The New Apartment Part Two

The New Apartment (Part Two)

The Hangover of Terror

This is a continuation from The New Apartment Part One. If you’re just tuning in now, you’ve missed out on the terrifying man-in-the-window incident, but hey, welcome to the psychological unravelling.

Daylight, being the show-off that it is, tends to burn away the shadows, and with it, fear. John found that by mid-morning, the panic of the previous night had melted under Florence’s soft spring sun.

He spent most of the day trying to reset his nervous system the best way a man can: by shopping. Then he stocked up his fridge, loaded the cupboards with carbs and caffeine, and then made a beeline for the hardware store where he bought candles and torches like some 1950s scout prepping for a mild apocalypse. He wished he had someone to confide in. A friend. Anyone. But in this new city, he had no one. Just himself and a memory he wasn’t ready to believe.

Beer Therapy

By late afternoon, John decided he needed more than carbs and candles. He needed a pint, and maybe a conversation with a human being who wasn’t glowing white-eyed and floating outside his window. So he wandered into a local pub, a warm, crowded place with the distinct smell of beer, hope, and something fried.

He took a seat at the bar, ordered a pint, and scanned the place like a man on a mission.

“Are you new here?” came a voice from behind.

John turned to find a smiling, friendly-looking guy in his late twenties.

“Yes, actually. Just moved here yesterday. I’m John, from London.”

“Adam,” the guy said, extending a hand. “From Manchester originally. Been in Florence three years.”

They chatted easily, and soon John found himself recounting the incident from the night before, the cold, the knocking, the man in the window. He cringed as he said it out loud. It sounded ridiculous, like something you’d hear in a pub story and immediately dismiss. But Adam didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock or roll his eyes. In fact, he looked… interested. Intensely so.

The Cream-Coloured Buildings

When John finished, Adam looked almost relieved.

“That’s insane,” he said, “but I’ve heard similar stories. About the apartments just west of you. The cream-coloured buildings next to the statue.”

John blinked. “That’s where I live.”

Adam froze for a second, clearly not expecting that answer.

“Oh.”

“What kind of stories?”

Adam hesitated. Something had shifted. The casual energy between them took a sharp left turn.

“I don’t have time right now,” he said, checking his phone like he’d just remembered a meeting with the Pope. “But let’s catch up in a couple of days. I’ll introduce you to some locals. A couple of your neighbours might have stories to share.”

John nodded, sensing that was as much as he’d get for now. They clinked pint glasses and shifted the conversation to less haunted topics. Football. Pizza. Anything but the pale-eyed man in the window.

By the end of the beer, Adam had given John his number and offered to introduce him to a group of expats who met regularly. They agreed to meet again later that week. John left the pub with something he hadn’t felt in days: hope.

Alone Again, Naturally

John walked home slowly, absorbing Florence’s golden-hour glow. The air was warm, the streets busy but not chaotic. He climbed the narrow staircase to his apartment with a small smile tugging at his lips. Making a friend felt like winning the emotional lottery.

After dinner, he settled into bed with his Kindle, a glass of red wine, and the battery-powered lamp at his side. He felt equipped, if not confident. One hour of reading later, he switched off the Kindle and tried to sleep.

The lamp stayed on.

The Return of the Cold

A cold shiver woke him. He opened his eyes immediately, brain clicking into panic mode like a soldier on a battlefield. Darkness again.

The battery lamp was off. He checked it, dead. The cold in the room was biting and immediate, unnatural. He reached for the electric lamp, flipping it on with a shaky hand. Blessed light filled the room. He checked the clock. 1:54 a.m.

He listened. Nothing. No tapping, or whispers. No angry white-eyed visitors at the window. Just the sound of his own heart beating far too loudly.

He tried reading, absorbing nothing. Around 4 a.m., exhaustion finally took over, and he slipped into a shallow sleep, undisturbed until morning.

The Fear Persists

The next morning, the fear wasn’t gone. It hadn’t melted. It had just changed shape. Now it lived deeper, like a parasite tucked behind his ribs. He didn’t know what was happening, and worse—he had the sense that someone else did.

Someone like Adam.

Part Three is Now Available Here

Thanks for reading. Check out my other blogs such as Memoir & Real Life (comes with a warning), Bromance and others.

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