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Hello people. For reasons which I shall not bother you with, I decided to take a minor break from my novel to write this fictional short story. I would rather not elaborate on what it is about because that is something you must discover on your own. Please do let me know what you think in the comment section below! Thank you very much in advance.
17th November, 2004
What a weird and chilling day this has been. Earlier this afternoon when I had just opened the fridge to grab a cold bottle of Blue Moon, I found myself struck by a sudden and unexpected jolt of malaise. First a wave of heavy nausea overwhelmed me, then I got dizzy and worst part was without a doubt the sensation of painful pressure in my chest which came towards the end. My left arm felt numb and tingly. This was probably one of the most scary experiences I have ever had and I am still shaken. After a good deal of reflection on what happened, I came to the conclusion that it must have been a minor heart attack or something. Doesn't this crap only happen to old people? This was my second day off work. My health seems to have deteriorated lately and I thought a few days of recuperation would get me back in shape without further complications. Working as a cab driver is no walk in the park and I get stressed a lot. Every day I come across new people with new attitudes that I have to assess and adjust to on the spot. Most people are cool and respectful, but every now and then, I get this insufferable imbecile who knows just what to say and do to ruin my day. They prattle and distract me from traffic so that I miss the right turns, edgy people take out their frustrations on me and last week a drunk sot hurled and left his last meal on my backseat; he didn't even get to pay for his ride because I just wanted to get his ass out of my damn car. Some people really get on my nerves or downright piss me off. I hate this job, but what can you do? Times are tough, education is expensive and occupations are hard to come by. Lots of people envy me for having a job at all and I see more and more homeless tramps roaming the streets at night.
Yes, I am one of the lucky and privileged ones, because I have a job and a steady income. Even so, it was I who presumedly suffered from a nasty heart attack earlier today and passed out in front of the open fridge. Although not burdened by poverty, I am a victim of the accelerating dynamics of a stressful society and I don't know what is the least desirable anymore. What a terrible moment to live in an apartment all by yourself with no one to dial an ambulance. The odd thing is, I woke up again later and felt fine as if nothing happened. All the pain and discomfort was gone. My memory was eerily fuzzy and still is. It occurred to me that I might have struck my head on something when I passed out but there is no pain or bruises to back up that hypothesis; I felt great, better than ever actually, as if my body and soul had been purged of all burdens. Unfortunately, the heart attack is not the only freaky incident which occurred today and the other aspect of my concern is arguably even more creepy. There is an uninvited stranger in my home, a white male with short auburn hair, presumedly in his early thirties or something. This would surely make most people panick, but the thing is, the poor bastard is clearly in an even worse state than I. He was right there when I woke up from my loss of consciousness, laying right next to me on the floor, completely blacked out and unresponsive with his eyes open. The sight of him obviously scared me out of my mind at first and now I wonder where the heck he came from. I have spent this evening trying to recollect my shattered memory. Could he be a burglar? Was there a struggle or fight before I passed out? I wanted to call the police or at least leave my apartment, but some crazy shit has been going on and it has not worked out for me. This must sound senseless, illogical and inconceivable. Problem is, I am still shocked and unable to fathom the situation myself, which renders it difficult for me to elaborate further. I need a couple of days to conduct a thorough investigation and then I will hopefully return with more answers to this enigma. A heart attack in the kitchen, a mysterious unconscious stranger on my floor and now this. What a day. Fuck this life, man.
21th November, 2004
Several days have gone by and I am still relatively stumped. All I know for sure is that something is seriously wrong with me. I haven't slept or consumed anything since the prior mentioned incident, nor felt the need to. It was like my entire body had shut down or entered a state of hibernation, yet without any consequential discomfort or decline in my health. If that shit isn't bizarre enough, then let me seize this occasion to confess that I have not left my property at all; not because I didn't want to but because it's physically impossible. There is something wrong with my hands. The door to my apartment is locked and I can't seem to get a proper grip on the door handle. This applies to everything else as well, actually, such as the phone and my keys. My hands can't handle anything, and because of this, I've been confined to my apartment with no way to get in touch with the world outside. The solitude and lack of social interaction had already begun to put a strain on my sanity. All I did was roam aimlessly around the apartment or just sit and stare at the clock for hours. The crap going on with my hands had even inhibited my ability to handle the remote control to my television and the controller to my old Playstation 2, so my access to entertainment had been cut off. It has almost been a week since I have been at work; my employer won't be too thrilled about this. He is already displeased with my rate of absence and now these circumstances provided him with the opportunity to follow up on his threats to fire me. Seems like the cold streets beckon me.
The creepy stranger on my floor hasn't moved an inch since I woke up by his side; he is exactly where I left him. His skin has gone sickly pale. To put it bluntly, I am pretty sure that he is dead by now. Haven't checked his pulse or anything, as I can't, but it's obvious. If there is a corpse of a deceased man in my apartment, then my life is in for a major tailspin, because the forensics will surely classify it as a murder and nail me as the prime suspect. Perhaps I did kill the guy and perhaps he will be found on my property, but he is a trespasser and it must have been an act of self defense. My criminal record has not always been devoid of offenses, admittedly, because I stole some stuff as a juvenile and sold drugs to riffraff on the street. That being said, I am not the violent type who hurt people for no reason. My friends and family would surely step forth to confirm this if necessary. I don't even own a gun like many other Americans. My primary goal lately has been to comprehend my bizarre condition and figure out how to remedy it, but the truth is, I am also trying hard to concoct a plausible explanation to why there is a dead person in my home.
