In a small, close-knit neighborhood where everyone greeted each other by name, there was one elderly man who remained a mystery—Viktor.
He rarely interacted with anyone, barely stepped outside, and no one truly knew how he spent his days or what his income was.
But one thing was certain—strange noises always echoed from his apartment. Sometimes it was a low, guttural sound, like claws dragging against the walls. Other times, it was a sharp, eerie screech, something close to a scream, but unmistakably inhuman. The nights were the worst—constant whining, yelping, and scratching filled the air without fail. At moments, it seemed as if someone inside was suffering a total breakdown.
Initially, the community tolerated it. But as the sounds became louder and more disturbing, people started knocking on Viktor’s door, politely requesting he reduce the noise. Someone even slid a handwritten note beneath the door:
“Please fix whatever’s going on. None of us can sleep.”
But no reply ever came. When Viktor did answer, he simply nodded, mumbled words no one could understand, and quickly shut the door again.
Concern soon turned to anxiety. Some neighbors began whispering that Viktor was mentally unstable. Others feared he might be hiding people inside. A few believed something illegal could be taking place behind the locked door. But no one had any evidence—just unsettling guesses.
Then everything took a turn.
For almost seven days, no one had seen Viktor. As usual, his windows were tightly shut, and his door remained closed. But the sounds hadn’t gone away. In fact, they were even more intense. Late at night, people heard howling, gnashing teeth, and desperate scratching on the floor. It sounded like something—or someone—was frantically trying to break free.
By the seventh day, the neighbors couldn’t bear it anymore. Two men went up to his floor and banged loudly on the door. When no one answered, they called the authorities. The police arrived shortly after, broke the lock, and entered the apartment.
What they saw chilled them to the core.
A foul, suffocating odor clung to the apartment. Inside, Viktor was found lifeless, lying on the bed. The coroner later confirmed he had been dead for nearly a week. But that wasn’t the most horrifying part.
Roaming the rooms were nearly twenty dogs—malnourished, weak, some barely conscious. They paced through the small space, some curled up beside Viktor’s lifeless body, unwilling to leave him. The floors were scratched to bits, covered in excrement, shredded fabric, and signs of violent fights among the animals.
It all made sense—Viktor had been rescuing strays, giving them shelter, secretly feeding and sleeping beside them.
They were the only family he had left. He never told a soul out of fear the dogs would be taken from him.
For an entire week, the animals had been locked inside with no food or water, slowly deteriorating in desperation.
The story would haunt the neighborhood for years. Even when they spoke of it softly, voices shook. The apartment has remained empty ever since—the walls seemingly still echoing the cries that once filled the silence, unwilling to let go of the sorrowful secret they kept hidden.
