The Gutter’s Rhythm

In the autumn of 2014, I was staying at my Uncle Viktor’s boarding house in the outskirts of Riga, Latvia. The house was an old, creaking structure that had been partitioned into small rooms for tenants. I had just finished a late shift at the docks and returned to the house around midnight. To my dismay, Uncle Viktor was in the common room with his friend Olga, a woman I found insufferable. Whenever she came over, they would talk until the early hours, her high-pitched laughter echoing through the thin walls. That night was no exception, and I retreated to my room, hoping to sleep despite the noise.

At about three in the morning, the conversation finally died down. I heard the creak of the stairs as Viktor and Olga said their goodnights. Silence settled over the house, but as I lay in bed, a new sound emerged: a rhythmic tapping, as if someone was bouncing a basketball against the floorboards in the corridor outside. At first, I thought it was the old man in the room next door, who sometimes dribbled a ball for exercise. But the sound was uniform, almost mechanical, and it seemed to be coming from directly outside my door.

I tried to rationalize it, thinking maybe a window had been left open and the wind was playing tricks, but the sound persisted, steady and unchanging. My heart began to race. I reached for my phone to call my cousin, who I knew was still awake, but when I looked at the screen, the battery was dead. The tapping continued, and then I noticed a faint wet sound accompanying each bounce, like the ball was landing in a puddle.

Summoning my courage, I crept to the door and pressed my eye to the keyhole. The corridor was dimly lit by a single bulb, and I could see the source of the noise: a child’s red rubber ball, bouncing on its own, leaving a trail of dark liquid with each impact. The liquid spread in a grotesque stain across the old floorboards. The ball moved slowly, bouncing from one end of the corridor to the other, as if an invisible hand was tossing it.

I stepped back, my hand covering my mouth to stifle a scream. The ball’s rhythm began to quicken, and I heard a low gurgling sound, almost like a laugh. Then I noticed the walls were seeping with the same dark liquid, and the air filled with a metallic smell. I kicked the door open, but the corridor was empty except for the ball, which now lay still in a dark puddle.

Suddenly, I heard a knock on my door. I turned, but no one was there. The knock came again, this time from inside my room. I spun around to see the ball sitting on my pillow, dripping. Its surface was covered in a thick, red film. A voice, thin and reedy, emanated from the ball: ‘You’re next.’

I fled the room, racing down the stairs, but the house had changed. The walls were lined with doors that hadn’t been there before, and each one had a small red ball in front of it. I ran outside into the cold night, collapsing onto the street. When I looked back, the house was dark, and a single window on the third floor was lit. In that window, I saw a silhouette of a child, holding a ball, bouncing it slowly.

I never returned to that house. I moved to another part of the city, but every night at three, I hear that rhythmic bounce in my mind. And lately, I’ve noticed a red stain spreading on my carpet, and my phone always seems to be dead at the wrong times. The hollow sound of the ball is my constant companion, and I know that the child from the corridor is still waiting for me to play.