Short stories.

[The passage]

Many people on this forum love to read. But sometimes it’s not possible to read a whole book. But there is time to read stories. The stories are very short, but despite this they are very capacious.
I suggest adding short stories to this topic that have interested you or made a strong impression.


Window

Ever since Rita was brutally murdered, Carter has been sitting by the window. No TV, reading, correspondence. His life is what is seen through the curtains. He doesn’t care who brings the food, who pays the bills, he doesn’t leave the room. His life is the passing of gymnasts, the change of seasons, passing cars, the ghost of Rita.

Carter does not understand that there are no windows in the felt-lined rooms.

n(c) Jane Orvis

[Mancuso]

...a little more authentic:

Second life

Their friendship did not work out. Both must be to blame, but the older one is in charge. The father did not notice how his son caught up in height. But when I saw him for the first time with a cigarette in his mouth, without wasting any more words, he severely flogged him. He was cool. Character is like boiling water: it didn’t warm it, it scalded the soul.

But the apple rolls unhealthy from the tree... The son hid, but knew his way.

She came it’s time to die with vodka... And again the heavy parental hand walked over the rebellious one. Yes, I did not tear out words of repentance. Only evil lights blazed in his sobered eyes.

Since then he stopped beating, but it was too late: words were no longer allowed to pass where the fist passed. And the day came when the son blurted out directly:

- That’s it, dad, stop preaching. I didn’t ask you to come into this world, I degenerated myself. And I have no reason to count my debts. Let me live as best I can, not a little one.

-Get out of my sight, that’s all my father said then, his face darkening.

He left. He sighed freely. Yes, apparently, he was in a hurry to celebrate freedom. He didn’t know how to live very well. The friends turned everything in their own way: partying, drinking, doing business... A working guy, but he went down a bad path...

One winter evening a neighbor ran into the house.

- “Your bone is being killed in the park,” she cried out breathlessly.

Father was in the house and rushed out into the street...

Three people hit. They beat us professionally, with calculated cruelty. Broke into the punishing triangle. And just in time: he grabbed the knife addressed to his son...

...How long it has been since these dear hands hugged him... How good, how easy. But why are they shaking so much? Why has he himself become so weak and cannot respond with a heartfelt hug?.. Oh yes, this is... Pressed close to each other, they slowly settled on the trampled snow. Along with a cutting pain in my side, the thought of what had happened pierced me. And he barely uttered words that could stop the heart: - Here’s to you... son... a second life... from me - appreciate it more...

And son, maddened by pain and in grief, he clutched his father’s limp body and, trying to get to his feet, muttered with cut lips:

- Dad... dad... get up, you’ll catch a cold...

(Detkov V.)

Sent after 19 minutes 20 seconds:
Snow

It is snowing. You catch him with your eyelashes and slowly walk through the line of lanterns. Snow is an eternal good memory. It rustles and whispers in a sweet voice about flowers in the middle of winter, about an untold fairy tale...

It’s so good that it’s snowing. You stopped and looked through its thick flickering with stubborn hope. What if?!

But it only snows.

(Detkov V.)

[Beluga]

I already posted in one of the topics, and not very briefly, but I hope I really like it.

When the sirens had not yet howled in the city, I already knew everything.
I knew because that - there were a lot of these "because" ones around me. The touch of a cold wind on your open neck, as if someone dead had touched it with icy fingers. The creaking of tram wheels at the junction of rails, the cry of a crow in the darkening sky. Pulse of burning windows: fading, ragged. The last one.
I got off the tram, walked to the embankment and sat down on the first bench I came across. He lit a cigarette and closed his eyes, feeling the hairs on his arms stand on end, as if turning into small sharp needles.
The sirens split the evening in two - the time "Before" and the time "After", of which there was so little left .
Fourteen minutes.
They will be enough for a lot, if, of course, you are not greedy. Spend one minute at a time. Closing my eyes, I sat and listened to how the world around me was rapidly shrinking. He was already dead, but he didn’t understand it yet. And only individual sparks shone in it, as in a cooled fire, those who were in no hurry.

14 minutes

- Atomic alarm! - the eternally silent speakers roared from the lampposts. - Atomic alarm! This is not a drill! Attention! Take shelter in the nearest shelters immediately!
He flinched because he was standing under the bullhorn. He looked around in confusion, using an unnecessary movement to shield the bouquet from the wind. And then I saw her - she was running from the bus stop, stumbling, flapping her purse. Without taking your eyes off his face. He watched her, and all the other passers-by seemed like angular cardboard silhouettes covered in ash.
- Lord... How is it now? - she said, grabbing his hand.
- Take the flowers, - he said.
- Are you crazy? Which flowers? - she shouted.
“Take it,” he said, “and let’s move away, otherwise they will trample.” Let’s go to the alley and take a walk. We’ll just have time to reach our favorite tree.
She suddenly calmed down.
- Do you promise?
- Of course, - he smiled, feeling how everything inside was freezing with fear.

