I was trying to remember how we met Steven. He’s one of those people whom I feel like I’ve always known. I think we actually met for the first time downstairs from Sharon’s apartment. She used to live above a bar called the Lava Lounge. I had gone down to shoot some pool, and somehow got to talking to Steven. I had a great time talking with him and we had a lot of common interests: he liked photography, cooking, rock-climbing, etc. He was just such an open, kind person and fun to talk to.

Not long after, Steven came with me to visit the building I had just bought. We had been discussing all the work I needed to do and Steven generously offered his assistance. The first time we went over to the building, my brother came along and it was more or less a scouting trip to take a look at things.

The next visit was a bit more interesting. I had gone over earlier in the day and walked into the kitchen. Where the hot water tank used to be, thin red streaks ran on the walls. I looked a little closer, and to my horror, realized the red liquid ran not from floor to ceiling, but from ceiling to floor. and it looked an awful lot like…dried blood. Only not so dry. It was still a bit tacky to the touch. My first thought, was "Oh, come off it! How could it possibly be blood running down the wall? Ha ha! That was scary for a moment there. Whew!" Then, just as quickly, I remembered "Omigod! The wall right above on the third floor hides an unfinished crawl space. A perfect space to hide a body..." Again, this would seem very unlikely but for the rampant gang warfare that unfortunately plagued the neighborhood (a roofer and I were almost collateral damage during a drive by shooting a few days before). I tried to rationalize away my fear for a few more moments, then got the heck out of there.

I decided I needed to go upstairs and check out the crawl space, but I definitely needed backup, someone to stand at the front door and call for help if I screamed bloody murder, or if I didn’t return in very short order. I needed someone dependable, who would be game for an adventure, and could run fast. I called Steven. We tried to act cool, though the tension was thick. He took a look at the red streaks on the second floor and agreed that, unlikely as it was, the streaks looked an awful lot like blood.

So Steven stood guard by the open front door to the building, ready for fight or flight. I climbed the three flights of stairs to the apartment with the crawl space and knocked loudly on the door. No answer. More knocking, louder this time. Still nothing. "Hello! Anyone home?" Not a sound. I unlocked the door and poked my head in. "Hello! It’s Mark. I’m here to check the leaky faucet." I walked in and looked around, then quickly made my way to the kitchen. I popped open the door to the crawl space and shone my flashlight in. Nothing!

Now just a mystery: how come there was blood running down my kitchen wall? A little more investigating solved it. It was condensation that had run across some dark brown roach gel my brother had applied as part of an aggressive extermination effort the day before. We laughed about that one for weeks afterward.

-Mark Raulston

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