They love to dance on the floor above me. I can hear the music playing as Dominique dances with her partner. It's a familiar sound in the apartment building. Everybody knows her love of music and dance. It's actually a lovely sound, the strain of violins and cellos playing romantic waltzes at a volume that seems to swell with the movement of bare feet on hardwood floors.
     Dominique lives in Apartment 10, right above my own. When I first moved in, her nightly dancing sessions took some getting used to. I almost went to management to complain, but I decided against it. Let her have her fun, I thought. You're only young and in love once.
     I knew a lot about her just from the fact the heating vent in my bedroom was obviously connected to one in her apartment somewhere. I could hear her talking to her beau, and every now and then I'd hear him chuckle in reply or something.
     From the sound of her voice, I knew she was a young woman and she talked with a slight British accent, as if she'd originally come from England and hadn't lost that way of talking. Some of the things I heard her talk about were unusual too sometimes.
     One night I heard her remark that the gaslight had gone out. Maybe she was dreaming. Gaslights might still be used in parts of England, I don't know, but I doubt there's any gaslights in existence in the U.S. anymore. I just figured she called all the lights in her apartment gaslights, or maybe she was referring to the stove. But my stove was electric, and I assumed hers must be the same, since all these apartments are furnished.
     But anyway, it's no big deal really. I just mention it to try and show you how different her speech was from the other tenants way of talking sometimes.
     It took me along time to go introduce myself to my dancing neighbor. I was trying to work up the nerve, and I certainly didn't want her to think I was trying to hit on her, nor anger her boyfriend, whoever he was. The last thing I needed was some guy dancing on my head. But anyway, I finally worked up the courage to go up the stairs and say hi.
     I knocked on her door. The sound almost echoed in the hallway. I think it was around six in the evening, and I figured at least one of them would be there, but no one answered. So I knocked a couple more times, this time a little louder just in case they didn't hear me the first time.
     Another neighbor opened their door down the hall, poking their head out. I casually waved with a nervous "hi", and they went back inside to their own business, shaking their head as if they thought I was stupid or something. 'Nosy neighbor', I thought. 'There's one in every building'.
     When no one answered the door at apartment ten, I finally went back down to my own place. Later that evening, I heard them back home and dancing once more. I would have went up and introduced myself then, but I didn't want to interrupt their nightly ritual. I'd much rather catch them sometime in the day if I could.
     So I tried several times to meet them in the following days, but no one answered the door in daylight or early evening hours. I went down to the mailboxes in the foyer just so I could find out who lived in the apartment above me. There was no printed tag like the rest of the tenants had. Instead scrawled into the metal where the nametag went was the name "Dominique". Maybe they ran out of nametags, and she just etched her name in there. Or maybe the landlord himself scratched the name in there because he was too lazy to make a normal tag. And maybe that wasn't even the tenant's name at all.
     I thought of going to the landlord to find out who they were up there, but I thought maybe he might see it as a complaint and issue them a warning, or even worse, evict them. So, again I decided not to visit management.
     I did ask my neighbor, Mrs. Marsh next door, about Dominique and her boyfriend, if that's what in fact he was. Though she wasn't a wealth of information, she did confirm it was a Dominique who lived up there. She went on to say that Dominique and her boyfriend Martin had lived in Apartment ten a long time.
     "Have you met them", I asked.
     "They keep to themselves a lot", she replied. "But they're good kids. They don't bother anybody and nobody bothers them."
     "Doesn't the music and dancing all the time bother you?"
     "I think it's nice", she smiled. "You haven't complained to the manager, have you?"
     "Oh no", I answered. "It doesn't bother me. I was just curious about what you thought of the noise."
     She nodded, smiled again, and got ready to go back inside her apartment.
     "Mrs. Marsh", I thought to ask, "Are they from England? They talk kind of different sometimes."
     She just grinned and shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe you should go ask them sometime". And then she lightly laughed, closing the door the door quietly behind her.

