The Legend of the ‘Old Woman from Apartment 23’
Among all the tenants in the building, the elderly woman residing in apartment 23 had become a notorious figure—though hardly in a flattering manner. Rather, she belonged to the kind of unsettling neighborhood tales that circulated in whispers on stairwells, sparked sighs near mailboxes, and fueled heated discussions over cups of tea between neighbors. Her actual name was largely unknown, and her patronymic even less so. Indeed, most had no desire to learn those details. To everyone, she was simply ‘that old lady from 23,’ a collective irritation, an endless source of headaches, and the very embodiment of disorder and unrest.
The neighbors’ shared concerns boiled down to two pressing questions: “When will this chaos finally end?” and “How much longer can we endure this?” These inquiries echoed so frequently that they almost became a mantra. Anyone daring to approach apartment 23’s door already anticipated the routine: a creaky entrance, prolonged silence, followed by a faint, hoarse voice murmuring:
— Huh? What?
Peeking from the threshold was a petite, stooped woman. Her gray hair clumped in unruly tufts, and thick-lensed glasses seemed to press heavily on her nose. A frayed strip of gray adhesive tape, wrapped around the frames, gave her an appearance both comical and pitiable. Her feet were clad in battered shoes resembling castaways, and beside her trotted a small dog whose fierce barking suggested it was guarding an empire rather than a neglected studio apartment.
Sometimes the woman would open the door; other times, she pretended no one was there. On occasion, she would regard a disgruntled neighbor with a slight tilt of her head, as if striving to grasp their complaints. If someone raised their voice—for instance, to object to the relentless blare of the television echoing from early morning until midnight—she would nod and say something like:
— Just a moment, just a moment…
Indeed, quiet followed for a while. Yet this was a temporary respite. Within a day or two, the racket resumed: the television’s wails, the repulsive red cockroaches emerging from crevices, and a musty stench creeping through the halls as if death itself were silently passing apartment by apartment.
The residents tried every method to fight back: spraying insecticides, laying traps, purchasing gels. Yet the pests proved craftier, retreating inside the old lady’s apartment during outbreaks, only to resurface as though returning home. As for the foul odor, it was impossible to eradicate. It lingered everywhere—in the elevator, on the stairs, permeating the entire entrance with the scent of decay and abandonment.
It was unclear when Nina Fyodorovna first moved into the building—perhaps thirty years ago, maybe longer. She lived quietly and unnoticed for a long time until she unintentionally became the neighborhood’s ongoing source of tension. Even the local police officer intervened, issuing warnings and threatening fines. The woman merely listened, nodded with a childlike smile, yet nothing ever changed.
Her true name was Nina Fyodorovna. She was nearly eighty-five years old. Last year, following a severe bout of flu, she lost most of her hearing. She applied for a hearing aid but faced a slow, delayed process or perhaps was simply forgotten. Without funds for a private device, and living on a meager pension—which had to cover utilities, medications, food for herself and her tiny dog, Juzha—the struggles persisted.
Key Insight: Juzha was the old woman’s sole companion, a lifeline protecting her from complete solitude. Fifteen years earlier, after her husband’s death, Nina found herself utterly alone. They had shared a lifelong, harmonious marriage with no children or relatives, and close friends had passed away one by one. On a rainy autumn day, returning from the store, she spotted a trembling puppy near the trash bins. Despite her reluctance—“I can’t take you, I’ll be gone soon myself”—the puppy followed her home, marking the start of a new chapter filled with friendship and meaning.
Over nearly six years, the apartment deteriorated into a chaotic den—filth, odors, and dust accumulated unchecked. Nina seemed either oblivious or unwilling to acknowledge the mess. Thick walls shielded her from neighbors, and she cared little about their opinions.
Meanwhile, life in the building shifted. A neighbor in apartment 27, one floor above, smiled with relief upon securing a mortgage approval. Finally, the prospect of escaping the noise, smell, and insects was near. They planned to rent out their place to young tenants and use the income for loan payments, expecting the old woman wouldn’t last long, which would allow them to raise the apartment’s rent.
Then, a new arrival moved in: Masha, recently divorced and with a child, lacking her own residence. She signed the lease happily, oblivious to any unpleasant signs. However, as night fell and her son slept, she switched on the kitchen light and immediately noticed two disgusting creatures scurrying across the countertop.
“Yuck, disgusting!”
Masha recoiled from the kitchen counter, shuddering at the sight of the cockroaches that ignored her disgust as they briskly crawled over the worn wood. A flood of childhood memories emerged: an old family home, long slated for demolition, where cockroaches felt like unwelcome but familiar members of the household. After moving to a new two-room apartment, the pests had seemingly vanished. Though her parents continued living there, after her divorce they invited her back, but Masha resisted. Work, her son Artem’s kindergarten, and better opportunities in this city kept her rooted.
“Now it’s clear why the rent was so cheap,” she chuckled, surveying the once-cozy kitchen, now resembling a battleground against an ancient enemy. “Tomorrow I’ll do a thorough cleaning and pest treatment—once I’ve slept well. It’s a day off, so I can handle it all.”
