Nine Story Studios giving story a voice. This is Mary Murphy and ready or not, It's time to get wicked Warning. The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created for ammature audience. Our stories contain graphic descriptions of pain, murder, violence, blood, betrayal, and inhumanity. Monsters win, people die, and hope is often shattered. There is also beauty, heart, catharsis, and raw emotion. Fear maybe deeply personal, but we all share.
If at any time a story takes you to a place too dark, turn on the lights, press pause or press stop, and always remember that, unlike in the real world, these nightmares and your participation in them, are under your control. Welcome to the Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Foitzak, and I thank you for listening. A sincere thank you to those of you who are supporting the show. Without you, this show would not be possible. This season, all episodes are heard first by Patreon supporters and later shared
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patreon dot com Forward slash Wicked Library. Now, let's get wicked with today's dark tale told by Mary Murphy with a custom score written by Nico Vites. If we talk of dreams Rose Hill by India McCarty. Everything was nice and normal when I moved in. The real estate agent showed me around. I signed on the dotted line, and the keys were in my hand. A week later, Easy Peasy, Lemon, Squeezy. I did wonder where all the other tenants were, but quickly wrote it off as a sign that I
was in the big city. Now. New Yorkers didn't have time to drop off a pie to welcome the new neighbor. They were too busy talking fast and wearing black and eating bagels. I heard them though, footsteps going up and down the stairs, voices in the hall door slamming shut, tiny signs of life. I found myself imagining up stories for these people. The heavy footsteps on the stairs late at night belonged to a girl who worked the night
shift at the right aid on the corner. The incessant vacuuming, and the apartment above mine was done by a housewife who popped OxyS like they were candy. It sounds crazy, but I didn't think anything of it. I actually like the fact that I didn't have to smile awkwardly at any one in the hallways or wait for a machine in the basement laundry room. Solitude was bliss in my book, and I was in heaven. Everything was fine right up
until I got the email. Dear miss Carson, please let one of our representatives know when we can expect you to be out of the apartment so that we can show it to prospective renters. Thank you for your co operation in this matter, Sincerely, Rose Hill Building Management. I stared at my computer
screen, not fully understanding what I was reading. Prospective renters, my lease isn't up for another year, I decided not to play email tag for a week, and dialed the phone number printed on the bottom of my lease agreement, Rose Hill Building Management. How can I help you? Yes, Hi, I got off the couch and started pacing. This is Josephine Carson. I'm in Unit seven. I wanted to touch base with you about the email
you guys just sent me. Of course, the voice said smoothly. We just wanted to know some available times we could expect the apartment to be empty so we can schedule some appointments. Bernie Tennants, see, I understood that part. I frowned. But what I don't get is why you're showing new tenants my apartment when I've still got a year left on my lease. Okay, I see the confusion. I could hear the faint sound of a keyboard
clacking. At Roche Hill. We have a close in some unit leases that asks Tennants to let us use our apartment in the show place, as it were, a slight chuckle, just so perspective renters can get a feel for the place. I don't remember agreeing to anything like that. It was the sign I can send you a copy with your signature on it if you'd like. No that won't be necessary. I slump back down on the couch. So you guys are going to show my apartment, even if they're going to
rent a different unit. I know it sounds silly, but that's just how we've always done it here at rose Hill Traditions. You know, I guess. So when can we expect you out of the apartment. I ran a hand through my hair week days from two to four. That worked for you. Yes, that works perfectly. Thank you so much for your cooperation in this matter, Miss Carson. Please don't hesitate to reach out with any more
questions. The dial tone filled my ear before I could respond. I dutifully vacated the apartment every weekday for two hours each afternoon, spending time walking around the park or reading tabloids in the grocery store. I did not receive any more emails from Rosehill Building management, no phone calls either. I started to wonder about who they were showing my apartment too. Exactly one day, I
