He was not actually my brother, but that’s what I liked to call him, because it made him less scary.
He lived above me, in apartment number 22. I lived in apartment 19 with my mom.
It’s an 8 story building. Not concrete gray, but with light brown walls and floors that have no color anymore, because of how many times they’ve been scraped. Traces of paint hang from the walls and pipes of all shapes form some sort of labyrinth. A few weeks before, I wanted to go all the way up, because I remembered going on the roof as a child with my dad. That was the most interesting thing about this building, and the least creepy.
I wondered if it was still accessible, or if the landlord had put some sort of lock on the door, for safety issues. I didn’t have to climb a lot of stairs from my apartment, just up until the 8th floor and then an additional set. On top of it was the door.
I had never bothered to go so far, and now the building seemed strange. Not mine. It’s so weird how you can live somewhere for so long, and yet keep parts of it unknown. The door was, obviously, locked up, which was a bit disappointing. I had really hoped I’d be able to sneak in. It seemed like a cool hangout spot. I gave up and went back to my apartment, but I was determined to break the lock, some sort of rebellious instinct I’d never really had before.
The next day, as I was coming back from school, something caught my eye on my doorstep. Something shiny.
I bent down and picked up two wires, which seemed like they came from some bent pins. One of them was shaped like it had a little handle, and the other was just bent in the middle, all the way.
Could it be…?
I looked up, then around. The long hallway was silent. No one on the stairs.
I went up, to the eighth floor, and dropped my backpack there, for some reason. As I stared at the door of apartment 22, I sort of knew that whoever lived there had seen me the day before. Apartment 22 was the only one on the 8th floor.
The whole floor looked very depressing, and the door was made of metal. I got a bit creeped out and just went higher. I bent down and stuck one pin into the lock, then just passed the other through the hole, until I started hearing some clicks.
It was actually quite easy to hear those, as the silence had it echo even harder. That and the beating of my heart. After some excruciating minutes, right when I was about to give up, a final click and the lock opened.
A wave of triumph washed over me, and I opened the door. The space outside was way smaller than I’d imagined, but good enough.
I started spending my days there. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Occasionally, I’d hear some scraping sounds from below, where apartment 22 was, and some thuds, but I didn’t mind.
I started playing music, bringing girls, making the most out of that unique, private space where I could see everything in the city. One night, I was there with my girlfriend Sandra. We were having some beer and just talking about life, when the scratching and the creaking started.
‘Yeah, excuse that. It’s just some weird neighbor.’
‘Dude, do they really move furniture this late?’
Screeeech.
‘Uh, yeah, I guess. I don’t know what they do. They actually gave me some pins to open the lock to the roof. I guess they’re not so bad.’
She raised her brows. ‘How do they look?’
‘I have no idea. They left them on my doorstep.’
‘That’s weird.’
Draaaaaag.
‘What the fuck.’
Bang. Bang.
‘Bro, fucking stop it!’ I yelled, trying to seem brave and macho in front of her.
It stopped.
I never heard the sounds again.
A week or so passed, and one evening I was coming home and took the stairs as usual, as the elevator never worked. Looking up the 8 sets of stairs, I thought I saw something at the very end. It was dark, but it looked like a spot. A lighter one. Grey.
I reached the first floor and looked again. The spot was a bit bigger, and it also had a bit of darkness on one side.
The second floor - a person was probably bending down to look at me.
My heart skipped a beat. Was it the guy I’d yelled at? That creep? I just hoped he’d leave me alone.
Third floor. I could make out his face clearer. He was drained of color and had some sort of glasses on.
Fourth, fifth, sixth. I could not make out his eyes, for the love of me. Were those bandages? Aw. man, he could have been blind. Explains all the noise.
As I reached my floor, horror set over me. I realized he had sticks in his eyes. No actual eyes, just some sticks poking out. Not even a wound.
What the fuck?
You know that moment when you’re terrified, but you can’t even scream? You just stare? For some reason, I didn’t want to go back to my apartment, after what I’d just seen. And I was curious. So I climbed up to the 8th floor.
