What exactly had shifted within the house, Lidia couldn't quite tell. Either the tablecloth was different, or her indoor slippers were resting at a slightly altered angle... After a grueling workday, she had absolutely zero desire to untangle the mystery. All she wanted was to take a hot shower, throw together some dinner, and crash into a deep sleep until the next working morning reclaimed her. Honestly, she could even skip the dinner part—just down a mug of tea and pass out. She stepped into the bathroom and froze in sharp astonishment. A large, plush bath towel—which she was absolutely, one hundred percent certain she had left buried inside her bag—was thoughtfully spread across the radiator. Someone hadn't merely rummaged through her personal belongings; they had systematically unpacked them, arranging her things according to their own logic. Or... She suddenly recalled a thriller where a maniac slowly drove his victim insane by subtly moving household objects. But the flicker of fear that began to spark in her chest was instantly cut short by an equally unsettling, deeply pragmatic thought—what if this "someone" had actually used her towel to dry themselves? Her immediate impulse was to storm out into the hallway and demand answers, but she firmly suppressed it. When your household is co-inhabited by an other-worldly or this-worldly entity, politeness is a mandatory survival strategy. After a thorough, microscopic inspection of the fabric, Lidia satisfied herself that the towel was completely untouched. On the bright side, it was beautifully warm, and the bathtub looked incredibly inviting. Her cosmetics were neatly lined up along the shelves, flanked by brand-new shampoos and several varieties of artisan soap, as if the mysterious "someone" were desperately trying to guess her personal preferences. Counter to all rational logic, she felt a sudden surge of gratitude toward the phantom stranger for the domestic care—maybe she could thank them with a spectacular dinner? But first—the shower. Lidia decided to turn the raw beef into thick, seared steaks. Her hand simply refused to slice such a magnificent cut into a mundane winter stew. Having prepared two generous portions, she carried her plate into the dining room, setting it on a table now draped in a brilliant white tablecloth adorned with intricate embroidery. Whether that tablecloth had been present during her initial tour, the girl couldn't remember. Then again, what difference did it make? It was clean, beautiful, and profoundly cozy. It was the perfect moment to say "thank you." She drizzled the second steak with aromatic herb oil, decorated the crust with a fresh sprig of rosemary, sealed the plate beneath a heavy porcelain lid, and called out to the empty room: “Help yourself, unknown neighbor! Let's celebrate the housewarming properly and get to know each other a bit better.” Strangely enough, the moment she stepped out of the shower, the foreign presence didn't trigger her anxiety at all. So what if someone was sharing the house? They didn't threaten her, and they kept the estate immaculate. Frankly, they were an exemplary roommate. “Can you hear me?” Lidia called out, leaning against the doorframe. “Let’s handle this like an old fairy tale and introduce ourselves. If thou art an old man, thou shalt be a beloved uncle to us forever. If thou art a comely youth, thou shalt be a brother sworn. If thou art an old woman, be a mother to me, and that is how I shall honor you. And if thou art a fair maiden, be my sweet sister. In short, however you choose to introduce yourself, that is the title I’ll use! As for me—I’m Lida. No formalities necessary. Deal?” And with that, she went to celebrate her successful property acquisition. If Lida had turned around a fraction of a second faster, she would have caught the silhouette of a black patch of shadow rippling across the hardwood floorboards. It detached from the wall so rapidly, moving with such fluid, predatory grace, that it was obvious an apex hunter had answered her summons. The porcelain lid rose into the air without a single sound, and the phantom guest took a deep, evaluating sniff. “Quite a limited choice! Uncle, mother, sister... Everything is tailored for humans. Pure discrimination. But then again, it would be foolish to turn down a prime steak. Dig in!” “I wonder if she will scream or not when she finally sees you?” “So do I.” Not a single sound drifted from the kitchen. Yet, when Lidia carried her empty dishes back to the counter, the second steak was completely gone. In its place, a spotless plate and an equally immaculate wine glass were resting neatly on the drying rack. The secondary tenant had dined, and by all metrics, was highly pleased with the service. That night, Lidia dreamed of a young girl wearing silk pajamas and a funny knitted beret topped with a pompom. The child was nestled comfortably in the armchair, staring out at the moonlit woods, softly humming an ancient lullaby... In the morning, a fully prepared breakfast was waiting for her on the counter. A fresh cup of coffee with milk and sweet syrup, melted cheese over crisp, golden toast, and a warm bowl of oatmeal. “Thank you, of course,” Lidia said to the empty room, evaluating the portion size and correlating it with the clean dishes on the rack. “But from now on, please cook for two. Otherwise, I feel incredibly awkward. It makes me feel like you’re starving in the dark while I’m acting like a wicked exploiter! Oh, and one more thing—I’m ordering a huge batch of groceries today. Please don't scare the courier. He’s just a working man trying to earn a living.” The cabinet door creaked open an inch and snapped firmly shut all by itself. