Noise in the Kitchen

My father and I lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town. My mother died when I was 12. My relatives lived in another city. It was a difficult time, and my father worked two jobs to support himself and me. So I got used to him coming home quite late.

One evening, as usual, I was sitting at the computer, listening to music. Suddenly, I was attracted by a vague noise coming from the kitchen. I looked at my watch—it was just after midnight, just about the time my father usually returned from work. I turned down the volume and called out, "Dad, is that you?" There was no answer, but the noise from the kitchen repeated itself. It sounded like someone opening the refrigerator and then closing it. Then I heard footsteps and everything went silent. Thinking my father hadn't heard, I turned the music back on and continued sitting. About an hour passed, and I was starting to nod off, when my cell phone rang. I looked at the phone and was surprised—it was my father calling. Not understanding why he needed it if he was already home, I answered. My father said he wouldn't be home today—he'd been kept on the night shift, so he wouldn't be back until morning. I swallowed, said, "Okay," and hung up.

I immediately rushed to the bedroom door and slammed it shut. I also threw the latch on the door, just in case. Turning off the music, I listened, but the kitchen was quiet. After a while, I finally decided to go out to "scout." First, I checked the front door—it was locked. Then I turned on the hallway light and headed toward the kitchen. The kitchen door was closed. I crept up to it quietly and put my ear to it. At first, it was quiet, but then I heard a vague scraping sound and a faint snoring sound. I picked up the mop standing in the hallway and, holding it out in front of me, pulled the handle with the tip. The door didn't budge. Then I pushed her with all my might and almost flew into the kitchen. I immediately rushed to the switch and turned on the light. The kitchen was empty. Everything was in its place, just as it had been the last time I was there. I calmed down a bit, deciding I must have imagined it, and turned to leave. At that moment, the light bulb behind me exploded, showering me with shards, followed by a shrill, heart-rending scream, almost a screech. Something warm poked me in the back, but I was already running into the room as fast as I could. Flying into my room, I slammed the door, threw the latch, and pulled the nightstand next to me over for safety. My heart was pounding like crazy, my legs were weak and barely obeyed me. Almost exhausted, I made it to the bed and collapsed on it, listening. There was silence behind the door. I tried dialing my father's number, but there was no answer. I lay there for almost an hour, but eventually, sleep overcame me.

In the morning, I was awakened by my father returning from work. The first thing I asked him was how he got into the room, to which he replied that the door was open. The dresser with his clothes had been pushed into the corner of the room. Stuttering, I told him everything. We went to the kitchen but found nothing but shards of a lightbulb. My father, seeing my state, said nothing. We moved out that same day to stay with friends and didn't return to the apartment until my father found someone to swap things with, and we went to get our things. The apartment looked like a bunch of alcoholics had been frolicking there for a week straight. The wallpaper was torn off, everything was splintered and torn. The refrigerator in the kitchen was upside down, and all its contents were piled up in the far corner. We went to the neighbors, but they said everything was quiet and they hadn't heard anything. We quickly gathered up everything that was left and moved it to the car, and simply threw the rest away. The next day, my father gave the keys to the new owners and warned them about what had happened. They just laughed. I don't know what happened next, but they didn't call us after that.