The Tenant

****

On the evening when I met my friend, my group and I were wandering around an abandoned construction site. They say that about two years earlier, the bodies of five students had been found here. After that, the authorities fenced off the concrete shell of the building with a tall fence and put up a booth for an eternally drunk watchman. But in exchange for the gurgling opportunity to stay drunk for one more night, the watchman let people like us through—those who wanted to enjoy the romance of an abandoned building and scare the girls a bit.

In the building, covered in graffiti from basement to roof, bottles left over from previous parties clinked in every corner. Local homeless people collected them; the watchman regularly let them in as well, to spend the night. Other than partying students and vagrants, no one went into this building. Or so we thought.

“… Kostik, there’s a person sitting there,” Marina said, her eyes wide with fear, dust marks on her blouse. “In the attic, in the corner!”

“Probably a bum,” I turned away toward a dark window and took a swig of beer. “It’s his home—don’t bother the man while he’s resting.”

“What if it’s not a bum?” Marina grabbed my elbow, took the bottle from me, and looked me in the face. Behind the fear in her eyes appeared her familiar hardness, and I began to get angry. “Go take a look. Or should I ask someone else?”

“Oh come on, why bother Misha!” I exclaimed. “He’ll leave, come back—and what if there’s not enough beer?!”

“Don’t start. Everyone knows you don’t like him.”

“Yeah?” I drawled mockingly. “I wonder why.”

“So, are you going?” she asked even more sharply.

I nodded.

“Just don’t be surprised if I like the bum better than your company.”

“I won’t be,” she tossed back, turning away and taking a sip from my bottle.

As I climbed the graffiti-covered stairs to the second floor, I barely resisted the urge to smash my phone against the wall—the phone I was using to light my way. Marina was my girlfriend. And everyone knew she was cheating on me with Misha, who until recently had been my friend.

In the attic there was less graffiti and fewer bottles, but more dust and rags of some kind. Water seeped through holes in the roof—a rain had passed not long ago. Somewhere pigeons cooed sleepily; a scrawny birch rustled its leaves, having grown up through the dust in one of the corners.

I spotted the homeless man immediately—he was sitting on the floor in the farthest, darkest corner. I could see his silhouette, the line of his shoulders, and his tousled short hair. Well then—so Marina really hadn’t just wanted to get rid of me. Fine. I’d even talk to this guy to make sure I was right.

“Hey, hi!” I called out, took a step forward—and froze. I shook my head in surprise. There was no one in the corner. I could clearly see tufts of dust and grass growing through them. But there had definitely been a person there! I looked around again. The birch was no longer rustling, the pigeons had fallen silent. The attic floor was creaky—I would definitely have heard someone walking! But there was silence, only the unfinished building sighing and muttering to itself.

I looked again at the far corner. Something was wrong. I clearly saw that there was nothing there. But every cell of my body told me that this wasn’t true. I rubbed my eyes. Nothing changed—I couldn’t see anything, but I felt that a short person was sitting in that very corner, staring straight at me. I had never believed in the supernatural. And I wasn’t afraid of ghosts.

Half an hour later I was sitting on the floor in that same far corner. By then, the sense of another presence had become almost familiar, and if I closed my eyes, I could even feel that the mysterious person was sitting literally half a meter away from me. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t talk to him. But somehow I knew he wasn’t dangerous. Or maybe I had just convinced myself of that.

“Kostya, did you fall asleep up there or what?” one of my friends called from the stairs. “We called a taxi—are you coming with us?”

“Yeah!” I shouted back. Then I said to the ghost, “Well, don’t get bored here.”

I thought I sensed a faint nod, and I stood up. Communicating with a ghost was interesting, of course, but the world of the living wasn’t going anywhere.

In the taxi, the beer started to wear off, and I felt amused. Imagine that—I met a ghost! And even talked to him! I’d never pulled off anything like that before; good thing there were no witnesses.

Nervously giggling, I got out of the taxi and said goodbye to my friends. Marina, of course, went in another car—together with Misha. But I wasn’t even angry with her. Gradually, I just didn’t care.

Lost in thought, I crossed the grimy courtyard, where the earlier ghost would have looked even more fitting—it was so dark and gloomy there. Fallen leaves rustled under my feet, even though it was only mid-July. But nature doesn’t always meet our expectations. Greenery and blossoms can wither at any moment, obeying their own rhythms. Love is the same.

I took the elevator up to my floor and wrestled with the front door for a while. I’d always suspected that one day it would simply refuse to let me in, and then the Great Quest of the Jammed Door would begin. But for now, I got in.

