The Moaning Woman

Every Night at 2:17 A.M., the Neighbors Heard Her. Nobody Wanted to Know Why.

By the time the police arrived at the Blackwood Residences for the third time in two weeks, the residents of the fashionable Chicago apartment building had developed seventeen different theories about the woman in Penthouse 17.

Most involved sex.

Several involved money.

One elderly gentleman on the fourteenth floor was convinced that somebody was being murdered every night, although his wife pointed out that murder victims rarely complained so enthusiastically.

The sounds always began shortly after two in the morning.

First came the moaning.

Then the occasional cry of anguish.

Sometimes a woman shouted something unintelligible, followed by several minutes of complete silence.

And on particularly disturbing nights, there was crying.

Actual, heartbreaking crying.

The residents had never seen the mysterious tenant. The penthouse had been rented through a private company, and her substantial rent was paid six months in advance.

The building manager, Mr. Walter Finch, had knocked on her door eleven times.

Nobody answered.

Until the night a new tenant moved into Apartment 16B.

Her name was Rebecca Hale, she was thirty-eight, recently divorced, and worked as an investigative journalist.

She had absolutely no intention of becoming involved in the building's peculiar obsession.

That lasted approximately six hours.

1. The Woman Behind the Wall

At 2:17 a.m., Rebecca was awakened by a sound she initially mistook for somebody having an exceptionally good time.

"Ohhhhh... God..."

Rebecca opened one eye.

Then came another sound.

"Please... please..."

She sat upright.

The voice was female, mature, and unmistakably distressed.

A dull thump followed.

Then silence.

Rebecca stared at the ceiling.

"What the hell?"

A minute later, the moaning resumed.

This time it sounded almost like sobbing.

Rebecca pulled on a dressing gown and walked into the hallway.

She was not alone.

Mr. Finch stood beside the elevator, wearing pajamas beneath his overcoat.

"You're new," he observed.

"And apparently my neighbor is dying."

"That would be Penthouse 17."

"Shouldn't we do something?"

"We've tried."

"Have you called the police?"

"Three times."

"And?"

"She tells them she's fine."

Rebecca frowned.

"Have you actually seen her?"

Mr. Finch hesitated.

"Only once."

"And?"

He lowered his voice.

"Beautiful woman. Perhaps fifty. Very elegantly dressed. But there was something rather frightening about her."

"Frightening how?"

"She smiled at me."

Rebecca waited.

"That's it?"

"It wasn't a particularly friendly smile."

Rebecca returned to her apartment, convinced she was living among idiots.

Then, at precisely 2:43 a.m., she heard something that changed her mind.

A woman whispered through the wall:

"Don't leave me again."

2. The Beautiful Widow

The following evening, Rebecca finally met the mysterious tenant.

She was standing in the elevator, wearing a tailored midnight-blue minidress, a magnificent black velvet coat, and extraordinarily high patent-leather heels.

She was tall, with long silver-blonde hair, striking green eyes, and the sort of confidence that made the elevator seem considerably smaller.

Rebecca recognized her immediately.

"You live in the penthouse."

The woman looked at her.

"Occasionally."

"Rebecca Hale. Apartment 16B."

"Valerie Ashcroft."

Valerie offered a perfectly manicured hand.

Her touch was surprisingly cold.

Rebecca studied her.

"You're the woman everybody's talking about."

"How tiresome."

"You know what they're saying?"

"That I'm either a prostitute, a murderer, or exceptionally talented in bed?"

Rebecca laughed despite herself.

"Something like that."

Valerie smiled.

"Unfortunately, darling, I'm not nearly as entertaining as the neighbors imagine."

The elevator opened.

Valerie stepped out, then turned.

"Although I do recommend earplugs."

The doors closed.

Rebecca stood motionless.

Something about the encounter bothered her.

Not Valerie's beauty.

Not her strange manner.

It was the faint scent that lingered in the elevator after she had gone.

Lavender.

And something else.

Something Rebecca had smelled before while covering a hospital investigation.

Antiseptic.

3. The Night Rebecca Knocked

Two nights later, the sounds became unbearable.

At 2:17 a.m., Valerie began moaning again.

But this time, there was unmistakable panic in her voice.

"No... no, please..."

Then a scream.

Rebecca grabbed her phone and hurried upstairs.

She knocked.

No answer.

She knocked harder.

"Valerie? It's Rebecca, from downstairs. Are you all right?"

Silence.

Then the lock turned.

Valerie stood in the doorway wearing a long ivory silk robe, her beautiful hair hanging loosely around her shoulders.

Her face was pale.

Her eyes were red.

