Transcription
[Music] For a more complete immersion, I recommend using headphones. Yes, I'm telling you, they're strange. But in my opinion, they're normal.
The people are pleasant, polite, and friendly. That's the whole point. They're too friendly. I get goosebumps from them. My friend, Lyoha, who also happens to be my downstairs neighbor, and I discussed the new couple who moved into the building. The man and woman, both healthy, fit, and dressed in expensive clothes, looked too good for our building. When they first moved in, they immediately went to meet their closest neighbors. That wasn't customary, unlike in American movies, which usually have nothing to do with our reality. They came to see me, too, and even treated me to a pie. Pleasant, nice people. But Lyoha categorically disliked them. He said they constantly play classical music at night, that they only go outside in the evening, and that they walk around the house for hours for some reason. This was true. Everyone has their quirks, so I kept assuring my friend that everything was fine with our neighbors. And now, with Lyoha gone, I remembered that conversation.
Lyoha disappeared a couple of days ago. We were going to go to a hockey game together, but he didn't show up. Later that evening, I went to see him; I thought maybe he was sick or something. But the door—nobody opened it. His phone wasn't answering either calls or messages. Of course, Lyoha could have just gone out partying; it was in his nature. He easily found company, even if he didn't initially plan to go anywhere. Sometimes he disappeared for a day or two and then reappeared with a satisfied expression and a pile of stories about new acquaintances. But he always let me know, at least with a word, at least with an SMS. Another option: he could have urgently left for the village to see his parents. Sometimes his mother called and urgently asked him to help with the household chores. But even in that case, Lyoha usually warned me, at least so that I wouldn't worry. Now, silence. Not a single clue.
On the third day, I finally got worried. The door to his apartment remained closed, and no sound came from inside. The phone was still silent. I even stood on the landing, listening. Maybe he just didn't want to talk to anyone, but no, no sound. I decided to take the most logical course of action—ask the neighbors. Maybe someone saw Lyoha in recent days or at least heard him slam the door leaving the apartment. I started with the closest ones, those who lived through the wall. Valentina Petrovna and her eternally gloomy husband. I rang the doorbell, and the door opened literally a couple of seconds later, as if they were waiting. "Lyoha? Where would we know?" Valentina Petrovna brushed me off. "We have enough of our own problems." Her husband just chuckled from the depths of the apartment and added, "Maybe he's partying with his friends again." I thanked them and moved on. The neighbor on the left, a thirty-something guy, an eternally tired IT specialist whom I only knew from brief encounters on the stairs, opened the door to me with a distracted look, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "No, I didn't see him," he said, yawning. "What's wrong with you? An emergency?" "No, Lyoha just disappeared somewhere," I replied. "Well, maybe he'll show up. Nobody disappears around here usually." He added the last words a little quieter, but I decided not to bother him and went to the next door. A young mother with a child lived there. They didn't open the door immediately; first, there was a noise, then a squeaky children's voice: "Mom, there's some uncle." Then the door finally creaked open, and a tired wife peered out. "I'm not keeping track of everyone. I have enough worries with the child," she said. But apparently there wasn't any noise, screams, or anything strange.
I was already turning back towards my home when I heard a cough from the depths of the entrance. On the floor below lived an old man whom everyone in the building knew as Fyodor. Old, almost ancient, he looked as if he still remembered the kerosene lamp era. Fyodor usually sat on a stool near his door and attentively watched passersby, like a watchman, only without a uniform and with a perpetual cup of tea in his hands. "What's up, sonny?" he croaked when I went down. I explained that I was looking for Lyoha, and the old man nodded understandingly. "Hmm," he mumbled. "You'd better ask them," he said, pointing his finger upwards. "You mean, are they... crazy?" Fyodor winced as if I had said something outrageous. Something unpleasant jolted me. I suddenly realized that despite their politeness, I truly had no idea who they were and what they did.