13 minutes

He fired three times and saw the director slump in his chair, twitching like a broken doll and spattering blood - with a hiss like siphon.
“Nothing personal,” he muttered under his breath, “just business...
He took aim at the secretary who was standing at the office door on wobbly legs, but changed his mind. Coming closer, the killer carefully pulled out a leather folder from under her arm.
“Run,” he advised softly. He immediately noticed that he had accidentally stained the leg of his black jeans with dust and patted it with his palm.
- Run, really. “Maybe you’ll have time,” he advised again and left.

12 minutes

The old man sat motionless and looked at the chessboard, where his black king huddled in a corner, under the protection of the last figures. His opponent, if one could call his old chess partner that way, had just leaned back, wheezed and fell off the folding stool, his hands clawing at his jacket in front of his heart. They met here, on Strastnoy Boulevard, every Friday - for thirty years now. Good timing.
The old man looked around. Somewhere you could hear horns, the clinking of glass and the grinding of breaking cars. He followed the strange couple with his eyes - a man with a sharp, thin face and his companion, who was clutching a bouquet of flowers. The man hugged the girl by the shoulders. Their glances slid over the old man without noticing.
He looked at the board, then, coughing, extended his thin hand and with cold fingers carefully laid the king on the black square.

11 minutes

- I wonder, if I leave now without paying, will you arrest me? - Sergei twirled the gold signet in his fingers, then looked at the saleswoman behind the window of the jewelry store. She didn’t hear him - she stood with a white face, and with shaking hands endlessly straightened and straightened the pendant on her neck. "Mom, ma-a-a-ma, that’s enough, that’s enough!" - the second girl screamed in the corner, but the sirens drowned out her voice. The guard looked blankly at Sergei, then suddenly jumped out of his seat, ran up to the screaming saleswoman and hit her twice hard in the face.
- Shut up, bitch!
- Not good, fellow countryman, - smiling, Sergei told him loudly. He put the signet on his finger and put his hand in the pocket of his expensive coat.
- What? - the guard yelled, moving towards him. Sergei saw drops of sweat on his forehead and looked at them for a second, thinking that the signet sat on his finger as it should - it did not pinch or dangle. Then he took a pistol out of his pocket and shot the guard in the face.

10 minutes

They sat on a stopped tram and passed each other a bottle of cognac.
“It turned out badly,” said Andrey. He tried to smile, but his lower jaw was jumping, and his face turned white with every sip - he didn’t want to die like that.
- Maybe after all, training?.. - Dimka objected, but then stopped short.
n - It’s a pity that we didn’t get to Pashka. Everyone has just gathered with him now. Birthday, probably a pillar of smoke...
“Do you think it would be easier?”
Andrey thought.
“No,” he said. - It’s not easier. Okay, let’s take another sip. Have a snack, we won’t deliver the cake anyway.
He looked out the window.
- Look, people are living.
At the intersection, a tall man in a coat was shooting at a black jeep. Each time he aimed carefully and for a long time - it seemed that he really wanted to knock down the antenna with a shot, but he just couldn’t do it. Having fired the cartridges, he waved his hand and leaned his elbows on the hood.
“We’ve arrived,” Dimka grinned. He took a sip of cognac and winced.

9 minutes

- I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time... - he finished clicking the remote control, with one hissing sound blank channel screen to another, and left the TV alone.
- What? - she responded sluggishly.
- I never loved you. They should have drowned you back then, in Crimea. They would have thought it was an accident.
- Bastard! - She hit him on the cheek. Taking his hand, he sharply twisted it. When his wife screamed and bent over in pain, he drove her to the open balcony, arching his elbow more.
- Don’t! - She tried to cling to the door frame with her long nails. The nail broke and remained sticking out in the crack.
He threw her from the balcony, barely holding on to the railing himself. I watched as the body plopped onto the asphalt - there was no sound, the sirens were blocking everything.
I lit a cigarette. I haven’t felt the taste of cigarette smoke for ten years, because my wife wanted it that way. He exhaled and took a deep breath.