came home a little earlier than my expected time. I wanted to see what was going on, maybe catch a glimpse of someone in this damned building. I was just starting to walk down my hallway when my apartment or swung open, I quickly decked back into the stairwell. I can show you the laundry room now, just down these steps. A voice that sounded a lot like the on the phone said, cheerfully, but that's about it. A very charming apartment in a great neighborhood. Really quite a steel at this price,
I cannot agree more, responded a breathy female voice. There's windows are just gorgeous, aren't they? The rose Hill lackey gushed, all that natural light. I might just have to rent this place myself. Both of them tittered, and I heard footsteps heading towards the backstairs. Thank god. And so why did the previous tenant move out? If you don't mind my asking, of course, not at all. The voice was a little strained, nothing bad. It was just time for them to move on. The breathy voice
hummed in acknowledgement as they clumped down the stairs. I was frozen, still trying to comprehend what I'd heard. Why did the previous tenant move out? And it was time for them to move on? What the hell is going on? I hurried down the hallway and opened my door to find nothing. Everything was just as I had left it, coffee mug in the sink, jacket hanging off the back of the couch. I half expected to come back to an empty apartment. The way they'd been talking. Why would that woman
think I'd moved out when all of my stuff was right here? Weird and weirder. After that, I started coming back early every afternoon. It was always the same song and dance. The prospective renter would ask the rose Hill rep why I had moved out, and they would always reply with it was time for them to move on. I considered calling them up and demanding to know why they were apparently trying to rent my apartment out from under me,
but I never did. I knew that I would get on the phone with that slick customer service voice and they would convince me that everything was just fine and dandy, that it was all part of the great rose Hill tradition. So I did what any amateur Sleuthworth or Salt would do. I googled. Rose Hill had a nice website, obviously professionally done. There were pictures of the apartment units, exterior shots of the building, glowing testimonies from previous tenants,
no pictures of the staff. Though, when's the last time someone involved with real estate didn't plaster their face all over any available surface they could find. That was the only even slightly red blag. Everything I found was normal, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to suggest there was something going on here. And what did I even think was going on here? The management company told me they would be showing my apartment. I signed on the dotted
line, so they had my permission. They only came during the appointed hours, besides the whole time to move on routine. There was nothing to suggest that anything was going on. I couldn't shake that feeling, though, so I decided to get a little more hands on with my research. It was just before noon when I knocked on my closest neighbor's door. I'd heard their TV through the walls some nights, and I figured they were the best place to start. Hello, I called, squinting at the people. I live
right next door. My name is Josephine. I waited for about a minute and was about to give up when the door swung open. Yes, a woman around my age was standing in the doorway, wearing sleep rumpled pajamas and holding a cigarette. Hi, I said, wincing, inwardly at my eagerness. Hi, I'm Josephine Carson. I live right next door, she finished for me. He said. I waited for her to introduce herself, but she continued to stare at me. Um, I hesitated. I'm not sure
of how to begin. I guess I just wanted to ask you a few questions about this building, the management company, to be more specific. She closed her eyes and sighed before turning around. Come on in, she called over her shoulder. Might as well do this in the comfort of my own home. I followed her into a replica of my own apartment. I stepped over a pile of clothes and sat carefully on the lumpy couch she gestured me towards. She sat at the kitchen table, tapping her cigarette into an overflowing
ash tray. So she leaned back in her chair. What do you want to know? Well, I guess I just wanted to know why they're showing my apartment to people and telling them I moved out. I spoke quickly. I got the feeling she wouldn't let me stick around long. It's just weird. All my stuff is still in there, but the people they show the place to act like that's totally normal. The woman took another drag on her cigarette before answering that it yeah, I said, suddenly feeling very small.