I went up to my floor and stopped in front of the new neighbors' door. From the outside, it looked ordinary—strong, dark, with a brand new, still shiny number plate. I knocked. Silence. I was about to leave, but then something creaked behind the door. And a moment later, powerful, piercing classical music—it seemed they specifically turned up the volume—sounded, and almost immediately the door [Music] opened. On the threshold stood the man, the same fit, well-groomed man with impeccably smooth skin and a slight smile. He looked as if he had just come from an expensive restaurant, not from his own home in a dressing gown and slippers. "Good evening," he greeted me. His voice was calm, deep, kind. "Excuse the intrusion. I had to almost shout because of the loud music. This is the thing; I haven't seen my friend Lyoha, your neighbor from the floor below." The man slightly bowed his head, as if thinking. "Lyoha? Lyoha... Alexey? No, I'm afraid I haven't seen him." He smiled, but for some reason I felt uneasy. "What happened?" he continued. "He's just disappeared somewhere. He hasn't been seen for three days. His phone isn't answering. Strange," I said. The man thoughtfully ran his fingers along his chin, and then suddenly broke into a wide, hospitable smile. "Listen, maybe you'll come in? We're just having tea. My wife baked a pie." A wave of unease washed over me. He said it too enthusiastically, as if he really expected me to agree immediately. I immediately remembered Lyoha's words that something was wrong with these people. Maybe he was right. "Oh, come on, don't refuse," he continued, seeing my hesitation. "No, thank you. Another time," I hastily said. "As you wish," he said, his smile slightly fading, but he didn't insist. "If anything, we're always happy to have guests." I nodded, mumbled something polite, and turned around. I left quickly, trying not to look back. When I closed the door to my apartment, I exhaled. Only now did I realize how tense I had been all this time.
I habitually threw my keys on the nightstand and went into the room. The anxiety didn't go away. It seemed like nothing strange had happened—a normal conversation with a neighbor, a polite invitation, a refusal. Why, then, was everything scratching inside me? Why did I glance in the mirror on the wall and suddenly realize that at the moment when I was talking to this overly impeccable man, there was a mirror next to him, and there, in the reflection, something flickered? At the time, I didn't pay attention to it. I was distracted by the conversation, but now I realized that it was eyes—someone was staring intently at me through the reflection. I flinched, trying to convince myself that I was just imagining things. After all, the light in the apartment was off. And my nerves, to put it mildly, weren't in order. But something else surfaced in my memory. Through the deafening chords of Beethoven or Bach, or whoever was playing, I heard something—some kind of muffled sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. I clenched my fists. Calm down, calm down. The main thing is not to rush to conclusions. Maybe my imagination is playing tricks on me. Maybe it was his wife. Maybe they just have strange family habits—playing classical music loudly and eating pies in complete darkness. But why, then, did I so want to lock the door with all the locks?
The day dragged on strangely. Obsessive thoughts wouldn't leave me. I mechanically scrolled through the news, tried to work. I even turned on a TV series, but all this was swirling in my head—fragments of memories: the mirror, the eyes, the sound behind the door, the overly polite neighbor with the impeccable smile. What if Lyoha really was with them? A crazy thought, but for some reason it wouldn't leave me alone. By evening, it became clear: I couldn't just sit and guess. I couldn't do that anymore. I had to do something. If it worried me so much, I had to check, to find out who these people were, what they did, where they went. Maybe I could find some clue. I remembered Lyoha's words about them leaving the house in the evening. I settled down by the door and waited. Around 7 p.m., the door on the landing clicked. They—he in a beige coat and tie, with expensive watches on his wrist; she in a coat and smoothly combed hair—moved smoothly, almost silently. But when the husband said something, she laughed softly. An ordinary laugh, but for some reason it seemed wrong to me. They went downstairs. After waiting a few seconds, I followed. They walked slowly, without haste. The man was telling something to his wife; she nodded. I couldn't make out the words, but it sounded more like an ordinary conversation than a discussion of something important, like, say, the kidnapping and murder of neighbors. Leaving the entrance, they turned right. I tried not to attract attention. Deserted and quiet, a typical evening in a residential area. Ten minutes, fifteen—they kept walking, not speeding up, slowing their pace. They reached a small shop at the intersection, but didn't even glance at it. They walked on. And then—they disappeared. They had been walking ahead, and suddenly they were gone. I stopped, quickly looked around. Either they turned into an alley or simply dissolved into thin air. But that's impossible! I started frantically searching the intersection, trying to spot the couple. They were nowhere to be seen. "Damn it, I seem to have missed them," I thought. And then someone touched my shoulder. I flinched, turned around, and froze. They were standing right in front of me. "Well, fancy meeting you here," the man said softly. "What a coincidence." His wife looked at me the same way he did—attentively, curiously. "Were you following us?" His voice was calm, but there were almost menacing notes in it. I forced myself to smile. "I was just going to the store," I mumbled. "To the store?" the man asked. I looked around. A convenient escape presented itself—the all-night store. "Yes," I nodded, as if surprised by their doubts. "To the store." His wife slowly looked at the sign, then back at me. "How fortunate," she said with an almost imperceptible smile. "Well, then," the man said, spreading his arms slightly. "Since it has happened like this, let's go in together." I had no options. Why not? We went into the store. The smell of coffee, dim light, a few people at the checkout. I immediately went to the shelves, pretending to know why I came. The neighbors moved calmly, evenly, their eyes never leaving me. I smiled at them, continuing to play the role of a simpleton who accidentally bumped into good acquaintances on the street. Because of my nerves, I grabbed the first thing that came to hand—a bottle of wine. "Are you on a date?" the man raised an eyebrow. "No, you invited us over. So I decided to bring something," I said, gesturing towards my wife. She smiled slightly. "Of course, come in," he said. "We're having stew for dinner tonight." "Yes," added the woman, intently looking at me. "My stew is the best! Family recipe." Something in her voice, in her smile, again made me wary, but I just nodded. "Great, then see you in the evening." I took the bottle and went to the checkout, and they stood and watched me go.
