I heard it before I ever saw it.
The rattling of doorknobs while alone in my apartment. The dragging of a foot behind me as I walked down the hall to my bedroom. There was a time I swear I could hear a deep breathing from underneath my bed as I lay there at night trying to sleep.
I chalked it all up to apartment living. Its normal to hear ‘human’ sounds when 50 people are living in a building together. It was easy to explain away, so I did, but all those explanations went out the window once I finally saw it.
We’ll get to that.
I first started hearing it a week or so after my mother’s funeral. Her passing left a hole in me. My sister died young and my dad was never in the picture, so her passing left me -for the first time in my life- truly alone. Making friends was never my strong suit, so in the few months between her diagnosis and passing I watched as my support system crashed down around me.
After the funeral I was a wreck, completely untethered. Not sleeping. Not eating. Barely getting outside. I was spiraling quickly. The few friends I did have tried to help me, to talk to me, take me to dinner, but I shut them out. I stopped answering calls, I quit my job and decided to live off what little my mother was able to leave me. Like I said, I was spiraling.
One night around 3am, a time I was becoming very familiar with, I was watching a movie, eating leftovers and wallowing in self-pity, as was routine for me at that time, when I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A fleeting black shadow that pulled away from the periphery of my vision as I turned to look at it. Figuring it was just a random hallucination due to the fact I hadn’t slept in 30 hours, I shrugged it off and turned my attention back to the noodles I was eating. A few bites later and I had already forgotten about black apparition when I heard a knock at my door…at 3am. If you’re an introvert like me a knock at the door is scary. If you’re simply a rational human being a knock at the door at 3am is terrifying. Best course of action? Ignore it. I stood up, turned off the tv and went straight to sleep.
That was the first time I heard it. It was the one who knocked at my door. I know I don’t have proof. I know it could very well have been a girl scout at my door trying to sling some thin mints and caramel delights, but I just had a feeling. I can’t explain it, but I knew it wasn’t a someone at the door, it was a something. I don’t expect you to understand.
A few weeks later and the hole I was digging for myself was even deeper. I was hemorrhaging cash due to not working and getting literally all my food and groceries delivered. I rarely left my apartment. Pretty much the only time I did I was taking out a bag or two of trash, and I only did that once the trash had piled so high it formed a roadblock between the couch and the fridge.
I had been hearing it more and more frequently by that time. Take-out boxes falling over in the middle of the night, door knobs wiggling, the knocks at my door in the early hours of the morning. Whatever it was, it was getting more and more bold. Again, I hadn’t seen anything yet so I could easily rationalize these things as typical apartment sounds and insomniac girl scouts.
I hadn’t smoked weed in a few years, I quit when I had to start looking for a real job, you know – the ones that drug test and I just didn’t pick it back up once I put it down, but around the time my mom died I started back up again.
I was never really a huge fan of the stuff. Sometimes smoking bud was nice, mostly it just made me paranoid, but weed does one thing that I really needed in those days – it makes you feel like its okay to be bored. It gave me couch-lock. Go play basketball? Nah, I’ll smoke a joint and lay on the couch. Go for a walk? I’ll just smoke and watch a movie. Write something? Paint something? Read something? Do anything? Maybe after I smoke a few bowls. Needless to say, it became a crutch.
The first time I saw it I was smoking. It was probably 7pm, I was laying on the couch and watching some cooking show on TV thinking about how ‘I could totally do this’ when I sat up and reached for my pipe sitting on the coffee table in front of me. I took a few hits, put my dreams of being a master chef on hold and settled back into the couch for another night of doing absolutely nothing when there was a knock on the door.
Who cares? I sat up, turned down the volume of the TV and waited for whoever it was to go away. I finished smoking and reached to put the pipe back on the coffee table but it slipped out of my grasp and landed with a gentle thud on the carpet between my two feet. I reached down to pick it up when a hand – a fucking hand – reached out from under the couch I was laying on, grabbed the pipe and then pulled itself back into the darkness under the couch. A fucking hand!