     It was another week before I decided to take Mrs. Marsh's suggestion to heart. I had been lying there night after night, listening to the music and the sound of their dancing, coupled with joyous laughter.
     I admit that old music sounded a lot better to two-step to than the newer stuff that's out there, but they played the same songs over and over. I could almost hear them stop and start the record over again. Either that or it was a very short CD.
     So night after night I'm listening to this and then suddenly I sprang from my chair and decided I would meet them. I hated to interrupt their good time and all, but since they weren't ever home in the day I felt this was my best and only chance for introductions.
     I put on my jacket and went up the stairs to their door. I could hear the music inside and I have to admit I hesitated knocking at first, but I finally brought myself to knock on the door.
     The music played on without interruption.
     I waited a minute and knocked again.
     Still the only answer was the music.
     I don't know why but something told me to put my hand on the doorknob and just turn it, as if it would be unlocked. This late at night and in this neighborhood it would be highly unlikely. But wouldn't you know it, when I tried the door, it was in fact unlocked.
     I was almost ashamed in doing so when thinking back on it now, but I slowly eased the door opened and peeked my head in. All the lights inside were out, the only light being the illumination behind me from the hallway. Other than that, I couldn't see a thing in the apartment.
     'How in the heck do they dance in the dark', I asked myself. The music itself was louder inside than out. I stepped all the way inside the apartment and closed the door behind me, so the noise wouldn't filter out in the hall. I was really in darkness now, but I thought I could hear the sound of their feet shuffling across the floor, dancing to the rhythm of the music.
     "Hello", I called out, hoping to be heard over the music.
     No answer, just music and dancing feet.
     "Hello", I repeated. "I'm your neighbor from downstairs".
     Still no reply. 'They must really be lost in the music', I imagined.
     "The door was open", I spoke to the dark. "I don't mean to intrude but I wanted to meet you people."
     Still nothing in the darkness. Music, dancing, and a giggle here and there.
     Obviously they couldn't hear me over the noise, so I thought I'd find the light switch and really startle them. I hated to do such a thing, for a surprise like that would be like a rude awakening if you're accustomed to dancing in the dark.
     But damned if I could find the light switch. After some groping about in the pitch black, my hands touched a lamp and I turned it on, though it wasn't one of those touch lamps like I have in my apartment. No, this was one of those old-fashioned turn-the-knob lamps. The light came on and it was bright enough to startle anyone, whether they're dancing or not.
     But they weren't the ones startled. I was.
     Except for the lamp and a few pieces of covered furniture, the room was empty. No one was there. I was alone in the room, the music playing on a phonograph player that didn't even exist. The music filled the whole room, not really coming from anywhere, except maybe the room itself, if that makes any sense.
     I stood there bewildered and growing scared. 'Where the hell is the record player', my mind raced. 'And where is Dominique and martin?'
     They weren't there. Maybe at one time they were, but they weren't now. The strange thing was I could hear their gay laughter in another room somewhere, as if they were dancing themselves through all the rooms of their apartment.
     I stood there in the living room, my jaw slack wondering what kind of madness was going to happen next when they came waltzing out of the bedroom.
     They were beautiful. She in a white lace gown much longer in the leg than today's fashions, and he in a light colored suit with long coat tails. They swirled and danced in circles, laughing and unaware of me standing there. And I was speechless, caught up in this wonderful sight of young love and happiness in motion.
     And that's when I noticed the wall behind them. It was blood stained, streaked and fading down the plaster. Normally I wouldn't have seen such a thing because they were dancing in front of it. It was the fact that I could see through them, their bodies translucent, that shocked me.
     Suddenly the front door came open, sending light from the hallway inside to illuminate the scene even more. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
     The nosy neighbor from down the hall stood in the doorway.
     "Come on", he said. "Let them dance."
     I nodded my head, backing away from the vision I could hardly believe. I turned the lamp off and left the apartment, these twirling beautiful ghosts still dancing behind me as I closed the door.
