The Bricked-Up Apartment*

***

Two months ago, I decided to move out from my parents’ place and relocate to another city. I managed to find a job and an apartment there, and after buying a ticket for the next train, I set off toward independent life. Upon arrival, nothing particularly interesting happened. I was settling into the new place; the work wasn’t taxing, but I came home exhausted—just had dinner and went to bed.

It was Friday evening, and I was in a good mood walking home. I stopped at a kiosk across from my building to buy cigarettes and noticed something strange. To the left of my windows, there were no windows in the neighboring apartment. Windows on the right were fine, but on the left, just a blank wall. Yet the windows of the next apartment above were where they should be. It looked like the builders had simply forgotten to make window openings in one apartment. I stared at this for two minutes, shook my head, and went home. I didn’t ask the shop clerk about the neighbors; at the time, it didn’t seem important.

The evening and night passed completely uneventfully. In the morning, I washed up, had breakfast, and decided to smoke on the balcony. I stood there enjoying the view of passing cars below. Somehow, almost without noticing, my gaze fell on the neighboring balcony. That’s when I remembered the missing windows outside and decided to take a closer look. It was a plywooded-up loggia, not a single gap. The plywood had long since rotted but somehow was still holding. No matter how I tried to peek through, I couldn’t see anything. I gave up, stubbed out my cigarette, and went back inside.

I spent the day aimlessly in front of my monitor, and that night something strange happened. There was a knock on the wall by my bed. A proper knock—three quick, clear raps, like on a door. I jerked my head up, trying to figure out what had just happened. Again—three knocks. At first, I thought it might be the neighbor’s kids playing a prank. Three more knocks. I knocked back. Silence. Soon it hit me where the knocking had really come from. I felt uneasy. Someone was there—and I had responded. At least now I knew for certain that someone lived there. I decided to ask the neighbors about the strange apartment and its occupant in the morning, and fell asleep.

In the morning, I went to investigate who had woken me. Stepping onto the landing, I went over all the possible ways to start a conversation when I noticed something: there was no door leading to that apartment. I had never noticed before. On our floor, there were only two doors—mine and the one opposite. I ran up and down the stairs, three doors on every floor. I asked the neighbor across the hall. He claimed to know nothing, said he had been surprised at first, then got used to it. After asking around and failing to find a know-it-all granny who could give me a spine-chilling story, I trudged home empty-handed.

Strange events continued that Monday night. I woke up feeling someone was watching me. Trite, I know, but that’s how it happened. I started scanning the room, searching for the source, when I clearly heard breathing. Something was breathing from the other side of the wall—heavy but steady. I pressed my ear to the wall and felt it trying to touch me, wanting to devour me, and only the wall kept us apart. I knocked back. I don’t know why—perhaps because it had worked the last time—but… it was a mistake.

The following night, I was awakened by a knock on the door. I recognized it immediately. The same three quick raps. I wrapped myself in a blanket and tried to sleep, but every minute I was jolted awake by three sharp knocks. It knew I was afraid. Knew I wouldn’t open the door, yet it knocked just to feel my fear. I don’t know if the neighbor heard it. Probably not. I didn’t know what it wanted from me. Gradually, I began losing my mind. It had been coming every day for two months.

Bit by bit, hatred for everyone around me filled me. I rarely slept, started lashing out at people. I felt what was happening was unfair. Why should I suffer? I didn’t even know what my tormentor looked like—I had simply revealed my presence once, and now I was paying the price. I was angry, but when it came, I stayed silent, afraid. Afraid of what exactly? Death, or it itself? I had nowhere to go. Work threatened to fire me for my rude behavior, and I couldn’t reach my parents—no way at all.

One day, I decided to shield myself from the creature forever. I ordered the necessary materials; movers brought everything by lunchtime, and I had plenty of time. Removing the front door and all the windows, I began slowly bricking myself in. I didn’t care about anything outside, as long as my tormentor could never reach me again.

Night fell. My apartment had no windows or doors—it looked like a spacious cell. I sat and waited. But it never came. It didn’t knock on the walls, didn’t approach the space where my door had been. I could feel it. I knew. It had vanished.

So that’s what it wanted! It had trapped me in a cell I built myself and was free.

Three days have passed. Soon the food will run out, then the electricity and water will cut off. I don’t know if I will survive, but my old life is clearly over. A few hours ago, I heard someone moving into the neighboring apartment.

— Shouldn’t there be another door here? There’s supposed to be an apartment too, — a young girl’s voice said.

— Don’t know. Does it matter? Just unpack the boxes, — said a man, about thirty.

And they have a child. And you know what? His bed is right against my wall. Tonight, he will hear the knock. I will drive him insane. And if they move out, there will be someone else. Sooner or later, I will reclaim my freedom.

And no one will stop me.