Small family apartment

They say ghosts are a dime a dozen in our city of Yakutsk. People regularly tell scary stories at the table about "abasy" (evil spirits) who haunt people's lives. I didn't believe in ghosts. Absolutely not. And I just laughed at such stories. They made no impression on me. But one day, my impenetrable materialism couldn't stand the test of life and started leaking.

It was like this: I urgently needed to rent an apartment. And so, a small family apartment turned up. You know, probably those buildings that look like anthills: nine floors crammed with tiny apartments. The Lilliputian square footage was plenty for one person, and the crowded atmosphere didn't bother me, still a student at the time. Besides, this small family apartment was almost in the city center; the church was visible from the window—a pastoral landscape, and it was cheap, like something out of a fairy tale. It was rented out to a young family who, for some reason, chose to live with their parents instead, which is odd in itself. That's where I should have been wary. Besides, I knew that the neighborhood was built on an old cemetery, of which only that church remained. But, carefree and content, I moved into the apartment. All I had was a folding bed, a table, and a couple of chairs. I settled in, painted a funny rabbit in watercolor on the bathroom door, and hung curtains. Basically, I tried to create a cozy atmosphere.

One strange thing came to light: the apartment's windows faced south, meaning it should be absolutely scorching in the summer. But in reality, even on the hottest day, it was as cold as a crypt. On the very first night, I woke up to a terrible snoring sound from under the folding bed. I thought: "Oh, how can you hear the neighbors through the wall!" It wasn't until the morning that I realized there weren't neighbors behind that wall, but the street, since the apartment was a corner apartment. And the closest neighbors were across the room, the kitchen, and the bathroom. So their snoring couldn't be heard.

I was surprised, but that was all. A few days later, I was even more surprised: in the middle of the night, I heard the patter of bare feet, like a child running around. I woke up. The water was running in the bathroom, and wet footprints appeared on the floor. They appeared in a chain and then disappeared. To say I was shocked is an understatement. I couldn't think of any explanation other than that it was a dream. So I turned away and fell asleep.

When the nights grew dark toward the end of summer, a real creepiness would creep in towards evening. For some inexplicable reason, I would become terrified to the point of shivering. I started sleeping with the light on. Soon, the light broke. I called an electrician, and they fixed the wiring. The next day, it broke again. I called the electricians again. Soon they were coming to my place five times a week. I'm not exaggerating. I was furious: what kind of craftsmen are you, I said, that you can't fix it once and for all! "The wiring always breaks in a different place!" they justified themselves.

Then a friend stayed with me for a week. After the very first night, she said, "You should probably sprinkle the apartment with holy water or something. The faucets were opening and closing by themselves all night, and the child was running around the apartment. It's scary, how can you live here alone?"

And there was a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Naked, without any lampshades or fixtures. Well, as soon as Zhenya spoke up, it fell. The cord it was hanging from snapped in the middle, as if someone had yanked it with all their might and tore it apart. When the electricians came to fix it, they laughed at Zhenya and I, apparently swinging on that cord like monkeys.

We immediately went to church, got some holy water, and sprinkled it all over the apartment, every wall, every corner, while reciting the "Our Father." And you know what? It became easier to breathe. For about three days. For three days, there was silence, the lights didn't break, the water didn't turn on, no one snored or stomped around at night. And then it all started again with a vengeance. And the remaining holy water in the cleaned jar turned moldy. By the way, I've checked: my mother's holy water, collected from the tap on Epiphany, has been standing for years, and it's been fine.

After Zhenya left, it became impossible to stay in the apartment at night. Especially in the kitchen. Going in there in the dark for no apparent reason was downright creepy.

 So, it all ended like this: one evening, I forgot my bag in the kitchen. I didn't go back for it until nightfall. In the morning, I discovered a child's handprint on it, missing one finger. No amount of cleaning products would wash it off.

I didn't spend another night there. I quickly rented a room, moved my things, and gave the keys to the owners. They, by the way, didn't even bother to ask why I had fled their apartment so hastily.