23th November, 2004
I attempted to drink a glass of water today; not because I was thirsty or anything but because I want to feel normal again. Normal people drink daily and I haven't consumed anything for nearly a week now. Regardless how hard I tried, it didn't work. Armed with unwavering determination, I was able to push the glass lightly across the kitchen worktop, but since my hand was unable to get a proper grip, the glass just slid off and shattered on the floor. I am also bored out of my mind and desperately attempted to play games in my bedroom but I can't even turn the console on. Someone has been trying to reach me on the phone over the last few days, calling with periodic intervals. I would answer it if I could. Today the caller finally grew impatient with my lack of responses and left a message on the voice receiver. It was the girl I have dated over the last half year.
“Hey, this is Jennifer. Where the hell are you, Adrian? You don't respond to any of my calls. I am starting to suspect that you are avoiding me. If you don't like me anymore, you could just have said so, but this is just rude and stupid. Perhaps we should see other people. I really dont have time for people who keep me in the dark or freeze me out when they grow weary of my company. You need to grow up and practice commitment. We are not children anymore. Have a good life, Adrian”
When you think shit can't get worse, this happens. There goes the most fantastic and beautiful woman I have ever met. Her family seemed to like me, our dates were going swell and I was actually contemplating to propose once I could afford a decent ring. Jennifer was my soulmate and I envisioned a great future with her. Granted that everything went according to plan, it was my intention to invite her out on a vacation to Venice and then catch her off guard with the proposal while we dined on a fine Italian restaurant, an unforgettable experience complemented with romantic music. The arranged atmosphere was bound to render her completely smitten with me. You got me all wrong, Jennifer, I have already shedded my skin of immaturity and am more than ready for commitment. If only I could have answered that damn phone.
24th November, 2004
Now it has officially been a week since the incident, and after numerous sessions of investigation, there only seem to be one plausible conclusion to this conundrum – something is seriously wrong with my brain and I am inclined to believe that I suffer from some sort of psychosis. The time has come to elaborate on the physical impairments I have experienced since the presumed heart attack, the aspects of which have been left in a haze so far because it was too hard for me to explain. After such a close encounter with death, one might think that my hands were too weak or shaky to handle stuff, yet the truth is even more mind boggling – they actually phase right through everything I attempt to touch, which explains why I have been unable to answer the phone, open the door to my apartment or even drink a simple glass of water. That is some crazy shit right there and I have obviously sought high and low for a natural explanation to this phenomenon. Since superstition is not really my kind of thing, I am convinced that this abnormality stems from a damage in my brain, potentially causing me to suffer from distorted hallucinations. Even if the damage is not directly linked to the presumed heart attack, mental defects can come out of nowhere and strike when least expected. It would be wise to seek professional help if I ever find a way out of this predicament.
My apartment is a mess. All my stuff is left in disarray and I seldom take the time to clean up. Dirty laundry just pile up on the floor in my bedroom. The bedsheet hasen't been changed since last Autumn and is riddled with moldy crumbs of snacks I finished before sleep. Being a slob is a persistent vice of mine and my apartment could really benefit from a pinch of female influence. This is basically the reason why I always invited Jennifer out when I could afford it or insisted that we met at her place. Imagine her reaction if I introduced her to this filthy pigsty. The stench can sometimes be a little overwhelming, especially with the sweltering heat of Texas, so I usually have some of the windows left open to ventilate the rooms. This has inconveniently left the crevice required for all kinds of pests to slip into my home, which means that the decomposing corpse in my kitchen is now covered with fat bluebottle flies eager to lay their eggs. They just keep coming, more and more, filling my apartment with constant noise of buzzing. Like the uninvited guests they are, they have helped themselves to the scraps of food on the dirty dishes I never got to clean up before the recent incident. My apartment literally looks like a rough extract from a cliché horror film, but this is a nightmare which I can't turn off once it gets too vulgar for me to behold.
27th November, 2004
Someone rang the doorbell today. Since nobody answered, the person knocked on the door instead and with great tenacity. A male voice called out my name. Being unable to unlock and open the door, I decided to peer through the peephole to see who was on the other side. Two men were outside; Jonathan the janitor and Caleb Lee Robinson, the guy who lives alone with his teenaged daughter in 204. Caleb and I are not really friends, more like acquaintances, but he invited me over for a cup of coffee when I moved in and we have shared a few lengthy conversations in the hallway. He is the type who strives to be friends with everyone, a brash but accomodating man who has the heart in the right place. The janitor attempted to look back at me through the peephole yet I imagine that the vision must be badly distorted from the other side. They had stopped knocking, just looking pensively at the door, seeming clueless and bemused. I could hear Caleb speak.
“See? There is nobody there. I have been trying to call him for days but he won't pick up. Something is wrong, Jonathan, this is not like him. I haven't seen him for a week or so and his car hasn't left the parking lot. We should call the police and have them look into it. Maybe something has happened to Adrian.”
The janitor reluctantly agreed that actions had to be taken. Now that he mentioned it, I did count seventeen missed calls on my phone and they could not all be from Jennifer. Caleb had clearly been concerned about my recent absence. I didn't really want either of them to find the dead body in my kitchen or witness the grotesque mess in my apartment, but on the other side, this could have been my one and only chance to escape this nightmare. Before the men gave up and left, I cried out for help, shouting at the top of my lungs. Neither of them answered or even reacted. What are they, deaf? I was able to hear their voices just fine so it made no sense whatsoever that they could not hear mine. Their demeanors remained unaltered and now the janitor uttered his response to Caleb.
