If you can forsake me with just a few minutes of your time, I will relate to you the story of my first few days spent in this rainy city of roses.
Through a series of incidents that I will not at this point in time relate, I found myself as the lone resident of an old flophouse in one of the finer sections of the northwest. Perhaps you've seen it, maybe you've crossed to the other side of the street when passing it, maybe you've even lived there.
Lured by the promise of free rent and utilities, I accepted, sight unseen, a position as caretaker of this unfortunate edifice. Upon my arrival, it quickly became apparent that if I were to stay there, if I were to live there, it would require both empathy and fortitude. That first evening I stood in the center of the empty parlor and loudly announced my intentions to all who might reside there: that in my travels passing through this life I wound up here as caretaker.
My intentions were not evil. That if I did something wrong, if I was doing something inappropriate, to let me know via some sort of sign or signal that I could recognize. If there was anything that I could do to help, again let me know through some sort of available channel. And being confronted with a soul foolish enough to listen to those unable to speak, they took every opportunity to confront me. I cannot attest to what actually transpired in this building when in its prime, only to the evidence that I found in its remains.
My only living sources were belligerent cops, delirious drunks, and well to-do neighbors furious about having to confront daily the fact of this building's existence. But the evidence was there: in the warning signs, the echoes of a baby's cries, the needles, eviction notices, lives left hanging in the closets, hallowed screams, feces on the floor, spread on the wall, clogged in the toilets. Tiny rooms with drawings on the wall that, from years of solitary confinement, had been redrawn again and again until they had etched themselves through the pain of the wallpaper to the heart of the plaster.
But don't take my word for it. Go to ghostsintheflophouse.com to view the evidence, including a film of my first night at the flophouse.
Be forewarned: Ghosts in the Flophouse is not for the faint of heart nor spirit. What you learn, like the fabled yellow sign, could cause you to see things which were not apparent previously, and are nigh impossible to forget.
Next: Ghosts!
