The Ghost Neighbor

I lived in this building for almost twenty years. All that time, on the eighth floor, in the apartment at the very end of the long corridor, lived a woman. No one knew her real name. Some said it was Maria, others Anna. But everyone agreed: she was always alone. No guests, no family, no friends. And not once, not once, did I see her smile.

Every evening, when I came home from work, I saw her silhouette at the window: she was sitting in an armchair and looking into the distance. It was said that she had lived like this for fifty years. At first, people tried to get to know her, but they gave up: her gaze was too cold, her life too closed.

She died last month. It all happened quietly: the neighbors smelled something and called the police. I only learned of her death when there was a knock on my door. Two police officers were standing there.

“You lived next door to the deceased,” one of them said. “We need you for verification.”

I asked myself, “Why?” But I went.

The door to his apartment was ajar. As soon as I walked through the door, I felt a chill, as if the air conditioning was on full blast. And the radiators were hot.

And then the worst began.