The Stairwell Name

The banister wood is cool, wet. I stand on the fourth-floor landing, the carpet a worn green shag. A terrier sits at my feet, its ribs visible beneath the yellow fur. Its eyes do not blink. The air smells of cut lemon and old sheetrock. I reach into my pocket for the address, the paper damp. The dog shifts its weight; it carries more mass than a Beagle. I try the name, but the sound dissolves the moment it leaves my mouth, scattering like grit. The air pressure changes. A low hum comes from the corner, vibrating through the floorboards. The shag carpet begins to ripple toward the ceiling.