Skryrr

There's nothing more annoying than a creaking window. Skryrr—opening. Skryrrrr—closing.

And, worst of all, it's squealing in the entryway, I can't stand it! I want to sleep, the bastards, and here it is! Just as I doze off, the wind squeals, the trains squeal, the zombie-voice of the dispatcher outside, and the window, like a coffin lid, squeal!

I hate it.

No, I need to check. I have to get up soon, and I haven't slept! Skryrrrr. Worse than a neighbor with a jackhammer!

"Listen," a ghostly voice rang out in my room as I sleepily pulled on my slippers, "don't go."

"Psholnah."

Those are the hallucinations from lack of sleep. Who could have come in?" It's a shared apartment, yes, but the door's locked at night.

"Listen," a whisper came from the corner, "stay home. You're leaving me some milk. Don't go."

"Go the fuck away," I somehow didn't even understand what it was until I saw a red flicker in the corner. Eyes!

I don't remember how I ended up at the door, in my underwear and my right slipper.

"You poor coward," said the darkness with the eyes, "that's not a window."

"Skryrrr" came from behind the door itself. Skryrrr—from top to bottom. And rustle-rustle-rustle—in the lock. And again—a grinding sound from top to bottom.

"Go to sleep," the eyes advised me, and I passed out right there.

A neighbor woke me up. He yelled that a drunkard shouldn't be sleeping there. Then the cops came.

 The door was stripped from top to bottom. The window was completely gone.

As were the doors of the apartment across the street.

Last night, I put some milk and cookies in the corner.