And she appeared exhausted.

"Rebecca."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Then what the hell is going on up here?"

Valerie gave a tired smile.

"Would you believe me if I said I was having an unusually disappointing romantic evening?"

"No."

"How refreshing."

Rebecca folded her arms.

"I heard you screaming."

"Yes."

"Are you alone?"

A long silence followed.

Then Valerie stepped aside.

"Come in."

The penthouse was magnificent.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Chicago. Antique furniture stood beside modern sculptures, and an enormous fireplace illuminated a sitting room filled with fresh white roses.

But what caught Rebecca's attention was the bedroom.

The door stood open.

Inside was an enormous four-poster bed.

Beside it stood a medical trolley.

And above the bed hung a large, framed photograph of a beautiful dark-haired woman.

Rebecca looked at Valerie.

"Who is she?"

For the first time, Valerie's composure cracked.

"My wife."

Rebecca glanced toward the photograph again.

"Where is she now?"

Valerie closed her eyes.

"Dead."

4. The Woman Who Wouldn't Let Go

Her name had been Catherine Ashcroft.

She had been a brilliant concert pianist, a passionate woman with an outrageous laugh, and Valerie's partner for twenty-three years.

Three years earlier, Catherine had developed an aggressive neurological disease.

By the final months of her life, she could barely move.

Valerie had converted part of their home into a private medical suite. She had hired nurses, specialists, and therapists, desperate to keep Catherine comfortable.

But on the night Catherine died, Valerie had been attending a business meeting in New York.

She returned too late.

"She kept asking for me," Valerie whispered. "The nurses told me afterward. She wanted me there."

Rebecca looked at the medical equipment.

"Why do you still have all this?"

Valerie stared toward the photograph.

"Because I can't forgive myself."

The moaning, she explained, began months after Catherine's death.

Valerie suffered from recurring nightmares.

Sometimes she dreamed that Catherine was calling for her.

Sometimes she awoke believing her wife was still alive and desperately needed help.

Other nights she experienced debilitating panic attacks, accompanied by chest tightness and uncontrollable crying.

She had sought medical treatment, but the nightmares persisted.

"And you live here alone?"

"Yes."

"Why won't you let anyone help you?"

Valerie smiled bitterly.

"Because I've spent three years being told to move on, Rebecca. As though Catherine were an inconvenient piece of furniture I ought to replace."

Rebecca sat beside her.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Rebecca asked quietly:

"Would you like some company?"

Valerie looked at her.

"At three in the morning?"

"Especially at three in the morning."

5. The Woman Who Stayed

Rebecca began visiting occasionally.

At first, their meetings were entirely practical.

She brought coffee.

Valerie complained about the quality.

Rebecca brought better coffee.

Valerie complained that it was too strong.

"Jesus Christ, woman. Has anyone ever managed to please you?"

"Once."

Rebecca stopped smiling.

Valerie looked toward Catherine's photograph.

Then she laughed softly.

"Don't look so tragic, darling. I was making a joke."

Over the following weeks, Rebecca learned that Valerie's formidable public personality concealed a woman who was desperately lonely.

And Valerie discovered that Rebecca's sharp tongue and relentless curiosity concealed wounds of their own.

Rebecca's marriage had ended when her husband announced that he had fallen in love with a younger colleague.

The divorce had been ugly.

Rebecca had spent months convincing herself she would never trust another person.

"And now you're spending your evenings with a woman who apparently terrifies an entire apartment building," Valerie observed.

Rebecca grinned.

"I've always had questionable taste."

They laughed.

For the first time in years, Valerie began looking forward to evenings.

She also resumed consistent treatment for her nightmares, encouraged by Rebecca without being pressured or judged.

Some nights were better.

Some were terrible.

But increasingly, when Valerie awoke frightened, there was somebody willing to sit beside her until morning.

6. The Most Unexpected Confession

The first kiss was entirely Valerie's fault.

At least, that is Rebecca's version.

They had been drinking wine in the penthouse sitting room when Valerie announced that Rebecca was staring at her.

"I am not."

"You've been staring at me for ten minutes."

"I'm a journalist. I observe things."

"Indeed."

Valerie crossed her long legs.

"Then what have you observed?"

Rebecca hesitated.

"That you're an extraordinarily beautiful woman."

Valerie went very still.

"Rebecca..."

"And that you're lonely."

"That's hardly a revelation."

"And that you haven't noticed I'm falling in love with you."

Silence.

Valerie stared at her.

Then she whispered, "Oh, darling."

Rebecca immediately regretted everything.

"Forget I said that."

"No."

"Valerie—"

"Come here."

