Quiet Steps

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I’d like to tell a story that nearly drove me insane. It all started a little less than a year ago. At the time, I had just finished school, almost earning a silver medal. I submitted my university applications and passed based on my scores. So I could spend the rest of the summer without worrying about anything.

My apartment was on the first floor. It looked roughly like the letter E rotated 90 degrees clockwise. The entrance was on the left. The first “bar” was the kitchen, the second—the living room and my parents’ bedroom, and the third (farthest from the entrance)—my room. My mother left for a business trip to Moscow at the end of May. My father worked from morning until late at night. We had no pets, so I was alone in the apartment most of the day. Naturally, I didn’t sit at home much, since I’m social by nature and preferred to go out with my girlfriend or friends. The apartment was just a pit stop—stop by to eat, sleep, or spend a little time on the computer.

One day, in the middle of summer, I tripped on almost flat ground and twisted my ankle. The doctor at the urgent care clinic said nothing was seriously wrong, but I should stay home for five or six days. I decided to follow that advice.

There wasn’t much to do in the kitchen, and my room was small—just a bed and a wardrobe—so I spent most of my time in the living room on the computer. One day, I noticed a barely audible noise coming from the kitchen. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But about three minutes later, it happened again. It sounded like a very soft rustling, like a plastic bag. I thought it might be a bag blown by the wind through an uncovered window, but I decided to check anyway.

There was nothing in the kitchen that could have made the noise. Shrugging, I turned to leave—but froze. A very creepy and sudden sensation hit me, as if someone was standing right behind me, staring at the back of my head. I was so startled I couldn’t turn around, and only barely managed to walk into the hallway before looking back. No one was there—but the feeling didn’t go away.

Thinking it was just a weird glitch in my mind, I returned to the living room. Gradually, the fear subsided, and I even laughed at myself, returning to the internet. But almost immediately, I heard steps. Not exactly steps—more like a dry, faint rustling, rhythmic and somehow terrifying. I called out loudly, “Who’s there?” The steps didn’t stop. I felt it on my skin—someone passed by the closed living room door into my room and then back. There was no one in the hallway or in my room.

No more steps were heard that day. When my father came home around 11 p.m., I told him the story. He looked at me tiredly, said he had never heard anything like that before, and went to sleep without dinner—he was constantly exhausted from working as a loader.

The next day, I already felt uneasy being alone in the empty apartment. I tried to calm myself, telling myself it was just a phobia that had appeared out of nowhere. However, lying on my bed, I heard quiet steps in the kitchen again.

I had once read a book called *Phenomenon People*. There was a chapter on progeria—a rare condition in which children age rapidly and often die around 11–12 years old. At the start of the chapter, an illustration showed a person with an oversized, gray, elderly head holding a cat. The eyes were the most frightening—large, half-closed, and the smile—or rather smirk—seemed unkind, insincere, even cruel. This, in a sense, miserable person looked like a terrifying, unnatural parody of a human. For some reason, the steps immediately became associated with that figure. I imagined a gray, withered being with a frozen smirk on thin lips, slowly walking down the long empty corridor, casting a low shadow ahead.

That day I was in the living room. As usual, I had the door closed and was sitting in front of the monitor, when I again felt the chilling gaze. I turned around and heard the steps more clearly, as if someone was hurriedly moving to the kitchen. The door was almost half-open—I remembered securing it properly.

From that day, the nightmare began. At night, no steps were heard; my father slept soundly and knew nothing. He dismissed my stories as imagination, but I am by nature a skeptic and not particularly imaginative. Still, my father paid no attention to the steps. I would have gladly left the apartment during the day, but my ankle didn’t allow it. So I spent four days locked inside, occasionally venturing to the bathroom. And yet I couldn’t calm down: quiet steps—there and back, there and back… Sometimes, distant, indistinct murmuring could be heard.

On the fifth evening, my father’s work called. While carrying a heavy load at a construction site, he lost his balance and fell onto a pile of bricks in a stairwell from the second floor of an unfinished building. Limping from pain in my ankle, I rushed to the hospital. My father lay there, completely bandaged, pale, but still managing to smile and even joke. I stayed with him until ten p.m., when visiting hours ended.

I came home around 11:30 p.m. and immediately went to bed. When the usual ticking of the clock was interrupted by a rustling, I woke instantly. I had never heard steps at night before. The steps stopped near my door. That faint murmuring sounded again, then gradually faded and disappeared. I waited about half an hour, fighting the nervous tremors, and then approached the door. I froze. The latch, which I had definitely left fully closed, was barely hanging on the hook. Just a little more movement—and the door would have swung wide open.

I couldn’t sleep anymore. I hurriedly packed, opened the door, and left the apartment. I wandered the city all night, smoking, stopping in crowded places. I had no desire to return home. My father stayed in the hospital for another three weeks. During that time, I never spent the night at the apartment. I went there only to collect money, sleeping at friends’ or relatives’ places who didn’t understand, but didn’t refuse shelter. I walked the city up and down.

Finally, my mother returned from her business trip. I met her at the station; she was surprised at my appearance—thin, in worn clothes. I practically begged her to move—fortunately, I had found a good option in the classifieds. She shrugged but agreed. We hired movers, and I refused to return to that apartment. We moved three days later. All that time we stayed with my aunt, who lived near the hospital—so we could visit my father regularly. Later, my father was discharged, and we finally lived relatively peacefully.

Recently, while walking in a city park, I met a former neighbor—he was pushing his young son in a stroller. We started talking. Apparently, right after us, a young guy from Central Asia, half Russian, half Uzbek, moved into that apartment. He lived there only a week. Neighbors, concerned that the guy had locked himself inside for a week without coming out, called the police. They rang the doorbell for a long time and then forced entry. He was found lying on the kitchen floor, holding a large bread knife in one hand. His veins on both arms were completely slashed. The examination confirmed suicide.

After telling this, the neighbor waved goodbye and casually added before leaving: “By the way, lately when I sleep, it feels like someone is walking behind the wall…”