Chapter 1

It’s late Wednesday afternoon. Grey light drains slowly between the apartment blocks when I spot him for the first time.

The suspicious figure is leaning against the concrete wall, right beside the dumpster behind my building. At first glance, I think it’s just an old, abandoned mattress left at the mercy of the sanitation crew. The outline vaguely resembles a human shape, but my mind—accustomed to breaking reality down into concrete details—refuses to believe a real person could stand in such an awkward position.

As I step closer, I begin to discern a face. Ordinary enough. Nose, eyes, mouth. A thin mustache. Age? Impossible to tell. If I had to describe him to the police later, I wouldn't even know where to start.

Fifty. Or maybe forty. Could be sixty.

The yellow mattress, striped with faded blue, hangs over the stranger's shoulders like a tattered cape.

The man stares back at me, impassive.

“Ever seen one like this before?” he asks, nodding toward the mattress with his chin.

“Never,” I reply, feeling my fingers tighten inside my pocket around the cold metal of my brass caliper.

“Me neither,” the man says.

I keep walking and step into the lobby. The elevator carries me up to the sixth floor. Before drawing the curtains, I peer out my window.

The stranger is still down there.

Unmoving.

The next day, he’s gone.

On the third day, when I return home, I find him in the exact same spot, propped against the wall like a stubborn observer guarding some neighborhood anomaly.

I step into the elevator.

Just as the sliding doors begin to close, a hand catches the sensor. The stranger slips inside and takes up position in the opposite corner.

“Which floor?” I ask.

“Same as yours.”

The elevator begins its slow ascent.

The stranger lowers his gaze to my shoes.

“Which cardinal direction does your bed face?”

“Never really thought about it.”

The stranger shakes his head slowly.

“Pure ignorance. The placement of your bed governs your inner balance. Even if the principles of Feng Shui sometimes clash with Vastu Shastra regarding room harmony, direction is essential. I was hoping to see what choice you made, but… I’ll drop it.”

He speaks calmly, almost clinically, like a doctor explaining the results of a routine checkup.

The elevator grinds to a halt on the sixth floor.

I step out onto the landing, and the stranger follows close behind. We walk down the narrow hallway, dimly lit by a flickering fluorescent tube.

The stranger stops right in front of Apartment 68—the place left vacant after old man Martin passed away late last summer.

He pulls a key from his pocket, slides it into the lock, and vanishes inside.

I stand in the cold hallway for a moment, listening.

I press my ear against the door.

From inside comes the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor, heavy thuds, and objects slamming against the walls.

Then, dead silence.

At dawn the next morning, a folded piece of paper slides under my door.

It bears a simple message:

“If your nights are restless, come find me.”

I ignore the invitation.

Yet, the night that follows brings me the most restful sleep I’ve had in three years.

The old nightmares are gone.

I sleep like a man with nothing on his conscience.

Or like a man who no longer has a conscience at all.

Upon waking, I wonder which of the two states is more terrifying.

When I step out into the hall, I notice that Apartment 68 no longer has a doorknob.

There is no lock left either.

Just a bare outline etched into the peeling paint.

Lying on my doormat are a few torn strips of yellow and blue striped fabric, and beside them, a piece of foil folded into a perfect triangle.

My next awakening is brutal.

I regain consciousness lying directly on the dirt behind the building, next to the dumpsters.

Over my shoulders, I feel the weight of the yellow mattress with blue stripes, wrapped tight around me like a heavy, suffocating cape.

The fabric is rough against my skin, smelling faintly of someone else’s sweat.

I remain propped against the wall, watching the neighbors enter the building.

My eyes lock onto Mrs. Liorana, the painter from Apartment 53.

I push myself off the wall, follow her in silence, and slip into the elevator right behind her.

As the doors slide shut, I lower my gaze to the woman's shoes and ask:

“Which cardinal direction does your bed face?”