Neighbor

I've never been a "fan" of the supernatural—what can I say, I have my own reasons. And its name is apartment sixteen. I'll explain everything below, but first, I want to ask you something. Reading all these creepypastas, I couldn't help but notice the obligatory presence of a so-called "neighbor," or at least "neighbor woman," who tells the victim about the haunted apartment they've ended up in. So, I'm asking a question. Seriously? Is that how you picture it?

I was born in Smolensk, and my mother lived in this apartment. Then she moved in with my father, but she didn't sell the apartment. I was growing up. I turned 22, and I set off on my own to the other side of our city, to my mother's apartment. My mother warned me that the apartment was "haunted." Did I think my mother was crazy? Yes—until the first night in my new home.

 So, long ago, back in the 1930s, during Stalin's first purges, as banal as it may sound, the owner of apartment number sixteen was run over. A historian and orientalist, his name was Nikolai Sergeyevich. Someone had tipped him off about a denunciation, so he was expecting the kindly people from the NKVD. Screams and gunfire, howls, the cracked walls of apartment number sixteen—and five corpses of commissariat employees. And the body of Nikolai Sergeyevich. That's how it went.

It all went downhill, the apartment was sealed, then... I don't know what happened next. My mother's family got an apartment nearby after the war. In 1954, I think. They lived in apartment number seventeen. How they coped with it is none of my business—however they survived, I don't blame them. So let's get back to me. What I went through isn't so important. What matters is something else. I'm that future "neighbor" of the naive idiots who are rushing to get into number sixteen. If someone is really eager to get there. The rest of the time, we find other ways.

There's no official owner as such. There's a distant family living in Bulgaria who doesn't particularly care about the property. The apartment is for sale. The neighbor upstairs, from number nineteen (a young guy like me), regularly updates its listings on apartment buying and selling websites, monitoring its reputation. That's his job. The neighbor on the other side, across from number sixteen, a woman from number eighteen, takes care of maintenance: electricity, water, the condition of the furniture, and other small things. Everything needs to be constantly checked and maintained—that's her job. I got the keys. I let people into number sixteen—that's my job. The other residents also do some small things. But only we matter. This apartment—it's always there. Behind the wall, a lion in a cage. A lion needs to be fed, otherwise it'll escape. That's the concierge's job. He's essentially the boss over the three of us. He scrutinizes the victims. He's present in the apartment during the inspection. That's his job.

It's not all bad. Nineteen posts the ad at the right moment (we all immediately realize Sixteen is hungry). Then the three of us—Eighteen, Seventeen, and the concierge—go inside. We inspect it. Everything inside quickly breaks down, deteriorates, and becomes dated, and to make the apartment attractive, it needs to be restored and maintained. The concierge discusses the renovations with Nineteen. It's crucial not to leave the construction crew alone in the apartment. Anything can happen. Then, when everything is done, buyers are invited. A young family, strangers to our city, is the best option. A single person who has saved up for their own apartment—good. The concierge turns away anyone else.

 Feeding day arrives, and naive, happy buyers enter the building, laughing and joking. We smile too, taking part in the performance. Jokes about the entrance. About the apartment, about the neighborhood. Yes, we are all “friendly neighbors” here. I open the door, the concierge shows the guests inside. I stand outside. I hear voices, discussions about the apartment. They exclaim: “How cheap and convenient, how nice!” Then the concierge leaves them under the pretext of something. They are left alone, and I close the door to the sixteenth. Then silence. We hear no screams, no tears, no groans, no crashing, no howling—nothing strange, just silence. Then, a few minutes later, I open the door. The sixteenth is full. Two empty shells emerge from it and, without saying goodbye, leave the building. They'll crash their car on the way home, or jump in front of a subway train, run into drunks who'll beat them to death. It's always different. They won't make it home. They'll be stuck in number sixteen forever.

Do I like what I do? I'm not sure. No. But I have to do it—and there's not a shred of romance in being the keeper of a secret, protecting the world from something terrible. I'm a simple resident of number seventeen. Once every two months, I'm awakened by something unimaginable. Can I even describe it? Emptiness, a dark, oppressive emptiness. It seeps out of the wall next to number sixteen. I get ready, get up, and call the concierge. Ten minutes later, we're all there. And a week later, I'm smiling and nodding to the new victims of this horror.

"And I'm your new neighbor," I smile. "The owners left me the keys, I'm keeping an eye on them..."

 That's right, I look out for each other. All the neighbors look out for each other.