I didn’t even make a noise, I wanted to scream, to cry out but I couldn’t. I felt almost paralyzed. Another knock at the door forced me back to my senses and I leapt from the couch and slowly backed away from it. I didn’t want to stay in this apartment anymore, but I also didn’t want to see what was knocking at my door.
I stood quietly in the hallway of the apartment and weighed my options, never taking my eyes off the couch. Stay inside and get murdered by the hand from the Addams family or leave and get murdered by some other unknown entity?
I was leaning towards bunkering down in my bedroom when the hand re-emerged from under the couch. It felt blindly along the floor where my feet would be if I was still sitting there. The hand pushed away the wrappers and to-go boxes around it until it grabbed hold of the leg of the coffee table and worked its way up to the flattop of the table – the whole time more and more arm was extending from the 3-inch crack below the couch. The hand felt along the top of the table, knocking over the bottles and dirty dishes I had neglected. The arm it was attached to was now impossibly long, it seemed like the arm would just keep growing and growing pushing the hand further and further into the apartment when it stopped. I shifted my focus from the arm to the hand itself to see it had closed itself around my bag of weed then, like retracting a tape measure, the arm recoiled back into the impossibly narrow crack under my couch.
I ran for the door. Whatever was knocking at my door could kill me, fine by me. Beats getting boa-constricted by the ghostly arm of Wilt Chamberlin while I was sleeping. The arm wasn’t black btw he just has the longest arms I can think of right now.
I put on some shoes, grabbed my keys, burst out of my door and ran headfirst into the unknown entity that had been knocking at my door for the last 5 minutes.
“Ow you asshole!” shrieked the entity, “what the hell?!”
It was my ex-girlfriend, Katie.
“Katie, I’m so sorry,” I said, pulling her up off the ground, “I didn’t mean to, I’m just…in a rush”
“You look like shit,” Katie said, looking me up and down while brushing some dust off her ass.
“Thanks”
“Oh my god, you smell like shit too,” She took a step back and pretended a dry heave as if I was a gallon of spoiled milk that had come to life, “What’s going on with you?”
“My mom died. I don’t know if you heard but I haven’t been taking it too well,” I gestured up and down and myself, “See?”
“I know, I heard. That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry I missed the funeral. I didn’t get word about her until about a week ago. I really loved your mom,” Her eyes met mine for the first time, “Dude, are you high right now? Your eyes are red as hell!”
“I’ve been crying,” damn I’m good at lying.
“Oh, well I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed, “Well do you want to invite me in and we can talk about it?”
“No, Katie I’m sorry, but like I said, I’m in a hurry and I have a place to be right now. I got to go”
“Ok, I understand, but if you need anything from me, just let me know even if it’s just to talk,” She pulled me in for a hug, “Seriously though, you need to take a shower you smell like a dead raccoon filled with onions”
I stood outside of my door and watched Katie walk to her car. Just before getting in the driver’s seat, she looked back to me and shouted, “You just going to stand there and watch me? Thought you were in a hurry?”
I waved back.
“You can be a really weird guy!” she shouted back before getting in her car and driving off.
I walked out into the parking lot, got in my car and found a motel to spend the night in.
The next day, I entered my apartment around noon. I slowly crept up to the couch, dropped to my hands and knees and scanned the shadows underneath. No weed. No pipe. Bummer. But I didn’t get strangled by some impossibly long phantom arm, so I took it as a victory.
I sat on the couch and thought back to seeing the arm. What the hell was it? It looked like any other human arm. Solid, not transparent. It looked healthy, not pale or charred or black and blue or any other sickly color. Was I going crazy? Was the weed I bought laced with something? That had to be it! The thought made me feel much better. I’d just stop smoking for a while. Easy. I really didn’t even enjoy it that much anymore anyway.
A few hours later, and the whole experience was almost forgotten about. I was on the couch, feet comfortably on the ground in front of me and hunched over a chipotle burrito I ordered on UberEats. I devoured the burrito in record time and crumbled the tin foil wrapping into a little ball, then I did what every basketball fan in America does when they have sphere-shaped trash they need to dispose of. I yelled “Kobe!” and flung the foil ball across the room towards the trashcan where it bounced off the rim of the can and landed on the carpet a few meters away.
