Chapter Text
There's a guy in your wall.
You do not know how long he has been in your wall, just that he popped up in your apartment one day.
At first, it was small interactions. You'd see a cabinet being left open that you thought you closed – easy trick of the mind, everyone forgets they opened things every now and again.
Then there was something in the corner of your eye. You'd swear you'd see something peeking, often out of cabinets, then you'd turn around and it was gone. Trick of the light? Surely.
For about two weeks this went on, maybe with the occasional key, pencil, or water bottle going missing. Sometimes papers. Just normal things to lose, probably. Annoying, but nothing completely out of the ordinary. Hearing doors slam - probably a neighboring apartment, you’d say to yourself while conveniently ignoring the fact that it sounded like it could have been right behind you. In hindsight, you really should have checked for a break-in.
Sure you were a bit suspicious, but over what? You were never in any real danger, even checking the cabinets proved you were just paranoid – no change at all.
Maybe it was sleep deprivation, maybe it was exhaustion after studying for straight hours, either way, the morning light in your window was no longer bright enough to keep you awake. Your hands slap to the table, jolting yourself awake – how long had you been asleep? Your once fully charged computer now sat at 5%, the sky blue light in your window had done nothing but dim into the orange light of the sunset. Time for a break, you thought with a sigh. You push in your chair and close your laptop, walking to your kitchen to get a drink silently praying that something or someone would concuss you before you had to open it again.
Unfortunately, it seems someone heard you.
You had just cracked open the cup drawer when a deathly grey hand tightened around your wrist. You froze. It was cold, rubbery – if you didn’t see the rotted black nails wrapping your arm, you would have thought it was a glove. There was a light pulling, and your eyes shakily drifted down to meet a clouded bloodshot eye staring back at you from inside the drawer. Too-tiny pupils locked with yours as you were released, hand crawling itself back into darkness slowly as if it were a spider hidden inside a flimsy layer of skin. Only bony fingers were left visible as it tried to push itself free.
You watched a face reveal itself, that same zombie-like grey with a smile too wide for its cheekbones revealing the blackened inside of a mouth. Your hand shook on the drawer’s handle.
The mouth contorted into something as you tried to steel your nerves.
“८ ጉこ –”
You slam the drawer on its fingers.
You hear it yelp and decide to hole out in your room for the night and order pizza. You get paid on Friday anyways, it’s fine. Probably.
After that, it would simply pop up randomly. And you would very responsibly ignore it.
Seeing an eye in the vents? No you don't. You also don't hear giggling while you grip your pen a bit harder. You do not feel like there is someone watching you, nor do you hear- did something just break?
You did not see the hand that just stole the paper next to you despite the fact you are both currently playing tug of war- wait don't rip that actually you need that!
... You do not see the hand–that you definitely did not just lose tug of war to–slip under the table.
... You most certainly do not hear this little shit laughing at you.
You do not see or hear or experience any of these things because you cannot afford to. You're drowning in university work, and barely toeing the line to drowning in debt next. Even the cheapest apartment with cracks in the walls, 24/7 plumbing problems and a front door that creaks and moans like it's getting the best head of its life has rent to pay, unfortunately.
Even if you could afford somewhere better, what could you do? Call the police? Probably, but what proof would you have? You could attack it, but that would mean you’d need to find its hideout first ... well that serves the first point too. The doors always seemed to slam right as you turned around, then you opened them and it was as if nothing was there. You wondered if there were any trap doors in your apartment – that has to be the only explanation, right? Either that or you're crazy. Are antipsychotics in your budget for the year?
Maybe it's so cheap because it's haunted, you think, maybe you should have asked that during the listing.
Maybe you should also tell the monster currently in the fridge to be literally anywhere but there. You need to eat. You do not care if the monster needs to eat.
You stomp over and swing the door open. It gives you that same smile that you've grown to assume is more of a shit-eating grin. The cabinet creature rests on its hands on a surface you can't see, staring directly into your pupils. You feel this urge to poke it in the eyes.
You take a deep breath and grip the fridge handle hard enough to scratch. “Get the fuck. Out of my fridge,” you breathe out through gritted teeth, very obviously forcing a smile as you try not to strangle the supernatural greaseball.
“८ ጉこતコ” It returns. You blink back blankly.
Its expression changes to something more sly as a hand gestures you to come closer. “ਦጉ々ィ ત ટ дこ π ८ נ こ?”
... What the fuck.
You blink back again. It simply stares up at you, expectantly. You both stare at each other for a while, its eyes begin to narrow at you. You are confounded.
“... Run that by me one more time?”
