Estimated reading time — 11 minutes

I knew I was going to hate it the moment I walked through that door.

The cramped entrance hall was already thick with the musty smell of old carpet. I kicked off my boots and stepped into the living room-bedroom hybrid, taking in the depression that seemed to emanate from every corner. The ancient Soviet-style furniture looked like it belonged in a museum, as if breathing too close to it for too long would cause it to crumble into dust. The wallpaper was probably intended to be beige—maybe it even was at some point—but now it had this burnt orange tint to it, like the inside of a microwave that hadn’t been cleaned in decades. A pair of floral curtains draped over the single large window, desperately trying to inject some life into the room. Unfortunately, the only thing they accomplished was making everything else look even duller by contrast.

Alexei didn’t have to ask for my opinion; my expression probably spoke for itself. He reminded me that this was only temporary—a month or two at most—and that we’d be moving into his actual place in Moscow as soon as the renovations were finished. That was where I thought we’d be living when I agreed to move to Russia with him, but then his apartment flooded just a day before I was supposed to arrive. Talk about shitty luck.

He did everything he could to find us somewhere under the circumstances, so I wasn’t angry with him. But I also wasn’t exactly thrilled.

Our temporary abode had apparently belonged to his best friend’s grandma. And you could definitely tell. It was located in what’s called a khrushchyovka, which, from what I understand, is basically the predecessor to the stereotypical Soviet apartment block. Maybe if you grew up in a place like this, it wouldn’t seem so bad, but going from a Canadian suburb to a concrete box in one of the rougher outskirts of the capital was one hell of a culture shock.

“Hey, we’ve gotta make the best of the hand we’re dealt, right?” I told my boyfriend with what I hoped was a reassuring grin.

As much as I hated it—and I really, really hated it—I didn’t want him feeling guilty over something he couldn’t have possibly anticipated.

Just a small bump in the road, I kept telling myself.

Soon, everything would be back on track.

The first few days were uneventful. Almost business as usual. Alexei would leave early in the morning to catch the train to Moscow for work, while I settled into my normal routines. I often became so absorbed in my projects that my surroundings faded into the background. At least until I finally put the laptop down and went to grab something from the fridge, only to be reminded that… Well, we didn’t have one. Not a working one, anyway.

We actually stored our food out on the balcony. It was early January, so it was definitely cold enough for that. The only other option was using the communal fridge, but I wasn’t a fan of my cheesecake tasting like onions and pickles.

I want to say the place started to grow on me, but honestly, it didn’t.

Even putting aside the lack of basic amenities, there was just something off about it. It was way too quiet. I expected to hear some movement in the hallway, or maybe someone blasting their TV a bit too loudly. Usual apartment noises. But nope. The building was dead silent, to the point where I sometimes wondered if I was the only person living there during the day.

I knew for a fact I wasn’t alone, though, because every time—and I mean every time—I stepped out to go to the shops or just stretch my legs, there was always this middle-aged man standing by the door to the shared basement. Just staring at it.

He looked a bit rough around the edges, but he definitely didn’t seem crazy or like he was on drugs or anything like that. He just looked exhausted, his dark eyes carrying this vacant expression, as if this was some chore he was stuck doing.

We’d exchange nods, and then he’d go right back to staring at the old metal door with its peeling blue paint.

At first, it was odd. Then it became creepy. And eventually, it just became one of those things you stop thinking about too much.

After all, he wasn’t hurting anyone, and he never acted weird toward me. Who was I to question a man’s passion for door-watching?

I didn’t bring him up to Alexei. He can be a bit too overprotective sometimes, and I didn’t want him starting drama with the neighbors on my behalf, especially since we weren’t going to be staying there for long anyway. I’m not sure if he noticed the strange man whenever he came home in the evenings. If he did, he never mentioned it.

After about two weeks of the same old routine, something changed.

I threw on my coat, wrapped myself in a scarf, and headed out to do some shopping like usual. But as I was making my way down the stairs, I noticed the man was no longer on the ground floor. He was standing on the second, staring intently at another resident’s door.

He nodded at me like he always did, but this time, I didn’t nod back.

Suddenly, in this new context, his favorite pastime seemed a lot more concerning. I have no idea what made me decide to confront him on my own. Maybe it was because he looked so scrawny, and I figured I could handle him if things turned hostile. Maybe I just needed an answer.

My Russian isn’t perfect, but I managed to ask him what he was doing.

He answered rather matter-of-factly, with something that roughly translated to:

“Watching the garden grow.”

I blinked.

I’m not sure what kind of answer I expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. I decided to leave it alone for now and ask Alexei what the man could have possibly meant when he got home later. Maybe it was some local expression that only made sense if you were a native speaker.