However, the morning deviated from her plans. Around six a.m., Masha awoke to a loud crash and a male voice booming from a television downstairs. Initially thinking the noise came from outside, she realized it originated inside the building, specifically an apartment below.
“What madness is this?!”
she hissed, pulling the blanket over her head, sleep irretrievably lost.
After breakfast, Masha and Artem set out to buy essentials: brushes, cleaners, insect sprays. At the playground, where Artem enjoyed playing with other children, she met a neighbor from the third floor. This woman appeared somewhat weary and anxious.
“We just moved into the fourth floor yesterday,” Masha shared, watching her son happily mingle. “The apartment’s bright and nice, but I found a cockroach in the kitchen yesterday. I thought they were gone for good. Anyway, I’ll clean thoroughly today with all the new safe products. We’ll get this place in order!”
The neighbor shook her head sympathetically. She recounted the legend of the ‘old lady from 23,’ describing persistent noise, unbearable smells, cockroach infestations, and the neighbors’ frustration mixed with helplessness and harsh words. Masha listened, moved by pity for the elderly woman. Why did no one offer help? Surely, she must be alone?
- Masha wondered if relatives existed but avoided responsibility.
- Perhaps they awaited her passing to claim the apartment.
The woman nodded, giving no denial.
Returning from shopping, Masha noticed a small, stooped woman waiting by the entrance, accompanied by a patient white dog. It was unmistakably the old lady. Struggling to insert a key into the intercom lock with trembling hands, she caught Artem’s attention, who called out joyfully:
“Dog!”
The little dog wagged its tail instead of barking as Artem reached out to pet it.
Gently holding the woman’s arm, Masha supported her into the elevator. They rode silently, and on the third floor, Nina Fyodorovna fumbled with the keys but eventually opened the door. Inside, the stale odor was immediately noticeable. Disorder and neglect filled the space, yet the old woman’s grateful, trusting gaze deeply affected Masha.
Key Insight: Thoughts raced through Masha’s mind as she left: “How lonely she must be. A life fully lived, now ending alone amid filth and noise, burdened by unkind neighbors’ words.” Determined, she resolved to help—simply because she could.
That evening, once Artem was asleep, Masha contacted Lev, an old schoolmate now engaged in volunteering. He promised to assist with securing a hearing aid for Nina Fyodorovna.
Thus began a new chapter for all three: Masha, Artem, and Juzha. They visited regularly, bought groceries, went out for walks, and occasionally sat quietly watching television. The old lady treasured every visit, especially enjoying that Juzha gained a new playmate—a boy to run with, toss a ball, and love.
Neighbors started noticing changes. Cockroaches disappeared, the overpowering odor faded, and the incessant TV noise dwindled. Yet gossip soon resurfaced:
“No wonder she was inquiring about relatives—clearly, she planned to take over the apartment,” remarked a neighbor from the third floor.
Her husband scoffed dismissively:
“Clever plan. Why didn’t we think of that ourselves?”
“Would you care for the old lady?” the woman retorted sarcastically.
“Well, you weren’t exactly rushing either,” he responded.
They continued their usual bickering, but Masha remained unaffected. Her priority was simply to help Nina Fyodorovna feel just a little better. What unfolded between these three people and one dog was more than assistance—it was a profound display of humanity.
Nearly a year later, one visit brought somber news. The door to apartment 23 would not open, while Juzha whimpered inside. Masha’s heart tightened. She called emergency services and then Lev, who arrived swiftly ahead of the paramedics. When medical staff insisted police involvement was necessary, Lev confidently stated:
“Give me five minutes.”
Three minutes later, he had gained entry via the balcony. Juzha rushed out, joyfully wagging its tail at Artem. Lev glanced briefly at Masha:
“Go home. Take a walk. I’ll handle everything.”
Masha understood—Nina Fyodorovna had passed quietly, without pain or fuss, likely as she wished.
At home, Artem played with Juzha as if nothing had changed, then suddenly asked:
“Why don’t we take Juzha back to Grandma Nina?”
Masha sat down beside him, stroking his head:
“Because now Juzha will live with us. And Grandma Nina won’t feel lonely anymore. She’s gone to a better place.”
Late that evening, Lev returned, promising to arrange the funeral. Having gained Nina Fyodorovna’s trust long ago, he kept his word.
Meanwhile, neighbors kept watch over the apartment, waiting to see who would inherit the cherished space. Eventually, the heir was revealed: Masha. Unbeknownst to many, the old lady had arranged everything in advance, entrusting the apartment to her compassionate neighbor.
That night, as Masha tidied up, muffled arguments drifted through the walls. Neighbors blamed each other for failing to care for the old lady when it might have mattered. Masha smiled—not from bitterness, but with a bittersweet gratitude for a life that taught her to see people not as enemies or nuisances, but as humans in need of kindness.
- Despite inheriting the apartment, Masha planned to sell it.
- Her true happiness lay with Lev, Artem, and Juzha—her newfound family.
In the end, the story of the ‘old lady from apartment 23’ is more than a tale of neglect and nuisance; it is a poignant reminder of compassion’s power to transform loneliness into connection and to breathe life back into forgotten souls.