u/Auron_Shadow

This happened in the summer of 2000, when I was 17. I was staying with my grandmother in Voronezh for the summer, and one night she asked me to go to a small store and pick up a few things for breakfast.

It was around 11 PM when I left the store. I had a plastic bag in one hand and my CD player in my pocket. I was listening to Nirvana and barely paying attention to anything around me.

I was wearing a denim jacket my father had given me for New Year's. His brother, my uncle, had sent it to him from Philadelphia. I was pretty proud of that jacket back then. Having something from America felt like a big deal.

The train was supposed to arrive in a few minutes.

There was almost nobody on the platform.

When the train finally arrived, I immediately noticed how old it was. The cars were dirty, some of the windows were cloudy, and inside it smelled like dust, metal and old upholstery.

I got into the first car I saw.

There were only a few people inside.

The light above the door kept flickering. It never went completely out. It would just become dim for a second and then come back.

I sat by the window, put the bag next to me and turned up the volume on my CD player.

A few minutes later, the train started moving.

I watched the occasional lights outside the window and thought about getting back to my grandmother's apartment.

At the time, I had no idea that a few minutes later, a man would get on the train who I had seen before.

I just couldn't remember where.

At the next station, the train stopped and a man in his mid-forties got on. He looked completely ordinary. Dark pants, a light short-sleeved shirt and a small plastic bag in his hand.

Nothing strange about him.

He walked through the car and sat across from me.

I didn't pay much attention to him. I still had one earphone in, leaving the other ear free so I could hear announcements.

The man looked out the window for a few seconds, then looked at me.

"Nice jacket."

I pulled out one earphone.

"Thanks."

He nodded.

"American?"

I looked down at the jacket.

"Sort of. My uncle sent it from Philadelphia."

The man didn't say anything. He just looked back out the window.

I figured he'd probably seen something written on the label.

The train started moving again.

For a few minutes, neither of us said anything.

Then he asked:

"Been in Voronezh long?"

"No. I got here recently."

"Staying with your grandmother?"

I looked at him.

"Yeah."

He smiled slightly.

"For a month?"

I stopped smiling.

"How do you know that?"

He shrugged.

"Just a guess."

For some reason, I suddenly felt uncomfortable.

I put my earphone back in and turned the music up.

A few minutes later, the man asked:

"Where's Mitya?"

I froze.

I slowly pulled the earphone out again.

"Which Mitya?"

He looked directly at me.

"Your friend."

I didn't answer.

The train suddenly seemed incredibly quiet. Even the music in my ear sounded distant, despite the volume being exactly the same.

The light above the door flickered again.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, it almost went completely dark.

I looked at the man.

He was still sitting across from me.

"How do you know Mitya?"

He was silent for several seconds.

Then he said:

"You wanted to leave early that time too."

"What?"

He turned back toward the window.

"Nothing."

I stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about.

And then I remembered the school.

The abandoned school where Mitya and I had gone the previous summer.

I remembered the basement.

The people with the candles.

The blood on the floor.

The knife.

I still thought about that night sometimes, even though I tried not to.

I wanted to ask the man what he meant, but the train started slowing down.

He stood up.

"This is my stop."

I looked out the window.

There was a small station outside that I had never seen before.

The man walked toward the doors.

Before stepping out, he turned around.

"Don't get off at the next one."

"Why?"

He looked at me like he wanted to say something.

Instead, he simply stepped off.

The doors closed.

The train started moving again.

I watched the station disappear behind us.

Then I took my ticket out of my pocket and looked at the route.

I read the station name several times.

It wasn't on the route.

I figured I must have simply forgotten about it.

A few minutes later, the train started slowing down again.

I looked out the window.

It was the same station.

But this time I noticed something else.

There was an old metal sign with a street name on it.

I recognized it.

It was the street where that abandoned school had once stood.

I immediately took out my earphone.

The train stopped.

The doors opened.

There was nobody on the platform.

Nobody at all.

No people, no cars, no lights from any nearby houses.

Just the old sign, the empty platform and some bushes behind it.

I didn't get off.

The doors closed.

A few seconds later, the train started moving again.

I looked at my watch.

Only seventeen minutes had passed.

The trip from the station where I had gotten on to my grandmother's place normally took almost an hour.

I started getting nervous.

When the train finally stopped at my station, I got off almost immediately.

The street was quiet.

I hurried home.

When I entered the apartment, my grandmother was still awake. She was sitting in the kitchen watching TV.

She looked at me.

"Why are you back so late?"

"The train was delayed."

She frowned.

"What train?"

"What do you mean?"

"You left ten minutes ago."

At first I didn't understand what she was saying.

"What?"

She looked at the clock.

11:17 PM.

I took out my CD player.

It was still playing Nirvana.

I pressed the stop button.

The music stopped.

That's when I noticed the batteries were completely dead

Sorry for my English. I translated this story using an online translator.

I came to my grandmother’s place at the end of October 2000, during the fall school break. She hadn’t been feeling very well lately, so my mom asked me to stay with her for a few weeks and help around the house.

My grandmother lived in a small village right on the outskirts of Voronezh. The city itself wasn’t far away, but the place still felt completely separate from it. There were fields, old gardens, and strips of forest beyond the last houses, and the streets emptied out pretty quickly in the evenings. Buses didn’t run very often, especially late at night.