“How eerie. Your concerns are definitely justified, Mr. Robinson, but we must remain calm and not jump to conclusions. Adrian is probably fine. This may be completely unrelated, yet something reeks really bad on this story of the apartment. Other tenants have complaind so I planned to locate the source and have it fixed on Wednesday. Look, Mr. Robinson, here's my proposition – Let's give Adrian a few more days to turn up, and if the guy is still a no-show, then we call the police.”
Caleb agreed to these terms and both of them walked away. If the janitor keeps his word, then I know how much time there is left for me to prepare a credible explanation to this ordeal. Since I am relatively clueless about what has happened myself, it will inevitably be necessary for me to fill the gaps with little chunks of deception to preserve my aura of innocense. My future is at stake and I am not going to let some deceased crook on my property have me spend it in jail.
29th November, 2004
The dog next door has been barking for almost a full hour now and nobody seems to have caused this agitation. Forever cranky Mrs. Sherman Fischer had one of those annoying Pomeranians and I would surmise that she was not home to silence the mutt. After a great deal of contemplation in relation with the physical abnormalities I have experienced lately, a crazy idea crossed my mind. Since my hands evidently phase through everything I attempt to touch, would this also apply to the rest of my body? The full extend of these abnormalities still eluded my comprehension and now I had come to the point where I was prepared to disregard my sense of logics and consider the unthinkable. Spoken like a true madman, perhaps it was possible for me to phase right through the door or wall and escape the inconvenient confinement. It was an option which I was sorely tempted to test out, but on the other hand, something rendered me hesitant. Even if it was possible for me to get out of this place, it was not like I had anywhere else to go. This is my home and all my stuff is here. My home is undeniably a repulsive and filthy pigsty, but it is my repulsive and filthy pigsty. In a way, the sentimental attachment to this place generated a stronger sense of confinement to the apartment than the locked door and surrounding walls ever did.
Loud sirens were heard outside. I looked out the window and saw four police cars drive into the parking lot connected with this apartment complex. Now shit suddenly got real. Caleb must have compelled the janitor to keep the promise made the other day. Nothing good had ever come from my past encounters with the cops yet it would be in my best interest to remain calm and collected, even if I would rather leap out of the window in panic. A few minutes later, they approached my apartment from the outside and knocked the door hard, demanding that I let them in. Once they realized that I would not comply, they forcibly barged through so hard that the door nearly got unhinged in the process. Two officers walked inside my apartment, both with firearms in hand, prepared for a hostile confrontation. I raised my arms and surrendered without a fuss. Rugged men with guns always makes me cower inside but I was able to keep my cool and appear cooperative. One cop swiftly went into my bedroom and subsequently checked the bathroom. The other cop entered my kitchen and immediately found the body. He called out to his colleage.
“He is here, Aaron, I found him. He is dead; stone dead. Oh God, the stench... this is definitely the source of the putrid odor people have complained about. There is nothing we can do for this poor bastard. Call the paramedics and tell them to bring a bag”
The police then holstered their guns and left my apartment, just like that, completely ignoring me as if I wasn't even there. My arms were still raised as I found myself paralyzed by utter confusion. This procedure did not correspond with my expectations at all. I armed myself with patience and thought they would eventually come back for me; but they didn't. Paramedics came, put the corpse in a body bag, then left with it. They didn't talk to me either. Once they were gone, the ambience shifted in my apartment and an eerie sense of despondency came over me. When everything is reduced to nothing and nothing becomes your everything, the time has come to shed the shell of skepticism and no longer remain mired in denial. The truth can be difficult to swallow sometimes, but regardless how long we persist in our struggle to evade it, the truth always catches up with us in the end...
8th January, 2005
This was, hands down, the worst Christmas I have ever experienced and thank goodness that it is over. Everyone seemed to have a jolly good time except me. The parking lot was frequently crowded with cars as families and friends came to visit the others tenants. Christmas carols were played at a high volume every weekend, so loud that I could hear the noise through the walls regardless where I hid in my apartment. Sometimes people laughed and cheered so loud that it somehow managed to predominate for a brief moment before it was drowned in loud music again. Their voices got stuck and echoed inside my head, haunting me like mischievous ghosts in the dark, the laughter being distorted in my mind to sound more scornful and derisive than it was ever intended to. Christmas had transformed into a grand party which I was no longer invited to. While everybody else was having a good time, I sulked alone in my apartment with the lights turned off, having nothing to look forward to whatsoever. This apartment had no christmas tree, no festive decorations, no lit candles, no colorful presents, absolutely nothing at all. My home was like a swollen tumor in the apartment complex, the secluded nook where light doesn't shine, the black void which garnered no cheer or joy, the dilapidated dwelling which God had forsaken.
The unnaturally extended existence has not entirely been lonesome, however, because my family also dropped by to visit me – not to celebrate christmas but to pillage my home of everything valuable and dispose of whatever they labeled as useless junk. My parents and two younger brothers had allied with a few male members of the distant family, because the landlord was economically afflicted by the vacancy and needed to have someone else move in soon; into MY home, to be specific. They hauled out the bed, the wardrobe and all the furniture. My clothes and magazines were carelessly stuffed into black plastic sacks. All the dinnerware and utensils were sorted into cardboard boxes, sealed and labeled, then carried down the stairs. I initially raged at my family with an outburst of profanity, but since that had no effect, I switched strategy and implored them earnestly to leave my stuff alone. Just like with Caleb and the janitor, my voice got through to no one and they just carried on as if I wasen't even there. A man does not know true misery before he has watched all his treasured belongings disappear out of his life, unable to do a damn thing about it, until all that remains is an empty and hollow shadow of what he used to call home.
