Nails

The unexpected call caught me off guard. Seeing the caller's name on the display, I hesitantly pressed the call button. Strange, he'd almost never called me before.

"Hello?"

"Andryukha, hi. I have something to talk about... urgently," a hoarse voice said from the receiver.

"Seryoga, is that you?" His jumbled phrases made me uneasy.

"Yes, it's me. So, can you do it? Let's meet at the entrance in half an hour?" His voice was pleading. With that kind of intonation, a sick person usually asks for a morphine shot.

"Yes, yes. Let's meet. Okay..." My voice broke off when I heard the phone ring.

Let's not even twenty minutes later, when the screeching of tires was heard in the yard. Recognizing Seryoga's silhouette through the windshield, I quickly got dressed and ran out of the apartment.

He looked disheveled. The circles under his eyes and tousled hair spoke of a sleepless night. And his eyes gave him the look of a frightened rabbit.

Further, I'll quote what he told me, excluding his exclamations, questions, and comments.

"So, listen. They bought me an apartment, a one-room one. Not far from here, in Stakhanka. My parents warned me... you know how it's traditional when you move into an apartment? You know, cats and candles... but you know me—so, instead of all that, I decided to use a different method: I lit a broom and, like a priest, started walking around with a censer, fanning every corner. Yes, I know I'm an idiot, I know! I also said all sorts of nonsense like a priest, like, 'F***ing demons, fucking spirits, go away...' I don't find it funny anymore. Then came the renovations, the housewarming party—well, everything as it should be. I moved in, and about a month later, it all started.

Around one in the morning, I heard some kind of commotion. It was a strange sound—like some weirdo hammering. Well, let it hammer, to hell with it. I went to bed. I woke up and heard the sound—no longer outside the window, but in the kitchen. Have you ever hammered a nail into concrete? Well, that's pretty much what it sounded like. I jumped up and ran to the kitchen. I thought, if it's a thief, I'll definitely rip his head off. I ran to the light switch. I turned on the light. And nothing. No thieves, no thieves. But I was sure I wasn't imagining it. That night, nothing happened again. But the next night, it all happened again, the same way. The same knocking. Only this time I saw a nail sticking out of the wall. A nail. An old-fashioned one, about an inch long. 

And then it was like something out of Stephen King. Every night, more nails were added. Within a week, my entire wall was covered in them. I'd turn on the light—they were still there. They'd stick out all night, and then disappear the next morning. I even wanted to show them to a girl who'd spent the night with me. But nothing happened—it was as quiet as a morgue.

See my bandaged hand? So, the day before yesterday, I woke up in excruciating pain. I looked, and there was the same nail sticking out of my palm, blood gushing out… Then I lost consciousness. When I came to, I immediately ran to the hospital. I lied and said I'd hurt myself while renovating. I never came back to the apartment again. "Why am I telling you? Because others won't believe me."

I can't say I believed him. But still, it wasn't a pleasant feeling. After these events, he moved somewhere to the neighboring area. I heard nothing from him, and for a while I forgot about what had happened. But around the end of 2009, at a party, I was told what had happened to him. Some say it was homeless people, others say it was cult members, and still others hint at a criminal "showdown." The only credibility in these rumors is that he was found in an abandoned wooden house on the outskirts of town. Ancient, one-inch-long nails were driven into his body...