We moved into an apartment that hadn’t been lived in for 6 years, and on the third evening, I heard strange footsteps coming from an empty room that we hadn’t had a chance to furnish yet…

We moved into an apartment that had been vacant for 6 long years, and on the third evening, I heard quiet, cautious footsteps coming from a room with no furniture or boxes yet. I froze when a thin child’s laughter echoed from the empty, moonlit room, followed by a heavy, rending sigh of an adult. My husband was at work on a night shift, I was alone in the house, and the front door was locked with three turns. With trembling hands, I slightly opened the door to that room and saw a small glowing spot in the corner, quickly turning into outlines…

This apartment was practically given to us for free. The relatives of the previous owners were so eager to get rid of the inheritance that they didn’t even bother to bargain. When meeting, the neighbors would avert their eyes, and our grandmotherly neighbor across the hall quickly made the sign of the cross upon seeing me with the keys. Back then, I merely wondered at their behavior. The apartment was spacious with high ceilings but somehow cold. Even when we turned the heating up to the maximum, a strange, damp smell lingered in the air.

The first two nights passed quietly, if not for the constant feeling that someone was staring at the back of my head while I washed the dishes. But on the third evening, something happened that changed my life forever. After those strange footsteps and giggles, I ran into the empty room, but no one was there. Only on the dusty floor, which I hadn’t yet cleaned, were clear footprints of small barefoot children. They led from the window to the wall and ended right at the old wallpaper that had begun to peel from dampness.

My heart pounded somewhere in my throat. I approached the wall and pulled at the edge of the old wallpaper. Under the layer of yellowed paper, a niche sealed into the wall was revealed, and inside it was a stack of neatly tied letters and a tiny child’s shoe. I couldn’t resist and opened the first envelope. The dates on the stamps were six years old. A woman, who lived here before us, had written them. She addressed someone she called “my lost joy.” There was not a hint of madness in the letters, only endless, soul-burning longing of a mother who had lost her most precious thing.

I read the whole night sitting on the bare floor. The texts revealed that six years ago, a tragedy occurred in this apartment that was deliberately covered up. The woman wrote about her child being “taken into the darkness” right from this room and that she was willing to do anything to bring him back. The last letter broke off mid-sentence, with brown drops left on the paper. The more I read, the more distinctly I heard rustling behind me. I felt like the walls of the apartment absorbed my emotions, becoming sticky and heavy.

In the morning, I went to the very same grandmotherly neighbor. Over a cup of tea, she finally told me the truth. The former owner lost her son under strange circumstances — the boy simply vanished from the locked apartment. He was searched for months, but no traces or witnesses were found. The mother went mad with grief and insisted that he “went into the walls,” and several months later, she was found dead in that very empty room. Officially, it was her heart, but the neighbors whispered that the apartment had drained her completely.

Now I can’t sleep. Every night I hear someone running in the empty room, the creaking floorboards under the weight of invisible feet. But the scariest thing happened today. I went to the mirror in the hallway and saw that the woman from the letters was behind me. She didn’t look angry; she looked triumphant. She placed her hand on my shoulder, and I felt not cold but a strange, frightening warmth. Her eyes conveyed one thing: “Thank you for coming, now I can leave, and you will stay to look after him.”

I want to run away from this apartment, abandon everything, but some unknown force holds me back. When I approach the threshold, my legs give way, and that same child’s laughter starts echoing in my head. I feel like I’m becoming part of this place, my thoughts filling with other people’s memories. My husband doesn’t notice anything; he says I’m just worn out from moving. But I know: we’re not alone in this apartment. We’re merely temporary guests in someone else’s grief, frozen in time.

I look at my hands and see dust marks on my fingers, even though I just washed them. In the empty room, the patter of small feet is heard again, and this time I’m not scared. I catch myself wanting to go there and play with whoever is hiding. The apartment no longer feels cold; it feels… alive. And that terrifies me more than anything.

Do you believe that walls can retain the memory of a tragedy, and how would you act — would you flee without looking back or try to unravel the mystery, risking your own soul?

*****

We moved into an apartment where no one had lived for six long years, and on the third evening I heard quiet, careful footsteps coming from a room we hadn’t yet furnished. I froze when a thin childlike laugh came from the completely empty, moonlit room, followed by a heavy, broken sigh of an adult. My husband was working a night shift, I was alone in the apartment, and the front door was locked with three turns. With trembling hands, I slightly opened the door to that room and saw a small glowing spot in the far corner, which was rapidly turning into shapes…
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