The house was cozy, but with some oddities. For example, as I walked up the stairs from the front door to the elevator, I passed a place where, behind the wall, a clock was ticking loudly somewhere in the next doorway. At that point an image flashed vividly in my mind: a sunny day, a corner of some house, some car that looked like a "Pobeda". It happened very often, there was no plot development in the picture, it did not affect anything and remained a small mystery, of which there are many in life.
Near the end of my stay there, I was alone. Or rather, I often had friends come over and then stay for a long time, in the last year I got married for the second time, but I hosted there by myself. Sooner or later, everyone who slept there had the same dream, a hard and painful one. The sleeper saw someone near and dear in front of him, but in two copies. The right one had to be chosen, and the false one had to be killed. Usually the person woke up with some unpleasant sensation of presence near him. In general, by the end, I was already uncomfortable there myself.
As time went by, as a result of certain family events, it was decided to sell the apartment. At that time there was not much high-class housing in Moscow, and such apartments were going off at once. But not in my case. People would come and take a look and then never call again. I ended up saying loudly in the emptiness of the apartment: "We'll take you with us!" Something crackled in the depths of the apartment in response. A buyer was found literally the next day...
All the stuff from the sold apartment, I took to the cottage, where it took up all the space of a large glass veranda, from floor to ceiling. The dacha was old, either prewar or postwar, with heating from an ac and a stupid layout, where most of the rooms were passable. Two doors led from my room on the first floor - one to the veranda itself and the other to the hall. The room itself had two beds and an old closet with a mirrored door.
Nothing seemed to be happening that summer evening. The rain was drizzling quietly, and somewhere in the distance there seemed to be a thunderstorm. My wife, for some reason, decided to sleep on the second floor that night. (We could not remember now why separately). I woke up in the middle of the night. It was not too dark, the mirror gleamed dimly, and my Airedale terrier was asleep curled up in a ball in front of it. Suddenly the dog was thrown up like a spring, and he sprinted out of the room. And before my eyes, in the background of the closet, a tall black silhouette passed from the closed door to the veranda across the room and disappeared into a second doorway. I didn't realize at first who it was yelling so wildly. It turned out to be me, with my hand trying to fumble for my grandfather's saber, which was behind the bed. The whole family came to my scream, and I tried to explain what had happened to them in a long, indecipherable way.
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