The guy was pale and fragile, like a kid. He must’ve been 13, 14. He didn’t say anything, just stared.
‘Hi, um, you live here?’ I said, and pointed to apartment 22.
The thing reached out with a ghastly hand, and his cold fingers felt my own. I shivered, and could not protest. His purple nails trailed around my arm. He really is blind. He could not see where I was pointing.
He then nodded.
‘Oh, ok. Can you talk?’
‘Yes.’
His voice was quiet and guttural, like he had some sort of cold.
‘Um, cool. Thanks for the wires. You know, the roof.’
He was so fucking terrifying, and the hallway was so unwelcoming, that I fought the urge to sprint out of there every minute that passed.
‘No problem. Sorry for the sounds. It’s not my fault. I hear them too.’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry.’
Maybe he wasn’t so bad. Despite his appearance, which made me puke and bawl my eyes out, he could be decent.
We stood there in silence for a while. I didn’t want to turn my back on him.
‘So, uh… I think I’m gonna go. It was nice seeing you.’
‘Ok. See you another time, then.’
He sounded disappointed. ‘Yeah, see you.’
From then on, I’d see him stare at me from the top of the stairs. Not every time, just some days. I’d be so nervous and terrified to come home, and so relieved when I saw he was not there. Every time he was, though, I’d stop and have a terrible small talk with him. I guess I felt sorry for whatever fate he had.
I was avoiding him so fucking badly, though. God, did I hate him. I hated how unnatural he looked. How he made my skin crawl. I’d try to not make any sound, thinking he didn’t hear me, but he always heard. He always knew.
One day, I was coming home with my friends. I had completely forgotten about my neighbor, and as I reached the first and second floor with them, something prompted me to look up. And I saw him stare down at me. Panic rushed over me as I turned to them and said ‘Ok, change on plans. We’re going somewhere else.’
‘Dude, what are you talking about?’
‘I’ll tell you. Move.’
I rushed them out, but I didn’t want to tell them the truth. I just said I had some creepy old man with dementia and I didn’t want him to ruin our mood. They believed it.
Coming back home, I could see him there. I went up and he spoke first.
‘Do I embarrass you?’
‘No.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘No… it’s just… my friends aren’t like me. They are meaner and might make fun of you.’
‘Then why do you stay with them?’
‘I have no choice.’
‘You have a choice.’
‘Well, I’d be lonely.’
‘You wouldn’t. I’m lonely all the time. It’s fine. We can be each other’s friends.’
I’d rather fucking die.
I sighed and scratched the back of my head. ‘What happened to your eyes?’
I was expecting him to lie. I wanted him to lie.
‘My mother took them.’
The words just floated there for a while, until I found my voice.
‘Um, how?’
‘She poked them out with her nails. I had to stick something up there, so my insides wouldn’t pour out. I found sticks.’
That explanation wasn’t better. ‘Is she still here?’
‘Yeah, but she never comes out.’
‘Then who comes out? Who gets groceries? Who does all the regular stuff? Is your mother ill?’
‘Yeah, very ill. I take care of her. I bring food and water.’
‘That’s good. You are a good son. Despite what she did to you.’
The boy didn’t say anything. He turned and went back to his door, then opened it, revealing an almost empty room, except for a chair and some very small paintings, crooked and hanged from the walls.
‘Do you want to come in? We can play. I have toys.’
‘I can’t. What if your mom takes my eyes out, too?’
‘She can’t. She is too ill.’
‘Have you ever thought about getting her to a hospital? Maybe they will look at your eyes, too. Give you some glass ones, so they look more natural.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I cannot see. It’s not safe.’
‘I’ll take you.’
The boy closed the door gently, and left me there. I was determined to get some help for him. I did not care, whether he wanted to or not, this child was in danger and deserved a better life.
The first thing I did was to tell my own mom. ‘Mom, there’s a kid living upstairs, and his mom abuses him. He can’t leave his floor, and she took his eyes out.’
