The Strange Case of the Jackson Building

Chapter 17 - Disease

Chapter Seventeen

Disease

Had Natasha already noticed the white mess of odd, primitive looking symbols that were now a part of their door's decor? Petra was actually curious to know what she thought about it. But it seemed like she would remain in ignorance concerning her flat-mate's opinion, for she had been difficult to see and downright impossible to talk to lately.

The door was open and Petra was about to go inside when a piercing, terrified scream echoed throughout the whole building.

Automatically, her senses went on overdrive. The scream sounded so frightened, so horrified, it sent chills down her spine, her survival instincts on red alert.

Taking deep, soothing breaths, Petra focused on relaxing and thinking. It couldn't be the drunken man, for it had been a female voice. It couldn't be the old lady because she had just seen her outside. Also, the screaming voice didn't suit her, it sounded too young.

For once, she tried to ignore. Let someone else deal with it. The woman screamed again and again, she sounded so scared, so desperate, fearing for her life even.

There was no way she could ignore that.

Petra threw her bag inside her apartment, closed the door and went down the stairs as fast as she could, frantically searching for the origin of the screams.

She stopped on the third floor, as the shouting seemed to be coming from there. As she studied the doors, trying to choose the right one, the screams - that now sounded like someone was in excruciating pain - came to an abrupt stop. Petra was able to figure out from which apartment they'd come from anyway.

Apartment A, right at the end of the long hall. She suspected that was the one because its door was wide open.

Slowly, still not quite sure if she was doing the wisest thing, Petra walked inside. The screams had been replaced by soft crying and whispers she couldn't quite understand. Step by cautious step, Petra got closer to the sound, realizing it came from behind a closed door that seemed to belong to a pantry or a broom closet.

The rest of the apartment was silent and felt empty and Petra found herself unsure of what to do. She could hear moaning and sobbing coming from behind the door, much of which sounded a lot like desperate pleading.

Her heart broke. She couldn't just leave and pretend it never happened, she felt the need to help, comfort whoever was behind that door, end whatever kind of misery she was going through. To do nothing was agony.

Petra knocked lightly on the door, whispering a gently, "Is everything alright?"

There was no answer and the sobbing, the crying and mumbling completely stopped. She feared she might've scared the woman.

"My name is Petra. I'm one of your neighbors. Hmm... Do you need any help?"

Still no answer. Petra insisted.

"Can I help you? Do you need anything?"

She tried to open the door and found it locked. As soon as her hand let go of the doorknob, Petra felt an amazing shift in atmosphere, almost like she had pressed some type of cursed button that transported her to a different place.

The apartment was drowning in silence, the air felt heavy and cold, like it was a place of reverence and mourning.

She couldn't help but take a few steps back, feeling suddenly like an intruder, unwelcomed and undesired. Shivers travelled down her whole body, and she embraced herself, uncomfortable and exposed, like she was easy prey.

Suddenly, she was hit by a terrifying realization.

She shouldn't be there.

And yet, felt like she was supposed to. Like she had been called.

Deciding she should leave, and as quietly as possible, Petra turned to the exit door but froze in place when she heard the subtle sound of a doorknob rotating. The broom closet's door was being opened from the inside, ever so slowly, like a lingering threat. Then, one by one, four very long, skeletal fingers, in disturbingly different sizes, with long, thick, sharp claws embraced the door.

Petra's mind froze, but her instincts kicked in. She didn't yell, but found the strength to run away as fast as her legs allowed, slamming the apartment's door behind her.

She ran upstairs until she finally reached her home and locked herself inside. Running to her bathroom, Petra kneeled in front of the toilet and threw up.

The horrendous sight of those disgusting fingers made her beyond sick. It was beyond disturbing, beyond unsettling; it looked and felt like pure, twisted evil. She didn't even want to imagine what the rest of the creature looked like.

That "hand"... it looked burned, skinless and it was a sick mixture of black and grey in color. And that thing, that monster, it was inside her building!

That thing existed!

Or so she thought.

With her stomach completely devoid of more content to throw away, Petra rested against the cold tiles that dressed the wall. She felt sick. The cold tiles and floor offered sweet relief, as she felt her skin burn. She wiped some of the cold sweat out of her forehead with her arm.

"It's not real," she faintly whispered. "Can't be."

Her whole body was sore, like she had taken a furious beating, her stomach and muscles ached. And she felt so tired and sleepy, so weak.

What she had just witnessed... she could swear it was real. Would her mind really create such vivid hallucinations? Would her body react to it so aggressively if it wasn't real? The sickness, the fear... it came from the core, from deep within her, it was primal but real.

This was much deeper, way beyond imagination, shadow tricks, over-thinking, dramatization or paranoia. This was real, this was happening.

And yet, it couldn't be. It couldn't be real.

That thing couldn't possibly exist. It was impossible.

But that meant that she was sick. Way worse than she ever thought.

Trembling, Petra got up, using the wall for support. She walked towards the sink and washed her face. The cold water was a blessing.

Petra looked at her reflection. She was incredibly pale, dark and sickly bags rested under her eyes. The eyes themselves had lost their spark, they looked devoid of life, dead.

"I hate you," she heard herself say.

Her long, dark and straight hair was messy and glued to her wet face. It looked ugly and insane. Exactly like she felt.

She grabbed a pair of scissors and a handful of hair and, without a thought, cut it. Chopped off a piece of madness.

With no remorse, she continued, cutting strand of hair after strand of hair, as much as she could, as short as she managed, without logic or planning.

Maybe she really was sick in the head.