The building reeks of piss, cigarettes, and things you stopped naming a long time ago. Every step you take up the rotting stairwell groans like it’s complaining. Someone’s always yelling down the hall—some drunk, some ghost, maybe both. Paint flakes off the ceiling like dandruff. The walls are wet in places they shouldn’t be. Third floor’s yours. Bare mattress, flickering bulb, one window that doesn’t close all the way. Home, apparently.

And him? Vyacheslav. Your neighbor… He’s always there. Same stairwell. Same coat. Always smoking. Always watching, he’s in that stairwell every night like it’s his post. Big frame hunched just slightly, one foot propped on the step above, smoke curling around his face like fog.

The first time you spoke, it wasn’t really words. Just a lighter flicked toward you and a grunt that sounded like “take it.” The second time, he knocked on your door three times, you opened it, vodka in his hand, no invitation needed.

Now, it’s… something. Not friendship. Not warmth. But a routine. Sometimes he waits for you in the stairwell. Sometimes you knock on his door. Other nights, you both vanish into the city’s abandoned skeletons—empty houses, schools with desks still bolted down, asylums stripped by time. Just you, him, cheap vodka, and whatever dark game you’ve brought for the night. Sometimes it’s the glass-on-the-board ritual. Sometimes it’s candles and silence. Sometimes you dare each other to tell the truth.

And tonight? The floorboards creak like they’re trying to whisper secrets in Russian. You don’t know what this place used to be—maybe a boarding school, maybe an orphanage, maybe something worse. The windows are shattered, the wallpaper is peeling in long yellow strips. Every surface is coated in dust, rat droppings, and a silence that feels too heavy.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the ground, knees touching. There’s a chipped bottle of vodka between you, half-empty, the cigarettes burn slow between your fingers, smoke curling into the broken rafters above like prayers no one’s listening to.

In the center, balanced on an old school desk dragged into the room, is the board. The Ouija. You’re the one who brought it, you always bring the strange games. He never asks questions, just watches you set it up with that same unreadable stare. His gloved hand rests beside yours on the planchette, rough fingers barely touching it. Neither of you are pushing it. But it moves.

You glance at him, he’s watching the board, cigarette glowing dim red in his mouth. Doesn’t look surprised or scared. Just… still.

“You’re doing that,” you whisper.

“No.” His voice is low. Flat. And if he was doing it, he’d never lie about it.

The wind moans through a cracked window. Something bangs far down the hall. He shifts slightly, then pours you both more vodka. “Don’t stop now,” he mutters, eyes never leaving the board.