I know most people stop living with their parents right after high school, but that wasn't me. I didn't move out until I turned 20. I was just so terrified of living on my own. Paying bills, buying groceries, and furniture? It all seemed so overwhelming— then I found the Crossgrove apartment complex. Yes, it was old, a bit run down and dusty, but it took one of my stressors off my plate: the place came fully furnished. I only saw pictures of the place online, but something called me to it. I felt this energy that made me feel like I was meant to live there. So, after a few months of packing and getting my affairs in order, I walked into my new apartment for the first time.

 

The small apartment smelled old; damp and musty and dust kept filling my nose. It took a bit of elbow grease, but once I swept the floors, cleaned the bathroom, and emptied the fridge, I found that the room held a certain charm to it. The last thing I had to do was remove the sheets from all the furniture. I pulled the gray covers from the dining room table and chairs, the old tv and its stand in the corner of the living room, the washer and the dryer, and the couch along the back wall. It was then that I noticed that I never uncovered a bed. Until I bought one I would have to sleep on the couch. That couch. It was the strangest shade of red I had ever seen, like a crimson void. Looking at it almost sucked all the air out of my lungs. It made my heart beat faster, but I brushed it off. I figured it must have been the nerves of moving into my own place. A couch can't make you nervous. Can it?

 

After a few hours of unloading boxes and dishes, my stomach started to growl and gurgle. I was desperately in need of a well deserved dinner break. I grabbed my phone and wallet from the dining room table and swiftly walked out the door, locking it from the other side. 

 

I tried to relax while I ate my gas station store sandwich in the park near my complex, but something still felt off. I thought perhaps it was because I didn't have a bed yet, so my living space still felt incomplete. It irked me for the rest of the evening as I walked to and from the grocery store. I trudged and huffed my way up the stairs to the third floor and jammed my key into the lock of room 302. I was exhausted mentally and physically. I just wanted to lie down and close my eyes. 

 

As I turned the key, the door swung open with an eerie groan. A blast of cool air whipped my face and nipped my cheeks. I didn't recall leaving the air conditioner on. I stumbled into the dark, kicking the door closed behind me. I sighed as I lowered the grocery bags on the dinner table and threw my keys down next to them. I put my hand on the wall behind me, groping its surface for any sign of a light switch. When my fingers finally found their way to the switch, I blinded myself mistakenly, letting my hands use the automatic flipping movement that had been embedded within me. I rubbed my eyes and then I froze. I thought I was still blinded by the light, or that my eyes must have still been shut, but they weren't. I rushed to the door and threw it open to check the number engraved on the wall next to the door. 302. If this was my apartment, then why was there suddenly a bed where my couch used to be? 

 

I shut and locked the door, crossing the room once again, but this time passing the dining table and walking towards the cryptic bed. It wasn't fancy, mind you. It wasn't a large queen sized bed with velvety sheets and beautiful throw pillows. No, it looked like a pullout bed. Now that sounds like a very normal thing to have in a small apartment, I'm sure, but it's not normal to have it set up for you when you leave your apartment door locked. 

 

My first thought was that my landlord must have done it for me while I was out. Maybe he forgot to tell me that the couch could convert into a futon and guessed that I didn't check— so he let himself in and did it for me. But when I opened my email to ask him, his last message said that he would be out of town for the week. To me, this was more unsettling than finding the place robbed or ransacked, because then I could at least deduce the reasoning for a break in (likely money). But this? This made no sense to me. 

 

I gently touched the sheets. They felt cheap and thin, but the more unusual fact was their color. They were the same crimson shade that the couch was. I crouched down and peered underneath. I saw springs and coils and foldable legs. I stood up and grabbed the bottom of the bed with both hands. With a bit of work, I lifted it up, and it prepared to fold in to itself and slip back in to the couch. I put it back down before it did, though, then sat on the edge, pondering. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. The white numbers told me it was one in the morning and I had seven hours before I had to get up for work. I didn't want to sleep in the bed, something felt off about it, but it was that or the floor. I stripped and threw my clothes into a pile next to the mysterious bed. I crawled underneath the sheets and was instantly overcome with an immense feeling of drowsiness— 

And I fell asleep. 

 The night felt long and I certainly didn't feel well rested when the sun came in through the window. I ran a hand through my hair that was damp with sweat. I started to recall the nightmares I had. Nightmares about suffocating in a pool; but not a pool of water. It was a pool of feathers and cotton and sheets. I shivered and threw the covers back, if I didn't get up soon I was going to be late for work. With sleepy eyes I brushed my teeth in the kitchen sink, pushed my hair into a messy ponytail, and threw on my uniform. I slid my phone into my pocket and my purse over my shoulder. Before I grabbed my keys, I walked back towards the bed. I threw the sheets on the ground and squatted at the bottom, just like last night. I breathed in and lifted the bed.  It came up with ease, just as it had before, but as I started to try and fold it up, I heard what I thought was the snap of a tree branch outside. Then came the blinding pain— and the blood. The bed fell back to the ground and I fell too. My fingers went numb and my stomach was churning as hot bile crept up my throat. I couldn't hold it back. Sitting on the floor, covered in my own vomit and blood, my eyes found the mangled mess that had become of my arms. My wrists were the first thing I noticed. The way they hung unnaturally limp and disfigured. My skin, a yellowish blue with tinges of green. Below my palms I could see a large knot on both wrists. When I tried to move them, I could hear my own bones scraping against each other in my ears and the sound of them splintering apart. Then my vision traveled to the source of the blood. A truly grotesque scene. I could see fleshy pink strands of  muscles and an off-white protrusion on both arms. On my right, it was coming from the back of my arm, right below my elbow. On my left, the bone had gone straight up, coming through where a nurse would draw blood from. The pain was agonizing and almost indescribable. I finally flopped on my side, my head hitting the wooden floor with a wet thud. The wood was no longer visible under all the viscous blood and bile that had saturated into it. As my vision started to fade away, I swear I saw it move. The bed. It slowly converted itself back into a couch silently— and that was the last thing I ever saw.