He was in the middle of a tedious chapter when the tapping changed. It wasn’t just rain anymore. It was a rhythmic, dry knock... knock... knock from the hallway.
The hallway was empty. Only the smell of wet plaster and stale tobacco smoke lingered. "Strange," he muttered, closing it. Ten minutes later: Knock... knock... knock.
The next morning, Anton found it. On his antique wooden mirror, written in fine dust, were the words: Gosty po TB . gosty po tb
He didn't call the police. He just turned up the heat, sat in his chair, and finally started reading aloud to the empty, crowded room. If you liked this, I can: Make the story or more psychological. Change the setting to a modern setting .
Anton sighed, setting down his book. He wasn't expecting anyone. He lived alone, and even the postman usually just shoved letters under the door. He opened the heavy, creaking door. He was in the middle of a tedious
Write a focusing on what happens when Anton finally talks to them.
Throughout the night, the "guests" didn't stop. It wasn't loud, just an annoying, persistent presence. A chair in the kitchen would move an inch. The smell of cheap cigarettes would fill the room, then vanish. Only the smell of wet plaster and stale
The rain in St. Petersburg didn't just fall; it whispered, tapping against the windowpanes of Anton’s top-floor apartment like bony fingers. Anton, a lonely translator who preferred the company of 19th-century literature to living people, tightened his scarf. The radiator hissed, a pathetic sound, barely fighting off the damp autumn chill.