My mom’s hand stopped from smashing the potatoes. She looked up at me, in shock. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m serious. We need to call the police or something. That kid only talks to me. He is afraid of her, but doesn’t want to show it.’
After I’d explained all the details, she went with me to the police station and we reported the case. In a week or so, two armed men climbed the stairs with me and knocked on the metal door.
‘Hey, it’s me. I changed my mind. We can play now.’ I said.
Silence.
‘HEY! Are you there? Please let me in. I can play with you now.’
No answer. They finally forced the door.
The empty room greeted us, as I remembered it. As they walked in, they told me to stay outside.
A few excruciating minutes passed. As I stood there, I tried hard to hear any sound. Just some footsteps and hushed remarks. Suddenly, there was silence.
‘Holy fuck. No.’
‘What?’ I rushed in. The screams were coming from the farthest room.
There hung his mother, rotting away, surrounded my rotted food, and they said she’d killed herself way before. Months, even. Before I’d known him. The note she’d left was crumpled up on on the floor, next to the chair she’d probably kicked out.
Voices are always there, day and night! They speak weirdly of me. They call me Medusa.
I have a son and a daughter. She left long ago. The other one is not so bright. He doesn’t understand me. He refuses to look at me. He just asks for his father. I wish we were with him, but he was fucking selfish and left.
And I tried, even if I didn’t want to. I tried, but they speak so loud. And his eyes are his father’s. And his father killed himself, and now burns in Hell. He saw him jump. He shouldn’t have seen him like that. It is way too traumatic for a child.
I am sorry for him. I will not let him see me do it. He doesn’t deserve it.
The note ended abruptly.
The poor boy could not see his dead mother. He felt her and thought she was ill. I could not bear to think what he went through, all these months, and maybe even before that. He was nowhere to be found in the apartment. I hoped he’d finally ran away.
We moved out of the city, me and my mom. I decided I would not let this incident define my life. I decided I’d have a life, a career, and succeed in spite of this trauma. The nightmares were eventually kicked out of my head by my therapist. I chose psychology as my major and dedicated my life to children, rescuing them from abusive homes.
Years had passed, maybe 20, 25, and life eventually led me back to that building. It had been closed down, but an invisible string pulled me through the metal doors and to the flights of stairs I had always climbed. Terror was not there anymore, just a macabre sadness and silence.
I could still see his face stare down at me. I went up the roof and relieved a bit of my teenage years. Nostalgia rushed over me. Then a thought appeared. At first, it was random and I didn’t give it any importance, but it started bugging me.
I had not seen any toys in apartment 22.
Well, maybe he packed them up when he left.
No he didn’t. I don’t think he did.
Maybe he was playing with sticks.
No, I don’t believe that.
Just leave. You can leave that mystery for another day.
This train of thought had led me to the metal door. I opened it and stepped inside. The place was untouched. The only difference was, obviously, that the body was gone. However, apparently the rancid smell had lingered. I could still feel it. It had been absorbed by the walls.
The room where she died was the same. I saw the toy chest in the corner, below the window. I felt a bit comforted. At least he really did have toys to play with, not sticks. I was glad he’d left this hellhole.
I went there and opened it up, out of curiosity.
I laid down, on the putrid floor, and closed my eyes. Suddenly, the whole room started spinning. I let out a cry, then another. Finally, I stood up and ran down the stairs. Into the car. Turned on the engine and drove far, far away.
He’d heard the police.
I turned the radio up.
He was scared. He wanted to hide. He called to his mom for help. She didn’t answer.
I was going 90mph.
He thought he’d found a place to hide. Somewhere safe. He couldn’t see.
Cracked open a window. I needed to get some air.
He got stuck.
Blue lights behind me.
All these years.
I pull up. The policeman comes to my window.
‘Do you know how fast you were going?’
I know. And I don’t care. The fine doesn’t get to me. My license apparently will be taken away for a few months.
I don’t care. All I do is stare into the distance, as he writes me a ticket. I don’t cry, I don’t argue.
I stay silent, and I wonder how long it’ll be until I speak again.