17th April, 2005
The apartment is empty and has been cleaned thoroughly. Everything has changed so radically that it hardly feels like home anymore. All my treasured belongings are taken and gone. I am still here, however, enduring a quiet existence devoid of social interaction. The theory which crossed my mind a few months ago proved to be true; it is possibly for my body to phase right through the door or wall as I had anticipated. Being able to leave my apartment has been utmost rejuvenating and has mildly helped to preserve my sanity, yet I never stray far from my home and I always come back. When things get too quiet and lonesome, I sometimes visit the other tenants and just watch them do whatever is on their daily agenda. Sometimes it feels like they are able to sense me somehow and it makes them shudder. Mrs. Sherman Fischer often dozes off in front of the television during the evening, which provides me with a light opportunity to take share in the entertainment without her knowing, yet the programs she watches do not correlate so well with my taste. She never watches movies, it's all about dull documentaries. Caleb moved out last month. The recent events were probably too much for him to bear in order to continuously feel at peace in his own residence. It is a shame, honestly, I really wanted to see him face to face one last time before that came to pass.
Strangers have occasionally barged into my home, uninvited, always accompanied by either Jonathan the janitor or the landlord himself. One incident involved this young couple expecting a child in June. They were looking for a safe place to raise the kid, and unlike most other people, they were not bothered by the dark history associated with this apartment. The fact that someone died in here made it challenging for the landlord to find new potential tenants, yet obviously, this adversery proved to work in my favour. Even if the the name tag on the door to this apartment is left blank, this is still my home and I obstinately refused to let anyone else move in without my consent. Excessively buoyant Mr. Daniel and his pregnant girlfriend will have to find another place to settle down with their newborn infant. This apartment is mine and mine only.
I discovered something interesting a while back. When something causes me a significant amount of emotional distress, my ability to interact with objects around me grows stronger. Not tremendously stronger but enough to make new potential tenants think twice about their investment. When somebody ambled around inside my home and contemplated how it would fit into their plans for the future, nothing frightens them more than the noise of a creaky door, especially not now that the windows are shut so that the motion cannot be blamed on the draft. The dark history associated with this apartment is like fuel to people's imagination, so if they are the least superstitious, they will be wary of every little incident which can be connected with “paranormal activity” - in lack of a better term. Mr. Daniel's pregnant girlfriend left her purse on the kitchen worktop while they all went into my bedroom. I managed to push it down and they heard the thud of when it fell onto the floor. The girl's expression was priceless when she came back and found out what had happened; best chuckle I have had for months. The landlord is also perplexed by how the lights here in 201 are always switched on every time he or someone else checks up on the apartment. Good luck dealing with the electricity bill, moron. Perhaps I should tamper with one of the faucets...
22th May, 2005
Well, fuck this shit. It was fun while it lasted. The shenanigans I have pulled lately attracted a great deal of attention and gave rise to rumors spread through gossip around the block. Now almost everyone knows about the mysterious incidents going on here in 201. This didn't really bother me at first, perhaps it even humored me a little, yet I have clearly failed to gauge how dicey it was to mess with people around here. The landlord is obviously still incredibly cross with me because I have thwarted all his attempts to get new tenants settled in my apartment and today he executed an unexpected retaliation. He brought a new person into my home, not someone I was familiar with but I could tell that he was a Christian clergyman, doubtless purposed to evict the unwelcome entity rumored to be the culprit behind all this mischief; which happened to be me. Closely accompanied by the anticipative landlord, he cited stanzas from the Holy Bible and went from one room to the other, sprinkling blessed water which was allegedly taken from a holy font. The holy man wore a necklace adorned by an iconic crucifix, a trinket which was always clutched in his hand to ward him against whatever type of evil he expected to encounter in my home. Even though this fancy ritual was arranged particularly for me, I didn't really pay attention. All I heard was, “yada yada, this, yada yada, that” and then he obnoxiously repeated “the power of Christ compels you” with a noticable rise in vocal volume. Just shut UP already; I heard you the first time and I still didn't give a flying fuck at the fifth time. What a relief it was to see the idiots leave.
So did the religious mumbo jumbo evict me from the property? Obviously not, because I am still here to whine about my predicament, yet their efforts were not entirely ineffective as it made me reflect on the situation from a different perspective. Everyone I had ever cared about were gone. My family has moved on, my friends have forgotten all about me and Jennifer has probably found herself a new and much better boyfriend than I ever was. It hurts to realize that you have become no more than a fading memory and all I see now is people who desperately want to get rid of me. This has literally left me drenched in depression and now I can no longer evade the sensation of being unwanted. The grief is eating me up and I just want it to stop. Perhaps it had finally begun to dawn on me that I don't belong here anymore, and believe it or not, I even repent my attempts to throw a wrench into the landlord's plans to some extend. All I wanted was to fight for what is rightfully mine, what I have worked hard through years to acquire and cling onto what little pieces are left of my life... but this was never the kind of attention I intended to attract. Desperation made me, at least momentarily, get sidetracked and forget what type of attention would alleviate my state of distress. I have had enough. A light has beckoned me since the dreary incident last year and the time has come for me to embrace it. If there is nothing left for me but to wallow in this endless cycle of futility and self-pity, to manifest as a target for rising resentment, then it is pointless of me to stay. With this said, I hereby surrender the keys to my apartment and conclude the last records of Adrian G. Standford. May your lives be long and prosperous till we meet again in the great beyond.