8 minutes

People were running along the street - in different directions, in all directions. They bumped into each other, fell, screamed and cursed. Only one beggar sat quietly by the fence, wrapped in a tattered cloak. The hat, in which some small change was jingling, had long been kicked to the other side of the sidewalk, but he was in no hurry to get it. He froze, shuddering, and lowered his unkempt head.
“On you,” someone threw a pistol with the bolt pulled back into the beggar’s lap, “I am kind today.” There seems to be one cartridge still left there. You’ll figure it out yourself.
The beggar didn’t raise his head, his eyes sullenly followed his legs in black jeans, a smear of dust on his trouser leg. He threw the pistol onto the asphalt and howled quietly, swaying from side to side. Nearby, glancing cautiously with a brilliant gaze, a dove landed and pecked at some crumb.

7 minutes

In the cinema someone was killed, the crowd kicked a body tossing and turning underfoot, moving its broken face across the floor.
“Don’t look,” he gently took her chin, turned her towards him, kissed her on the lips.
“I don’t even look,” she bravely shrugged her shoulders, although it was clear that she was scared.
“I won’t leave you,” he said quietly.
“What?” - the girl didn’t hear, covered her ears, screamed loudly:
- How tired of these sirens! I can’t hear you at all!
- And don’t listen! - he shouted back. - I still won’t let you go!
- Really?
- Of course!
A few seconds later, they were shot by a beggar covered in dirty stubble, who somehow happened to have a gun. There were only two cartridges in the clip, and the beggar didn’t have enough to shoot himself.
- Creatures! May you die! - he shouted for a long time, but no one listened to him, only two guys in an empty tram nearby, eating cake with their hands.

6 minutes

“You did everything so quickly,” he said, “thank you, Masha... And these sirens are almost inaudible.
“Be quiet,” the tall woman sternly ordered the man in the bed, “you can’t speak.” - Now what’s the point? - He laughed hoarsely and coughed. - You are wonderful, Masha. So, are we going to listen to the doctors?
She carefully tucked the blanket in for him and sat down next to him, looking at his sharp profile in the twilight of the room.
“Masha,” he stirred the words, raised his head, “read something.” something?
- Do you want Brodsky? - she asked without moving.
- Very much.
She didn’t need to reach for the book and turn on the light. Barely moving her lips, almost silently, she began:

- It’s not that I’m going crazy, but I’m tired over the summer.
You’ll reach into the chest of drawers for a shirt, and the day lost.
I wish winter would come quickly and take it all away -
cities, people, but first the greenery...

5 minutes

- Mom, how long do we have to sit here? - a child’s voice asked from the depths of the silently breathing carriage.
- Quiet. “We’ll sit as long as they say,” the woman hissed. And again everyone fell silent, only the crowd was breathing - like one mortally wounded person.
- Shall we go out onto the platform? - the driver asked his replacement.
- Why? At least the cabin isn’t cramped. And now there is complete hysteria, especially when the escalators are turned off.
The driver listened.
“It seems quiet,” he shrugged.
“That’s it for now.” Just wait a little longer.
- Yes, soon it won’t matter, you know. We’re on the roundabout. Everything will fail here.
- That’s for sure.
Without saying a word, they both lit a cigarette.
“I really feel like a pilot,” said the reliever. - It’s as if the plane is falling, and there’s only a little left. Just for a smoke.
“An airplane, a subway are the same, only without wings,” the driver tried to joke.
Both laughed sadly. Then the shift worker flicked the switch, and the train’s headlights went out.

4 minutes

Around the corner, someone was playing a guitar, a discordant choir was carefully drawing out the words songs. Sasha climbed the dark stairs to the top floor of the house. At first it seemed to him that there was no one on the landing, but then he heard a quiet cry at the door, upholstered in red leatherette.
- Well? Why are you crying? - Sasha squatted down in front of a little girl in a red jumpsuit.
- Scary... - she said, looking at him with gray eyes. - Mom doesn’t open the door for me. He and dad argued a lot, and then fell silent, I heard through the door.
“They fell silent - that’s bad,” Sasha said seriously. - Listen, do you want to go to the roof? From above you can see everything far, far away.
“You can’t go on the roof,” the girl shook her head, crying her sobbing face into her hands. Sasha carefully moved his palms away from his face and winked at his gray eyes.
- Today you can. I’m not someone else’s guy, but your neighbor downstairs. That’s fair, honest. Let’s go and see for yourself.
Rattling with sheets of iron, they climbed to the very top of the roof. Sasha held the girl’s hand tightly.
- Yeah. Here we are,” he looked around, then took off his cloak and laid it right on the rusty tin, “sit down.” Is it clearly visible?
- Yes, - the girl, without looking up, looked at the sky.
- Well, that’s great. We’ll sit, and then mom will come back, and dad...
Sasha stretched out next to him, putting his hands behind his head, and also began to look at the clouds, wondering to himself whether he would have time or not to notice the rocket.