I turned my back to the trash can and back to the TV for only a second when I heard the crinkle of a plastic trash bag. I turned around to see the god damned hand crawling out of the trash can like a fleshy little spider and onto the carpet below where it crawled back and forth on the carpet pushed around by that impossible arm that was now extended a full 3 feet out of the bin. Eventually it found the tin foil ball, grabbed it and pulled itself back into the can.
I stood up to get a little bit closer to the trash can, just close enough to take a peek inside. I was inching my way over towards the garbage, pushing aside the mountains of to-go boxes and brown paper takeout bags as I crept forward. I was inching closer, quietly, slowly, like a photographer from National Geographic not wanting to spook off some type of rare frog or some shit. I was zoned in. Then I heard another crinkle behind me.
The hand was emerging from one of the several takeout boxes strewn across the floor and it darted towards me fingers pounding the ground in angry little tarantula stomps with each of its ‘steps’. I shouted and made a run for the door but slipped on a yet another to-go wrapper and ended up on a heap on the floor. I scrambled back to my feet but and scanned the littered floor of the apartment but I couldn’t find the hand. It was gone. Or maybe lying-in wait.
I ran out of the apartment.
I didn’t even take my keys or my wallet or phone or even shoes. I just ran. Once outside I just started walking. I guess trying to put some distance between me and the hand. I don’t know how far or even how long, but it was dark and my feet were blistered by the time I arrived back outside my apartment door. I’d done a lot of thinking on that walk. I had already burned through most of the meager inheritance I received in the last few months. If I couldn’t afford to break my lease then I’ll have to do my best to make my situation livable.
First order of business - no more weed. I had already made that decision last night but as long as I’m making lists might as well throw it on there. Done. Cold turkey. If that thing in there is somehow attracted to it, then I don’t want it in my home.
Second – No more take-out or UberEats. If that thing can just appear out of any sort of box or container or whatever the fuck, then I need to minimize having those in my apartment.
Third – Clean the apartment. Can’t make an escape if I’m slipping and tripping.
Fourth – get out of the apartment more. Can’t hurt me if I’m not there, right?
Fifth – get a cat or a dog or something. I don’t know why I thought this would help, but it made sense at the time. Spoiler alert, it didn’t help.
The next morning, I put the plan in action. I cleaned the apartment like it had never been cleaned before, I even got the baseboards. I went grocery shopping. I stopped by the humane society and picked up a little black cat named Nigel. It was literally the most productive day of my entire life and I didn’t see or hear the hand once.
I didn’t realize at the time, but I had already fucked up.
Probably 2 weeks went by without any issue. I was getting out of my apartment more, keeping it clean, playing with my cat, but the problem was that I didn’t know how to cook. The pinnacle of my cooking skills was scrambled eggs with cheese and a little chopped onion. So, I guess it was just instinct when I loaded up on zebra cakes and boxes upon boxes of microwavable meals.
One night, I opened the freezer and pulled out a box of hot pockets to prepare for dinner. Imagine my surprise when I reached my hand in the box and instead of finding a delicious microwavable pepperoni sodium bomb, I felt the hand close its icy grip around my wrist and start pulling my arm deeper and deeper into the box. It shouldn’t have even been possible. The box itself was only 6 inches long and yet my arm was already elbow deep.
I screamed and I tried pulling the box off with my other hand, but the grip was getting tighter and tighter. It felt like there was more than one hand in the box as well. One hand gripped me, its fingers interlaced with mine. One gripped around my wrist. Two grabbed my forearm. The box was almost to my shoulder now. I had an idea. With my free hand, I grabbed one flap of the open box and instead of attempting to pull it off, I ripped through the cardboard. Instantly my arm shot through the bottom of the box and two hot pockets fell to the floor at my feet.
I looked at my arm, it was red in places, but otherwise I’d be fine.
I looked at Nigel who had been sitting on the counter watching the entire attack play out. He meowed at me. He wasn’t bothered by anything he’d just seen. He’s kind of an asshole.
