Abandoned Apartment

****

Hello, dear reader. I would like to tell you a story… a story from my past. I won’t tell you my name, for it is unimportant. I will only say that it happened back in the days when I was full of enthusiasm and determination and was looking for adventures on my own backside—and they were looking for me. I was 20 years old at the time, studying in my third year at a medical institute—more precisely, finishing it. Having passed my exams without any problems, I was preparing to carry out a long‑standing plan of mine: to travel alone through the cities and villages of our country.

Setting off by commuter train (oh yes, not by train or plane, which could take you a considerable distance in a relatively short time with maximum comfort, but precisely by commuter train, in order to fully experience what you now call “hardcore”), I departed from one of Moscow’s railway stations and went wherever my eyes led me. My route lay eastward, all the way to the glorious city with a similar root in its name—Vladivostok.

Having covered about half the distance, or maybe less… who can tell now… I stopped somewhere near the Ural Mountains, in an inconspicuous little town whose name is impossible to remember. I had money only for travel and food, and therefore I had to live wherever I could—in short, I was homeless.

That day, despite it being summer, the weather toward evening turned dreadful, and I had to look for shelter at an accelerated pace so as not to freeze completely under the merciless downpour. My choice fell on an old Khrushchyovka somewhere on the outskirts of town. It looked fairly decent and showed no obvious signs of abandonment, except for the complete absence of lights at any hour of the day. Although no—there were signs of abandonment, and quite obvious ones: for example, missing doors in some apartments, total devastation in almost every room of this nine‑story building, and of course syringes lying around at every step (guess which kind).

I planned to spend the night in one of the apartments and continue my journey the next day, so I chose one of the upper floors so as not to tempt fate (looters had already been there, and drug addicts usually choose the top floor). In addition, the apartment had some kind of lock that could easily be opened from the inside by hand, but required a key from the outside. How I would regret that… but everything in order.

Having chosen a place for the night, I spread out my modest bedding and lay down, fully confident that no one would disturb me. However, that was a mistake. In the middle of the night, in the ransacked, emptied, abandoned apartment, there came the sound… of a door being opened. A door being opened WITH A KEY! Fortunately, my paranoia worked in my favor: I had gone to sleep in the far room, in a corner, hidden behind an old piano, so I could calmly peek out from behind it, while no one could see me in the darkness.

I watched as two figures, about two meters tall, broad, resembling two pyramids with rounded tops, stumbled into the corridor. As they moved down the hallway, their heavy footsteps, hoarse breathing, and something rustling—something that sounded like it was crawling along the concrete—could be heard. They were moving toward my room. With my heart frozen, I watched as they entered and stood two steps away from me, separated from me by barely a meter of wood—the piano.

What was rustling… oh horror! It was a body. The body of a young girl (the flashes of lightning did their work). It was being dragged limply along the floor behind one of the figures—the larger one, which breathed more hoarsely than the other.

I tried to make out the owners of this dwelling: I had seen nothing like this in any anatomy textbook, or even pathology… Thick, short legs, like two lampposts (like those of elephants), transitioned into a body covered with dark burlap cloaks, ending at the top in a wide hump. About thirty centimeters below the hump were grotesque faces hidden beneath hoods. The only things I managed to see were a flattened nose, fangs filling a wide mouth that took up more than half the face, and bulging eyes. I also noticed that these freaks had green skin and enormous arms, no less massive than their legs but much longer and more flexible. The stench coming from them was unimaginable—I don’t know how I managed to suppress the urge to vomit… something between the smell of a swamp and rotting meat, mixed with the odor of horse sweat and something else… strange, something that made one recall the Middle Ages, when city streets had no means of disposing of human waste.

I watched this spectacle, afraid to even breathe, while the figures dragged the lifeless body into the room and began tearing it apart. That was where I couldn’t hold back anymore: I retched violently, and thank God those sounds were drowned out by the thunder, the ripping flesh, and the cracking bones.

Having dismembered the body with their bare “hands,” they began to devour their prey, filling the room with smacking noises and inarticulate gurgling phrases like, “Mmm… fingers,” “The skull is hard…,” “Chew the brains better.”

Yes, I was a medic, but my psyche could not endure something like this. And if earlier I had been thinking about how to escape as quickly as possible, now I simply prayed… I was an atheist, but then I was reciting a prayer. I didn’t remember all the words, but an inexplicable desire burst out of me—to protect myself somehow from this demonic horror. I cried, sniffled, and prayed. You can see a person in such a state only in two cases—either in a state of extreme religious ecstasy or in a state of the most savage terror, when nothing remains but to pray. I was in the latter…

I don’t know how long it all lasted, for I lost track of time, but the last thing I remember is opening my eyes to sunlight pouring in through the windows. I was half‑lying, leaning against the wall behind that same piano. There was no one in the room. The only thing that reminded me of the events of the night before was a gnawed pile of human bones… and not just one—when I had “moved into” the apartment, I hadn’t noticed in the darkness that the corner of the room was piled with skeletons.

I didn’t care who or what they were—I simply ran out of that accursed apartment as fast as I could, boarded a commuter train, and went home.

Five years have passed since then. What remains as a reminder are nightly nightmares and a streak of gray hair at my temple. I didn’t go to a psychologist—I don’t want to relive it all again… and who would believe such a story anyway? They’d lock me up in a mental hospital.

I struggle, I take sedatives, but one thing gives me no peace: what if I meet them again… what if one night the door opens and they come in… and then I will become their victim.