3 minutes

The city fell silent. I sat on the bench, still not opening my eyes, feeling how people were huddling deeper into the cracks to hide, although hiding was useless. Those lucky enough to survive were far from here. But I didn’t count, I didn’t even cast a shadow, sitting under the dimming lantern.
Two minutes.
The wind stopped blowing. Time was compressed, rapidly curled into a ball, because millions of people were now thinking about only one thing - how to slow down these minutes. It never happens what everyone wants. Slow and hasty, they were on equal terms, although the former had a few extra moments left.
A minute.
It was as if someone had drawn a white stripe in the sky. It kept getting longer, and a hot point was shining ahead - like a meteorite that was about to fall, leaving behind just a small crater. "A little one! - I begged, without opening my lips. - Please! A little one! And then everyone would come back, go out, clean up the garbage, and become like before again!"
There was silence in the world, and I understood that no one listens to me. Soon this city will turn into a glass bubble, frozen, forever fused into the crust of the earth.

And me? After all, I will stay?
I will stay?
But what will I say?
And where will I go, spreading my burnt wings, covered with dead glass?

© Copyright Sharapov Vadim Viktorovich

[Mancuso]

...everything is fine, except for the pistol’s "pull-back bolt." This means that it is on the slide stop, which means that the clip is empty... Well, oh well))

[Ogest]

Not a short story, but a fairy tale.

Fool.

Once upon a time there lived a man and a woman, they had a son who was a fool. He thought about how to get married and sleep with his wife, and every now and then he pesters his father: “Marry me, father!” The father says to him:
- Wait, son! It’s still too early for you to get married: your dick doesn’t even reach your ass; when it reaches my ass, that’s when I marry you.
So the son grabbed his dick with his hand and pulled it as tight as possible. I looked and it’s definitely true, it doesn’t reach my ass a little.
“Yes,” he says, “it’s too early for me to get married - my dick is still small, it’s not enough to reach my ass! We need to wait a year or two." Time flies on its own, but the fool has nothing but work to do, drawing out the dick; and finally he achieved some sense, the dick began to get to him not only in the ass - and in plenty! “It won’t be a shame to sleep with your wife: I’ll please her myself, I won’t let her into strangers!”
The father thought to himself: “What good can you expect from a fool!” He said to him:
- Well, son! When your dick has grown so big that it’s enough to go through your ass, then there’s no point in getting you married; live alone, sit at home, and fuck yourself with your dick!
nThat was the end of the matter.

[Mancuso]

Ogest,
)))

[Ogest]

Mancuso, favorite fairy tale. I always remember her when I hear stories about bachelors with big dicks.

[Beluga]

...everything is fine, except for the "pull back bolt" of the pistol. This means that it is on the slide stop, which means that the clip is empty... Well, oh well))

don’t fuss over the details like a riveter, only without them documentaries and books will remain, but people need the history of what is not visible from the window and cannot be found on the street.

Sent after 3 minutes 36 seconds:
Friday evening, unremarkable, like many of them. Both my wife and I were already at home, had already had dinner, and talked about the past day. I helped her around the kitchen as best I could, washed the dishes, and was kicked out into the room so as not to get in the way. She decided to pamper us with pies not made from store-bought dough, but from homemade dough. This is how we usually cook with four hands, one cleans, the other cuts, one stirs, the other salts. But when she has a desire for solo creativity, I am removed from the kitchen. And together with her culinary creativity, she brings her favorite TV series from the network to the screen and, combining business with pleasure, cooks. After knocking on everyone’s favorite tanks, looking again into the kitchen and receiving a notification that she was still waiting for a long time, he went, took a shower and fell into bed, after leafing through it a little and getting hit in the nose with a book a couple of times, I realized that I could turn off the lights and fall asleep. The week turned out to be a hectic one, a rush of the night, and Friday was a shock one, so that sleep fell instantly, although apparently not very deeply. Soon, through his sleep, he felt his wife lying down next to him. She pressed herself close to me, throwing her leg over me like she loves. It seemed that everything was as usual, but soon I realized that the back to which my wife was pressed and the thigh on which her leg lay began to freeze very much. I decided that, out of habit, she had opened the window and was getting a draft, and she liked to pull the blanket over herself. But it’s strange, my back was freezing, against which she was pressed, and the blanket was pulled all the way to my nose. And then, through my sleep, I heard the clinking of dishes in the kitchen and the quiet sound of the TV. And something cold pressed against me. I froze as if paralyzed. He couldn’t, and he didn’t even dare to move or make any sound. And then I felt a frosty breath that fanned my ear. I felt the hairs on my body stand on end. And at that moment, the loud meowing of our cat was heard under the door. Literally immediately the cold and the feeling of my body disappeared, I was finally able to move. He turned sharply. The bed was empty. I jumped out of bed and room as if scalded. In a second I found myself in the kitchen. The wife was still busy at the stove.
https://i.postimg.cc/Wz7BQqxX/134.jpg

[The passage]

Offer

Starry night. It’s the right time. Romantic dinner. Cozy Italian restaurant. Little black dress. Luxurious hair, sparkling eyes, silvery laughter. We’ve been together for two years. Wonderful time! True love, best friend, no one else. Champagne! I offer my hand and heart. On one knee. Are people watching? Well, let! Beautiful diamond ring. Blush on the cheeks, charming smile.
What, no?!

