Chapter 1
When the city finally falls silent, when the last car engines disappear into the ground and the silence becomes so thick you can touch it, the residents return to their apartments, cook a heavy dinner, and the whole family settles in front of the television.
In one flat there is perfect family idyll: husband, wife, their children, a dog, a cat. They are happy just to be together. They are home, in their cosy fortress. All worries left outside the thick concrete walls.
In another flat lives a young, very pretty girl. All we know about her is that she’s a student. Very quiet and modest.
In yet another flat lives a lonely man who cannot sleep because of the neighbour who never stops drinking and beating his wife and child.
So many people live in this building, and there are countless such buildings in the city. And countless such cities across the country. The people in them are very similar, but their fates couldn’t be more different.
Night has come. Silence has fallen. The residents have begun to enjoy their rest from the daily grind. Many are already in bed, slipping into deep sleep.
A huge black cat, glossy as wet asphalt after rain, descends the stairs almost soundlessly. Eyes the colour of old, dying streetlights that should have been replaced long ago, but for some reason no one ever does. No collar. No tag. Only the smell of cold iron left in the air like a trail.
Exactly 00:00. The cat chooses a door. Sits in front of it. Wraps his tail around his paws. And starts coughing.
Deeper, louder, wetter. But no one wakes up.
A few minutes of that terrible cough, then the cat opens his mouth wide and vomits a brown paper parcel tied with red string. Then he turns and walks back upstairs.
Morning. An old woman opens her door. At first she thinks the neighbourhood kids are playing pranks again, throwing rubbish. She takes a dustpan and broom and sweeps the filth away.
The next night everything repeats. The huge black cat comes down, sits in front of the same door, coughs until the parcel appears, then leaves.
In the morning the old woman sees the same thing. “All right, kids, let’s see what you’ve decided to give the old lady this time. We did the same to old people when we were young,” she thinks, and brings the parcel inside.
She sits in her armchair, tears the red string, and unwraps the dirty brown paper. Inside lies a bent gold wedding ring. The very ring that was on her husband’s finger when he was buried twenty-three years ago.
“Good luck at school,” a young mother says to her son and sends him off. As he steps over the threshold he sees the brown parcel with red string. Without a second thought he picks it up and puts it in his backpack.
That night the boy sleeps badly. All night he dreams of the huge black cat rubbing against his legs and coughing, smelling of something awful.
In the morning he tells his mother about the scary dream. She calms him: it was only a dream, cats aren’t scary.
In the evening the little family is together — just mother and son. While the boy does his homework, the girl does laundry.
“Sweetie, you lost a tooth. Show me. Why did you wrap it in this dirty paper with string?”
“Mom!” the boy almost shouts. “I told you, the big black cat brought it to me.”
“Enough about your cat. It was a dream. This is your tooth. Go wash and get to bed. Tomorrow’s Saturday, we’ll go to the park.”
The morning is sunny, perfect for a walk. The girl is frying pancakes while her son finishes sleeping.
“Time to get up or the pancakes will get cold,” she calls.
No answer.
She opens the bedroom door. The bed is empty. Everything is in its place: slippers neatly by the bed, textbooks on the desk, clothes in the wardrobe, favourite construction set scattered on the floor… But the boy is gone.
Windows closed. Door bolted from the inside. He simply vanished.
His mother never saw him again.
You’ve finished the story and smiled, maybe even felt a little shiver. That’s normal. “Well written, but it won’t happen to me.”
You went to make tea. Now you’re sitting with your cup, scrolling.
Stop.
Right now.
Do you hear it?
That quiet, wet cough behind your door. Right now, exactly 00:00.
He’s already been here.
Check under your doormat.
Brown paper. Red string. Stomach acid. And this time the name written on the paper isn’t someone else’s.
It’s yours. Exactly as you sign your messages. Exactly as your friends call you.
Don’t untie the string. Because once you do… you’ll disappear just like all the others.
The old woman. The boy. Me. You.