17th November, 2004
What a weird and chilling day this has been. Earlier this afternoon when I had just opened the fridge to grab a cold bottle of Blue Moon, I found myself struck by a sudden and unexpected jolt of malaise. First a wave of heavy nausea overwhelmed me, then I got dizzy and worst part was without a doubt the sensation of painful pressure in my chest which came towards the end. My left arm felt numb and tingly. This was probably one of the most scary experiences I have ever had and I am still shaken. After a good deal of reflection on what happened, I came to the conclusion that it must have been a minor heart attack or something. Doesn't this crap only happen to old people? This was my second day off work. My health seems to have deteriorated lately and I thought a few days of recuperation would get me back in shape without further complications. Working as a cab driver is no walk in the park and I get stressed a lot. Every day I come across new people with new attitudes that I have to assess and adjust to on the spot. Most people are cool and respectful, but every now and then, I get this insufferable imbecile who knows just what to say and do to ruin my day. They prattle and distract me from traffic so that I miss the right turns, edgy people take out their frustrations on me and last week a drunk sot hurled and left his last meal on my backseat; he didn't even get to pay for his ride because I just wanted to get his ass out of my damn car. Some people really get on my nerves or downright piss me off. I hate this job, but what can you do? Times are tough, education is expensive and occupations are hard to come by. Lots of people envy me for having a job at all and I see more and more homeless tramps roaming the streets at night.
Yes, I am one of the lucky and privileged ones, because I have a job and a steady income. Even so, it was I who presumedly suffered from a nasty heart attack earlier today and passed out in front of the open fridge. Although not burdened by poverty, I am a victim of the accelerating dynamics of a stressful society and I don't know what is the least desirable anymore. What a terrible moment to live in an apartment all by yourself with no one to dial an ambulance. The odd thing is, I woke up again later and felt fine as if nothing happened. All the pain and discomfort was gone. My memory was eerily fuzzy and still is. It occurred to me that I might have struck my head on something when I passed out but there is no pain or bruises to back up that hypothesis; I felt great, better than ever actually, as if my body and soul had been purged of all burdens. Unfortunately, the heart attack is not the only freaky incident which occurred today and the other aspect of my concern is arguably even more creepy. There is an uninvited stranger in my home, a white male with short auburn hair, presumedly in his early thirties or something. This would surely make most people panick, but the thing is, the poor bastard is clearly in an even worse state than I. He was right there when I woke up from my loss of consciousness, laying right next to me on the floor, completely blacked out and unresponsive with his eyes open. The sight of him obviously scared me out of my mind at first and now I wonder where the heck he came from. I have spent this evening trying to recollect my shattered memory. Could he be a burglar? Was there a struggle or fight before I passed out? I wanted to call the police or at least leave my apartment, but some crazy shit has been going on and it has not worked out for me. This must sound senseless, illogical and inconceivable. Problem is, I am still shocked and unable to fathom the situation myself, which renders it difficult for me to elaborate further. I need a couple of days to conduct a thorough investigation and then I will hopefully return with more answers to this enigma. A heart attack in the kitchen, a mysterious unconscious stranger on my floor and now this. What a day. Fuck this life, man.
21th November, 2004
Several days have gone by and I am still relatively stumped. All I know for sure is that something is seriously wrong with me. I haven't slept or consumed anything since the prior mentioned incident, nor felt the need to. It was like my entire body had shut down or entered a state of hibernation, yet without any consequential discomfort or decline in my health. If that shit isn't bizarre enough, then let me seize this occasion to confess that I have not left my property at all; not because I didn't want to but because it's physically impossible. There is something wrong with my hands. The door to my apartment is locked and I can't seem to get a proper grip on the door handle. This applies to everything else as well, actually, such as the phone and my keys. My hands can't handle anything, and because of this, I've been confined to my apartment with no way to get in touch with the world outside. The solitude and lack of social interaction had already begun to put a strain on my sanity. All I did was roam aimlessly around the apartment or just sit and stare at the clock for hours. The crap going on with my hands had even inhibited my ability to handle the remote control to my television and the controller to my old Playstation 2, so my access to entertainment had been cut off. It has almost been a week since I have been at work; my employer won't be too thrilled about this. He is already displeased with my rate of absence and now these circumstances provided him with the opportunity to follow up on his threats to fire me. Seems like the cold streets beckon me.
The creepy stranger on my floor hasn't moved an inch since I woke up by his side; he is exactly where I left him. His skin has gone sickly pale. To put it bluntly, I am pretty sure that he is dead by now. Haven't checked his pulse or anything, as I can't, but it's obvious. If there is a corpse of a deceased man in my apartment, then my life is in for a major tailspin, because the forensics will surely classify it as a murder and nail me as the prime suspect. Perhaps I did kill the guy and perhaps he will be found on my property, but he is a trespasser and it must have been an act of self defense. My criminal record has not always been devoid of offenses, admittedly, because I stole some stuff as a juvenile and sold drugs to riffraff on the street. That being said, I am not the violent type who hurt people for no reason. My friends and family would surely step forth to confirm this if necessary. I don't even own a gun like many other Americans. My primary goal lately has been to comprehend my bizarre condition and figure out how to remedy it, but the truth is, I am also trying hard to concoct a plausible explanation to why there is a dead person in my home.
