I could have been a skeptic. I’m a practical person. I only believe in what I can see. But… I have seen too many things that I cannot explain. Experienced things that I know shouldn’t happen. Strange occurrences that were so frequent, I started to believe that I had some sort of affinity for the supernatural. I never before thought there was any ill intent.
It started with thumping. A new sound that I initially passed off as shoddy pipes in my building. The apartments weren’t too old, but there was a certain shabbiness about them. I’ll admit to bargain hunting when looking for a place to live. Still, they seemed homey enough. Yet I can remember the surprised look on the leasing manager’s tired face when I requested to re-sign. “Not many choose to stay,” she had said. I thought I was making her life easier. No tenant hunting for my apartment. I should have recognized the look in her eyes for the concern that it was.
By that point I knew the thumping wasn’t pipes, but I figured it would be no different than before. In the past I had experienced all the clichés. Sporadic tapping, objects moving of their own accord, cold spots in the room. Apparitions. Nightmares. The thumping was new, but it seemed to be of the same ilk of what I went through everywhere else I lived. But the thumping was persistent. Angry.
Every other time in my life, whatever was making the commotion seemed to just want acknowledgment. I would confront what I assumed were spirits, and it would always work. Bring comfort. But this one was different. When I asked why it was agitated, it seemed to get upset. The thumping became louder. More aggressive. I took some time away from my apartment. Maybe it didn’t want acknowledgement like the others. I decided I would leave it alone. I thought it had worked. The thumping subsided, and I refrained from any attempt at contact again. Then my senses began to behave strangely.
It wasn’t something I noticed at first. A shadow in my peripheral, or faint scent that I couldn’t discern. A hushed whispering that I wasn’t sure I was even hearing. But once I did notice, it became impossible to ignore. Still, I decided not to call attention to it. Live my life as normal. I was not opposed to my roommate. I have had living partners in the past. Friends. Relationships. I found many could not stay with me for long. I could be untidy. A bit standoffish and strange. I can admit that. But I don’t think that’s what drove them away. I could never connect with anyone. My partners chided me for being distant. Not present. The accusation of “robot” is one I have heard from many mouths. It didn’t bother me. Little does. I never suffer from loneliness, despite always being alone. Because I never feel alone. Maybe that’s why the unexplainable presences in my life never bothered me. Much.
This presence was strange. It was there, but seemed to hide from me. I took it as shy, and I respected that. But I no longer think it was shy. I think it was cunning. Patient. I began to lose sleep. I felt the presence in my room at night. It didn’t feel lonely or sad. It felt angry. A cold anger. Bordering on hate. The little sleep I did get was filled with dark dreams that I could barely remember upon awakening. Dim corridors and echoing chambers. The only real ones I could recall were those that came with sleep paralysis. Vivid visions of a figure standing over my body. I know this is not uncommon with sleep paralysis, and I have had many similar experiences, but this felt sinister.
My sleepless fugue began to pervade my life. Work became hazy. It was fortunate that my coworkers paid me such little mind, because I was not quite myself. Woozy and tired, I don’t know how well I could have passed for socially acceptable. I had a hard time enough normally. I began avoiding home for as long as possible. Wandering downtown. Napping in my car. But I still returned nightly to shower, and attempt to sleep. Still, the presence became more agitated. My showers would turn cold. The thumping returned, loud and aggressive. The night terrors became routine. My senses were always jumbled in that apartment. Reality became hazy. Worst of all, I began to see it. The dark figure looming in the doorways of my home. That was when I knew for certain that this was not like before. That this entity was malicious.
My mind began to fray everywhere. Like a scar on my brain. No matter where I was, the unsettled feeling was there. Gnawing at the back of my head. Home became unbearable. Its presence was like an inaudible screeching. I realized I had holes in my memory. I would be somewhere, doing something, and not remember what I had done to get there. The worst was the incident with the knife. The sharp, cold metal lightly tickling my cheek, propelled by my own hand. It didn’t draw blood, but the realization that I had no memory of grabbing the blade, or even entering my kitchen, was enough to send my directly to the leasing office. My safety was more important than a contract fee. But the office was empty. Not just empty, abandoned. Dust coated every surface, as if it had been years since it was entered. I was just there, wasn’t I? I remember searching the rooms, and finding what I thought might have been a trace of dried blood behind a desk. I remember calling the emergency line to report a potential missing person. I remember there being no answer.
I walked back to my apartment then. The sky was overcast. It felt like it had been overcast for days… weeks maybe. I looked at the buildings as I passed. Had they always been so old? So decrepit? So empty? I had no neighbors, but I could not remember if that had always been the case. Wasn’t there a family beneath me? With kids always on their bikes, and their mother watching from the patio? Their door was chipping now. Splintered wood giving way to time. Shadows seemed to dance around it. Around the whole complex. As if the shades of the residents were still milling about. The stairs leading to my apartment seemed endless, but when I arrived at my door, it felt like no time had passed at all. I knew then. I knew entering that apartment would be different. And I was right.
I remember opening that door. The sight I was greeted with. Blood dripping down the walls. Pooling on the floors. Gallons of it. I remember the gore plastered to every surface. Piled in corners. Intestines nailed to doorways like perverse birthday streamers. Rotted and segmented appendages hanging from the ceiling. I remember the centerpiece: a mound of putrid flesh comprised of what I could only assume were badly decomposed body parts oozing in the center of the living room. Was the office manager’s peeled face stuck to the side of it? Or was that… my face? The shadowed figure was standing in the farthest doorway of my apartment. The guest bedroom I never used or even set foot in. I had liked to pretend it was a space for this creature. A place for my companion to reside. But now I understand. It only ever wanted to live in my tortured nightmares. I could not scream. I could not even bring myself to move. I stood there, locked in the red room with the demon that reveled in my torment. Sometimes I wonder if I ever left that place. Maybe I’m still there, retracted into my own head. That is the last memory I have. The last thing I truly remember before this. Now everything is gray darkness. Shapeless mist that I am eternally lost in. The only thing that I think reaches through that fog, the only thing that roots my consciousness to any semblance of reality, is an occasional angry thumping.