This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HerScreams on 2024-10-14 01:43:40+00:00.
There’s a heaviness that comes with certain places. A kind of weight that sinks into your skin, that you don’t notice right away but feel creeping in slowly, day by day. That’s how it was with the apartment. It wasn’t much, just four gray walls in a tired, aging building on the edge of Norilsk.
People called it the most depressing city in the world, and they weren’t wrong. The air here felt thick, like it was clinging to you, and it never really warmed up, even when the sun peeked through the clouds. Most days it didn’t. You lived in a kind of gray, perpetual twilight, where the hours bled into each other, and you weren’t sure if you were waking up or going to bed.
I moved into the apartment because it was cheap. No questions asked, and the landlord didn’t care about anything more than getting the rent on time. It seemed perfect at first: a small place of my own, quiet neighbors who kept to themselves. Too quiet, maybe, but I didn’t mind.
I had been living there for just over two months when I noticed I was out of cooking oil. It seemed like a small inconvenience, but the thought of braving the cold again didn’t sit well with me. The store was a fair walk away, and I wasn’t keen on making the trip.
I remembered the babushka who lived a few doors down. I’d seen her a couple of times, a small, hunched figure with deep lines on her face, always shuffling in and out of her apartment. She never said much, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Just a little cooking oil, nothing more.
I knocked on her door, hoping she’d answer quickly. The hallway felt colder than usual that day.
The door opened, but only just. The chain stayed hooked, and the babushka peered through the small gap. Her eyes were pale, milky, like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Do you have any cooking oil?” I asked, trying to smile, but something about her face stopped me cold.
She stared at me for a moment, her gaze flicking past me to the hallway, like she was checking for something. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed, and I thought she might be confused by the question.
“You shouldn’t trust them,” she said, her voice low, almost a rasp.
I blinked. “What?”
She didn’t elaborate. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, sharp and cold. “The neighbors. Don’t trust them. Don’t get close.”
Before I could ask her what she meant, she slammed the door shut, the chain rattling against the frame.
I stood there, frozen, my question about cooking oil forgotten. The words echoed in my head: Don’t trust them.
I turned slowly, glancing down the empty hallway. The doors were all closed, the silence oppressive. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but something about the way she said it sent a shiver down my spine. I didn’t knock on her door again after that.
The next few weeks passed without much incident, but something felt off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a strange feeling that lingered, like the air in the building had changed. It wasn’t anything I could explain, but there were small things, subtle things.
The apartment, for one, had started to feel colder. The radiator clanged and hissed like always, but the heat never seemed to reach me. I noticed small cracks appearing along the walls, just thin lines at first, barely noticeable, but they spread quickly, like veins crawling across the plaster.
And then there were the bugs.
It started with one cockroach skittering across the kitchen floor. I thought nothing of it at first, just a nuisance, something I could deal with. But then, more appeared. They crawled from the cracks in the walls, their shiny bodies slipping out in the dead of night, disappearing just as quickly.
I hated them. They made my skin crawl. I told myself it was just an old building, and old buildings had pests. But as the days went on, they seemed to multiply, no matter how much I cleaned. No matter how hard I tried to block the cracks, they kept coming.
One night, the sound of scratching woke me. I sat up, heart pounding, straining to hear it again. It was faint but persistent, like something was moving inside the walls. I threw off the covers and crept toward the noise, barefoot, my breath catching in my throat.
The wall next to my bed, the one with the longest crack, was trembling. I stepped closer, leaning in, and the scratching grew louder, more frantic, like something was trying to get out.
And then, without warning, a single crack widened. A wave of black bugs spilled out, flooding across the floor, scurrying over my feet. I stumbled back with a scream, brushing them off, my skin crawling as they scattered into the shadows.
My heart raced as I grabbed my phone, ready to call someone... anyone. But as I looked around, the apartment was still. The bugs had disappeared into the cracks again, leaving no trace behind. Only the silence remained. I didin't sleep that night ..
