Behind the Door*

***

We moved to Moscow with my mother and stepfather and bought an apartment in Sokol. The building was old but had undergone major renovations, so aside from the high ceilings and thick walls, you wouldn’t guess its age. But right after moving in, strange things started happening.

Our apartment has a long corridor. From the front door, one room (mine) branches to the right; the corridor continues and splits—one side leads to the main bedroom (my mother and stepfather) and the living room, the other to the kitchen and bathroom.

One night, I was sitting at my computer—door locked with a latch—and heard a strange noise through my headphones. Someone was banging on my door, shaking it and trying the handle. I panicked, ran to the door, but as soon as I grabbed the handle, the noise stopped.

I called out, but only silence answered. I didn’t open the latch, inexplicably feeling that I absolutely must not.

The next morning, I asked my parents, but they hadn’t heard anything. I tried to dismiss it—maybe my half-asleep mind had imagined it, or it was just a strong draft. For a while, everything stayed quiet.

Later, when my parents went to Tunisia for the summer, I was alone. The memories returned, so I locked my door at night just in case. Sure enough, it started again—someone furiously banging and shaking the door. The effort lasted about twenty minutes at a time. I hid in a corner, terrified. The disturbances continued every few days or nights.

I tried recording video, audio, even web cameras—but each time I attempted it, the presence stopped. Only a friend believed me and suggested monitoring via Skype. That night, the friend caught the last ten seconds of the entity. He was convinced and advised me to visit a church.

I bought candles, placing them at the door overnight. The presence did not come that night. But after a few days, it returned. The candles were found extinguished, oddly bent as if warped by heat, not simply burned down.

I told my parents; my mother dismissed it, while my stepfather simply told me to keep locking the door. I was still terrified and often stayed at friends’ or a girlfriend’s place.

Eventually, encouraged by a friend, I forced myself to open the door. That night, both latches were undone, and I swung it open. What happened next—I can barely remember. When my parents returned early in the morning, they found me outside, crying, in a state of total shock.

Nothing in the apartment had changed. No signs of entry, no damage. Yet I had experienced a pure, paralyzing, animal-level terror—something I hope never to feel again.