I’d stayed with my grandmother before and knew the area pretty well, so at first I didn’t think there was anything unusual about the place.

The first few days were completely normal. During the day I went to the store, bought groceries and medicine, and helped my grandmother around the house. In the evenings I watched TV or sat in the kitchen while she cooked. Sometimes I called my mom and told her everything was fine.

The weather that year turned bad pretty early. It rained lightly almost every day. Not heavy rain, just that annoying drizzle that made your clothes damp after ten minutes and left your hands freezing.

I wore the same denim jacket almost every day. My father had given it to me for New Year’s. His brother, my uncle, had sent it to him from Philadelphia. Back then, I thought it was probably the coolest thing I owned. I wore it everywhere.

Underneath I usually had a beige T-shirt, black jeans, and a pair of Puma sneakers my father had brought back from Germany. I carried a Nokia, a pack of Parliament cigarettes, a lighter, and a small backpack with some of my grandmother’s medicine.

In a few days I was supposed to go back to Volgograd.

I remember that she was feeling a little better that day. She even decided to bake some pear pies. The whole kitchen smelled like dough and baked fruit. I was sitting at the table, smoking by the open window and listening to the old refrigerator humming behind me.

At the time, I had no idea that I was going to remember that night for the rest of my life.

That evening I had to go out again. My grandmother asked me to buy a few things and another box of medicine. I looked at the clock. It was around ten at night.

Normally I took the regular road to the store, but that time I decided to cut through the old cemetery. I knew it probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but I was seventeen, and at that moment I was more worried about living people than dead ones.

The normal route went past some garages and several courtyards where local guys often hung around at night. I’d already seen drunk men and teenagers there a couple of times, and they looked like the kind of people who were just looking for someone to bother.

Cutting through the cemetery would be faster and, at least in my head, safer.

I grabbed my backpack and left.

It was colder outside than I expected. The drizzle had almost stopped, but the air was so damp that it felt like fog was already hanging between the houses. The streetlights were weak. Somewhere in the distance, a bus went by.

I reached the cemetery about ten minutes later.

It was huge. During the day I had only seen the part near the road, but the cemetery stretched much farther back. The old section was almost completely overgrown. There were crooked metal fences, trees, bushes, and graves that were sometimes almost impossible to make out.

Near the entrance there were newer crosses and a few fresh graves, but farther in everything changed.

I opened the gate and walked inside.

It immediately became quieter. All I could hear was my own footsteps on the wet ground and the occasional sound of cars from the road.

For the first few minutes I wasn’t scared at all. I just walked, sometimes using the screen of my Nokia to see where I was going. I didn’t have a flashlight, and the phone didn’t give off much light.

I lit a Parliament and kept walking. The cigarette helped less with the cold than it did with simply not feeling alone.

After a few minutes the newer graves disappeared. The old section began. It was much darker there. The trees grew closer together, and most of the paths had disappeared. Sometimes I had to go around bushes or climb over low fences.

I saw the first grave that was clearly from before the revolution. The date was somewhere in the late nineteenth century. I stopped and used my phone to light up the inscription.

I remember thinking how strange it was to see graves that old in the middle of an abandoned place.

The next fence had almost no paint left on it. Farther ahead there was an old stone monument with the coat of arms of the Russian Empire carved into it.

I didn’t know much about that kind of thing back then, but I recognized it immediately. Most of the writing underneath had already been worn away.

I touched the cold stone and kept walking.

At some point I thought I heard metal scraping.

I stopped.

For several seconds there was nothing. Then the sound came again. It was short, like someone dragging a piece of metal across an iron fence.

I looked around. The wind was moving some of the branches, so I decided that was probably what I’d heard.

I kept walking.

A minute later the sound came again, but this time it was much closer.

I started feeling uncomfortable. I lit another cigarette even though the first one wasn’t completely finished and decided to walk faster.

That was when I noticed the footprints.

They were fresh. Clear shoeprints were visible in the wet ground. Someone had walked there very recently.

The footprints went in the same direction I was going.

I stopped and looked behind me.

Nobody.

Then I looked ahead again.

Through the trees I could actually see a light. At first I thought it was a streetlight, but it was too yellow and uneven. It moved slightly.

I walked closer and saw a man.

He was standing beside an old crypt. In one hand he held a kerosene lamp. In the other he had something small and metallic. A shovel lay nearby.

He looked completely ordinary, at least from what I could see in the darkness. No old clothes, no uniform. Just a dark jacket and trousers.

I hid behind a tree. I don’t even know why. I probably just didn’t want him to notice me.

The man was doing something near the ground. Sometimes he bent down, sometimes he looked around.

Then I heard him talking.

At first it was too quiet to make out, but then his voice became a little louder. I couldn’t understand the words. It sounded like he was talking to someone, even though there was nobody else around.

I decided to leave.

I carefully stepped backward, but my foot landed on a dry branch. It snapped loudly.

The man froze.

So did I.

He slowly turned his head in my direction.

I was getting ready to run, but he calmly said "I thought you weren’t coming."

I stepped out from behind the tree.

"Do we know each other?"

He looked at me. For a few seconds he said nothing.