Ah, I guess that's it. They did the same thing to me, She shrugged. It's just a rose Hill way. Did they give you that whole tradition's speel? Yes, he did, But I don't see what that has to do with best not to ask questions. She pressed her lips together and stubbed out the cigarette. Whatever they're doing, it's for a good reason, but it's weird, right. I refuse to come this far without any sort of acknowledgement. They keep telling people that I left because it was just
time for me to move on. What does that even mean? And why are they acting like I'm gone? She shrugged again, then got up. I took my cue and stood up too. She opened the door for me, and I went back into the hall, already kicking myself for not presenting this in the right light. She seemed utterly disinterested in everything I'd said. Josephine, right, I spun around. She leaned against the door frame, studying me. I nodded, Josephine, this is a nice building. Quiet
Rince not bad for New York. She raised an eyebrow. Let's not mess with a good thing, huh. She closed the door, leaving me with way more questions than I started with. Google gave me nothing. My neighbor gave me even less. What the hell was going on here? Was I being crazy? Why was Rose Hill telling people? I moved on? It was like the rest of the building could feel my growing paranoia. I heard footsteps at all hours of the day and night, loud laughter in the hall,
even a dog barking across the hall. The place was louder than I ever remembered it being before, but I still never saw any one in the hallways or on the stairs. Prospective tenants kept coming by my apartment, and I continued to spy on them. They all seemed like nice, normal people who were ecstatic at the prospect of living in such a nice place, just like I had been a few months before. I decided to go back to my neighbors and ask what she meant before about not messing with a good thing?
What did she know that I didn't. I knocked on the door, no answer, Hallel, it's Josephine from next door. I was about to knock again. When the door swung open. There she was, same pajamas, same cigarette, exactly like the day we'd met. Hi. I smiled, Sorry to bother you again, but I wanted to talk a little more about what you said the other day. Huh. She squinted at me, then pulled on her cigarette the other day. When I came over her and
we talked about I faltered. There was a total lack of recognition in her eyes. Do you remember? She closed her eyes and sighed before turning around. Come on in, she called over her shoulder. Might as well do this in the comfort of my own home. I followed her into the apartment. I stepped over the same pile of clothes and sat on the same lumpy couch she gestured me towards. She sat at the kitchen table, tapping her cigarette into an overflowing ash tree, just like she'd done before. So she
leaned back in her chair. What do you want to know? Um, I'm sorry. I looked round the room. Everything exactly where it had been last week, exactly. You really don't remember. I came in. We sat just like this. I asked about why rose Hill is showing my apartment to renters, even though I'm still living here. None of this is ringing a bell. She appeared completely unruffled by the fact that she had no memory of our previous visit. That it, I guess, but I best not
to ask questions. She pressed her lips together and stubbed out the cigarette, just as she'd done before. Whatever they're doing, it's for a good reason, I know, I laughed, disbelievingly. I know that's just what you said last. She had already stood up, heading for the door. Please, I just want to know what's going on, I said, following her out to the hole. Nobody will give me a straight answer, and I'm starting to get a really weird feeling about Josephine. Right. I stared at
her helplessly. She was staring just beyond me, like I wasn't even there. Josephine, this is a nice building, quiet rents, not bad for New York. She raised an eyebrow. Let's not mess with a good thing. That's what you said last time, exactly what you said last. She shut the door before I could finish. What the hell is going on? I muttered to myself, pushing the heels of my hands into my eyes. What the hell is going on? I believe I can answer that for you,
Miss Carson. I whipped my head up so fast I heard my neck crack. Standing before me was a pleasant looking man about twenty years older than me. He was wearing a nice suit and smiling at me. Ah, who, I believe we've spoken before, he said, and I suddenly recognized his voice. He was a one I'd talked to before about all of this, the one who was telling people I had moved on. Okay, what the hell is going on here? I stabbed a finger in his direction.
You're showing people my place, telling them I'm gone and moved on and whatever the hell else? And could we say this to your apartment? He was still smiling, like everything was nice and normal. This feels like a private conversation, and I wouldn't want any of the other tenants to ophere. Oh you mean like emnesiac Annie in there. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. We just had the same conversation verbatim that we had a week ago.
She's wearing the exact same clothes. Hell, I think she's smoking the same damn fig your apartment, Miss Carson. His smile was slightly strained as he opened the door for me. I eyed him suspiciously, but followed him inside. I was desperate for answers, and he seemed ready to give them to me. Should we have a seat, No, I think I'll stand. I crossed my arms. Tell me what's going on, Miss Carson. Rose Hill is a very special place, he said slowly. We're very special people.