The apartment, as always, was quiet and empty. The air still smelled of medicine, and that smell couldn’t be driven out by airing or incense. It was strongest in the room farthest from the entrance, where my grandfather had spent the last year of his life. He died a year ago, having outlived his son and daughter-in-law by ten years. Grandpa raised me alone as best he could, until illness began to eat him from the inside. Then I was the one who took care of him. Now his room stood empty—I couldn’t bring myself to make it livable again. The second room was also almost unused—I’d set it aside for parties with friends, who had barely been around in recent months.

In truth, only one room was really lived in—the one where I worked, slept, and rested. The kitchen—the stronghold of bachelor life—was piled with instant food and empty beer bottles, traces of my depression after Grandpa’s death. Now, after Marina’s betrayal, I felt its clawing grip again. I brewed myself some tea, took a book, and for some reason went into the living room. I stood there, contemplating the dull brown curtains and the old TV I could never bring myself to throw out. Along the wall stood a dusty, sagging couch. I changed my mind about sitting down and decided to go back to my room.

But for some reason I opened the door to Grandpa’s room.

“Holy shit!” I slammed the door shut and jumped back from it, staring at its white surface in horror. Then I shook my head and whispered, “No… that can’t be…”

For about a minute I paced the room, trying to gather my thoughts. What was happening felt like either a dream or delirium tremens. But I wasn’t that drunk!

In the middle of the empty room, on the floor, sat my familiar ghost.

I waited until dawn. For some reason it felt safer that way. Now, with a completely sober head, the ghost no longer seemed like a buddy. I remembered all the horror movies where attempts to drive a ghost out of the house ended badly. But what was I supposed to do? I timidly knocked on the door—then caught myself. This was my house! I opened it.

He was sitting in the same place. I still couldn’t see him with my eyes, but my mind clearly knew that this ghostly guy was sitting in the lotus position, wearing a shirt and jeans.

“Uh… hi,” I said uncertainly. It’s a strange feeling, starting a conversation with empty space… The ghost lifted his invisible head, looked at me, and nodded. I continued more boldly:

“I’m flattered that you came to visit. Really. But I didn’t invite you. I wasn’t even sure you existed!”

A ghostly smile hung in the air, like the Cheshire Cat’s.

I smiled back involuntarily and sat down beside him.

“You probably didn’t like it there, at the construction site? Personally, I wouldn’t want to live there.”

The ghost shrugged helplessly. Then hugged himself. I felt sorry for him. In the end, I had nothing to lose!

“You know,” I said quietly, “I’ve got two unused rooms here. And I hardly ever go in there. So you can stay, if you’re not some kind of demon or poltergeist.”

I felt a surprised gaze on me.

“I mean,” I hesitated, “if you settle in the living room, I won’t mind. I’m a bit lonely here, and things haven’t been going well with living people. Will you stay?”

The ghost nodded eagerly, and I felt a sense of pride. After all, he was probably going to stay here even against my will. And now he was kind of invited—so I could even set some conditions!

“So,” I stood up and brushed the dust off my clothes, “I expect peace and quiet. Don’t interfere with my work, don’t sigh at night, don’t scare guests. Don’t hide my things! I’d make you pay half the rent, too, but what doesn’t exist, doesn’t exist…”

From that morning on, an invisible tenant settled in my living room. He was friendly and unobtrusive, and in a way even useful. Things stopped getting lost so often, the door stopped sticking, and food stopped burning. The teenage neighbor started playing his music more quietly, and when the neighbors upstairs flooded their apartment, the water somehow bypassed mine.

The smell of medicine vanished without a trace, replaced by a faint smell of an old house—dampness, mold, and plaster. I’d always liked those smells. Almost immediately I felt ashamed in front of my new acquaintance for the mess in the apartment. I threw out all the trash and the old TV, washed the floors, and replaced the living room curtains with bamboo blinds. The ghost liked to sift through them with a soft rustling, and I always knew I wasn’t alone in the house.

Things did still disappear sometimes—the tenant took a liking to the little bell keychain on my keys, and soon I lost it. But sometimes I hear it rolling from corner to corner in the living room. Once guests heard it, and afterward they spent a long time urging me to bring out my cat, which they were sure was playing in another room.

Books also began to disappear. They would vanish for a couple of days and then return with page corners folded down. I started buying new books and, after reading them, leaving them in the living room. When I left the house, I turned on music so the tenant wouldn’t be bored.