Then he said "No."

After a short pause, he added "Not yet."

I had no idea what that meant.

I asked him what he was doing there, but he only looked at me and said "You should leave."

I asked why.

He didn’t answer. He just picked up the lamp and walked deeper into the old part of the cemetery.

I stood there for a few seconds, then decided he was probably right and turned back.

But after a few minutes I realized I didn’t recognize the path anymore.

At first I didn’t think much of it. I assumed I had simply taken a wrong turn.

Then I saw the same crooked fence twice. I was certain I had already passed it a few minutes earlier.

I looked at my phone. There was no signal.

I tried to figure out which direction the road was, but I couldn’t see anything through the trees. There were no city lights either.

I kept walking, trying not to panic.

Eventually I reached an area I had definitely never seen before. There were dozens of very old graves. Some were almost completely hidden under dirt and leaves.

One of them had the date 1919 carved into it. Another one did too. Then another.

I started realizing I was in the oldest part of the cemetery.

The ground beside one grave looked strangely fresh. I pointed my phone at it. There were footprints in the dirt.

I heard something behind me and turned around sharply.

Nobody.

Just trees.

I decided I had imagined it.

Then I saw the light.

The same yellow light from the kerosene lamp.

The man was standing between two old graves. He was looking directly at me.

I asked him if he knew where the exit was.

He said "I do."

I asked him to show me.

He replied "It’s too late now."

I didn’t understand what he meant.

Then he said "When you hear the bell, don’t turn around."

I almost laughed because I thought he was making fun of me.

"What bell?"

He didn’t answer. He simply walked away.

A few minutes later, the first strike came.

A deep, low sound. It was so real that I felt it more than I heard it.

I stood in the middle of the cemetery and listened as the sound slowly faded.

Then came the second strike.

I looked toward the direction it had come from.

There was nothing there. Just fog.

The third strike was louder.

And immediately after it, I heard footsteps.

Someone was walking behind me.

I remembered what the man had said and forced myself not to turn around.

The footsteps were slow. At first there was one person, then it sounded like several.

I could hear people walking through the wet ground directly behind me.

I started walking faster.

The footsteps did too.

Then someone said "Hey."

I stopped.

The voice sounded familiar.

"Wait."

I realized it was my own voice.

I don’t know how to describe that feeling. You hear your own voice behind you and realize there’s no possible way anyone around you could have said it.

I kept walking.

The voice said again "Wait."

Then someone laughed.

I almost turned around, but at that exact moment the man appeared directly in front of me.

I nearly walked straight into him.

He grabbed my jacket and pulled me sideways.

I tried to get away.

"Let me go!"

He said "If you want to see your grandmother in the morning, come inside."

I froze.

"How do you know about my grandmother?"

He didn’t explain.

He opened the heavy stone door of the old crypt and pulled me inside.

I expected to see a small room with coffins, but inside there was an actual living space.

There was an old folding bed, a wooden table, a kerosene lamp, a small stove, a bucket of water, several cans of food, a cup, an old radio, some books, and a stack of newspapers.

There were photographs hanging on the wall.

It was obvious that the man spent a lot of time there.

I asked "Do you live here?"

He took off his jacket, put it on a chair and answered "Sometimes."

Outside, footsteps started again.

I went toward the door, but the man stopped me.

"Don’t."

I asked who was out there.

He said "The people who were buried here."

At first I thought he was crazy.

Then someone walked past the door.

I heard voices. They were hard to understand, but sometimes I could make out individual words.

Someone was giving orders.

Then there was a gunshot.

I jumped.

The man calmly sat at the table and smoked.

I asked him for a cigarette.

He handed me a pack of Parliament.

I looked at it and asked "Where did you get those?"

He said "I bought them."

I lit one.

For a while we just sat there in silence.

People were walking around the crypt outside. Sometimes the footsteps stopped directly beside the door. I could hear breathing.

Then someone hit the stone several times.

The man didn’t even move.

I asked what was happening.

He said "They were buried here in 1919."

I knew there had been fighting around Voronezh, but I had never cared much about the details.

He continued "The church was still standing then. When they buried the dead, the bells were ringing."

He looked at me.

"Then the church was destroyed."

I asked why I could still hear the bell.

He said "Because it isn’t a real bell."

I didn’t understand.

He explained that every few decades, the same thing happened in the old part of the cemetery.

First came the bell.

Then the people appeared.

They looked like the soldiers who had died in 1919. They didn’t understand that they were dead.

They continued searching for the people they had been looking for back then.

Sometimes they tried to get into the crypt. Sometimes they simply walked among the graves until sunrise.

I asked how he knew all this.

The man looked at one of the photographs on the wall.

It showed several young men in military uniforms. The photograph was very old.

I stepped closer.

On the back, someone had written "1919."

I looked at the man again.

"You knew them?"

He took the photograph from me.

"Some of them."

I asked "But this photograph is old."

He said nothing.

I looked closely at the face of one of the men in the photograph.

Then I looked at the man sitting in front of me.

I couldn’t breathe for a second.

It was him.

Not someone who looked like him. It was exactly him.

Same face. Same eyes.

Only in the photograph he was wearing a military uniform.

"Is that you?"

The man stayed silent for a long time.

