mirrored face of Pedro began to distort, the eyes sliding down the cheeks, the mouth twisting into a jagged, horrific screech.

" 'A word!' " the Mimic roared, its voice overlapping with a chorus of agonizing screams. "You guessed it! You guessed it!"

The hallway lights shattered, plunging the corridor into near-total darkness.

"Go!" the Mimic shrieked, its body folding inward like a crushed piece of paper. "Get out of my sight!"

Pedro didn't wait. He spun around, threw himself against the stairwell door, and bolted up the stairs.

He ran until his lungs burned, bursting through the fourth-floor door and slamming his apartment door behind him.

He collapsed against the wood, gasping for air. He tried to speak, to yell for Elisa, but only a dry, silent puff of air escaped his lips.

He was completely mute.

The frustration was suffocating. He kicked a cardboard box, sending a stack of books tumbling across the floor. He wanted to scream, to curse this godforsaken building, but the silence reigned supreme.

He crawled onto his mattress, clutching the drafting notebook tightly to his chest. The silence of the room was heavy, but his physical exhaustion finally won. He closed his eyes and drifted into a restless, paranoid sleep.

Hours later, Pedro woke up. The room was dim, the pale morning light filtering through the window.

He sat up, his throat still feeling completely frozen. He looked down at the floor beside his bed, where his notebook had fallen while he slept.

He picked it up, flipping to the page where he had written A word.

His blood ran cold.

Directly beneath his messy handwriting, written in elegant, dark blue ink that was definitely not his own, was a new line of text:

That was a clever answer, Pedro. But you should really watch what you say around here.