House of Evil

This story is absolutely true and happened to me five years ago. Back then, like many 22-23-year-olds, I was into something called stalking. Abandoned buildings, the subway, the sewers, and so on. And then one day (as in the song, "I remember someone's birthday"), while telling a random drinker about our group's "exploits," I received a counteroffer from him. Drop in and see something interesting.

I didn't forget this conversation, and a day later, having arranged it beforehand, our group arrived at the nondescript two-story house where our casual acquaintance was renting a room.

The owner immediately asked us to leave anything that could serve as a weapon in the car; he even took away our pocketknife, and only then did he lead us into the house.

A small room filled with old, shabby furniture, the ever-present carpet on the wall, a clean, empty table. The owner offered to sit down and wait a bit.

Honestly, I don't remember when it started. It was like a wave washed over me—a wave of irritation, of baseless hatred, quickly turning into blind rage. Within a couple of minutes, I, without knowing why, hated my best friends and was ready to literally tear them by the throat. I hated the owner—a man I barely knew—even more. At some point, a thought flashed through my head: "We have to leave, quickly!" Apparently, I wasn't the only one.

The three of us practically burst out of the apartment, and the wave of rage immediately subsided, leaving behind some kind of... confusion. What the hell was that?

The owner came out and invited us in again, this time one at a time. I entered the apartment alone, but I didn't feel a shadow of the feelings I'd experienced last time. On the contrary, I felt quiet, bright, and cozy.

 A little later, I was sitting behind the wheel, waiting for my friends to visit the strange house one by one and then pile into the car. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw an old woman in the window of that apartment. A regular old woman in a headscarf. She looked at us and nodded rapidly, her mouth open.

It was a scary sight, I tell you. Moreover, there was no old woman in the one-room apartment. I turned around sharply – no old woman, just an empty window! I glanced in the mirror – she was standing there, nodding. I turned around – no old woman, damn it! I didn't tell anyone about it, chalked it up to nervous tension.

The owner of the car came up to say goodbye.

"Listen, how are you living here anyway?" I asked.

"It's fine, I just don't bring guests."

That's all.

As far as I know, that man still lives in that apartment, observing certain rules; his life is no different from anyone else's. Nothing could be found about that house either—it was just a communal apartment within walking distance of the train station and the prison. And no more or fewer people died there than in other similar places.