Then he said "Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to."

Outside, footsteps started again.

This time there were many of them.

I heard voices and the sound of metal. Someone was talking about ammunition.

Then several shots rang out.

The stone wall trembled slightly.

I asked if they could get inside.

He said "If we stay quiet, no."

I asked how long it would last.

He looked at his watch.

"Until sunrise."

The night seemed endless.

We smoked several cigarettes.

I tried not to look at the door.

Sometimes everything outside became completely silent, and then the footsteps started again.

Once I heard someone say my name even though I had never told that person my name.

Another time I heard my mother’s voice outside the door saying "Come out."

I sat still.

The man noticed how pale I had become and said "They use what you know."

I asked "Who are they?"

He answered "I don’t know."

I asked why he was there then.

He looked at me and said "I also once decided to take a shortcut."

I didn’t understand whether he was joking or not.

He continued "That was a long time ago."

I asked how long.

He didn’t answer.

Then he said "Long enough."

After some time he told me more about 1919.

After one of the battles, several dozen soldiers were buried in the cemetery. Among them was a man nobody could identify.

They found no documents on him. Only a small metal object and a piece of cloth with a coat of arms on it.

He was buried separately.

After that, the cemetery caretaker started noticing strange things.

Some graves looked as if someone had been digging them up. Several graves were found empty.

There were no signs of anyone having dug into them.

Then the caretaker himself disappeared.

A few days later they found him near the church. He was alive, but he couldn’t remember anything.

He only kept repeating one sentence: "They’re not finished yet."

The man said that after that, everything began repeating.

In the twenties the church was closed and later destroyed. The bell tower was blown up. Almost nothing remained of it.

But several decades later people heard the bell again.

And after the bell, the soldiers appeared on the cemetery again.

I asked him when it had happened last.

He said "Recently."

I asked how many years ago.

He looked at me.

"Time doesn’t quite work here the way it should."

I didn’t ask anything else.

Sometime around five in the morning, everything suddenly stopped.

The last strike of the bell was so deep that I felt it more than I heard it.

Then there was complete silence.

We stayed there for several more minutes.

The man said "Now you can go."

I opened the door and stepped outside.

It was already starting to get light. The sky was gray. The fog was slowly thinning.

The cemetery looked completely normal.

For a moment I even thought that everything that had happened during the night might have been some kind of nightmare.

Then I saw the wall of the crypt.

There were fresh bullet holes in the stone. Several deep scratches ran down from the door. There were boot prints in the mud. Some of the old fences had been bent. A broken branch lay in the grass.

I turned toward the crypt and realized the man was gone.

His things were still inside. The folding bed, the table, the lamp, the books.

But the man himself was nowhere to be found.

I stepped outside again.

Something caught my eye in the dirt near the entrance.

I crouched down and pulled out a small piece of cloth.

It was dirty, faded and very old. I could still make out part of the coat of arms of the Russian Empire.

I put it back.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to take it with me.

Then I went home.

When I arrived, my grandmother was already awake. She was standing in the kitchen making pies.

Pear pies.

I still remember that smell.

After spending the night in the cold cemetery, the warm kitchen felt like another world.

My grandmother looked at me and didn’t ask anything at first.

Then she said "You went through the cemetery?"

I wanted to say no, but she looked at me in a way that made it clear there was no point lying.

I nodded.

She put a plate of pies on the table.

"You heard the bell?"

I nodded again.

My grandmother sighed and sat down across from me.

Then she said "So it’s started again."

I asked what had started.

She was silent for a long time.

Then she told me that she had heard that bell herself when she was young.

It had happened back in the Soviet era.

She had also decided to take a shortcut through the old part of the cemetery one night.

She saw a light between the graves and met the man.

He looked exactly the same as the man I had met.

My grandmother said that at first she also thought he was just an ordinary person.

He warned her not to turn around after the first bell.

She listened.

The next day, her mother told her that something similar had already happened in the family before.

My grandmother had never told anyone because she was afraid nobody would believe her.

I asked "How old was he back then?"

She looked at me.

"The same age he is now."

I didn’t know what to say.

My grandmother continued making pies and said that the last time, the man had warned her "Next time will be worse."

She had never known when that next time would come.

Now she did.

I asked who he was.

She shook her head.

"I don’t know."

Then she added "But if he let you into the crypt, he wanted you to survive."

I asked why he knew about her.

She said "Because he knows the people who live near the cemetery. Maybe he knows much more than we think."

I asked why she had never told me anything.

She answered "Because some things are better left alone."

That was the end of the conversation.

I stayed with her for a few more days.

I never went near the cemetery again.

Sometimes I thought I saw the man through the window, but every time it turned out to be an ordinary passerby.

My grandmother got a little better. She kept cooking and even baked another batch of pear pies before I left.

I called my mom and told her I would be back in Volgograd soon.

I didn’t tell her anything about the cemetery.

A few days later I packed my things.

My grandmother put some pear pies and sandwiches into my backpack and told me to call when I arrived.

I took the bus into Voronezh.

It was overcast. There were puddles everywhere, people rushing around, and crowds outside the stores.

Everything looked completely normal.

I walked through the city center and then headed toward the train station.

The station was noisy. Trains were being announced, someone was arguing with a cashier, and children were running around the waiting area.