At home, I started pacing around the room like a caged animal. I had to get away from them, not spout this nonsense about a gift and an evening visit. Now there was no escape. If I didn't come, they would definitely think I was scared of something, or worse, understand that I suspected them. But going to them again sounded like not the best idea either. Maybe I could just disappear, say I was sick, blame it on a migraine or food poisoning, say that my temperature spiked. After all, it happens. I sat on the sofa, staring at the bottle of wine on the table. Maybe I'm being paranoid? They didn't do anything bad to me. Just polite, slightly strange people. But who knows how many such people there are? Surely I'm winding myself up and looking for hidden meaning where there isn't any. The eyes in the mirror, the groan behind the door, and Lyoha, who hasn't been in touch for three days, resurfaced in my mind. Fine, I'll go. But I need to come up with a plan, some backup, to tell someone where I was going in case something goes wrong. The answer came by itself. Fyodor, the old neighbor, knew everything and everyone in this house. He himself told me that these new neighbors were strange, mysterious. And he always hangs out on the landing. He could go and help out. I quickly pulled on my jacket and went out. Fyodor, as always, was sitting in his place, with his cup of tea in his hand, in the same old sweater. He looked at me over his glasses. "What's up, sonny?" he grumbled. I looked around. No one. Perfect. "Rostislav Fyodorovich," I said quietly, sitting down next to him. "Remember you said that these new neighbors are strange, mysterious?" He squinted, nodded. "Well, I thought... I think something is wrong with them too, and Lyoha said so before he disappeared. They act like they're hiding something." Fyodor silently nodded. He looked thoughtful. "They invited me over for dinner tonight," I continued. "I'm sitting here and thinking... what if they're really plotting something? Maybe Lyoha is with them. I need to check, but it's a bit unnerving to go alone." The old man slightly raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to go with you?" I shook my head. "No, I just want to have backup. I'll go to them, eat, look around. If I don't come back in an hour or an hour and a half, you go see them. Under some pretext. If anything, call the police and say that I've disappeared." Fyodor was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, sonny. We'll do it. Just be careful. You never know." I exhaled, feeling a little calmer. Of course, this didn't guarantee safety, but it was some kind of insurance. I got up. "Thank you, Rostislav Fyodorovich," and went upstairs.
I stopped at the neighbor's door, took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately. The man smiled. "Come in, come in." I stepped inside. His wife, in an impeccably white apron, stood at the stove, taking something out of the oven. The aroma of spices filled the air. The atmosphere in the apartment was cozy; soft light, candles, quiet music in the background. "Well," the man put the bottle of wine I brought on the table. "We will, of course, try yours as well, but later. We saved it for an occasion just like this." I was embarrassed, but it would have been strange to refuse. The wine turned out to be unexpectedly good, soft, velvety, with light fruity notes. "Excellent," I admitted. They exchanged glances, smiled. "Try the stew, too." His wife slid a plate toward me. I picked up a fork and tasted it. Damn, it was so delicious that I wanted to ask for seconds after the first bite. "You're a culinary genius," I said, taking another piece. She laughed. "Like I said, family recipe." We talked easily. They asked me about work, my home, my neighbors. Everything was easy, relaxed, even pleasant. Half an hour passed, an hour. I caught myself thinking that I was sitting relaxed, with a slightly blissful smile. And yet, a couple of hours ago, I was winding myself up as if I were going into a maniac's lair. What a fool! The people are just polite, hospitable. Lyoha most likely just went out partying somewhere, and I've already started building conspiracy theories. I chuckled a little and even thought that I could tell them right now about my suspicions, about the fact that I mistook them for maniacs. Let them laugh with me. But then I felt my head getting a little heavier, as if the wine had unexpectedly taken effect stronger than expected. I swallowed. My mouth suddenly went dry. "Can I have some water?" The wife, still smiling, got up from the table. "Of course." I ran my tongue over my lips. A strange numbness was felt, as if I had drunk much more than I had. My wife returned and placed a tall glass in front of me. I took a couple of sips. The water was icy, but it didn't bring relief. It felt even worse. A strange heaviness appeared in my head; my thoughts slowed down, as if I were sinking