(c) Larisa Kirkland.

[Beluga]

"In the winter of 2006, the next winter session began. I took a leave of absence from work, began to drive to my polytechnic, to pass the tests, exams and bribes with grief.

But that’s not the point. One day in the evening I was hanging out on the Internet, crawling through chats, contacts and messages. At 2 am the left contact knocked on the ICQ with a request to add me. I greeted her. We started talking, and she turned out to be very smart and interesting. , during the session, I got in touch with her 5 more times, we corresponded all night long, and when the session ended and I went to work, communication naturally faded away.

For a long time I I wasn’t in ICQ, and now, at the end of May, I was finally online and met her. In the process, she invited me to visit. She lived in another city, 40 kilometers from mine. Without thinking twice. accepted the invitation, and the next day I went by train to visit her. After wandering around the streets for a short time, I went out to the right one, found her house, the entrance, went up to the 4th floor...

nThe door of the apartment I needed was burnt out and charred. It was strange. The call button was also melted and did not function. My knock on the door disturbed the neighbor opposite.

- Why are you breaking in, you see - the apartment is empty. - she called me boorishly, sticking her head out of the doorway.

-I’m looking for one person at this address... - I awkwardly tried to justify myself.

-There hasn’t been anyone here since January,” the aunt sighed, “the whole family burned down on the old New Year.” A married couple and their seventeen-year-old daughter.

-And-sorry... - I mumbled, and trudged away from this place. My head refused to think, my legs carried me to the station on autopilot, and an hour and a half later I was home. Still, by inertia, I turned on the computer, went online, and accessed ICQ. The offline contact was flashing a yellow envelope.

>firelady (11:03:24 05/29/2006)

>Sorry, I just didn’t knew how to tell you.

Later, looking through the message history, I realized that she was added to my contact list on January 13."


https://i.postimg.cc/YCsQJrcm/newsbel-by-26-11-2016-Nyire-Ctqw-Ht-CVb-J9-X5-Ri-Dr-PAhh5n-EVes.jpg

[The passage]

"In the winter of 2006, the next winter session began. I took a leave of absence from work, began to go to my polytechnic, to pass the tests, exams and bribes with grief.

But the point is not in this. One evening I was hanging out on the Internet, crawling through chats, contacts and messages. At 2 am the left contact knocked on the ICQ with a request to add me. and interesting. Then, during the session, I got in touch with her 5 more times, we corresponded all night long, and when the session ended and I went to work, the communication naturally faded away.

I wasn’t on ICQ for a long time, and then, at the end of May, I was finally online and met her, and in the process she invited me to visit. She lived in another city, 40 kilometers from mine. Without thinking twice, I accepted the invitation, and the next day I went by train to visit her. After wandering around the streets for a while, I went out to the one I needed, found her house, the entrance, went up to the 4th floor...

The door of the apartment I needed was burnt out and charred. It was strange. The call button was also melted and did not function. My knock on the door disturbed the neighbor opposite.

- Why are you breaking in, you see - the apartment is empty. - she called me boorishly, sticking her head out of the doorway.

-I’m looking for one person at this address... - I awkwardly tried to justify myself.

-There hasn’t been anyone here since January,” the aunt sighed, “the whole family burned down on the old New Year.” A married couple and their seventeen-year-old daughter.

-And-sorry... - I mumbled, and trudged away from this place. My head refused to think, my legs carried me to the station on autopilot, and an hour and a half later I was home. Still, by inertia, I turned on the computer, went online, and accessed ICQ. The offline contact was flashing a yellow envelope.

>firelady (11:03:24 05/29/2006)

>Sorry, I just didn’t knew how to tell you.

Later, looking through the message history, I realized that she was added to my contact list on January 13."


https://i.postimg.cc/YCsQJrcm/newsbel-by-26-11-2016-Nyire-Ctqw-Ht-CVb-J9-X5-Ri-Dr-PAhh5n-EVes.jpg

Эта история произошла с тобой?

[Beluga]

Did this story happen to you?

No, this is honestly from copy-paste, but the previous one was written by me

[Beluga]

Quiet steps

"I would like to tell a story that almost drove me crazy.