But then, true to form, my streak of bad luck continued.

That same afternoon, Alexei called to let me know his sister had been in a car accident and that they were currently at the hospital. He said she was stable, but he had no idea when he’d be able to make it back.

Naturally, I put on my best sympathetic girlfriend voice, assuring him that I could manage on my own for a few days. Inside, though, I was panicking at the thought of being stuck there alone.

“You sure?” he kept probing. “I could try to get someone to drive over there and—”

“Yes! I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself. You do what you have to do. I’m not going anywhere.”

I insisted, desperately hoping the mask wouldn’t slip. Or maybe, on some level, wishing that it would.

Being by myself in that claustrophobic dump during the day was one thing, but when the sun went down, it became a completely different story. That was when the silence became utterly suffocating. Every little bump or creak had me jolting out of my makeshift blanket fort and rushing to turn on the lights, convinced there was someone outside the door trying to pick the lock.

It was an irrational fear, but knowing that didn’t make it feel any less real at the time.

We were on the fifth and top floor, so at least I didn’t have to worry about anyone climbing in through the window. Although, looking back, I guess it wasn’t technically impossible.

Whenever I had to venture outside, I made sure to slip past that strange man as quickly as I could. Just his stare alone was enough to make my stomach turn.

After a few days, I noticed he had moved up another level. He was lurking around the third floor now. Fantastic. Exactly what I needed.

As a result of not getting enough quality sleep, I started experiencing sleep paralysis.

If you’ve never had it before, let me tell you: it fucking sucks.

You’re lying there, wide awake but completely unable to move. It feels like there’s a weight pressing down on your chest, pinning you in place. Your brain starts filling in the gaps, projecting shapes and figures over the familiar surroundings of your room, as if something has crossed over from your nightmares and followed you back into reality.

One of my most frequent episodes involved these red roots slowly creeping up the walls. They were the worst because, unlike some vague shadow creature, I could clearly tell what they were. I could make out their wet, flesh-like texture. I could see each disgusting pulse as they crawled along the wallpaper, curled around the corners, and spread across the ceiling, gradually converging above me.

When it was finally over, I would sit up in a cold sweat and stare at my clammy hands for what felt like hours, waiting for the sun to eventually rise.

At this point, you might be wondering why I decided to keep my boyfriend in the dark about what was happening to me.

One reason was that I didn’t want him stressing over his crybaby girlfriend’s little meltdowns when he already had enough on his plate. But there was another reason too. Part of me felt like telling him would make everything I was going through more real somehow. Like saying it out loud would give it the acknowledgment it wanted.

For both our sakes, I just had to tough it out.

Naturally, the quality of my work took a nosedive. I started missing deadlines, making entry-level mistakes, and my supervisors were becoming increasingly impatient. They knew about my less-than-ideal living situation, but at the end of the day, our clients didn’t care.

I was forced to take some mandatory time off, which, in corporate terms, basically meant I was on thin ice.

Looking back, it was probably the worst possible thing that could have happened. Because now I had nothing to do except sit there and drown in my own anxiety.

Day and night started to blur together. I binged every TV show I could think of, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone with my thoughts for too long, all the while assuring Alexei that I was doing fine whenever he called to check in on me.

Sometimes, I wasn’t even sure if he had actually called or if I had just dreamed our conversations.

Maybe he had forgotten about me. Maybe he had left me there to rot, so my body could serve as compost for whatever those growths were.

The roots had made their way to my bed by then, crawling out from underneath it, tugging at my sheets, wrapping around me like a throbbing cocoon. I could swear I sometimes saw them even when I was awake. Though, at that point, I wasn’t entirely sure what “awake” meant anymore.

The man was now on the fourth floor.

I spotted him standing in front of the apartment directly below ours one morning as I was heading downstairs. And that was when something inside me officially snapped.

I can only imagine how deranged I must have looked as I ran up to him, grabbed him by the sweater, and shook his entire bony frame while screaming in his face, demanding to know what the fuck he was really doing.

His expression didn’t change. His thin lips remained pressed into a line of cold indifference. Or maybe pity.

With surprising strength, he pushed me away, adjusted his collar, tucked a few imaginary strands of hair behind his bald head, turned around, and went right back to staring.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

I ran upstairs and slammed our apartment door so hard the window rattled. In a frenzy, I dug through the mountain of dirty clothes piled on the bed, fishing for my phone. I was going to call Alexei and tell him to come get me. I didn’t care anymore. I just needed to leave.