The morning after, I knew I couldn’t leave the cracks as they were. No one could sleep with the thought of insects slipping through those gaps. I grabbed my coat and headed out into the icy streets, determined to fix the problem.
The hardware store was a short walk, but the cold bit into me harder than usual. As I browsed the aisles, I grabbed some plaster and sealant, just enough to patch up the cracks and hopefully put my mind at ease. I didn’t want to deal with those bugs again.
Back at the apartment, I set to work. The cracks weren’t large, but they were everywhere, snaking along the walls in long, jagged lines. I plastered over them, smoothing out the gaps as best I could. I didn’t care if it was temporary. I just wanted to stop the bugs from getting in. When I finished, I stood back, eyeing the freshly patched walls. It looked better, cleaner even.
But that sense of unease didn’t go away.
I sprayed the corners with bug spray, just in case, and spent the rest of the day trying not to think about it. For a while, the apartment felt normal again, and I convinced myself that maybe I’d gotten it under control.
That night, as I lay in bed, I heard the first creak.
It wasn’t anything unusual at first, just the typical groaning of an old building. But then there was another sound, something softer, like a shuffle of feet or a door opening. I sat up, listening carefully.
The sound was faint, but it was coming from the hallway outside my apartment. I crept toward the door, pressing my ear against the wood. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, a low murmur, voices.
I opened the door a crack, peering into the dim hallway. Two of my neighbors stood at the far end, near the stairwell. They were talking quietly, too quietly for me to make out their words. It wasn’t unusual to see people here, but something about the way they were standing, huddled together in the shadows, made my skin crawl.
I was about to close the door when one of them turned sharply, his gaze locking onto mine. I froze. He didn’t say anything, just stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment before nudging the other person. They both disappeared down the stairs without a word.
I closed the door, heart racing, trying to shake off the encounter. People here were strange, sure, but I didn’t think much of it until the next day, when I realized the two neighbors hadn’t returned.
Their apartment door stayed closed, the lights off, and for the next few days, I didn’t see or hear them at all. No footsteps, no voices. Nothing. It was like they’d vanished.
A week later, I saw the babushka again.
I hadn’t spoken to her since she’d warned me about the neighbors, and I wasn’t eager to bring it up. But that day, as I walked past her apartment, the door opened a crack. Her pale, milky eyes peered through the gap, her expression unreadable.
“You’re still here,” she said, her voice hoarse.
I paused, unsure of what to say. “Yeah...”
She glanced around the hallway, then back at me, lowering her voice. “Have you seen them? The ones who leave.”
I hesitated. “What do you mean?”
She sighed, shaking her head. “They don’t leave. Not really.”
A chill ran down my spine. “What are you talking about?”
“They disappear. One by one.” She coughed, the sound rough and wet.
Her words made my stomach churn, but before I could ask more, she closed the door with a soft click. I stood there for a moment, trying to process what she’d said, but it didn’t make sense. People left all the time, didn’t they? It was just a strange, old woman’s paranoia.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
The next day, I noticed something else.
One of the doors down the hall, the apartment where I’d seen the neighbors last, was slightly ajar. Just a crack. No light came from inside, and the air around it felt colder than usual. I hadn’t seen anyone come or go from that apartment in days, and I wasn’t sure anyone still lived there.
I stared at the door for a long time, debating whether to knock or walk away. But something held me back, an odd feeling, like the air itself was warning me to stay away. I backed off, heading quickly for the stairs. As I descended, I glanced over my shoulder, and for a split second, I thought I saw movement through the crack in the door.
Something, or someone, was watching.
Over the next few nights, the building seemed to grow more restless. The cold became unbearable, seeping through the walls despite the heat blasting from the radiator. The lights flickered constantly, plunging the hallway into darkness at odd intervals. And the noises... they were getting louder.
Every ni...
Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1g359no/my_soviet_apartment_in_norilsk_is_hiding/