A lost place

When my parents were young, they lived in a large communal apartment in the very center of Moscow, almost opposite the Kremlin—on Brodnikov Lane. My mother was 25 then, my father 26, my brother a little over a year old. I wasn't even in the plans yet.

The apartment was a corridor-type, with many rooms inhabited by individual families. They lived harmoniously, helping each other with childcare and housework, sharing recipes, treating each other to pies, and even celebrating holidays together. Everyone, that is, except for one family. This family lived a very secluded and isolated life: the wife (an elderly, almost geriatric woman) and her second husband. Her previous husband drowned in the Moskva River, although the women in the kitchen whispered that he had drowned himself. After burying her first husband, the neighbor, who hadn't been widowed for a long time, remarried a handsome young man almost half her age. Women also discussed and discussed a lot about this.

There was always some kind of weirdness going on in the apartment. Every family has experienced it. I'll only tell you what mine experienced.

One night, when my father was away on a business trip, my mother was awakened by the sound of bare feet slapping the floor. Opening her eyes, she saw her son briskly pacing the room, heading for the huge wardrobe. Her first thought was alarm: bare feet on the cold floor, he'll catch a cold. Her second thought was, how did he get out of the crib? The sides are so high!

Meanwhile, the baby reached the wardrobe and disappeared behind it. My mother, jumping out of bed, pulled the massive thing away from the wall with one jerk and grabbed her son with both hands. But her hands passed through nothing and slapped together with a loud clang. The sound seemed to wake my mother from a trance. She stood against the wall behind the wardrobe, trying to catch someone in the dark! And only then did the realization dawn on her that her son COULDN'T WALK INDEPENDENTLY yet. Rushing to the crib, she saw the child sleeping peacefully.

The next night, the mother was again awakened by baby steps. Opening her eyes, she saw her son briskly pacing around the round table in the middle of the room. She lay there, watching the little one make his second lap. The absurdity of the situation began to shake her from her stupor. On the third lap, she flicked the switch on the floor lamp. The lamp illuminated the empty room.

And the following night, a neighbor, a handsome young man, the husband of the strange neighbor, hanged himself. He was found hanging in the kitchen early in the morning. He was wearing a fashionable, expensive sweater that his wife had given him the day before for his birthday. The kitchen floor was covered in a layer of cigarette butts from the night he had smoked. After her husband's funeral, this woman became very ill and took to her bed, and after some time, she too died.

But the residents of the cursed apartment found no peace. A short time passed, and neighbors began noticing the reflection of the deceased woman appearing in the glass of sideboards, cupboards, and bookshelves. My parents removed all the glass from the furniture, wrapped it in newspaper, and put it away. Others had to do the same. After some time, the residents stopped going into the kitchen at night, because the neighbor who had hanged himself began appearing there after midnight. He would sit on a stool, clutching his head in his hands, and sway back and forth.

These are far from all the terrifying incidents. Many, many more things happened in the cursed apartment. And my parents had to endure all this hellishness for ten years until they got a new apartment on the outskirts of Moscow and moved there.

Incidentally, all the children who lived in this godforsaken place stuttered. My brother outgrew this affliction with age, but he still starts stuttering when he gets excited.