I tried decorating the living room with flowers, but they wilted from the ghost’s presence. So I settled for paintings. My work improved—largely because it became very easy to work at home. More than once I’d look up from my computer after midnight, having completed a week’s worth of work in one sitting.

I started seeing girls—nothing serious, but still nice. Marina vanished from my life after that night at the construction site, and I didn’t regret it at all.

A little over a year passed since the ghost moved in with me. I was heading home when someone suddenly called out to me. I turned around and saw Marina. To be honest, I didn’t recognize her right away. She’d dyed her hair a bright blonde, started dressing somewhat vulgarly. She’d begun smoking—even though she didn’t have a cigarette at the moment, I still grimaced at the smell of tobacco. Her face had grown gaunt, frozen in a frightened expression. This was not the Marina whose presence once made me afraid to fall to my knees. This Marina inspired pity.

“Hi,” I said, smiling as warmly as I could. “Good to see you.”

“Me too,” she said cautiously smiling. Her fingers fidgeted with the collar of her sweater, and I noticed a wedding ring.

“You got married? That’s great!” And I truly was happy for her. “So who’s the lucky guy? Misha?”

“Misha,” she answered, shrinking slightly. “Let’s not talk about that. How are you?”

“Wonderful. Better than ever.”

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” Marina said, looking at me with unfamiliar timidity. “Kostik, I was thinking… since we ran into each other, would you like to go for a walk with me? Like in the old days?”

I looked at her in surprise. Long-forgotten anger stirred inside me. You were seeing Misha while I was recovering from my grandfather’s death! You made a fool of me in front of our mutual friends, you left me for your current husband! And now you want to “go for a walk” with me?

… Then again, why not? I could start seeing you again behind Misha’s back, doing to him exactly what he did to me. And after pulling you out of your family, dump you. Isn’t that revenge?

I smiled at my thoughts and shook my head.

“Sorry, Marina. I have other plans tonight.”

She lowered her head.

“Yes, I understand. Well then… bye?”

“Bye.”

And we went our separate ways.

She went home, and I wandered through the park for a long time, rustling yellow leaves and turning my face toward the setting sun. I felt that with any warm gust of wind I could simply take off, like a maple leaf, and tumble over the city rooftops for hours.

For the first time in a long while, I felt free. When the sun set and the warm wind turned cold and biting, I raised my coat collar and headed home, splashed by spray from passing cars. I wanted to tell the ghost about Marina—the girl who had seen him before I did. The girl I had finally let go.

The courtyard of my building was gloomy as always; leaves rustled underfoot as usual. Some passerby was crossing the yard, his rubber boots squeaking. We crossed paths under the only working streetlamp—me with a dreamy smile on my lips, him with his hood pulled low, hands in his pockets.

It seemed to me that he slipped on the leaves and grabbed at me; I even tried to steady him. But then something stung me in the side through my thin coat, and I felt myself falling. And as I toppled onto my back, the passerby kept stabbing me in the chest with a knife, and I saw that his jacket and hands were covered in dried blood.

I writhed in the dirt and leaves as the passerby pulled back his hood. It was Misha. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but his eyes burned darkly with rage.

“She cheated on me the whole time,” he rasped. “The whole time.”

“But what does that have to do with me?” I would have liked to ask, but I couldn’t. My coat was soaking through, and I didn’t know whether it was my blood or the rain that had begun.

Misha leaned over me, staring with mad eyes.

“I always knew it. I knew you wouldn’t give up, even if I married her! That’s not in your nature. But today I saw you near the metro. Where did you arrange to meet? Your favorite café? Or this park?” He threw his head back and burst into a short, terrible sob. Then he snarled, “Too bad—I won’t find out now. Not from you, not from her. You’re both already dead.”

And I felt the knife cut my throat.

… Misha was already gone, staggering away, but I was still lying there, staring at the sky. Raindrops fell onto my face, onto my open eyes, lingering on my eyebrows and the fringe sticking out from under my hat. Some ran down my cheeks like tears.

Then I got tired of lying there. I stood up. Walked home. The raindrops no longer fell on me, veering aside. I took the elevator up. The elevator filled with the smell of fallen leaves and steel. I came to my apartment, hopelessly patted my pockets—the keys were still lying in the leaves in the yard—and knocked. A few seconds later, the door opened.

My tenant stood there—and at last I could see him with my own eyes. Yes, indeed—a white shirt. Torn jeans. Short, tousled hair.

“That’s exactly how I imagined you,” I smiled broadly. “Well… almost!”

“Almost,” she replied. “Come in. I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”