23th November, 2004
I attempted to drink a glass of water today; not because I was thirsty or anything but because I want to feel normal again. Normal people drink daily and I haven't consumed anything for nearly a week now. Regardless how hard I tried, it didn't work. Armed with unwavering determination, I was able to push the glass lightly across the kitchen worktop, but since my hand was unable to get a proper grip, the glass just slid off and shattered on the floor. I am also bored out of my mind and desperately attempted to play games in my bedroom but I can't even turn the console on. Someone has been trying to reach me on the phone over the last few days, calling with periodic intervals. I would answer it if I could. Today the caller finally grew impatient with my lack of responses and left a message on the voice receiver. It was the girl I have dated over the last half year.
“Hey, this is Jennifer. Where the hell are you, Adrian? You don't respond to any of my calls. I am starting to suspect that you are avoiding me. If you don't like me anymore, you could just have said so, but this is just rude and stupid. Perhaps we should see other people. I really dont have time for people who keep me in the dark or freeze me out when they grow weary of my company. You need to grow up and practice commitment. We are not children anymore. Have a good life, Adrian”
When you think shit can't get worse, this happens. There goes the most fantastic and beautiful woman I have ever met. Her family seemed to like me, our dates were going swell and I was actually contemplating to propose once I could afford a decent ring. Jennifer was my soulmate and I envisioned a great future with her. Granted that everything went according to plan, it was my intention to invite her out on a vacation to Venice and then catch her off guard with the proposal while we dined on a fine Italian restaurant, an unforgettable experience complemented with romantic music. The arranged atmosphere was bound to render her completely smitten with me. You got me all wrong, Jennifer, I have already shedded my skin of immaturity and am more than ready for commitment. If only I could have answered that damn phone.
24th November, 2004
Now it has officially been a week since the incident, and after numerous sessions of investigation, there only seem to be one plausible conclusion to this conundrum – something is seriously wrong with my brain and I am inclined to believe that I suffer from some sort of psychosis. The time has come to elaborate on the physical impairments I have experienced since the presumed heart attack, the aspects of which have been left in a haze so far because it was too hard for me to explain. After such a close encounter with death, one might think that my hands were too weak or shaky to handle stuff, yet the truth is even more mind boggling – they actually phase right through everything I attempt to touch, which explains why I have been unable to answer the phone, open the door to my apartment or even drink a simple glass of water. That is some crazy shit right there and I have obviously sought high and low for a natural explanation to this phenomenon. Since superstition is not really my kind of thing, I am convinced that this abnormality stems from a damage in my brain, potentially causing me to suffer from distorted hallucinations. Even if the damage is not directly linked to the presumed heart attack, mental defects can come out of nowhere and strike when least expected. It would be wise to seek professional help if I ever find a way out of this predicament.
My apartment is a mess. All my stuff is left in disarray and I seldom take the time to clean up. Dirty laundry just pile up on the floor in my bedroom. The bedsheet hasen't been changed since last Autumn and is riddled with moldy crumbs of snacks I finished before sleep. Being a slob is a persistent vice of mine and my apartment could really benefit from a pinch of female influence. This is basically the reason why I always invited Jennifer out when I could afford it or insisted that we met at her place. Imagine her reaction if I introduced her to this filthy pigsty. The stench can sometimes be a little overwhelming, especially with the sweltering heat of Texas, so I usually have some of the windows left open to ventilate the rooms. This has inconveniently left the crevice required for all kinds of pests to slip into my home, which means that the decomposing corpse in my kitchen is now covered with fat bluebottle flies eager to lay their eggs. They just keep coming, more and more, filling my apartment with constant noise of buzzing. Like the uninvited guests they are, they have helped themselves to the scraps of food on the dirty dishes I never got to clean up before the recent incident. My apartment literally looks like a rough extract from a cliché horror film, but this is a nightmare which I can't turn off once it gets too vulgar for me to behold.
27th November, 2004
Someone rang the doorbell today. Since nobody answered, the person knocked on the door instead and with great tenacity. A male voice called out my name. Being unable to unlock and open the door, I decided to peer through the peephole to see who was on the other side. Two men were outside; Jonathan the janitor and Caleb Lee Robinson, the guy who lives alone with his teenaged daughter in 204. Caleb and I are not really friends, more like acquaintances, but he invited me over for a cup of coffee when I moved in and we have shared a few lengthy conversations in the hallway. He is the type who strives to be friends with everyone, a brash but accomodating man who has the heart in the right place. The janitor attempted to look back at me through the peephole yet I imagine that the vision must be badly distorted from the other side. They had stopped knocking, just looking pensively at the door, seeming clueless and bemused. I could hear Caleb speak.
“See? There is nobody there. I have been trying to call him for days but he won't pick up. Something is wrong, Jonathan, this is not like him. I haven't seen him for a week or so and his car hasn't left the parking lot. We should call the police and have them look into it. Maybe something has happened to Adrian.”
The janitor reluctantly agreed that actions had to be taken. Now that he mentioned it, I did count seventeen missed calls on my phone and they could not all be from Jennifer. Caleb had clearly been concerned about my recent absence. I didn't really want either of them to find the dead body in my kitchen or witness the grotesque mess in my apartment, but on the other side, this could have been my one and only chance to escape this nightmare. Before the men gave up and left, I cried out for help, shouting at the top of my lungs. Neither of them answered or even reacted. What are they, deaf? I was able to hear their voices just fine so it made no sense whatsoever that they could not hear mine. Their demeanors remained unaltered and now the janitor uttered his response to Caleb.