All of our tenants have been vetted very carefully and extensively. We want to take care of you, he smiled. For as long as you call this place home, then why are you trying to get rid of me? Because it's time for you to move on. What are you talking about, I snapped, I just moved in, Miss Carson. You're dead, he said, simply. It's time for you to move on. He said it like it was a most natural thing in the world to go around telling perfectly
healthy people they were dead. You're crazy, I laughed, backing away from him. Dead How can I be dead? I have a job, I talk to my family. I can't be dead. Ah, when's the last time you went to work, he said, gently, folding his hands together in his lap. Or talk to someone on the phone. No, I said, shaking my head. No, I I just talked to my mom. I stopped, A horrifying realization dawning on me. When was the last time I talked to my mom? Why hadn't I been going to work.
I couldn't remember going to the grocery store, even though I knew there was food in the cabinets. You're dead, he repeated, and have been for quite some time. He pulled a manila folder out of his jacket and handed it to me. I opened it, hands shaking. Inside were some newspaper clippings, all with my name and face. Teacher killed in tragic accident,
trumpeted one car crash, claims a life of Josephine Carson announced another. I shoveled through the rest of the pile, looking for something, anything that would tell me this was all a joke, an elaborate, tasteless prank. This can't be right. I looked up at the man I can't be dead. I'm right here. I just signed a lease on this apartment. I can't be dead. Like I said before, Rosehill is a very special place or very special people. He gestured towards the hall. All of our tenants are
recently deceased. What but that. Haven't you ever wondered why you never saw anyone else? He raised an eyebrow. Didn't you wonder where the footsteps were coming from? What about her? I pointed at the wall next door. What about her? I saw her. She's living in a loop, he shook his head, sadly. Many of our tenants stew it's why she didn't recognize you, and why she carried on your previous interaction exactly as it had gone before. She needs more time than you did. I don't understand,
I whispered, still clutching the folder in my hands. If I'm what am I doing here? Rose Hill is a sort of half way house. His customer service voice was back as he ran through the sales pitch. We house unsettled spirits who need a bit of time adjusting to their death before sending them on untowar. Oh, oh, that's not my department, he chuckled. I stared at him wordlessly dead. I was dead. I was holding the proof in my hands. I was a ghost living in an apartment complex full
of ghosts. If this guy was to be believed, so, I said slowly, all those people who've been coming to look at my apartment, deceased. He nodded. We're still looking for the right fit, but I have faith will find some one any day now. And when you told them it was time for me to move on, I was telling the truth. He smiled kindly. You're ready to leave. It's time. But how do you know, I said, a lump in my throat. Can't I just stay a little while longer? He shook his head and stood up, gently,
taking the folder from my hands. It's time, he repeated, Trust me, I've done this for a very long time. It's time for you to move on. I don't know how, I said softly. That's easy enough, he grinned, taking my hand and in leading me towards the door. Just walk through the door. That's it. I looked at him incredulously. That's it. Do you know if I'm I hesitated? Am I going up or down? Not my department? He shrugged. Well that's comforting. I
squared my shoulders and looked at the door before me. So I just walked through, Just walk through. I took a deep breath. I was dead. It was time to go, Miss Carson. Yeah, it's been a pleasure having you at rose Hill, he smiled. I believed him. I took a step, I put my hand on the door knob and turned. I opened the door. I took a step forward, and thank you for listening to episode number twelve h three. Today's author was India McCarty with her
story Rose Hill. Today's story was told by Mary Murphy. I'm Daniel Foytzech and I've been your host today. Our resident composer and executive producer is Nikovites. If we talk of dreams. Artwork for today's episode was created by Greg Schaefer. Our producers are Meg Williams and Daniel Foytech. To find out more about The Wicked Library and other Ninth Story Studios shows, visit the Wicked Library
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