I stood near a window waiting for boarding.

That was when I saw him.

The man was standing on the other side of the hall.

He was simply looking at me.

I recognized him immediately.

He was wearing the same dark jacket.

He looked exactly the same as he had a few days earlier.

I looked away for just a second because someone walked past me.

When I looked back, the man was gone.

I decided I must have been mistaken.

Boarding was announc

This happened in the early 2000s. I was eighteen at the time, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It was October, in a small town somewhere in the Urals where my distant aunt, Nina, used to live. I had only seen her a couple of times in my life. She had a son who, a year earlier, killed himself by jumping out of their apartment window. A week before I got there, she died too. There was no one close to her left, so she left the apartment to me.

I packed quickly without thinking too much. My mom spent the whole morning walking around the apartment like I wasn’t just leaving for a trip, but for something much longer. Something final. She told me the journey would be long and put a bag of homemade pastries into my backpack, saying it was a three day train ride and you never know what might happen. I just smiled. Three days on a train sounded like an adventure.

I left from Volgograd. The station was loud and crowded, people pushing past each other, announcements echoing, the smell of cheap coffee and metal everywhere. Everything felt normal, but underneath it there was a strange feeling, like I was going somewhere you don’t come back from the same.

The first day went by fine. The second dragged on. Outside the window there were fewer towns, more forests, abandoned stations, broken platforms with no one on them. By the third night I could barely sleep. I woke up because it had become too quiet.

The train was still moving, I could feel it, but there was almost no sound. No clatter of wheels, no voices, no movement, not even breathing. I sat up and realized I couldn’t hear anyone at all. I looked at the window. It was pitch black, and in the reflection I could only see myself, even though there were two other people in the compartment with me.

I decided not to turn around. I lay back down and closed my eyes.

In the morning everything was normal again. People were talking, the attendant walked through the carriage serving tea, someone was laughing. But the pastries my mom gave me didn’t smell like food anymore. They smelled damp, like they hadn’t been in my backpack, but buried somewhere underground.

When the train finally stopped, it took me a moment to realize we had arrived. No one rushed to get off. People moved slowly, like they hadn’t slept or weren’t fully awake. I stepped onto the platform last. The air felt cold and wet, with a metallic taste. Not like after rain, but like places where no one has lived for a long time.

The station was small. The name sign was crooked, the paint peeling so badly you could barely read it. The lights were on even during the day, dim and yellow. The strangest thing was the silence. Not like the silence on the train. Deeper. Like the whole town didn’t make any sound.

I told myself it was early and people were still asleep, but when I reached the road, it felt worse. The town looked normal, apartment blocks, shops, bus stops, but everything was faded, like an old photograph. The windows were dark. Not a single one open. The yards were empty. No cars, no kids, not even dogs. Just the wind pushing dust and scraps of paper across the asphalt, and somehow they made no sound.

As I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. Not from the windows. From somewhere lower, from the entrances, the basements, or even from underground.

At the bus stop there were three people already standing there. They weren’t talking, just staring in the same direction, waiting for the bus. I stood next to them, and after a couple of minutes I realized none of them had blinked once.

I looked away, and one of them quietly asked if I had come from the train. I nodded without looking at him. He said it must have been a long trip. His voice sounded dry, like he hadn’t spoken in a long time. I wanted to say something back, but he didn’t continue.

The bus arrived without a sound. The doors opened on their own, and it was darker inside than outside. As I stepped in, I caught a glimpse of the driver. He was completely still, like a mannequin. I sat by the window, and when the bus started moving, I noticed the reflection showed the entire interior except for the driver.

The cemetery was on the edge of town. People got off one by one along the way, silently. By the time we reached it, it was just me and the driver. I stepped outside and a cold wind hit me immediately. The cemetery was right across from the apartment building.

That was the first moment I felt real fear.

The ground was black and wet, like it had just been dug up, not just at my aunt’s grave but almost everywhere. The crosses were crooked and old. Some markers didn’t even have names, just dates. Sometimes the same dates. The wind moved through the trees, but the leaves barely reacted. There was a heavy, sweet smell in the air. When they lowered the coffin, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the ground was taking it too quickly, like it had been waiting.

There were only seven people at the funeral. Distant acquaintances and my aunt’s sister, who hadn’t spoken to her in over ten years. After a small wake at a nearby café, I went to a notary and handled the paperwork. That evening, when it was already dark, I went to the apartment.

The building looked abandoned, like no one had cared about it for years. Only two apartments were still occupied. The rest were boarded up, doors broken, windows covered with planks. On the first floor lived an old man named Zakhar, around seventy, a former sailor. My aunt’s place was on the fourth floor.

When I approached, he was sitting outside smoking. Somehow he recognized me. He told me not to go out at night and said that not only people walk around here. I shrugged it off. He invited me in to drink in memory of my aunt, and I agreed.

As we entered the building, I heard a long, drawn out howl somewhere far away. It lasted too long and sounded too deliberate. Inside, the hallway was dark, the light flickering, the walls smelled damp and stale. His apartment looked normal, old furniture, a carpet on the wall, but everything was clean.

