The next day. Anya had just finished her “workout” and was sitting on the couch with a jacket thrown over her shoulders. Suddenly she heard a dull thud outside, and then a persistent pounding on the massive front door.
“Hey! Is anyone here? Sorry!” The voice sounded muffled, warped by distance and soundproofing.
Anya froze, straining to listen. The intonation felt vaguely familiar. Something about the way he drew out his vowels… Or was she imagining it? After two weeks of silence, any human voice sounded like home. She shook her head, pushing the illusion away. Most likely it was just an auditory hallucination…
It didn’t matter. A stranger was a chance. Tiny, ghostlike—but a chance.
She heard Viktor unlock the door. He sounded unnaturally upbeat, but there was an undercurrent of threat beneath it.
“Yes? What happened? You almost knocked the door down.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” the stranger rattled on. “A hose burst right outside your fence and all the antifreeze poured out. The car just died. Do you happen to have an adjustable wrench so I can tighten the clamps? And a couple of liters of water… just to top it up and limp to a gas station. My phone’s dead too—I can’t even call a tow truck.”
A pause hung in the air. Anya could almost hear Viktor thinking. She wanted to scream, Don’t go! Help me! but fear locked her throat.
“I have tools,” Viktor said at last. “But they’re in the house, in the entryway. Wait here.”
“Thank you so much! And could I fill my jerrycan with water from your tap? My jerrycan’s empty.”
Anya pressed into the back of the couch, waiting for Viktor to bark a refusal and slam the door.
“Fine. Come in. But quickly,” Viktor said, reluctantly.
Anya went rigid. Why? Why did he let him in? It didn’t fit the image of the “commandant of the fortress,” spooked by every little sound. He could’ve brought water out. He didn’t have to open at all. Why was he letting a stranger into his “temple”? She could scream… No—she had to scream. Right now.
Footsteps sounded on the parquet floor. The visitor went straight into the kitchen—the very same one where Anya had eaten dinner the night before. Now that he was there, the voice came through more clearly:
“Whew, it’s warm in here… Thanks again, you’re saving me. This old girl’s always giving me trouble. Even at the office, in marketing, the guys keep telling me, ‘Artem, just scrap it already and buy a normal car’…”
It hit Anya like an electric shock.
Artem. Marketing. The old Mazda.
The pieces snapped into place in an instant, knocking the air out of her lungs. This wasn’t just a passerby. It was her former classmate—her colleague, someone she’d had coffee with hundreds of times.
She jumped up; the stairs pulled at her like a magnet. She could hear water running upstairs. She could hear Artem muttering something about “damn electronics.” He was there. Ten meters away. One door and one flight of stairs away. One of hers. Familiar. Alive.
She had already opened her mouth to scream. Her chest expanded; her lungs were ready to force out a sound that would tear this silence apart. But an image flashed in her mind: Viktor standing behind Artem. Viktor with a knife in his pocket. Viktor who wouldn’t let a witness leave alive.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
She understood: if she screamed, Artem would die. Viktor wouldn’t give him a chance. He would kill him here, in the kitchen, and then come down to her with bloody hands…
Anya dropped to her knees; her legs gave out. She clamped both palms over her mouth to physically silence herself. She folded in on herself, her body shaking with soundless sobs.
“Save me… Artem… please, notice… feel that I’m here…” she rasped into her hands.
Upstairs, she heard Viktor rattling keys.
“Here’s your wrench. Got the water? Let’s go—I’ll walk you out. I need to leave.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you again. It’s… cozy in here. So quiet, great soundproofing. You can’t hear the street at all. Good luck!”
The door thudded shut. Silence…
Viktor came down five minutes later. He wasn’t just scared—he was furious that his “fortress” had been violated. He saw Anya sitting on the couch; her eyes were red.
“Did you hear that?” His voice trembled with restrained rage. “Did you hear that idiot?”
Anya slowly lifted her head. Her voice was hoarse, but she tried to give it the edge of offended dignity.
“I heard some man come to the house. And I heard you let him into the house, Viktor. Into our house.”
He stopped halfway to her.
“I had no choice! He was standing on the threshold—he could’ve started looking in the windows. I had to get rid of him as fast as possible. You…” He narrowed his eyes at her tear-streaked face. “Did you recognize him? Tell me the truth.”
She took a deep breath, and her face went cold.
“How would I know him? It was just a voice. Just a man’s voice—pushy, intrusive—breaking into my silence. You promised me that I’d be safe here, that no one would disturb us. And now I’m sitting here shaking because there was a stranger walking around your kitchen.”
He looked thrown off by her reaction.
“I protected you. He left. He didn’t notice anything.”
She stood up. The jacket slipped off one shoulder, baring one black strap. She stepped right up to him.
“Notice? He brought the smell of the street in here. The smell of gasoline and rain. He reminded me how vulnerable this basement is.”
She placed her hand on his chest, feeling his heart hammer under her palm.
“You got scared, Viktor. I could feel your fear through the ceiling. You were afraid he’d take me away?”
He grabbed her wrist, fingers squeezing until it hurt.
“No one will take you. Never.”
“Then why did you let him in? Why didn’t you bring that wrench out to him?” Her voice stayed even. “You gave him a reason to come inside. You let him see your kitchen.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“If you can’t control even the front door… how can you control my life?”
His ego took the hit; he started explaining himself, just as she’d planned.
“It was a moment of weakness. I didn’t want to draw attention from the neighbors with a long conversation on the doorstep. It won’t happen again.”
She felt him soften under the pressure.
“I wasn’t crying from happiness, Viktor. I was crying from terror. I thought that if he came in here and saw me… you would kill him. And then everything would be over.”
She pressed her forehead to his shoulder.
“Promise me no one will ever cross this threshold again. Promise me we really are alone.”
He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair. His paranoia shifted into fanatical devotion.
“I promise. I swear to you. No more ‘street.’ Only us. I’ll install additional perimeter sensors tomorrow. You’re safe, Anya. Shh… it’s okay.”
Hidden-volume note:
Today a ‘stranger’ came into the house. Viktor asked me if I recognized him. Oh yes. Of course I did. Artem—my classmate and colleague. Of all places, his car broke down right by this cursed house. Some kind of cruel joke.
Hearing his voice was exquisite torture. I wanted to scream myself hoarse—give the tiniest sign, anything, just let him know I was here, downstairs. I swung between cold sweat and burning panic, but I held it in. I did the impossible. I didn’t scream. My body demanded rescue, my lungs burned with the urge to make a sound, but my mind chose life. Artem’s life. I understood perfectly: if I made a sound, Viktor simply wouldn’t let him leave alive. He would kill him right there in the kitchen so there would be no witness. So I choked on my tears—and stayed silent.
And then I turned it into leverage over Viktor.
Now he feels guilty for letting a stranger in. I flipped it: now he isn’t my jailer—I’m the one whose peace he dared to disturb. He believes I’m as afraid of the outside world as he is. That’s my biggest victory. Now he’ll protect me from rescuers, thinking he’s doing me a favor.
And still… why did he let him inside?
I think he’s afraid. Not only that I’ll escape. He’s terrified of looking suspicious. In his bunker he’s a god, but when it comes to social interaction he’s a cowardly conformist. He couldn’t say ‘no’ to an ordinary guy because he was afraid a refusal would draw attention. His ‘impregnable fortress’ fell to a simple request from a stranded driver…