Me on the other hand. I was fucked up. It touched me. It actually touched me. I had been living with this thing for months and never really had any real problems with it. I mean, it stole my weed, but touching me? Hurting me? This was crossing a line.
I started spiraling again.
I still ate chicken and veggies and went on walks and kept the apartment clean, but I was in a dark place. I started drinking, heavily.
It became my new crutch. My new Novocain. If I was going to be living here, then I was going to be numb. Things got dark.
One particularly shitty night I was cleaning my kitchen, bottle in hand, taking swigs of whisky every few minutes while I cleaned with my free hand. I was finishing up and rinsing off a few dirty dishes when the hand snaked its way out of the garbage disposal in my sink. I was hammered and my reactions were slow, but it wasn’t going for me. The hand grabbed the bottle of whisky and tried to force it out of my grip. This wasn’t a fight I was willing to lose. A brief tug of war happened in my kitchen between me and a random fucking ghost arm that was living rent-free in my apartment. The prize? A handle of cheap whisky.
I was going to lose, there was no way to win against this thing. I had already experienced its strength first hand when it tried to pull me into another dimension via hot pocket box, so I knew what I was up against. I had to fight dirty.
So, I turned on the garbage disposal.
A hideous shriek filled my apartment and blood gurgled up out of the disposal slowly filling the room with the smell of iron. I grabbed the whisky and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I heard the hand flick the garbage disposal off, then there was a long period of silence in the apartment.
I sat in the bathroom and drank. Getting angrier and angrier with each sip.
“You want this whisky? Come and get it!” I would shout through the locked door, “Fuck you stupid-ass hand!”
I felt safe in the bathroom. The drains in here were too small to fit a hand through. The perceived safety of my refuge along with the alcohol made me cocky.
“My apartment! My rules! Why don’t you make yourself useful and come jack me off!?”
The doorknob started rattling. The fear came flooding back and I got quiet again. My I shouldn’t have started talking shit. The doorknob stopped rattling and instead the entire door shook in its frame as if it was being punched from the other side. Whack! Whack! Whack!
I huddled in the corner of the bathroom next to the toilet and sipped my whisky. I watched as the pounding ceased and three bloody fingers wrapped themselves under the bathroom door, then slowly slid back out, leaving a bloody trail behind them.
I kept drinking in that bathroom for another hour watching as a finger would poke itself out from the drain in my bathtub or the drain in the sink then slowly retreat back into the depths below leaving crimson stains behind.
I was beyond drunk at this point. I lay on the bathroom floor too drunk to even stand up. I had never been this drunk before in my entire life. I collapsed on my back and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for this all to be over. Then my stomach flipped. My mouth watered and I knew I was going to vomit. I tried to roll over but remarkably I was too drunk to even do that. Alcohol poisoning. I tried to will myself to roll on my side again but I couldn’t. My vision was getting dark around the edges and staying conscious was a battle all on its own. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my breathing but just then I felt water dripping on my face. I opened my eyes and the hand was above me, the arm extending from the bowl of the toilet next to me.
The hand grabbed me by the hair and painfully lifted me up, resting my head on the toilet seat, then it let go of my hair and forced itself into my mouth, deeper and deeper. I started gagging, I thought pretty soon I’d feel one of its fingers poke itself out of my asshole, but that didn’t happen, obviously. The hand retracted itself from my mouth as I expelled a torrent of vomit. The last thing I remember was the hand wiping my mouth with some toilet paper before I passed out.
I woke up the next day with an unbelievable hangover. It took two days for me to do more than feed Nigel and go back to sleep. But once I was feeling better, I cleaned up the blood in my sink and bathroom. I poured out all the alcohol in my apartment and I went job hunting.
I understand the hand now. I don’t know who it belongs to, or why it’s in my apartment, but I know what it did for me. I know it helped me get my life back in order and I know if it wasn’t for the hand I’d probably be dead.
I’m doing much better now. I have a job, I’m exercising, I’m eating right. Katie and I are back together and I have a few buddies I grab beers with afterwork. I’m doing really well. Probably better than I’ve ever been. I still see the hand in my apartment from time to time, but it’s never for me. It just shows up sometimes to pet Nigel, the fucking asshole.