into thick, viscous sleep, but at the same time I remained conscious, as if observing myself with interest. "Everything's fine," I forced out, although in reality I felt unwell. "Excellent," they exchanged glances and smiled. But now, their smiles lacked their former good nature. There was something almost predatory in their expressions. I shook my head, hoping to shake it off. It seemed like time stretched like thick syrup. The wife laughed. The laughter was too loud, sharp. "He's totally gone," she said, not hiding her amusement. The man chuckled, too. "And he was so suspicious at first, even following us. An amateur detective." I shook my head, feeling the blood drain from my face. Were they making fun of me? I slowly got up. My body was limp; my legs barely obeyed. "You know, I should go." "Where are you going in such a hurry?" the man asked, but I had already turned around and taken a step, then another. My vestibular apparatus was working poorly; I swayed as if I were walking on the deck during a storm. I reached the door, reached for the lock—it wasn't there. No lock, no handle. I ran my hand along the surface, trying to find something—a crack, a protrusion—nothing. My heart pounded faster. What the hell? I exhaled, turning around. They were sitting at the table, still smiling. "Looking for something? Where's the lock?" They just laughed in response. I looked at my watch. Almost two hours had passed since I arrived. Fyodor should already be worried. "No one will come," said the man, as if reading my thoughts. "He sent you here himself." I froze. "Fyodor?" The man shook his head as if talking to an unintelligent child. "Don't be upset about him. The poor man is on a small pension, and we're helping him with money and food." At this phrase, the neighbor suddenly burst into laughter. I felt everything inside me grow cold. This had to be a joke, a joke, but from their faces it was clear—they weren't joking. I glanced at the window. Third floor. I could jump. Worst case, I'd break my leg. I was about to rush to the window, but then a sharp pain exploded in the back of my head, and the whole world plunged into darkness.
My return was slow, as if I were surfacing from the bottom of the sea. A dull roar was in my ears; my body felt alien and immobile. The first thing I felt was cold, piercing, sticky, seeping under my skin. The floor under me was wet. I tried to move, but I couldn't. Something was on my chest, stomach, legs. Then I understood—I was tied up. My mouth was gagged. A sharp chemical smell hit my nose—bleach, soap, and something metallic—blood. I tried to open my eyes. The world before me was swaying. The first thing that caught my eye was white tile. I was in a bathroom. A bright light bulb under the ceiling, cold white light, like in an operating room. I saw walls covered with thick film, the floor also covered with polyethylene. At my feet lay a whole assortment of building supplies—hammers, a hand saw, kitchen knives, an axe. Then I heard a familiar voice—my neighbor. I raised my head. He sat slightly bent over, calm and confident, holding a bottle of wine—my wine. He took a sip straight from the bottle, enjoying it, clicking his tongue. "Good, but ours is still better." I just gasped heavily. I didn't even have the strength to try to resist. "I'm sorry, mate, nothing personal. Just the laws of life. Everyone has to eat, right?" He paused, as if savoring the moment. "How was the stew last night? Tasty, wasn't it?" I froze. He pulled something out of his pocket. "We prepared your Lyoha," he said, tossing something small into the air. A finger. A finger with a tattoo of a cross. Lyoha had one like that. I gasped. There wasn't enough air in my lungs; my consciousness darkened for a second. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. I tried to move, but nothing worked. My hands—I realized now that I hadn't felt them all this time. Fear shot through my spine like an icy current. I lowered my gaze. There were no hands. That was the last straw. I threw up; vomit flowed through the gag. I choked, sobbed, and couldn't believe what was happening. The man shook his head. "What a mess! We just cleaned everything up, and for nothing. We're professionals. You're in safe hands. So you'll live a little longer." My head was spinning; spots danced before my eyes, but I clearly saw him pick up a hand saw. "Alright, let's get down to business." He pressed my leg and slowly, with deliberate thoroughness, applied the saw to the upper part, as if measuring where to saw. In the background, the music started again—that damned classical music, which was supposed to drown out my screams, just as it had drowned out Lyoha's groans. I managed to think that I had never heard or seen anything more insane before the saw [Music] plunged into the darkness. [Music] If you enjoyed the story, please support the channel with a like and a subscription. See you again.