We drank. First to meet each other, then silently for my aunt. That’s when he started talking. He said something was wrong with the building, that over the last three years people had either died or left, no one stayed without a reason. His voice was calm but sounded hollow, like it didn’t belong to him. He told me to sell the apartment and leave as soon as possible.

I smiled. He didn’t.

He said he used to think the same way until one night he went outside to smoke. It was around midnight when everything suddenly went completely silent, no wind, no insects, even his own breathing sounded wrong, like it didn’t belong to him. Then he saw something crawling along the wall of the building. Long and thin. Not human. It stretched upward and scratched at the windows of the empty apartments.

I stopped smiling.

He said he ran inside, locked himself in, put bars on the windows, and kept a shotgun nearby. He added that the night my aunt died, he heard something crawling along the walls and calling out.

Right then a clock struck midnight and I flinched. He told me to stay the night and not go upstairs, but I refused. I don’t even know why.

I took my backpack and went up. Above the first floor it was completely dark. I had to feel my way along the railing. The lock on the fourth floor resisted, like it didn’t want to open. When it finally did, the door creaked loudly.

Inside it was pitch black. I flipped the switch. The light flashed once and burned out.

I walked into the kitchen. There was a clear outline of a body on the floor marked in chalk.

I froze. Then I realized how quiet it was. The same silence he had described.

Then I heard it. At first a faint rustling. Then a scraping sound. It was coming from inside the wall, like something was slowly moving through it.

I stood still. The sound got closer. Then suddenly it was right behind me.

I turned around. The door to the hallway was slightly open, and something was moving in the gap. Too long. Too thin. It slowly stretched into the apartment, clinging to the frame like it had no bones.

I couldn’t move.

Then it turned its head.

I couldn’t see a face, but I knew it was looking at me.

Then it spoke.

Quietly. Hoarse.

In my aunt’s voice.

It said that I had come.

I don’t remember how I ran out or got downstairs. I only remember pounding on Zakhar’s door. He opened immediately. We sat in silence until morning.

As soon as it got light, I ran out and went to a church, even though I had never believed. The priest looked at me for a long time, then told me to leave this place and gave me a cross.

I left that same day. I put the apartment up for sale through an agency. A month later they called and said it had been sold. Then Zakhar called me. I had given him my number. He said a young guy had moved in.

The next night he disappeared.

Zakhar said he heard something crawling along the walls again, and something calling for the guy.

A week later the police called me.

They found Zakhar in his apartment.

The door was locked from the inside. The bars were intact. The shotgun was next to him.

And on the wall there was a white outline.

Full height.

Like he had been standing there.

And someone had traced him.

This happened in the early 2000s. I was eighteen at the time, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It was October, in a small town somewhere in the Urals where my distant aunt, Nina, used to live. I had only seen her a couple of times in my life. She had a son who, a year earlier, killed himself by jumping out of their apartment window. A week before I got there, she died too. There was no one close to her left, so she left the apartment to me.

I packed quickly without thinking too much. My mom spent the whole morning walking around the apartment like I wasn’t just leaving for a trip, but for something much longer. Something final. She told me the journey would be long and put a bag of homemade pastries into my backpack, saying it was a three day train ride and you never know what might happen. I just smiled. Three days on a train sounded like an adventure.

I left from Volgograd. The station was loud and crowded, people pushing past each other, announcements echoing, the smell of cheap coffee and metal everywhere. Everything felt normal, but underneath it there was a strange feeling, like I was going somewhere you don’t come back from the same.

The first day went by fine. The second dragged on. Outside the window there were fewer towns, more forests, abandoned stations, broken platforms with no one on them. By the third night I could barely sleep. I woke up because it had become too quiet.

The train was still moving, I could feel it, but there was almost no sound. No clatter of wheels, no voices, no movement, not even breathing. I sat up and realized I couldn’t hear anyone at all. I looked at the window. It was pitch black, and in the reflection I could only see myself, even though there were two other people in the compartment with me.

I decided not to turn around. I lay back down and closed my eyes.

In the morning everything was normal again. People were talking, the attendant walked through the carriage serving tea, someone was laughing. But the pastries my mom gave me didn’t smell like food anymore. They smelled damp, like they hadn’t been in my backpack, but buried somewhere underground.

When the train finally stopped, it took me a moment to realize we had arrived. No one rushed to get off. People moved slowly, like they hadn’t slept or weren’t fully awake. I stepped onto the platform last. The air felt cold and wet, with a metallic taste. Not like after rain, but like places where no one has lived for a long time.

The station was small. The name sign was crooked, the paint peeling so badly you could barely read it. The lights were on even during the day, dim and yellow. The strangest thing was the silence. Not like the silence on the train. Deeper. Like the whole town didn’t make any sound.

I told myself it was early and people were still asleep, but when I reached the road, it felt worse. The town looked normal, apartment blocks, shops, bus stops, but everything was faded, like an old photograph. The windows were dark. Not a single one open. The yards were empty. No cars, no kids, not even dogs. Just the wind pushing dust and scraps of paper across the asphalt, and somehow they made no sound.

As I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. Not from the windows. From somewhere lower, from the entrances, the basements, or even from underground.

At the bus stop there were three people already standing there. They weren’t talking, just staring in the same direction, waiting for the bus. I stood next to them, and after a couple of minutes I realized none of them had blinked once.