     Standing outside in the hallway, the neighbor smiled wistfully. He patted me on the shoulder as if to reassure me of something.
     "They love to dance", he said.

     I later learned the story behind Dominique and Martin. They were a young British couple, one of the first tenants of this building when it was built in the early 1900's. Back then the new building was a high-class live-in hotel called 'The Gaslight'. Its name derived from the old gas light lamps on the front sidewalk, lights that were lit and snuffed by hand, instead of the electric streetlights we have now.
     'The Gaslight' was the place to live back in those days and the neighborhood was a mixture of well-off immigrants and local celebrities. Dominique and Martin were a little of both. It was their celebrity status that overshadowed any wealth they had in their coffers, though. They were well known at dance exhibitions and contests, and even had their own dance studio, one of the first in this city, teaching the rudiments of dancing to the rich and sociable.
     By night, they danced in the darkness of their apartment, celebrating their love for each other in the rhythm of the music. Even then the tenants didn't pay them no mind, nor complain of their nocturnal dancing. They were the darlings of the young couple set.
     It was on a warm summer night, when Dominique and Martin's lives came to an abrupt and tragic end. Just after dark when all the tenants were in bed, the lovers swayed to the sound of their favorite music as usual.
     Dominique noticed out the window that the gaslights on the sidewalk had gone out. But they really paid it no mind and danced on.
     Unbeknownst to them however, a trio of thieves had snuffed out the gaslights and entered the building with the help of the hotel clerk, who figured he could make a profit somewhere down the line. He had furnished the thieves with keys and apartment numbers to the building's wealthiest tenants.
     While the dance session went on in apartment ten, the thieves worked their way through the building, slipping into darkened apartments unseen, stealing what they could, and getting out before the occupants realized they'd been there. As a matter of fact, hardly anyone realized they'd been robbed until much later.
     When the thieves had first entered the building, all the windows facing the road had been dark. No lights on, no sign of movement. And when they finally had made their way to the last apartment on the list they assumed its occupants were also asleep.
     When they entered the last apartment, number ten, they were startled to discover two people dancing in the darkness. Before the young lovers even had time to react, the startled thieves panicked. Two of them drew their guns and shot the dancing lovers dead. The blood of the victims splattered on the wall behind them, forever staining the plaster.
     Dominique and Martin died in mid-step, never completing the dance of that evening. They died violently, yet they loved completely. It is their love for each other, and the dance they shared, that has kept them here. I believe they are compelled in some way to 'finish' their dance every evening until the end of time. I don't pretend to understand such things, but I do believe that somehow after death we go on, and for Dominique and Martin this is how they go on.
     After the senseless murder of the lovers, life did go on. The thieves turned killers were punished, put to death for their crimes. The hotel clerk who helped them was convicted as an accomplice and was given life behind bars to consider his actions and the consequences he helped bring. Not long after, the old gaslights were removed, and the hotel changed its name to remove itself from the stigma of tragedy.
     It is a very tragic thing what happened to them. But it is a beautiful thing to hear them up there dancing. The music, though repetitious, is lovely. The sound of their bare feet shuffling is like rain on a roof to me. It helps me to sleep peacefully, because it reminds me that love is forever, just as the poets and dreamers have always believed.
     I hear their laughter and I smile. I can't help it, being the romantic I've so lately become. Everything seems so beautiful to me now.
     And there is nothing more beautiful than the memory of when I saw them dancing for that brief moment. I haven't gone back to their apartment since then. I leave them be to dance their dance. They deserve the peace that young lovers should have. And so I, just as the other tenants, just lie in bed or sit in my chair and listen to them dance.
     And when somebody new moves in, and they ask me about the people up there in apartment ten, all I say is, "That's Dominique and Martin. They love to dance."

Want to read more? Drop Paul a line at gnaghi99@yahoo.com and let him know what you thought of this story. Thanks!

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