Wrong apartment

...

My close friend Sergey told me this story. One day, he went to visit a couple he knew who lived in Mytishchi. He'd only visited them once before, and it had been a while, so he didn't really remember the apartment number or location. He arrived around midnight, found the building, went up to the right floor, and rang the doorbell. No one answered. Sergey tried calling his friends on his cell phone, but there was no signal.

Sergey thought he was in the wrong apartment and decided to call the neighboring one (if they were strangers, they might at least be able to help). The doorbell didn't work, so Sergey started knocking loudly (it was after work, and he was as angry as a dog). After a long period of knocking, he heard footsteps outside the door, the lock clicked, but the door didn't open. Sergei, completely on edge, yanked the door open and nearly screamed—standing before him was an old woman with disheveled gray hair, completely naked (just imagine), covered in bluish spots, an unnaturally swollen face, and bulging eyes. The apartment reeked of rottenness, and the old woman herself was covered in some kind of slime or something.

My friend ran out of that house. Without stopping to catch his breath, he reached the highway and hailed a taxi home. He was positively shaking; the taxi driver eyed him sideways, but apparently was afraid to find out why.

Sergey called his friends in the morning, once he'd calmed down a bit, and that evening he'd completely turned off his phone. They said he'd called the right apartment first, but they'd just gone out to the 24-hour store for beer and sausages. And secondly, it turned out that about a year ago, a lonely old woman died in that apartment next door – apparently poisoned by medication.