I had never been especially aware of my surroundings—never the type to notice the creak of a floorboard or the faint shift of air. But a few nights in my friend’s old apartment changed everything.
The first bump on my arm was tiny, barely worth thinking about. Maybe a mosquito. Maybe just irritation from the sheets. But soon, the bumps weren’t random—they were warnings. By the second night, my skin felt like a map of signals, each tiny rise pointing to something unseen, something my mind hadn’t yet recognized.
The clusters appeared in predictable spots: where my body pressed most against the mattress—shoulders, lower back, tops of legs. Each itch was subtle yet persistent, like an alarm I kept snoozing. I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was the detergent, something I ate, stress—but nothing had changed. The only difference was the space I was in.
Old apartments carry hidden histories, written not in pictures, but in walls, fabrics, and floors. Bed bugs, fleas, dust mites, mold—they all linger silently. Experiencing this firsthand is different from reading about it. My body noticed first, instinctively warning me long before my mind could label the threat.
Continue reading on next page…