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That’s how she put it. That the Bartholomew was haunted by its history. Although one could argue the two terms are interchangeable. Both involve dark forces clinging to a place, refusing to leave its residents in peace.
“That and other things,” I say. “When I talked about it with Ingrid, she seemed frightened.”
“Of the Bartholomew?” Nick says, his voice thick with disbelief.
“I don’t know if it was the building itself or something inside it,” I say. “But she was definitely afraid. And it’s why I think she left. Now I’m trying to find out where she went.”
“I wish Ingrid had come to me about this.” Nick runs a hand through his hair, more exasperated than annoyed, although I sense some of that as well. Annoyance that anyone could fear the place he’s always called home. “I think I could have put her mind at ease.”
“So I’m guessing that’s a no on the whole curse thing.”
“Definitely,” Nick says, cracking the faintest of smiles. “Yes, bad things have happened here. But bad things have occurred in every building in this neighborhood. The difference is that when something happens here, it gets conflated by the media and the internet. It’s a very private building. That’s how the residents like it. But some people mistake privacy for secrecy and fill in the blanks with all kinds of nonsense.”
“So you think Ingrid was mistaken?” I say.
“I think it depends on what she heard. This curse nonsense is the result of things that happened decades ago. Long before I was born. Things have been mostly quiet around here.”
I catch his word choice.Mostly.
“That’s not exactly comforting.”
“Trust me, there’s nothing here to fear,” Nick says. “The Bartholomew is generally a pretty happy place. You do like it here, don’t you?”
“Of course.” I flick my gaze to the expanse of Central Park outside the window. “There’s a lot to like.”
“Good. Now promise me something. If you get so creeped out that you feel the need to leave, at least come and talk to me first.”
“So you can talk me out of it?”
Nick’s shoulders rise and fall in a shy shrug. “Or at least get your phone number before you go.”
And it’s official: he and I really are flirting. I consider the possibility that maybe I’m not the girl I thought I was.
Maybe I’m more.
“My number,” I say with a coy smile, “is 12A.”
17
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back in my own apartment. Even though Nick showed no signs that I was overstaying my welcome, I felt it best to leave sooner rather than later. Especially once it became clear he had no intention of sharing any of the building’s deep, dark secrets. If there are indeed any to share. I got the sense from Nick that he believed the Bartholomew to be as normal—or abnormal, as the case may be—as any other building on the Upper West Side.
Which is why I now sit by the bedroom window, George only a faint outline against the night-darkened sky. With me are a mug of tea, the remainder of the chocolate bar Charlie bought for me, and my laptop, which is open to the email Chloe sent yesterday.
“The Curse of the Bartholomew.”
If my theory about Ingrid fleeing because she was frightened is true, then I want to know all the reasons why she might have been scared—and if I, too, should be afraid.
I click the link, which leads me to an urban-legend website. The kind Andrew used to read, with their clickbait tales of alligators in the sewers and mole people in abandoned subway tunnels. This one is a little more professional than most. Clean layout. Easy to read.
The first thing that greets me is a photo of the Bartholomew itself, taken from Central Park on a day that couldn’t be more picture-perfect. Blue sky. Bright sun. Autumn leaves aflame. I even see George, the sunlight winking off his wings.
The image stands in stark contrast to the article itself, which drips with menace.
From the moment it opened its doors to residents, New York City’s Bartholomew apartment building has been touched by tragedy. Over its hundred-year history, the Gothic structure overlooking Central Park has witnessed death in many forms, including murder, suicide, and, in its first notable tragedy, plague.
The Spanish flu pandemic that spread like wildfire across the globe in 1918 had already done its worst when the Bartholomew opened to great fanfare in January the next year. Therefore it was a surprise when, five months later, the disease swept through the building, killing twenty-four residents in a span of weeks. Although a few notable names succumbed to illness, including Edith Haig, the young wife of shipping magnate Rudolph Haig, most of the victims were servants, whose close quarters allowed the illness to rapidly spread.
I look up from the screen, unnerved. Because 12A was originally servants’ quarters, some of those flu victims could have slept in this very room.