It all started a little less than a year ago. I had just finished school, almost getting a silver medal, but I didn’t, I gave up on this, applied to the university and passed on points. I didn’t have to worry about anything for the rest of the summer.

My apartment was on the first floor. It looked something like this: imagine the letter E, rotated 90 degrees clockwise. The exit was on the left. the first "stick" is the kitchen (where it all started), the second is the living room (and my parents’ bedroom), the third, the farthest from the entrance, is my room. At the end of May, my mother went on a business trip to Moscow. My father worked in the morning. until late at night, we don’t have pets, as a result I was alone in the apartment almost the whole day. Naturally, I hardly sat at home, since I’m sociable by nature and prefer to go somewhere with a girl or just go drinking with friends. The apartment was used as a transit point - to drop by to eat, sleep, or sit at the computer for a while on the Internet.

Once I tripped on the street, almost out of the blue, which was extremely disappointing, and twisted my leg. The doctor at the emergency room said that there was nothing dangerous, but it would be better to stay at home for five or six days. I decided that I would do just that.

And that’s where it all began.

There’s not much to do in the kitchen, my room is small - just a bed and yes closet, so I spent most of the time in the hall, surfing the Internet (I don’t like computer games).

One day I notice that there is a barely audible noise in the kitchen. At first I thought it was just an illusion. But about three minutes later the noise repeated. It sounded like some very quiet rustling sound, like a plastic bag. I thought that this was the package, maybe it had been blown away by the wind due to the uncovered window, but still decided to check.

There was nothing in the kitchen that could have made such a noise . Shrugging my shoulders, I turned around and froze. There was a very creepy and sudden feeling, as if someone was standing right behind me and staring at the back of my head. Out of surprise, I couldn’t even turn back, I somehow walked into the corridor and only then looked back. There was no one, but the feeling did not disappear.

Deciding that this was such a strange glitch, I returned to the hall. Gradually, the feeling of fear went away, I even began to laugh at myself, and went online again. Almost a minute later, footsteps began to be heard. Not even exactly steps, but a dry, weak shuffling sound, rhythmic and for some reason frightening. Just in case, I asked loudly: "Who’s here?". The footsteps did not stop. I literally felt with my skin that someone walked past the closed door of the hall in the corridor into my room, and then back. There was no one in the corridor or in the room. Not even footprints.

No more steps were heard that day. When my father came home (and it was about 11 pm), I told him about this story. My father looked at me tiredly, said that he had never heard anything like this before, and went to bed, didn’t even have dinner - he was constantly exhausted, working as a loader. The next day, I no longer felt comfortable being alone in an empty apartment. I tried to calm down, mentally repeating that it was simply impossible to understand where the phobia came from. However, lying on my bed, I again heard quiet footsteps in the kitchen.

Once I read a book (I don’t remember the author) "People-Phenomena". There was a whole chapter about progeria - this is an extremely rare disease in which children grow old and die at the age of 11-12. At the beginning of the chapter there was an illustration: a man with a disproportionately large, gray, senile head was holding a cat in his arms. The most frightening thing about him was his eyes - large, somehow half-closed with eyelids, and his smile - even more of a grin, for some reason immediately seeming unkind, insincere, even cruel. This generally unfortunate man seemed a frightening and unnatural parody of man. For some reason, steps immediately became associated with this. This is how I imagined a gray, withered creature, with a grin frozen on his thin lips, who slowly walks along a long empty corridor, casting a low shadow forward.

That day I was in the hall, as always covering door, and was sitting in front of the monitor, when suddenly I again felt a chilling gaze on me. I turned around and heard footsteps even more clearly, as if someone was quickly leaving for the kitchen. The door was almost half open - and I remembered that I had closed it securely. From that day on the nightmare began. At night no footsteps were heard, the father slept peacefully and did not know anything. To my stories, he only answered that it was just his imagination running wild. But I never had much imagination; I am a skeptic by nature. One way or another, the father did not attach any importance to the steps. I would happily leave the apartment during the day - my leg wouldn’t allow it. So for four days I sat locked in the latch and occasionally going to the bathroom in my room and tried to read to the sound of the wall clock. And still I couldn’t calm down: quiet steps - back, back, back, back... At times I could hear something like a distant, indistinct muttering.

On the fifth day in the evening my father’s work called me. While carrying a heavy load at a construction site, he lost his balance and fell onto a pile of bricks into a flight of stairs from the second floor of an unfinished building. I, wincing from the pain in my leg, rushed to the hospital. Father lay there, all bandaged, pale, but he still found the strength to smile and even joke. I sat next to him until ten in the evening, then the visiting hours ended.

