The Fate of Valiri Evans.

​

My name is Valeri. Leaving home that February day, I felt anxious. Thoughts clashed in my head: independent life, work, chores, studies, and a mountain of other "problems" that felt like the end of the world back then. Looking through the rearview mirror at my parents' warm, smiling faces, I felt like I was leaving forever.

Arriving at my new, uncomfortable lair, I inspected the grounds, the building, and my room. At the time, it felt like the freedom my 14-year-old self had dreamed of. But now, at 20, these are the moments when loneliness hits hardest. I found it strange that every door in this apartment building had a padlock, specifically on the outside. I wasn't given the keys to these locks. I immediately called my landlord, Mr. Olin, peppering him with indignant questions. He replied dryly and convincingly:

"Those locks have been there since this building was used as private storage long ago. Now, they're just junk."

Something like a warehouse, but inside a building? Strange... I thought. I thanked him for "gracing me with the honor" of renting the unit and hung up.

The first night was fine. No monsters, no weird noises, no strange neighbors. I had no idea what to expect from this place. In the morning, Noel called, excitedly asking if I was ready for the new semester at the local university. After chatting, I rested a bit and headed to class.

That evening, I returned home to find my apartment locked. Locked with that fucking padlock! Before calling the landlord again, I pressed my ear to the door. Silence. Then, a wild thought occurred: I should look out the window. I lived on the first floor, so it was easy.

Peering out, I saw a woman who looked exactly like me, but dressed in old-fashioned clothes. She was staring incessantly at the door, as if waiting for someone to enter. Her wait was over. He walked in... that damn Mr. Olin! But he was also in old-fashioned clothes with a different hairstyle. When I say old-fashioned, I mean 1940s attire. He approached the woman aggressively, as if in a rage, but something stopped them. My gaze. They both turned to me in confusion. I recoiled from the window, spun around, and was struck on the head by something heavy (though no heavier than a man's hand).

I woke up inside my apartment. I frantically tried to remember if I had taken anything the night before to celebrate the new semester, but I hadn't. Luckily, I'm not stupid enough to pretend this was all a dream. I called Mr. Olin. He picked up.

"Why the hell are you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?"

"What do you mean? I rented this apartment, and there's a lock on the door and strangers inside who look exactly like us!"

"They aren't strangers. They are us."

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?! Give me my money back right now. I'm never coming back!"

"I must... it is part of my contract. I am sorry, Valeri."

"What?!" (Dial tone).

He hung up. In a fit of rage, I started throwing my unpacked belongings back into my suitcases. Once finished, I called Noel to tell her I wouldn't be in class. I headed to the door, grabbed the handle, and realized I was locked in. Panicking, I twisted the locks in every direction before it hit me: I had been locked in from the outside. Deciding not to act like a helpless hostage to these bizarre circumstances, I called emergency services. After I explained what had happened that morning, the dispatcher, upon hearing my location, said:

— "Listen, that building was condemned long ago. No one lives there, and certainly no one rents apartments."

— "What? But I'm here, and I'm locked in. Truly locked in! What do I do?!"

— "Lady, we've been getting calls about this exact same scenario from this exact same address for years. And we recognize your voice. If you aren't well or need psychological help, please visit a local center."

— "Are you joking?"

— "We are not."

They hung up without even sending an ambulance to check on me. They were obligated to!

For some reason, my loved ones wouldn't answer my calls. Strange, yet predictable. As you can tell, I sat there until evening. Then he came—Mr. Olin. He calmly unlocked the door and approached my exhausted self. He started explaining some nonsense about making a deal with the devil long ago, claiming I was his wife and that he was somehow obligated to sacrifice his wife's blood every 20 years to fulfill his part of the contract. We fought; I was terrified of him, and I felt someone watching from the window... He knocked me out. I woke up in a local hospital, bleeding. I had only one stab wound, and my skin was lacerated. They never explained how or where they found me. Even my parents didn't come. The doctors say I have no more than a week left. I never learned why my former "husband" was sacrificing me or what benefit he gained from this deal.

Never rent an apartment from James Olin—especially if your name is Valeri Evans and you are 20 years old.