At your voice it seems to study you, eyes shifting between your moving lips and the rest of your expression. Almost like it was trying to decipher something. When your mouth stopped moving, it let out a sigh that you could at least agree was exasperation. It mumbles something incomprehensible as it turns away from you.
Okay. That's established. You cannot understand this creature. Clearly you needed more problems surrounding you and the cabinet man. Even more pressing, it seems like it can't understand you either. Helpful. Great. Awesome.
Your stomach growls as you remember the task at hand. You briefly consider just reaching in there anyways, but hesitate upon seeing the glimmer in its eye while you raise your hand. With a grumble, you slam the door again. Is this method tried and true yet? You suppose you'll find out when you open the door again, but you have to find a way to actually talk to this thing first.
You sit back down at the counter, head in hand as you grab a fruit from the basket in the middle. Not a full meal by any means, but it should at least tie you over until you get this sorted out. You look around for scattered papers, a pen, something to write with ...
A pencil and a pile of flash cards on the table start to catch your attention.
A sudden flash and a paper being thrown directly over its eyes are what it's met with, along with a door slamming. A crude drawing of a box with a door, what it assumes to be itself, and an arrow out. There’s also a small doodle of an angry face.
Usually the language barrier works in its favor, but it seems like you’re either too stupid or too smart for it simultaneously. Good on you for not agreeing to something before you knew what it was, it guesses. Credit where credit’s due.
It doesn't take a genius to know you want it gone. Doesn't take a native speaker to get the gist of “ム乇ｲ のひｲ のｷ ｲん乇 ｷ尺ﾉりム乇!!!”
A grin spreads across its features. You are so, so fun.
As it enjoys the little piece of artmanship, about to crinkle it up and either throw it in the vents or maybe keep it as a token of acknowledgement another paper slips under the door. Nothing but a question mark on this one, and the sound of ... something trying to sneak under the door. Eventually you seem to give up and crack open the do- wow that is bright. Ow.
“Ｗんﾑｲ りの ﾘのひ Ｗﾑ刀ｲ.”
Seems clear enough.
The pencil slips from your hand and you hear scribbling the minute the door closes. Takes barely 30 seconds to get back a ... heart. An anatomically correct one. Uncomfortably so, actually.
... Well. That’s something.
You kinda need yours.
You briefly wonder if you can convey that in pictionary terms as you stare at the picture in your hand. It’s actually shockingly well-drawn, all the veins and arteries clearly defined despite how quickly it took. A part of you appreciates the detail.
Or it would, if you ignored the fact that the drawer zombie wanted to reach through your skin into your ribcage and rip out a vital organ.
You scribble out an eye, your leftover ramen, and the fridge with an arrow pointed at it and hope it gets to the point. There was a leftover chicken heart from your takeout last night, it should work out well enough ...?
You almost slip the paper through the door again, but hesitate. Quickly, you rush back to your flash card pile and write–draw–out a question.
You slip the newest flashcard into the fridge first.
You’re taking a while. It’s boring. A simple confirm or deny can’t possibly take more than a second. Please, go slower, really.
It picks at its fingernails impatiently. You know, it was just staying here because you were fun, it doesn’t need to be here. It can leave any time it wants, and oh it is sure you will miss it after all the times it's been around. And it sure doesn’t need to-
Ooh, new paper.
It practically rips the new sheet out of your hand.
... Hm. Guess you're not an idiot.
Before it was a small doodle of a ... that's probably a heart, an arrow pointing to its face, and an arrow leading out of the box. All followed up with a question mark, and a little smile or a frown at the bottom.
Did you know it doesn't go back on deals? That wouldn't make sense.
Maybe it could just pretend it didn't understand you, like it didn't see the obvious doodle and just the useless translation. At least it thought it was a translation–again, why though?
It could say no ... but then it couldn't take that without permission.
... With consideration this is actually a very fair deal. Just annoying.
With a smile, it circles the happy face and slips it back under.
It barely takes a second for you to slip a new card back. Guess you took its advice.
Eye, cold box ... what is that second thing?
It crawls around looking for anything that remotely matches.
After like two seconds later, a thud, and some bargaining that, yes, a chicken heart held in your possession does technically count as your heart.
It finally leaves you alone.
You turn on the oven and throw in your extremely hard-fought pizza. You sink into your couch while you set a timer to check the oven later, trying not to fall asleep after the exhaustion of the day. If you somehow managed to start a house fire after all of this, felonies would be committed.
Offhandedly, you glance at the table. Strangely, half of your flashcards are missing.
... THAT MOTHERFUCK-