Shit OC thread

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Why is my writing shit?

He kept the door to his apartment tightly locked. A flee would have trouble finding a way inside. Mrs. Crowley the nosey landlady stands next to the passage once in a while and listens intently to the faint ephemeral hum that radiates into the third story landing of her husbands building. Mr. Callahan was rarely seen entering or leaving his flat. In fact, the Blackwells have met with him on only two occaisions; when the apartment was shown and when the contract was signed.

For seven months, about once a week, Mrs. Blackwell would pass by apartment number 308 collecting rent. Her pace would slow and her ears would twitch. Sometimes she stopped entirely, sometimes time she pressed her ear to the wood of the door.

Mr. Blackwell described him. A twenty-something short-haired spectacled man too tall for his tweed trousers. A young entrepreneur, he chuckled, here fresh out of Everwood down south. Said he was here for an internship. I asked where but-
Mr. Blackwell frowned.
He sort of, changed his tone when I asked that. Told me it was an internship and to leave it at that.

Callahan is seen neither coming nor leaving, but strange noises iminate from inside his hole. Whiring and buzzing. A metalic drone dripping morse-code static into a maelstrom of other sounds, sounds that can't be imagined but only described in some attempt to attach what she knew to what she could never. She listens to steam as it sighs from imaginary pipes, the incessant autonomous tone of heavy clockwork calculating the answer to a question she thought unfathomable