I came home at half past twelve and immediately went to bed. When the sound of shuffling crept into the usual ticking of the clock, I instantly woke up. Never before had footsteps been heard at night.

The footsteps stopped near my door. The same barely audible muttering was heard. Then the sound began to recede and finally disappeared completely.

I waited for half an hour, fighting nervous trembling, then went to the door. And he was dumbfounded. The latch, which I had definitely left completely closed, was barely hanging on the hook. Move just a little more and the door would open wide.

I couldn’t sleep anymore. Hastily got ready, opened the door, and quickly left the apartment. He wandered around the city all night, smoked, and stopped in crowded places. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment at all. My father remained in the hospital for three more weeks. During this time I never spent the night at home. I only went there for money. I slept with acquaintances, friends, went to relatives who did not understand anything, but did not refuse to stay for the night. The city went up and down.

Finally, my mother arrived from a business trip. I met her at the station, she was surprised by my appearance - thin, in worn-out clothes. I literally begged her to move - fortunately, there was a profitable option, I found an advertisement in the newspaper. The mother shrugged her shoulders, but agreed. We hired movers - I categorically refused to return to that apartment - and moved in three days. We spent all this time with our aunt, who lives next to the hospital - this is how we managed to constantly visit our father.

Then my father was discharged, and we finally began to live relatively calmly. No footsteps were heard in the new apartment; I had already calmed down. Recently, while walking in a park in the city center, I met a former neighbor - he was pushing his little son in a stroller. We started talking. It turns out that right after us, a young guy moved into that apartment, a newcomer from somewhere in Central Asia, half Russian, half some kind of Uzbek. He only lived there for a week. Neighbors, worried that the guy had locked himself in the house and hadn’t come out for a week, called the police. They rang the doorbell for a long time, then opened it. He was lying on the kitchen floor with a large bread knife in one hand. The veins on both arms were simply streaked. The examination showed suicide, but I doubt it: how can a person with a mangled hand take a knife to her and also mutilate her other hand?

The neighbor said goodbye and said before leaving: “By the way, lately , when I sleep, it seems as if someone is walking behind the wall."

I don’t know what I will do if in the middle of my sleep I hear quiet steps again. I just don’t know."


https://i.postimg.cc/ZRrvVLv4/fd-Ihns-Gcefo.jpg

[The passage]

Quiet steps

"I would like to tell a story that almost made me go crazy .

It all started a little less than a year ago. I had just finished school, almost getting a silver medal, but I didn’t, I gave up on this matter, applied to the university and passed. according to points. Therefore, for the rest of the summer there was no need to worry about anything.

My apartment was on the first floor. It looked something like this: imagine the letter E rotated 90 degrees clockwise. Exit was on the left, the first "stick" was the kitchen (where it all started), the second was the living room (and my parents’ bedroom), the third, the farthest from the entrance, was my room. At the end of May, my mother went on a business trip to Moscow. My father worked from morning until late at night, we don’t have pets, and as a result I was alone in the apartment almost all day. Naturally, I hardly sat at home, since I am sociable by nature and prefer to go somewhere with a girl or just go drinking with friends. The apartment was used as a transit point - to drop by to eat, sleep, or sit at the computer for a while on the Internet.

Once I tripped on the street, almost out of the blue, which was extremely disappointing, and twisted my leg. The doctor at the emergency room said that there was nothing dangerous, but it would be better to stay at home for five or six days. I decided that I would do just that.

And that’s where it all began.

There’s not much to do in the kitchen, my room is small - just a bed and yes closet, so I spent most of the time in the hall, surfing the Internet (I don’t like computer games).

One day I notice that there is a barely audible noise in the kitchen. At first I thought it was just an illusion. But about three minutes later the noise repeated. It sounded like some very quiet rustling sound, like a plastic bag. I thought that this was the package, maybe it had been blown away by the wind due to the uncovered window, but still decided to check.

There was nothing in the kitchen that could have made such a noise . Shrugging my shoulders, I turned around and froze. There was a very creepy and sudden feeling, as if someone was standing right behind me and staring at the back of my head. Out of surprise, I couldn’t even turn back, I somehow walked into the corridor and only then looked back. There was no one, but the feeling did not disappear.

Deciding that this was such a strange glitch, I returned to the hall. Gradually, the feeling of fear went away, I even began to laugh at myself, and went online again. Almost a minute later, footsteps began to be heard. Not even exactly steps, but a dry, weak shuffling sound, rhythmic and for some reason frightening. Just in case, I asked loudly: "Who’s here?". The footsteps did not stop. I literally felt with my skin that someone walked past the closed door of the hall in the corridor into my room, and then back. There was no one in the corridor or in the room. Not even footprints.

