Are any of you just… apprehensive? Anxious? At night? Alone in your house?
You see, I’ve never found monsters in the woods particularly frightening. Under your bed however…
Haunted houses? Never. Your own home becoming haunted… well…
Do you just sometimes look around random dark corners, waiting for a smiling… thing… to appear suddenly, just staring at you? Do you ever check under your bed for the monsters, only to be relieved by its emptiness?
Do you lie in that same bed, eyes open, sweat dripping down your forehead, and assume even the slightest creak of the floorboards to be a murderous stalker? A man who is going to tie you up in your bed and then slit your throat? Or maybe just watch you sleep?
I always have, even in dwellings I’ve lived in for years. Nothing ever happens, of course, because the fear is simply irrational. There are real things you should be afraid of, believe me.
Now imagine moving into a new apartment. New corridors, new nighttime hallways you can’t see down completely, new dancing shadow people that the moonlit Venetian blinds highlight, but never enough to fully make eye contact with.
Now, however, that fear is rational, and I’m horrified.
My reality since a few days ago has been that fear. I moved into the fully, newly furnished, mid-1960s gothic apartment by myself. Top floor, and truly a fabulous view of the bricked side of another building. Think the set of “Rosemary’s Baby” without a demon cult, Roman Polanski, Mia Farrow or a crotch goblin baby, and you’re pretty close.
I had no family. No children, no husband or boyfriend, no dogs, no fish, nothing.
It was, and still is I suppose, nice looking. 1 bedroom on the right, 1 bath on the left, with a surprisingly modern open concept living room and kitchen that leads to the front door, all separated by a narrow hallway that splits the apartment into a “T” shape. Current appliances and amenities sharply contrasted the 60 year old gothic architecture of the walls and ceilings. But trust me, the nice looks are merely superficial.
There is something going on here. I haven’t the faintest idea of what that is, but it all began that first night.
Night 1. The first night.
I pushed aside my moving boxes, ordered a pizza, and watched some Friends reruns before bed. I despise the show, but hadn’t set up my streaming services, so it was all I had besides the news and PBS.
My bedroom has an ornately carved, wooden wall clock that audibly ticks for each second passed. This, coupled with the air conditioning unit, provides some nice hotel-esqe ambience, perfect for sleep. I showered, thinking that the water itself was a bit harsh on my skin.
The rubbery green shower curtain hung overhead from an archway that extended down past the rest of the ceiling. It boxed me in, leaving me feeling claustrophobic.
After feeling satisfactorily clean, I stepped out of the poorly lit shower and grabbed a towel to dry. As I was, I heard something. Faint. Down that dark hallway.
A bottle cap falling on the kitchen counter.
Clink Clink Clink Clink Clink.
The echo of the measly cap felt pervasive and filled my chest. I froze. Had I left a cap on a bottle? Impossible. I had drunk a cream soda with my pizza, but I finished it. In the recycling bin finished. Oh god! The realization made my blood stop, my head feeling dizzy as paranoia crept up my shoulders.
The bathroom door hung open slightly, allowing me to peak into the hallway when I parted the shower curtain.
Darkness.
My breathing quickened. My head became a mess of thought. I shut the bathroom door and locked it. Slinking down on the floor, still naked, I hunkered in the corner of the shower, ears open for the slightest noise. There I stayed.
When I awoke, there was no opened soda on the counter or the fridge.
Night 2.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
I had to get over myself. Nothing was going on. I’m just adjusting, right? I had to sleep in my own bed. I locked my door out of precaution.
The clock kept humming. My eyes shut, I tried quieting my mind. After what seemed like a half hour, I began drifting off. The thunderstorm outside assured my peaceful transition.
I awoke in the middle of the night, perspiring vigorously, my sheets drenched in sweat. I rubbed my eyes, trying to get them to adjust. I heard something. Suddenly, out past the hall. My brain, still mostly asleep, tried focusing on the faint scattering as I propped myself up on my elbows.
You know the sound your bare feet make when they walk on wood or tile flooring? It sounded like that, but deliberately quiet. A tip-toe of sorts. As if someone didn’t want me to awaken, because they presumed me asleep.
My stomach dropped, my anxiety causing my throat to swell itself shut. I couldn’t breathe.
Then nothing. I froze. The sound froze.
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
I sat there, listening.
Tick-Tock.
Waiting for something to happen like the previous night was proving to be unbearable.
I threw myself back under the covers, squeezing my eyes shut. I was much too frightened to investigate. I heard nothing else besides the clock as I listened intently.
After maybe 20 minutes of silence, I worked up the courage to investigate. I grabbed a knife from one of the moving boxes as I slowly crept down the hallway. I hunched my shoulders as the walls drew closer, squeezing together like a trash compactor. I screamed in agonized pain as the walls crushed me, I could no longer walk or stand up straight.
I stood mummified in the hallway. A man appeared from my right, his side facing me as he walked slowly. Suddenly he stopped in the entrance of the hall, turning his entire body in one motion to face me.
A flash of lightning illuminated him. Fat, naked, beer gut sagging down past his thighs. He wore a strange, white mask, his scraggly grey beard poking out of either side.
A single blink of the eye, he vanished. I now laid flat on the hallway floor, looking up to see a dark kitchen.
Night 3. The last night.
The last two nights had left me concerned for my health, so I arranged a last minute doctor’s appointment. She determined me to be in perfect health. Relieved, I spent the rest of day sightseeing the city and unpacking the rest of my belongings, although with some trepidation. I felt lonely and isolated, despite the new beginning. I cooked myself a cheap dinner of pasta and chicken.
Finally pleased with myself that my unpacking was complete and I could cook my own meals in my own kitchen, I slipped under the covers and turned out my lights. The wall clock soothed my racing mind as its hands moved imperceptibly in the darkness.
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
My pillow felt cool and firm underneath my skull as my breathing slowed ever so slightly. I fell asleep without incident.
I once again awoke in the middle of the night.
A white mask on my nightstand.
I recoiled in horror. I screamed. I screamed so loud I couldn’t feel the air move past my throat.
I jumped out of bed, I sprinted down the hall. I screamed, my arms flailing.
The kitchen window, the one with the terrible view of the brick building. The man from last night stood, no, floated, in it. His mask was gone. It was…
My father. He’s drunk. I’m twelve again.
“Shut up you bitch!”
“You better do what you’re fucking told!”
“It’ll be over before you know it!”
“Just take it! I don’t give a fuck if it hurts!”
My father.