“How eerie. Your concerns are definitely justified, Mr. Robinson, but we must remain calm and not jump to conclusions. Adrian is probably fine. This may be completely unrelated, yet something reeks really bad on this story of the apartment. Other tenants have complaind so I planned to locate the source and have it fixed on Wednesday. Look, Mr. Robinson, here's my proposition – Let's give Adrian a few more days to turn up, and if the guy is still a no-show, then we call the police.”
Caleb agreed to these terms and both of them walked away. If the janitor keeps his word, then I know how much time there is left for me to prepare a credible explanation to this ordeal. Since I am relatively clueless about what has happened myself, it will inevitably be necessary for me to fill the gaps with little chunks of deception to preserve my aura of innocense. My future is at stake and I am not going to let some deceased crook on my property have me spend it in jail.
29th November, 2004
The dog next door has been barking for almost a full hour now and nobody seems to have caused this agitation. Forever cranky Mrs. Sherman Fischer had one of those annoying Pomeranians and I would surmise that she was not home to silence the mutt. After a great deal of contemplation in relation with the physical abnormalities I have experienced lately, a crazy idea crossed my mind. Since my hands evidently phase through everything I attempt to touch, would this also apply to the rest of my body? The full extend of these abnormalities still eluded my comprehension and now I had come to the point where I was prepared to disregard my sense of logics and consider the unthinkable. Spoken like a true madman, perhaps it was possible for me to phase right through the door or wall and escape the inconvenient confinement. It was an option which I was sorely tempted to test out, but on the other hand, something rendered me hesitant. Even if it was possible for me to get out of this place, it was not like I had anywhere else to go. This is my home and all my stuff is here. My home is undeniably a repulsive and filthy pigsty, but it is my repulsive and filthy pigsty. In a way, the sentimental attachment to this place generated a stronger sense of confinement to the apartment than the locked door and surrounding walls ever did.
Loud sirens were heard outside. I looked out the window and saw four police cars drive into the parking lot connected with this apartment complex. Now shit suddenly got real. Caleb must have compelled the janitor to keep the promise made the other day. Nothing good had ever come from my past encounters with the cops yet it would be in my best interest to remain calm and collected, even if I would rather leap out of the window in panic. A few minutes later, they approached my apartment from the outside and knocked the door hard, demanding that I let them in. Once they realized that I would not comply, they forcibly barged through so hard that the door nearly got unhinged in the process. Two officers walked inside my apartment, both with firearms in hand, prepared for a hostile confrontation. I raised my arms and surrendered without a fuss. Rugged men with guns always makes me cower inside but I was able to keep my cool and appear cooperative. One cop swiftly went into my bedroom and subsequently checked the bathroom. The other cop entered my kitchen and immediately found the body. He called out to his colleage.
“He is here, Aaron, I found him. He is dead; stone dead. Oh God, the stench... this is definitely the source of the putrid odor people have complained about. There is nothing we can do for this poor bastard. Call the paramedics and tell them to bring a bag”
The police then holstered their guns and left my apartment, just like that, completely ignoring me as if I wasn't even there. My arms were still raised as I found myself paralyzed by utter confusion. This procedure did not correspond with my expectations at all. I armed myself with patience and thought they would eventually come back for me; but they didn't. Paramedics came, put the corpse in a body bag, then left with it. They didn't talk to me either. Once they were gone, the ambience shifted in my apartment and an eerie sense of despondency came over me. When everything is reduced to nothing and nothing becomes your everything, the time has come to shed the shell of skepticism and no longer remain mired in denial. The truth can be difficult to swallow sometimes, but regardless how long we persist in our struggle to evade it, the truth always catches up with us in the end...
8th January, 2005
This was, hands down, the worst Christmas I have ever experienced and thank goodness that it is over. Everyone seemed to have a jolly good time except me. The parking lot was frequently crowded with cars as families and friends came to visit the others tenants. Christmas carols were played at a high volume every weekend, so loud that I could hear the noise through the walls regardless where I hid in my apartment. Sometimes people laughed and cheered so loud that it somehow managed to predominate for a brief moment before it was drowned in loud music again. Their voices got stuck and echoed inside my head, haunting me like mischievous ghosts in the dark, the laughter being distorted in my mind to sound more scornful and derisive than it was ever intended to. Christmas had transformed into a grand party which I was no longer invited to. While everybody else was having a good time, I sulked alone in my apartment with the lights turned off, having nothing to look forward to whatsoever. This apartment had no christmas tree, no festive decorations, no lit candles, no colorful presents, absolutely nothing at all. My home was like a swollen tumor in the apartment complex, the secluded nook where light doesn't shine, the black void which garnered no cheer or joy, the dilapidated dwelling which God had forsaken.
The unnaturally extended existence has not entirely been lonesome, however, because my family also dropped by to visit me – not to celebrate christmas but to pillage my home of everything valuable and dispose of whatever they labeled as useless junk. My parents and two younger brothers had allied with a few male members of the distant family, because the landlord was economically afflicted by the vacancy and needed to have someone else move in soon; into MY home, to be specific. They hauled out the bed, the wardrobe and all the furniture. My clothes and magazines were carelessly stuffed into black plastic sacks. All the dinnerware and utensils were sorted into cardboard boxes, sealed and labeled, then carried down the stairs. I initially raged at my family with an outburst of profanity, but since that had no effect, I switched strategy and implored them earnestly to leave my stuff alone. Just like with Caleb and the janitor, my voice got through to no one and they just carried on as if I wasen't even there. A man does not know true misery before he has watched all his treasured belongings disappear out of his life, unable to do a damn thing about it, until all that remains is an empty and hollow shadow of what he used to call home.
