I would say I was truly independent when I got my first job as an accountant, and moved into a flat in a small village where my office was located. Compact and open-plan, it was my private slice of heaven for a while.
My front door bordered a busy walkway which connected two parts of the village centre. That door was in the left-most corner of my kitchen and living room area, and further down was my bedroom. I always left my bedroom door open and let the light of the bathroom spill in to save energy, and because I liked the softer light.
Having that door open meant that I heard the teenagers who gathered outside the public library opposite, more often than I would have liked. I wish the agency had told me that I was directly adjacent a popular youth meetup spot, but then again I probably still would have moved in.
Sometimes they were loud. A few times they knocked on my door and ran away. I just got used to it. I tried to listen from my side of the door, to check if they were there or not when it was late and I wanted to get some chocolate from the shops. After a few months, I was very good at knowing when and when not to go out.
However, one afternoon, they got me. I was walking back from the shops with some snacks in my backpack, and one of the guys in the group made some snarky comment which I fail to remember now. Then, a few days later, I walked out of my front door to see my two bins toppled over. Someone had written, “C*nt” on the side of one with permanent marker. Yeah, real funny. But I wasn’t angry. I was scared.
I was scared it would get worse, that their abuse would only escalate, and they’d see how helpless and defenceless I actually was here in my lonely five-hundred-a-month fortress. Scared I’d eventually have to leave this slice of heaven I had carved for myself.
I was in my early twenties, it’s not like I could go out there wagging my finger like a senile old man and call them all whipper snappers or something. Neither could I reason with them. I know how careless and obnoxious I was as a kid. Being a kid is like being in freefall from a catapult of whose direction you never asked to go. It’s not like they could help it, but it was horrible.
The police were never an option. I know how slow and incapable they are with such trivial matters. Also, who knew what they were capable of? I called them teenagers, but some of them were pretty tall, pretty stocky. If I contacted the authorities, they might retaliate and the situation could get worse. So, I just dealt with it my own way: I continued to avoid them as best I could.
Not much happened for a while after that, but I worried nonetheless. Their aggravated noises beyond the walls could ruin my whole night, even though they had nothing to do with me probably. It took time, but eventually I began to relax again and actually enjoy my private time. That was, until one night.
My bedroom layout had my bed at one end and the door to the left. On the opposite side was my desk and a translucent window that I never bothered to add curtains to. I had tested the visibility of that window with my aunt when I first moved, and knew that it was impossible to see any detail through it, just outlines.
The translucent window bordered an alleyway that allowed access to a few front doors of adjacent flats and such. It was barely used compared to the walkway at the other end of my flat. However, while laying in my bed one night and staring through that window, I saw shadows of people gather by the single lamp post that lit the path in an orange glow. I soon realised they were muttering in hushed tones. Barely audible, I couldn’t make out a word.
They stayed their for a long time, until my paranoia went into overdrive, and I slumped into my duvet leaving only the top of my head so I could peek through. At some point, one of the shadows walked closer to the window and stood there for a while. Then, it pressed its face right against the glass, revealing a pair of eyeballs which scanned the room. That’s when I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. It must have been ten minutes until I opened them again; every minute imagining those same eyes watching me. However, when I finally lifted my eyelids, the shadows were gone.
Proceeding days passed uneventfully, but I kept thinking about the shadows. Who were they? And why did they want to look through my window? Was it the teenagers? Had they seen my computer? Did they know it was worth over two-thousand pounds? Perhaps that was worth breaking my window for? I didn’t sleep well after that.
I spoke to my online friend about my situation, and he said I might have been blowing it out of proportion a little. “It is possible they were just being nosy little buggers.” He tried to reassure me. But I was convinced otherwise. And I was right; although, I still have no idea how the events connect, or how what I’m about to tell you is even possible.
It was another night, and I was in my bedroom, on my computer. My earphones were in, but I wasn’t listening to anything yet, when I could have swore I heard a rustling in the kitchen. I wondered whether it may have been my letterbox, but it was approaching early morning so this didn’t make sense. Nevertheless, the noise had spooked me enough to investigate.
I walked into the kitchen and living room area, flipping on the light and squinting into the emptiness, until my eyes fixed on the letterbox. As the flap slowly rose, my blood ran cold.
I found myself frozen on the spot as the flap subtly twitched up and down, like a small animal was trapped within, trying to escape. I still struggle to believe what happened next.
Four pale and bony fingers emerged under the flap, followed shortly by a pale-pinkish thumb. Then came an arm, so thin you could make out the bones beneath the skin. It slithered silently through the bristles like a hunting snake.
It hung motionless for a second like a dead tail, and I could feel my heart ringing in my chest like a cathedral bell. Then, it began patting the inside of the door. Clumsily at first, but it soon found its bearings. Realising what it was trying to do, I yelled. “Hey!” My forced aggression, hiding terror, was swallowed instantaneously by the silence.
The bony arm was barely perturbed and kept reaching, until its slick, dirty fingers alighted on my keys. I freaked out, leaping instinctively to snatch them from it, which I managed to do, thank God. The arm hung still again for a moment, its fingers drooping downward as if expressing sadness, then its palm pointed towards me. Its fingers stretched into a claw, and I heard hissing sounds from outside, followed by youthful laughter. Then, slowly, it shuffled its way back through the bristles.
Keys in hand, I rushed to my front window. Unfortunately, my front door was a blind spot and I couldn’t see anything but the library and benches opposite. “Who are you?” I called from behind the glass. “Is this a prank?” But I never got an answer.
I had to call the police after that. They arrived at my house the next day to survey the area and take the details of the event. They took my concerns seriously at first, until I mentioned the hand, and from then on their patience ran thin, as did mine. The culprits were never found. I don’t think they ever looked into it.
I decided then that I would move and find a new job and place to live, but before I did, I spoke to my neighbour who lived above me. Like me, he also had a window that bordered the walkway and according to my observations had it open most nights. Surely he too had found their noise pollution and nightly activities disturbing? Confronted them at one point? I knew he had a daughter. At least for her sake? So, just before I left, I knocked on his door and asked him.
When he looked confused and claimed never to have heard anything, I was of course thrown off guard. I spoke to him for a few minutes more, fighting desperately for a morsel of confirmation, which I didn’t get. And in the final nights I spent in that flat, I listened to the ruckus of activity outside, wondering if I was going mad.
For the time being, I moved back in with my aunt and uncle. They wouldn’t let me remove the keys from their front door, so I crept down in the middle of the night when they were asleep. There was one time recently, a few days ago, when, just before I reached the bottom step, I could have sworn I sore a pale hand creeping back through the letterbox.