There's a corpse following me.

I was living in a rented apartment back then. A typical panel building, sixth floor. Just an ordinary flat in the most ordinary house. Everything was standard, nothing special — the neighbours, the courtyard. It suited me well: close to work, affordable rent. The only problem was the constantly broken elevator.

But even that issue was typical, and even elderly women barely able to walk and mothers with small children somehow managed to adapt. The staircase, though, was separated from the apartments by a wall. It reliably protected the ears of those inside from the curses aimed at the housing management office being muttered by those climbing the stairs at that moment.

That time, returning late from a visit to friends and reading the thoughtfully printed notice saying the elevator was broken again, I wasn’t particularly upset and declined my friend and her husband’s offer to stay the night. I preferred falling asleep in my own apartment, getting ready for work calmly, without rushing or waiting in line for the bathroom. By the way, because I had to go to work in the morning, I never drank alcohol when visiting others.

Cursing under my breath and pointlessly pressing the elevator call button just in case, I slowly started climbing to my sixth floor, all the while convincing myself it was extra physical exercise, good for my legs, and inventing other nonsense people usually tell themselves to stay calm.

Already approaching the third floor, I heard the door to the stairwell slam shut from below. One of the neighbours was also facing this forced leg workout.

I wasn’t climbing fast, and out of curiosity kept looking back. A shadow crept along the wall. But the expected human silhouette wasn’t recognizable in it. At first, I thought it was a drunk person. Then I thought maybe someone was unwell. But the figure was climbing the stairs with such energy that I dismissed my assumptions.

A man in some ragged clothes, as ordinary as our building, was climbing the stairs on all fours. Clearly hearing footsteps, he kept lifting his head — not quite sniffing, not quite trying to see me. He was already widely smiling, which made his face look slightly insane. It was his face, not what…

On his feet, over crumpled grey socks, he wore shoes — not new, brown, with laces. But on his hands… His hands were stuffed into identical old, worn-out shoes, slapping the steps briskly, as if that were completely normal.

It sounds funny, but in reality, it wasn’t funny at all: late evening, most residents already asleep, an empty staircase, me alone, and this strange man climbing on all fours up the stairs with shoes on his hands. Not like people sometimes do to keep their trousers clean. This was insanely inconvenient, yet the man was moving surprisingly fast.

I stopped, unsure how to react. My first thought was to run up the last few flights to my floor, already pulling out my keys. To this day, I don’t understand why I didn’t do it.

— Girl, aren’t you afraid? — the strange man slowly passed by me, still widely smiling.

To let him pass, I had to press myself against the wall. Instinctively, I sniffed the air. He smelled of some unpleasant smoke and dust. Actually, I wasn’t very scared. The situation seemed so absurd that a perfectly logical explanation immediately came to mind: I’d become the victim of a prank, a practical joke. The man’s words only strengthened this belief.

— A dead man is following you, — he continued with a chuckle, turning his face toward me with that wide grin, his eyes glinting.

His shadow grotesquely distorted on the wall, nothing like a human shape. I didn’t understand anything. But he didn’t look aggressive, made no attempt to attack me, and I managed to calm myself, suppressing the rising anxiety. His face even seemed familiar. Most likely, he was my neighbour. Maybe we’d ridden the elevator together or passed each other by the building entrance.

The man crawled to the next flight of stairs and froze on all fours, turning his head toward me. Waiting. I stood still for a while too, deciding to let the prankster’s accomplices (or accomplice) pass — they were surely about to appear any second with a camera or phone in hand, filming my reaction and laughing heartily. I would’ve joined in their fun — why not? I might’ve even become a TikTok sensation.

Suddenly, I realized I couldn’t hear any footsteps, any rustling. I hadn’t heard any before, and I definitely would’ve noticed this guy in shoes on his hands if I hadn’t been constantly looking back. He walked completely silently.

The man remained in the same position, in the same spot, making no attempt to climb further. His face was now in shadow, and I could no longer see whether he was still smiling. But there were no companions, no accomplices. The only one following him was me.

If a dead man was following him, then clearly, that dead man was me.

I took a step back. Down one stair. Then another, carefully. I retreated without turning my back to him.

The creepy figure rocked on his hands and feet and let out an annoyed chuckle. He rocked unnaturally, nothing like a human. Why was his back completely straight? That’s impossible when crawling on all fours. Not for normal people. For arms and legs to be the same length — like an animal’s!

— H-ha-a… You understood?

That’s when I ran, risking tumbling head over heels and breaking every bone, jumping over steps, breathing with my mouth wide open. If my heel had twisted at that moment…

I burst through the stairwell door, then the building entrance, running across the courtyard with my mouth open but completely silent, terrified to look back. I heard the door slam shut. And then — only my own breath in my ears and the clatter of my heels.

I waited for a taxi at a 24-hour store. My friend and her husband hadn’t even gone to bed yet and didn’t seem particularly surprised by my sudden arrival. That’s when I truly got drunk, though I never actually managed to get drunk.

I arrived at work first thing in the morning and spent a long time searching the internet, reading local news. Not a single similar story.

Several people had gone missing in the district since the beginning of the year — unrelated, unfamiliar with each other, different ages and genders. One of the missing was reportedly wearing a grey suit. But the circumstances of their disappearances and exact locations remained unknown.

And how many people suddenly died in the stairwell, returning to their apartments via the stairs — of course, no media outlet cared to investigate.

The elevator was fixed the next day.

—Tatyana Mastryukova "Radio Morock"