**“Don’t Look at Me!”**

There was a time, about five years ago, when my mother would complain in the mornings about the doorbell ringing. It rang at night, between 2 and 3 a.m. Insistently, demanding. My mother said that each time she was surprised that no one else in the house heard it. She would get up, go to the hallway, and ask, “Who’s there?” And each time, the answer was silence.

We didn’t have a peephole back then (it was installed during renovations two years ago), so she listened carefully, thinking she might hear footsteps or a rustle behind the door. But in vain — the bell rang again, and again, no one answered. And every time, my mother didn’t dare open the door and returned to bed. In the morning, before leaving for work, she would complain to me and my father that someone had come at night again, rang the bell insistently, and didn’t respond. My father, naturally a skeptic and a humorist, would say that it was her conscience from beyond or the ghost of a promised pay raise visiting her. My mother didn’t dare joke about it herself. I, like my father, didn’t hear these strange doorbells and thought they were figments of her half-asleep mind. But it happened with remarkable regularity every week. Eventually, my mother simply stopped approaching the door, and the nightly ringing ceased — for a while, as it turned out.

Since last year, I started suffering from insomnia — I could lie for hours in the dark, staring at the ceiling and listening to the clock ticking right by my ear. Time in such nights drags slowly, like molasses. Only when the sky begins to lighten does the long-awaited sleep come — usually dull and colorless. I never tried sleeping pills; at night, I was given herbal tea (chamomile, mint, or linden), but it helped little. Nighttime, meant for rest and sleep, became for me a time of tormenting wakefulness.

It happened one such sleepless night. It was early February, a deep, moonless night. Snow was falling outside. I was alone in the apartment. Mom and dad had gone to visit my godmother but couldn’t return because buses were canceled due to the weather. I went to bed late, around one a.m. I usually went to sleep earlier, as I had classes in the morning. But barely had my head touched the pillow when I realized — I wouldn’t sleep again. I tossed and turned, wrapped myself in blankets and the quilt, covered my head with a pillow, trying to force myself to sleep. But all my attempts were in vain. Following my old routine, I turned onto my back and lay still, thinking about everything under the sun and waiting for the sky to lighten, for sleep always came with the first rays of dawn.

Suddenly, I jumped in shock — the doorbell rang. Piercingly. Someone pressed the button too hard, as if wanting to wake the neighbors as well. I assumed my parents had returned, hurried to the door, and instinctively reached for the lock, asking, “Who’s there?” No one answered. I became alert. The bell rang again, with the same insistence.

— Who’s there? — I said. — Answer!

In response — silence.

I listened carefully — no rustling behind the door, complete silence. And then a terrible feeling ran through me, chills to the bone. The bell rang again. I rose onto tiptoe and looked through the peephole. The stairwell was illuminated by two bright bulbs. I saw a boy, about ten years old, standing on the doorstep, wearing a simple coat, no hat, felt boots, and mittens hanging from his sleeves by elastic bands. Dark hair, round face, expressionless, eyes large and colorless. Outside, the snow lay untouched, and his clothes were dry. He had lifted his head and was staring upward, as if he knew I was watching him. Then it struck me — how could such a small child reach the bell? Why doesn’t he answer? And where did he come from? There is no child of that age in our building.

A shiver ran through me to my very bones. I kept staring, and suddenly the boy twisted his lips, his face instantly darkened. He opened his mouth and said:

— Don’t look at me! — his voice hoarse, creaky, like an old man’s. — Don’t look, or it will get worse!

I screamed in horror, stumbled back into the hallway... and at the door, something scratched and rasped:

— Saw… saw… saw…

Paralyzed with fear, I stood there, unsure what to do… Meanwhile, they kept scratching and rasping.

— Lord! — I cried, out of my mind. — Protect me from the unclean! — and made the sign of the cross with a trembling hand. — Help me, Lord! Keep me from evil!

Almost immediately, the scratching stopped. Something rasped, struck the door, and went silent. I continued tracing the sign of the cross. I stood like that for another ten minutes, listening — quiet. I didn’t dare look through the peephole. I returned to my room, turned on the light, and sat there until morning, finally succumbing to exhaustion and tension.

My parents returned by noon. They woke me, complained long about the weather, and asked what had happened to the front door. They said there were scratches — our door is covered in faux leather, and the layer had been replaced recently. The scratches were small but noticeable, deep. I thought I would faint when I saw them, but I managed to stay upright. Since then, I haven’t heard the doorbell ring. Neither has my mother. Thank God. Someone or something clearly accepted that it would not be opened or was scared that it had been seen. Or it knocks at another door and, God forbid, someone opens it…

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