I looked away, and one of them quietly asked if I had come from the train. I nodded without looking at him. He said it must have been a long trip. His voice sounded dry, like he hadn’t spoken in a long time. I wanted to say something back, but he didn’t continue.

The bus arrived without a sound. The doors opened on their own, and it was darker inside than outside. As I stepped in, I caught a glimpse of the driver. He was completely still, like a mannequin. I sat by the window, and when the bus started moving, I noticed the reflection showed the entire interior except for the driver.

The cemetery was on the edge of town. People got off one by one along the way, silently. By the time we reached it, it was just me and the driver. I stepped outside and a cold wind hit me immediately. The cemetery was right across from the apartment building.

That was the first moment I felt real fear.

The ground was black and wet, like it had just been dug up, not just at my aunt’s grave but almost everywhere. The crosses were crooked and old. Some markers didn’t even have names, just dates. Sometimes the same dates. The wind moved through the trees, but the leaves barely reacted. There was a heavy, sweet smell in the air. When they lowered the coffin, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the ground was taking it too quickly, like it had been waiting.

There were only seven people at the funeral. Distant acquaintances and my aunt’s sister, who hadn’t spoken to her in over ten years. After a small wake at a nearby café, I went to a notary and handled the paperwork. That evening, when it was already dark, I went to the apartment.

The building looked abandoned, like no one had cared about it for years. Only two apartments were still occupied. The rest were boarded up, doors broken, windows covered with planks. On the first floor lived an old man named Zakhar, around seventy, a former sailor. My aunt’s place was on the fourth floor.

When I approached, he was sitting outside smoking. Somehow he recognized me. He told me not to go out at night and said that not only people walk around here. I shrugged it off. He invited me in to drink in memory of my aunt, and I agreed.

As we entered the building, I heard a long, drawn out howl somewhere far away. It lasted too long and sounded too deliberate. Inside, the hallway was dark, the light flickering, the walls smelled damp and stale. His apartment looked normal, old furniture, a carpet on the wall, but everything was clean.

We drank. First to meet each other, then silently for my aunt. That’s when he started talking. He said something was wrong with the building, that over the last three years people had either died or left, no one stayed without a reason. His voice was calm but sounded hollow, like it didn’t belong to him. He told me to sell the apartment and leave as soon as possible.

I smiled. He didn’t.

He said he used to think the same way until one night he went outside to smoke. It was around midnight when everything suddenly went completely silent, no wind, no insects, even his own breathing sounded wrong, like it didn’t belong to him. Then he saw something crawling along the wall of the building. Long and thin. Not human. It stretched upward and scratched at the windows of the empty apartments.

I stopped smiling.

He said he ran inside, locked himself in, put bars on the windows, and kept a shotgun nearby. He added that the night my aunt died, he heard something crawling along the walls and calling out.

Right then a clock struck midnight and I flinched. He told me to stay the night and not go upstairs, but I refused. I don’t even know why.

I took my backpack and went up. Above the first floor it was completely dark. I had to feel my way along the railing. The lock on the fourth floor resisted, like it didn’t want to open. When it finally did, the door creaked loudly.

Inside it was pitch black. I flipped the switch. The light flashed once and burned out.

I walked into the kitchen. There was a clear outline of a body on the floor marked in chalk.

I froze. Then I realized how quiet it was. The same silence he had described.

Then I heard it. At first a faint rustling. Then a scraping sound. It was coming from inside the wall, like something was slowly moving through it.

I stood still. The sound got closer. Then suddenly it was right behind me.

I turned around. The door to the hallway was slightly open, and something was moving in the gap. Too long. Too thin. It slowly stretched into the apartment, clinging to the frame like it had no bones.

I couldn’t move.

Then it turned its head.

I couldn’t see a face, but I knew it was looking at me.

Then it spoke.

Quietly. Hoarse.

In my aunt’s voice.

It said that I had come.

I don’t remember how I ran out or got downstairs. I only remember pounding on Zakhar’s door. He opened immediately. We sat in silence until morning.

As soon as it got light, I ran out and went to a church, even though I had never believed. The priest looked at me for a long time, then told me to leave this place and gave me a cross.

I left that same day. I put the apartment up for sale through an agency. A month later they called and said it had been sold. Then Zakhar called me. I had given him my number. He said a young guy had moved in.

The next night he disappeared.

Zakhar said he heard something crawling along the walls again, and something calling for the guy.

A week later the police called me.

They found Zakhar in his apartment.

The door was locked from the inside. The bars were intact. The shotgun was next to him.

And on the wall there was a white outline.

Full height.

Like he had been standing there.

And someone had traced him.

Sorry if my English is not perfect, I used an online translator.

I still think about this night sometimes. I don't know what actually happened.

This happened a few years ago and I still don't have a good explanation for it. I was home alone that night. I remember staying up pretty late, watching random videos on my phone until I got tired. Nothing unusual happened that day. I wasn't sick, I wasn't stressed, I just went to sleep like normal.

At some point during the night I woke up. Or at least I thought I did. Everything in my room looked exactly the same. My clothes were on the chair, my phone was where I left it, the light from outside was the same. I could move and think normally, so it didn't feel like a dream.