No more steps were heard that day. When my father came home (and it was about 11 pm), I told him about this story. My father looked at me tiredly, said that he had never heard anything like this before, and went to bed, didn’t even have dinner - he was constantly exhausted, working as a loader. The next day, I no longer felt comfortable being alone in an empty apartment. I tried to calm down, mentally repeating that it was simply impossible to understand where the phobia came from. However, lying on my bed, I again heard quiet footsteps in the kitchen.

Once I read a book (I don’t remember the author) "People-Phenomena". There was a whole chapter about progeria - this is an extremely rare disease in which children grow old and die at the age of 11-12. At the beginning of the chapter there was an illustration: a man with a disproportionately large, gray, senile head was holding a cat in his arms. The most frightening thing about him was his eyes - large, somehow half-closed with eyelids, and his smile - even more of a grin, for some reason immediately seeming unkind, insincere, even cruel. This generally unfortunate man seemed a frightening and unnatural parody of man. For some reason, steps immediately became associated with this. This is how I imagined a gray, withered creature, with a grin frozen on his thin lips, who slowly walks along a long empty corridor, casting a low shadow forward.

That day I was in the hall, as always covering door, and was sitting in front of the monitor, when suddenly I again felt a chilling gaze on me. I turned around and heard footsteps even more clearly, as if someone was quickly leaving for the kitchen. The door was almost half open - and I remembered that I had closed it securely. From that day on the nightmare began. At night no footsteps were heard, the father slept peacefully and did not know anything. To my stories, he only answered that it was just his imagination running wild. But I never had much imagination; I am a skeptic by nature. One way or another, the father did not attach any importance to the steps. I would happily leave the apartment during the day - my leg wouldn’t allow it. So for four days I sat locked in the latch and occasionally going to the bathroom in my room and tried to read to the sound of the wall clock. And still I couldn’t calm down: quiet steps - back, back, back, back... At times I could hear something like a distant, indistinct muttering.

On the fifth day in the evening my father’s work called me. While carrying a heavy load at a construction site, he lost his balance and fell onto a pile of bricks into a flight of stairs from the second floor of an unfinished building. I, wincing from the pain in my leg, rushed to the hospital. Father lay there, all bandaged, pale, but he still found the strength to smile and even joke. I sat next to him until ten in the evening, then the visiting hours ended.

I came home at half past twelve and immediately went to bed. When the sound of shuffling crept into the usual ticking of the clock, I instantly woke up. Never before had footsteps been heard at night.

The footsteps stopped near my door. The same barely audible muttering was heard. Then the sound began to recede and finally disappeared completely.

I waited for half an hour, fighting nervous trembling, then went to the door. And he was dumbfounded. The latch, which I had definitely left completely closed, was barely hanging on the hook. Move just a little more and the door would open wide.

I couldn’t sleep anymore. Hastily got ready, opened the door, and quickly left the apartment. He wandered around the city all night, smoked, and stopped in crowded places. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment at all. My father remained in the hospital for three more weeks. During this time I never spent the night at home. I only went there for money. I slept with acquaintances, friends, went to relatives who did not understand anything, but did not refuse to stay for the night. The city went up and down.

Finally, my mother arrived from a business trip. I met her at the station, she was surprised by my appearance - thin, in worn-out clothes. I literally begged her to move - fortunately, there was a profitable option, I found an advertisement in the newspaper. The mother shrugged her shoulders, but agreed. We hired movers - I categorically refused to return to that apartment - and moved in three days. We spent all this time with our aunt, who lives next to the hospital - this is how we managed to constantly visit our father.

Then my father was discharged, and we finally began to live relatively calmly. No footsteps were heard in the new apartment; I had already calmed down. Recently, while walking in a park in the city center, I met a former neighbor - he was pushing his little son in a stroller. We started talking. It turns out that right after us, a young guy moved into that apartment, a newcomer from somewhere in Central Asia, half Russian, half some kind of Uzbek. He only lived there for a week. Neighbors, worried that the guy had locked himself in the house and hadn’t come out for a week, called the police. They rang the doorbell for a long time, then opened it. He was lying on the kitchen floor with a large bread knife in one hand. The veins on both arms were simply streaked. The examination showed suicide, but I doubt it: how can a person with a mangled hand take a knife to her and also mutilate her other hand?

The neighbor said goodbye and said before leaving: “By the way, lately , when I sleep, it seems as if someone is walking behind the wall."

I don’t know what I will do if in the middle of my sleep I hear quiet steps again. I just don’t know."

There was a reason that caused auditory hallucinations. You should have consulted a doctor, if the author does not have mental illness, they would have checked the apartment.