But instead of the usual ringing tone, all I heard was the sound of wood snapping and scraping. A deep, rhythmic thumping filled my ears, almost like a heartbeat. I looked down, and what I saw made me drop the phone.

The roots were wrapped around my ankles. Slowly, they were pulling me down beneath the floorboards.

I fought and screamed, but it didn’t matter. They bound my arms together. They forced their way through my ears, through my eyes, crawling deeper and deeper until they reached my brain.

The pain was beyond anything I could describe.

And then, I woke up in my bed, just like I always did.

The TV was still running in the background, casting flickering shadows across the littered floor. I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a cockroach scurrying from one greasy takeaway container to another.

I pressed my palms against my forehead. I needed fresh air. Desperately.

I climbed out of bed and dragged myself toward the balcony. As I pushed aside the curtains, though, I wasn’t greeted by the usual view of the street.

Instead, they were there.

Roots. Throbbing, twisting, blood-red roots.

They branched across the outside of my window, writhing as they blocked out every last sliver of daylight. They pressed against the glass harder and harder, creating tiny cracks that slowly spread into larger ones. Before I could run away, they came pouring in.

And then, I woke up in my bed.

Or maybe it was the bathroom floor this time.

Roots slithered through the broken tiles, and the ceiling had become a grotesque tapestry of fleshy tumors. Mushroom-like growths sprouted from the shower drain.

I stood up and walked over to the sink. My reflection stared back at me with dull, empty eyes.

Inside one of my eyes, a tiny sprout began to unfurl. It was pushing its way through my iris. The pressure inside my skull became unbearable. I leaned back and slammed my head against the porcelain.

Again.

And again.

The roots erupted from my skull, twisting together into something resembling a conjoined head, molded from raw meat. It smiled at me. Not a sinister smile. Not even an unpleasant one. The kind of smile a mother gives her child, letting them know that everything is going to be okay now.

And then, I woke up in my bed.

Like I fucking always did.

These cycles would play out for what sometimes felt like days at a time. There was no difference between sleep and reality anymore. Maybe there never was one, or maybe, and more likely, I was just going insane.

If that was the case, I figured I might as well get to the bottom of my insanity. Figuratively and literally.

The basement door loomed before me, suddenly far more intimidating than all the times I had walked past it before. Looking up at its tall, discolored frame sent a sinking feeling through my stomach. I had a piece of metal clutched in my hand, ready to be used as an improvised crowbar if needed, but to my surprise, the door swung open with barely any resistance. I don’t think it even had a working lock to begin with.

I stepped down the creaking stairs and into the darkness.

The smell hit me first. The familiar mustiness of neglect, mixed with something else. Something sour and vinegary that burned my nostrils.

My fingers traced along the wall, brushing away cobwebs as I searched for the light switch. When I finally found it and flicked it on, a single bulb flickered to life, casting a harsh circle of light into the depths of the basement.

That was when I noticed the floor… was alive.

A carpet of red mold and twisting vegetation stretched deep into the shadows below. The particles floating through the air weren’t dust. They were spores. And suddenly, I became painfully aware of every breath I’d taken.

I pulled my sleeve over my nose and continued forward. There was barely a surface left untouched. Mold covered the walls, the floor, the pipes running along the ceiling. Everything. And there, propped against a stack of boxes near the back of the room, almost as if it were sitting at the center of the infestation…

was a dead body.

I froze. The metal tool slipped from my hand and clattered against the ground. The figure was barely recognizable as human. The advanced state of decay made it clear that it had been there for a long time. Its head hung limply to one side, completely encased in thick mold that had spread outward across the surrounding surfaces.

I couldn’t make out the face. But I recognized the torn sweater as belonging to the strange man. So, what, had I been seeing his ghost this whole time? Oh, I was definitely fucking losing it.

Then I noticed what was behind him.

An old garbage collection room. The kind found in these older apartment buildings, where the garbage chute emptied before being hauled away. The same chute that ran through every floor above us.

The same chute that connected every apartment in the building…

As horrifying of a realization as that should have been, I couldn’t deny how peaceful he looked. The silence that I once dreaded now wrapped around me like a cozy blanket. For the first time since arriving, I didn’t feel like I was somewhere I didn’t belong.

I almost felt the urge to go over and lay beside him.

Maybe I did.

Maybe I’m still down there right now, and this is just some dream I’m having while I sit in Alexei’s car, waiting for him to finish packing our things.

He was so surprised when I told him that the apartment actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I could see the relief on his face when I said I could actually imagine coming back here someday. Not to live, obviously, but maybe as a little getaway when life in overcrowded Moscow became too much.

A quiet place away from everything.

I guess it did end up growing on me, in a sense.

Credit: Morning Owl

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