"It's so cramped here!"

Many firmly believe in the phrase "my home is my castle." But the more comfortable and secure this castle, the greater the shock when something beyond reason happens within it.

Vera, a woman in her fifties, is divorced from her husband and has no children. From 1996 to 2001, she lived in a village in the Noginsk district (in addition to ordinary houses, there are two five-story apartment buildings in this village). She lived her life, always at home in any company, but then suddenly, unexpectedly, she moved. Neighbors and friends were surprised—how could it be that Vera didn't even say goodbye properly? It was very unlike her. Well, soon they practically forgot about her. I forgot about her too, then still a girl, visiting her grandmother for the holidays.

But just six months ago, on the other side of town, I saw a familiar, kind-hearted face and, unable to resist, I approached my old acquaintance. After a warm greeting, Vera invited me to her small, well-kept house. Having already discussed all the pressing issues, we moved on to the events of previous years. Naturally, I inquired about my neighbor's sudden and incomprehensible departure. She mumbled something about rent and poor living conditions. But before I could satisfy my curiosity with such a boring, yet mundane answer, Vera blurted out something absurd:

"You know what's good about this house? There are no pipes or sewerage."

"A strange reason to be happy; for many, that's a serious drawback."

"For many, but not for me. I don't need such conveniences anymore..."

I paraphrase the rest from her words.

"I arrived in a quiet place, not many people, everyone in the palm of each other's hands. I bought an apartment on the fourth floor, small and bright, just live and enjoy it. I enjoyed it for a year, then two, three, four." And then, in my fifth year, it started...

I'm generally noisy, walking loudly—I didn't notice anything strange in the apartment until I heard a child's whisper while washing dishes. No one else was home. I glanced at the TV and radio—everything was off. I shrugged and continued washing dishes. The voice started again, clearly coming from the sink drain. I turned off the water, tilted my head, and listened. At first, it was just a vague muttering, like a hoarse child trying to say something. And the sound was slowly but surely getting closer. I thought it was the neighbors downstairs, but as soon as I turned away from the sink, the voice suddenly gained strength and said clearly, "It's so cramped in here. It's so dark, I can't go any further." My heart sank, and the neighbor theory vanished in a second. The voice fell silent, and it felt as if its source had frozen literally under the sink. With trembling hands, I removed the drain screen and peered into the pipe. There was nothing there, except for the feeling of being stared at. I quickly finished the dishes and went outside.

For about a week, nothing happened; I was completely at peace, until I woke up in the middle of the night. I lay there and realized I was hearing that same muttering and quiet tapping from the kitchen (I hadn't closed the door; at least in the heat there was some ventilation in the apartment)—like something tapping on the bottom of the sink. A fingernail, perhaps. My legs were paralyzed with terror; I practically crawled to the door and slammed it shut. I had no desire to listen to the sounds coming from the kitchen; only one thought was pounding in my head like a pulse: "I don't want this, take it away, I beg you!..." I spent the rest of the night on the balcony, staring at the door almost unblinking. If the handle moved even slightly, I'd immediately climb onto the neighbors' balcony. I wasn't afraid of looking crazy anymore; THIS in the kitchen was much scarier. Luckily, nothing else happened that night.

The next day, I went "on reconnaissance" to ask the old-timers about strange things in the house and throughout the village. Of all the stories, only one version seemed remotely convincing: a self-taught Satanist living across the hall. He supposedly summoned all sorts of evil spirits until the terrified and sleepy men gave him a good beating. But I have a feeling this isn't the case.

Time heals all wounds—a month later, it all seemed like a bad dream, until I threw a piece of frozen meat into that ill-fated sink. I left for an hour and came back to make myself some lunch. The piece of meat had shrunk suspiciously, but it didn't worry me, it just angered me (they'd pumped up the water again). Annoyed, I tried to grab it, but part of it was stuck in the drain (where did the mesh go?). I tugged once – it was tight, tugged a second time, harder – and a piece flew out. It was bitten off underneath. Then came a sob and a muffled cry: "Give it back!" And the sound of a pipe cracking, as if something was tearing upward. That was the last straw. I rushed out, gathered all the necessary things and documents, and ran to the bus to my sister's. I'd already found buyers from here, sold the apartment, and I was so upset – I should have told them! But if anyone believed me, they'd say I got drunk and hallucinated it...

More than five years have passed, and I still wonder what it could be. What is lurking in the darkness, so thirsty for raw flesh?