17th April, 2005
The apartment is empty and has been cleaned thoroughly. Everything has changed so radically that it hardly feels like home anymore. All my treasured belongings are taken and gone. I am still here, however, enduring a quiet existence devoid of social interaction. The theory which crossed my mind a few months ago proved to be true; it is possibly for my body to phase right through the door or wall as I had anticipated. Being able to leave my apartment has been utmost rejuvenating and has mildly helped to preserve my sanity, yet I never stray far from my home and I always come back. When things get too quiet and lonesome, I sometimes visit the other tenants and just watch them do whatever is on their daily agenda. Sometimes it feels like they are able to sense me somehow and it makes them shudder. Mrs. Sherman Fischer often dozes off in front of the television during the evening, which provides me with a light opportunity to take share in the entertainment without her knowing, yet the programs she watches do not correlate so well with my taste. She never watches movies, it's all about dull documentaries. Caleb moved out last month. The recent events were probably too much for him to bear in order to continuously feel at peace in his own residence. It is a shame, honestly, I really wanted to see him face to face one last time before that came to pass.
Strangers have occasionally barged into my home, uninvited, always accompanied by either Jonathan the janitor or the landlord himself. One incident involved this young couple expecting a child in June. They were looking for a safe place to raise the kid, and unlike most other people, they were not bothered by the dark history associated with this apartment. The fact that someone died in here made it challenging for the landlord to find new potential tenants, yet obviously, this adversery proved to work in my favour. Even if the the name tag on the door to this apartment is left blank, this is still my home and I obstinately refused to let anyone else move in without my consent. Excessively buoyant Mr. Daniel and his pregnant girlfriend will have to find another place to settle down with their newborn infant. This apartment is mine and mine only.
I discovered something interesting a while back. When something causes me a significant amount of emotional distress, my ability to interact with objects around me grows stronger. Not tremendously stronger but enough to make new potential tenants think twice about their investment. When somebody ambled around inside my home and contemplated how it would fit into their plans for the future, nothing frightens them more than the noise of a creaky door, especially not now that the windows are shut so that the motion cannot be blamed on the draft. The dark history associated with this apartment is like fuel to people's imagination, so if they are the least superstitious, they will be wary of every little incident which can be connected with “paranormal activity” - in lack of a better term. Mr. Daniel's pregnant girlfriend left her purse on the kitchen worktop while they all went into my bedroom. I managed to push it down and they heard the thud of when it fell onto the floor. The girl's expression was priceless when she came back and found out what had happened; best chuckle I have had for months. The landlord is also perplexed by how the lights here in 201 are always switched on every time he or someone else checks up on the apartment. Good luck dealing with the electricity bill, moron. Perhaps I should tamper with one of the faucets...
22th May, 2005
Well, fuck this shit. It was fun while it lasted. The shenanigans I have pulled lately attracted a great deal of attention and gave rise to rumors spread through gossip around the block. Now almost everyone knows about the mysterious incidents going on here in 201. This didn't really bother me at first, perhaps it even humored me a little, yet I have clearly failed to gauge how dicey it was to mess with people around here. The landlord is obviously still incredibly cross with me because I have thwarted all his attempts to get new tenants settled in my apartment and today he executed an unexpected retaliation. He brought a new person into my home, not someone I was familiar with but I could tell that he was a Christian clergyman, doubtless purposed to evict the unwelcome entity rumored to be the culprit behind all this mischief; which happened to be me. Closely accompanied by the anticipative landlord, he cited stanzas from the Holy Bible and went from one room to the other, sprinkling blessed water which was allegedly taken from a holy font. The holy man wore a necklace adorned by an iconic crucifix, a trinket which was always clutched in his hand to ward him against whatever type of evil he expected to encounter in my home. Even though this fancy ritual was arranged particularly for me, I didn't really pay attention. All I heard was, “yada yada, this, yada yada, that” and then he obnoxiously repeated “the power of Christ compels you” with a noticable rise in vocal volume. Just shut UP already; I heard you the first time and I still didn't give a flying fuck at the fifth time. What a relief it was to see the idiots leave.
So did the religious mumbo jumbo evict me from the property? Obviously not, because I am still here to whine about my predicament, yet their efforts were not entirely ineffective as it made me reflect on the situation from a different perspective. Everyone I had ever cared about were gone. My family has moved on, my friends have forgotten all about me and Jennifer has probably found herself a new and much better boyfriend than I ever was. It hurts to realize that you have become no more than a fading memory and all I see now is people who desperately want to get rid of me. This has literally left me drenched in depression and now I can no longer evade the sensation of being unwanted. The grief is eating me up and I just want it to stop. Perhaps it had finally begun to dawn on me that I don't belong here anymore, and believe it or not, I even repent my attempts to throw a wrench into the landlord's plans to some extend. All I wanted was to fight for what is rightfully mine, what I have worked hard through years to acquire and cling onto what little pieces are left of my life... but this was never the kind of attention I intended to attract. Desperation made me, at least momentarily, get sidetracked and forget what type of attention would alleviate my state of distress. I have had enough. A light has beckoned me since the dreary incident last year and the time has come for me to embrace it. If there is nothing left for me but to wallow in this endless cycle of futility and self-pity, to manifest as a target for rising resentment, then it is pointless of me to stay. With this said, I hereby surrender the keys to my apartment and conclude the last records of Adrian G. Standford. May your lives be long and prosperous till we meet again in the great beyond.
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