**The Creature on the Wall**

When I was working as a sales consultant at *Stroymarket*—a huge construction materials store occupying two floors—I fell madly in love with Olya, one of the cashiers. She was a slender, petite blonde girl with deep gray eyes, thoughtful and shy, even excessively so. She never wore makeup, never dressed in revealing tops—only long‑sleeved blouses, always neat and subdued in color. She could have been called a “gray mouse,” if she hadn’t been so beautiful.

I, on the other hand, had no problem showing my feelings. I brought her flowers, invited her to the movies. Unfortunately, the result was always the same: Olya would lower her head apologetically, say she couldn’t go, and thank me politely. The bouquets I brought she would put in a clear vase by the entrance, but she never took them home. Once, when I tried to persuade her to go see a film by saying I’d already bought the tickets, she suggested I return them. I was desperate—if she had just bluntly rejected me, it would have been easier. Instead, I kept circling the tile department near her register like a lovesick March tomcat, much to the amusement of my coworkers.

Over time, I began to notice that something was clearly weighing on Olya. Sometimes, when there were no customers around, she would cry silently. Often she sat lost in sad thoughts. Watching this broke my heart. I tried to talk to her, to find out who had hurt her and how, promised to help. She would force a smile and say everything was fine.

One day we were unloading a new shipment—technically not our job, but we’d been promised a bonus. As a result, I stayed late and missed the bus, so I had to walk home. After passing two stops, it suddenly occurred to me: very nearby was the turn onto Rechnaya Street, where Olya lived. I’d walked her home a few times, trying to invite myself in, so I knew the address. After thinking for a moment, I turned onto Rechnaya, hoping I might meet her near her building.

The area around the apartment block was deserted. I felt discouraged, but I sat down on the children’s swing and started looking at the windows. There was no real chance of seeing Olya this way—she lived on the eighth floor—but I didn’t feel like leaving.

The lights in her apartment windows were off—she was probably already asleep. I sat there a bit longer and was about to leave when I suddenly noticed movement on the wall, around the level of the fifth floor. I stared harder and froze: something resembling a human figure was crawling along the wall, dark and barely visible in the gathering dusk. While I stood there, looking up and trying to convince myself it was a hallucination, the “Spider‑Man,” easily clinging to the sheer wall, climbed two more floors and slipped onto the balcony of Olya’s apartment. Soon after, a nasty, barely audible creak reached my ears—the creature was opening a window. Without waiting to see more, I ran. I didn’t stop even after I left Rechnaya Street, sprinting all the way home. The streets were quiet, with only the occasional car passing by and a stray dog barking as it chased after me.

In my apartment, the first thing I did was lock all the windows. Only then did I make some tea and calm down a little. Almost immediately I felt ashamed—after all, I had seen the creature crawl into Olya’s window and had done nothing. I thought about calling the police, but changed my mind—they wouldn’t believe me anyway. All night I couldn’t sleep, listening for sounds from outside.

The next day at the store I saw Olya again, sitting at her register as usual. She greeted me with her customary “Hello,” and I forced myself to reply, though all I could see in my mind was that creature crawling along the wall.

After that, Olya and I barely spoke, and a couple of months later she quit. I don’t know what happened that evening—and, to be honest, I don’t want to know.