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Lidia managed to smile, though a cold, unpleasant knot twisted deep in her stomach. The house—or rather, its spectral inhabitant—was undoubtedly listening and responding. But seriously, who was hiding in the walls? A stalker? Or... the secret services? Which author was it that the intelligence agencies drove completely insane? Hemingway, she thought... But what did that have to do with her? She wasn't a subversive writer; she was nobody to them. Maybe it was one of the former owners? For some bizarre reason, her mind conjured the image of a lonely, forgotten KGB officer, abandoned by his handlers decades ago, who had been sitting in this dark house ever since, stubbornly awaiting an order that would never come. She felt such a sudden wave of pity for the poor fictional fellow that her eyes actually welled with tears. A profound urge arose to buy him a chocolate bar on her way home. Absolutely mandatory. Fumbling through her backpack, she fished out her second smartphone—an old model with a badly cracked screen, but still fully operational. She set it neatly on the table, offered a cheerful wave to the empty air, and grabbed her purse. “That’s it for the morning! See you tonight. If you need anything, don't be shy—text or call! And remember: leave the courier alone!” “You definitely scared her after all.” “But now she believes in us. Probably. Humans are strange creatures—first she gets frightened, then she almost cries, and suddenly her fear vanishes... What is the logic behind that?” “I don't know...” Lidia had to spend half her lunch break arguing with the courier service; not a single driver wanted to accept a route heading toward the cursed house. Lidia spent a considerable amount of time proving the place was completely safe—she had already spent two nights there and remained entirely alive. In fact, she was delighted with the purchase. And no, she wasn't crazy and hadn't turned into a monster—anyone who doubted her sanity was welcome to stop by the station store and look her in the eye! Finally, a young courier agreed, but strictly on the condition that he would leave the delivery by the gate, not on the porch. The distance was far, and the hazard pay—substantial. The boy made it through the forest much faster than expected. He skidded to a halt, staring at the house—the mansion still looked grim and abandoned. Despite the total absence of wind, a heavy wooden window sash on the second floor was swinging violently back and forth, creaking loudly and slamming against the brickwork with such force that the glass looked ready to shatter. The courier dropped the heavy grocery bags by the fence. He jumped back onto his bicycle, but hesitated. He turned around, staring at the delivery. He knew the owner was at work, and he strongly suspected that unsecured cargo in these woods would walk away very quickly. Hesitating for a moment and spitting thrice over his shoulder to ward off evil spirits, the boy scooped up the bags, pushed the gate open, and marched up the path toward the mansion. He practically crept toward the entrance, taking cautious steps, ready to bolt at the first strange sound. Surprisingly, nothing happened, and the order was successfully left right on the porch. Suddenly, the window sash directly above his head slammed with an explosive thud, and the boy's nerves broke completely. He bolted down the path, stumbling, nearly falling face-first, entirely ignoring the sudden, heavy gust of wind that slammed into his side. Bursting past the gates, the boy whirled around. The bags on the porch were already gone. The windows were total voids of darkness; only the lone second-floor sash continued its rhythmic, agonizing creak. And for some reason, a distinct, mocking malice echoed in that wooden groan. Oh, hell no. He was never accepting a delivery here again—not for double, not for triple pay! For quintuple... He looked back at the house, at the swinging window... Still—absolutely no! The courier wiped the cold sweat from his brow, breathing heavily to calm his pounding heart, and pedaled away furiously, entirely unaware that he was being closely watched. A large, unshaven man stepped out from the dense bushes. Unlike the terrified courier, he had seen clearly that a child had retrieved the delivery from the porch. “Must have left her little sister behind to guard the place,” the thief muttered, a greasy smirk spreading across his face. “The locals come up with the wildest rumors—a monster, my ass.” The presence of a child inside didn't bother the robber in the least. In his line of work, he had run into plenty of kids and old women... He hadn't even generalized to put on a mask; he hated having those rags covering his face—they made it hard to breathe, and besides, he never left witnesses alive anyway. Inside the house, invisible hands were already gutting the grocery bags, arranging the items across the kitchen island. “Flour, brown sugar...” “I can't see! Move over!” “Don't bother me, let me take it out and you'll see! Cocoa! We can make pastries for the mistress! Chicken... Look, a chocolate bar! And a little card! ‘To the best neighbor and friend.’ That's for us! Can you imagine? We must tell her that I am a girlfriend, not a friend!” “I want some too!” “With tea, after lunch!” “Lunch? Ah! I see him. Intercepting. Get ready!” The groceries vanished from the counter as if they had never existed. The air inside the kitchen trembled violently, filling with a heavy, gray gloom, and when it cleared, the atmosphere had completely shifted. “Holy hell, look at this!” the thief breathed as he stepped into the main hall. His experienced eyes scanned the antique furniture, locking onto a row of ancient icons housed in dark, weathered cases—solid gold, heavily encrusted with precious gemstones. “There’s millions worth of antiques just sitting here!” He ripped a heavy linen cover off an armchair, tied the edges to form a crude sack, and began systematically taking down the icons, stacking them inside.