Rebecca approached.

Valerie reached for her hand.

"Are you certain?"

Rebecca smiled.

"About you? Surprisingly, yes."

Valerie touched her cheek.

Then kissed her.

Softly.

Carefully.

As though she had forgotten how.

When they separated, Valerie was trembling.

"I'm frightened," she admitted.

"So am I."

"I loved Catherine."

"I know."

"I still love her."

Rebecca nodded.

"I know that too."

Valerie looked confused.

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"No. She was part of your life. I don't want to erase her."

Valerie began crying.

Rebecca held her.

And eventually, when Valerie was ready, she kissed Rebecca again.

7. At 2:17 A.M.

Six months later, Mr. Finch received another complaint.

The occupants of Apartment 16B were making too much noise.

According to the elderly gentleman on the fourteenth floor, there was laughter, occasional shouting, and an alarming amount of furniture being moved at unreasonable hours.

Mr. Finch telephoned Rebecca.

"Ms. Hale, I'm afraid we've received another complaint."

Rebecca sighed.

"What now?"

"Noise."

"From my apartment?"

"Yes."

"That's ridiculous. We're barely ever there."

A pause.

"You're not?"

"No. Valerie and I usually stay upstairs."

Mr. Finch went silent.

Then came a voice in the background.

"Rebecca, darling, tell that dreadful man to stop interrupting our breakfast!"

Mr. Finch cleared his throat.

"Was that Ms. Ashcroft?"

"Yes."

"Your neighbor?"

"My girlfriend, actually."

Another silence.

"Oh."

Rebecca smiled.

"Anything else?"

"No, madam."

She hung up.

Across the breakfast table, Valerie raised an eyebrow.

"Trouble?"

"Apparently we're scandalizing the building."

"How delightful."

Rebecca laughed.

Then Valerie reached across the table and took her hand.

Their relationship had not erased Catherine.

Nor had it eliminated every nightmare.

There were still difficult nights, and sometimes Valerie awoke crying.

But now she knew she could ask for comfort without shame, and Rebecca knew that loving Valerie did not mean competing with a ghost.

And something else had changed.

The photographs in the penthouse were no longer exclusively of Catherine.

Beside the cherished portrait of Valerie's late wife stood a new photograph.

Two women.

One silver-haired and elegant.

The other dark-haired, smiling mischievously.

Both unmistakably in love.

Epilogue — The Last Complaint

A year later, the Blackwood Residents' Association held an emergency meeting.

The subject was noise.

Specifically, the mysterious sounds coming from Penthouse 17.

The elderly gentleman stood and announced that the situation had become intolerable.

"Every night," he declared, "we hear women making the most extraordinary noises!"

Mr. Finch looked exhausted.

"Could you be more specific?"

"Moaning!"

Several residents nodded.

"Shouting!"

More nodding.

"And last Tuesday, somebody screamed, 'Oh God, Valerie, you're going to kill me!'"

The room erupted.

At that precise moment, the meeting-room door opened.

Valerie Ashcroft entered wearing a magnificent emerald-green minidress and towering black heels.

Rebecca followed, laughing.

"Good evening," Valerie announced pleasantly. "I understand there are complaints about my apartment."

The elderly gentleman turned crimson.

Valerie smiled.

"Well, I can assure you that Rebecca is perfectly safe."

Rebecca leaned against the doorway.

"Although her cooking might eventually finish me off."

"Darling!"

"You nearly set the kitchen on fire."

"It was flambé!"

"It was scrambled eggs!"

The residents stared.

Then somebody began laughing.

And within moments, the entire room joined in.

Even Mr. Finch.

Valerie looked offended.

Rebecca slipped an arm around her waist.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go home."

As they stepped into the elevator, Valerie leaned toward her.

"You realize they'll never stop talking about us."

Rebecca smiled.

"Let them."

"And what about the complaints?"

Rebecca kissed her cheek.

"I have an idea."

The following morning, a handwritten notice appeared on the Blackwood Residences bulletin board.

TO OUR DEAR NEIGHBORS

We apologize for any disturbance caused by our occasional late-night activities.

We assure you that no crimes are being committed, no unfortunate women are being held captive, and nobody is being murdered.

We are simply two women who have discovered that life is considerably more enjoyable when shared.

With affection,

Valerie & Rebecca

P.S. The furniture-moving noises were caused by a particularly stubborn sofa.

P.P.S. Please stop asking which one of us was moaning.

For three glorious nights, the building was completely peaceful.

Then, at precisely 2:17 a.m., someone began laughing uncontrollably in Penthouse 17.

And this time, nobody complained.

THE END