Day 2,150

When I was a kid we lived on the eighth floor in a series of apartment complexes and my window faced out onto one of the half-done floors on the new build. I'd spend hours after school watching them slowly turn concrete and metal into a home but as soon as the sun started to set I'd close my curtains and hide under the blankets til morning like I'd be safer that way.

Truth be told I just didn't want to think about the ghosts in those walls seeing me again or watching those same workers make more ghosts to protect the building. A part of me knew they'd done the same thing to our apartment too - buried someone half-dead in the walls and drowned them in concrete. There wasn't any other explanation for the knocking games I'd play with walls that had nothing on the other side but the sky.

I only saw them wandering about on the unfinished floors for some reason. It was like having people settled there made the ghosts settle too - gave them distractions enough to stop them from attacking the workers like they do on the unfinished floors.

Beneath all the fresh carpeting is blood-stained concrete, trails of handprints being dragged into the same walls they buried someone alive in. The ghosts never wanted for company, not when they figured out that not everyone could see them.