The first thing I noticed was how quiet everything was. Usually you can hear something at night cars outside, neighbors, pipes, the refrigerator. But there was absolutely nothing. It felt like the whole apartment had gone silent.

Then I noticed my bedroom door was slightly open. I always close it before going to sleep, so I remember thinking, "Did I really leave it like that?" I was about to get up and check when I heard a voice.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't aggressive. It was calm.

Someone said: "Don't go into the hallway."

My first thought was that someone was actually inside the apartment. I wanted to move, but something stopped me. A few seconds later I heard three slow footsteps from the hallway. Not running. Not trying to hide. Just three normal footsteps.

They stopped right outside my door.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. I was waiting for something to happen, but nothing did.

Then I blinked and woke up.

This time I knew I was actually awake. I could hear cars outside again, the refrigerator was making noise, everything felt normal. My bedroom door was closed.

I laughed because I thought my brain had just created the most realistic dream I've ever had.

Later that day I noticed something strange. My blanket was lying on the floor in the hallway. I always sleep with it, and I clearly remember it being on my bed before going to sleep.

Maybe I got up while sleeping and don't remember it. Maybe that's the whole explanation.

But the thing that still bothers me is that in the dream, before I heard those footsteps, I already had this feeling that I shouldn't look into the hallway.

I don't know why.

I don't know if it was just my brain creating a scary dream, or if my brain was reacting to something that was actually happening.

I still think about this night sometimes. I don't know what actually happened.

This happened a few years ago and I still don't have a good explanation for it. I was home alone that night. I remember staying up pretty late, watching random videos on my phone until I got tired. Nothing unusual happened that day. I wasn't sick, I wasn't stressed, I just went to sleep like normal.

At some point during the night I woke up. Or at least I thought I did. Everything in my room looked exactly the same. My clothes were on the chair, my phone was where I left it, the light from outside was the same. I could move and think normally, so it didn't feel like a dream.

The first thing I noticed was how quiet everything was. Usually you can hear something at night — cars outside, neighbors, pipes, the refrigerator. But there was absolutely nothing. It felt like the whole apartment had gone silent.

Then I noticed my bedroom door was slightly open. I always close it before going to sleep, so I remember thinking, "Did I really leave it like that?" I was about to get up and check when I heard a voice.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't aggressive. It was calm.

Someone said: "Don't go into the hallway."

My first thought was that someone was actually inside the apartment. I wanted to move, but something stopped me. A few seconds later I heard three slow footsteps from the hallway. Not running. Not trying to hide. Just three normal footsteps.

They stopped right outside my door.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. I was waiting for something to happen, but nothing did.

Then I blinked and woke up.

This time I knew I was actually awake. I could hear cars outside again, the refrigerator was making noise, everything felt normal. My bedroom door was closed.

I laughed because I thought my brain had just created the most realistic dream I've ever had.

Later that day I noticed something strange. My blanket was lying on the floor in the hallway. I always sleep with it, and I clearly remember it being on my bed before going to sleep.

Maybe I got up while sleeping and don't remember it. Maybe that's the whole explanation.

But the thing that still bothers me is that in the dream, before I heard those footsteps, I already had this feeling that I shouldn't look into the hallway.

I don't know why.

I don't know if it was just my brain creating a scary dream, or if my brain was reacting to something that was actually happening.

​

Sorry if my English is not perfect, I used an online translator.

I still think about this night sometimes. I don't know what actually happened.

This happened a few years ago and I still don't have a good explanation for it. I was home alone that night. I remember staying up pretty late, watching random videos on my phone until I got tired. Nothing unusual happened that day. I wasn't sick, I wasn't stressed, I just went to sleep like normal.

At some point during the night I woke up. Or at least I thought I did. Everything in my room looked exactly the same. My clothes were on the chair, my phone was where I left it, the light from outside was the same. I could move and think normally, so it didn't feel like a dream.

The first thing I noticed was how quiet everything was. Usually you can hear something at night cars outside, neighbors, pipes, the refrigerator. But there was absolutely nothing. It felt like the whole apartment had gone silent.

Then I noticed my bedroom door was slightly open. I always close it before going to sleep, so I remember thinking, "Did I really leave it like that?" I was about to get up and check when I heard a voice.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't aggressive. It was calm.

Someone said: "Don't go into the hallway."

My first thought was that someone was actually inside the apartment. I wanted to move, but something stopped me. A few seconds later I heard three slow footsteps from the hallway. Not running. Not trying to hide. Just three normal footsteps.

They stopped right outside my door.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. I was waiting for something to happen, but nothing did.

Then I blinked and woke up.

This time I knew I was actually awake. I could hear cars outside again, the refrigerator was making noise, everything felt normal. My bedroom door was closed.

I laughed because I thought my brain had just created the most realistic dream I've ever had.

Later that day I noticed something strange. My blanket was lying on the floor in the hallway. I always sleep with it, and I clearly remember it being on my bed before going to sleep.

Maybe I got up while sleeping and don't remember it. Maybe that's the whole explanation.

But the thing that still bothers me is that in the dream, before I heard those footsteps, I already had this feeling that I shouldn't look into the hallway.

I don't know why.

I don't know if it was just my brain creating a scary dream, or if my brain was reacting to something that was actually happening.