At night the woman woke to the sound of the young man slowly entering her room, approaching the bed, and doing this… 😨😱
The young man was in a helpless situation with nowhere to spend the night and no one to turn to. Relatives had turned away; he had no friends left.
A distant, kind—but naïve—relative thought that since the elderly woman lived alone in a large apartment, she might take in a lodger: the old woman would have company, and the young man would have a safe place to sleep.
He was about twenty-five, carrying a small backpack with only a couple of shirts, a notebook, and an old photo of his parents.
He looked quiet, modest, even shy. When the grandmother saw him, something in her heart softened—she felt pity, as if he were family.
She immediately brought him into the house, fussed over him, asked if he’d eaten, offered him potatoes with onions, and promised oatmeal in the morning. She even let him wear some of her grown son’s old clothes, the son who had long since moved away and rarely called.
That evening the old woman made up the bed in her son’s room, fluffed the pillow, crossed herself, and whispered a soft good night. She went to her bedroom smiling—someone was visiting, someone to talk to, and for the first time in a long while the house felt less empty.
She thought God had sent the young man to ease her loneliness.
The grandmother lay awake for a long time in the dark, listening to the floorboards creak in the neighboring room; insomnia tormented her. Just as she was finally drifting off, she heard a light rustle from the next room.
She opened her eyes and, through the dimness, saw the bedroom door slowly opening. The young man stood in the doorway. He held something in his hands, and in the faint glow of the nightlight his face looked strange and hard—there was none of the gentleness she’d seen earlier.
He crept toward her quietly, stepping carefully as if afraid to wake her. But the grandmother wasn’t asleep—she watched him, holding her breath, feeling her heart pound in her chest. The young man stopped at the head of the bed and stood there a long time, as if fighting with himself about whether to follow through with what he’d planned. The grandmother began to pray silently.
“God, what is he going to do? What’s in his hands? Why did I let a stranger into my home, and what if he…”
Through her half-open eyes, the grandmother watched in horror as the young man suddenly did it…. 😱😱
He slowly raised his hands, holding a pillow.
“This will be better for both of us,” he croaked, and pressed the pillow to the old woman’s face.
The grandmother convulsed, gave a muffled, desperate scream, and began to struggle, pushing him away with her hands. The pillow slid to the floor; the young man recoiled, startled that she hadn’t died quickly. The old woman screamed at the top of her lungs:
“Help! People! He’s killing me!”
Neighbors rushed in within seconds—the door hadn’t been locked. One burst into the bedroom, another ran to call the police.
The young man stood against the wall, bewildered and pale, as if not understanding what had happened. They overpowered him and led him out into the yard.
Later, when the police arrived, it became clear the young man was not who he claimed to be.
His parents had died many years earlier under mysterious circumstances—he was the only witness then, and the investigation never proved what had occurred.
Since that time he’d lived under different names until he hatched a plan: move in with a trusting elderly woman, stage an “accident,” and take over her apartment.
