El Apartamento de la Calle Tod
La muerte de aquella mujer le había sido de total indiferencia, ya que realmente no la conocía. Sin embargo, ella debía conocerlo a él para dejarle un piso en aquella calle. Para Rodrigo fue como ganarse la lotería, ya no tendría que vivir con sus padres, o alquilar una habitación miserable. Ahora tenía su propio hogar. La familia de Rodrigo no estaba muy convencida de que el irse a aquel apartamento fuese una gran idea, pero nadie le diría que era lo que podía o no hacer. Ya era un adulto y sus decisiones eran las que importaban.
Se mudó con prisas, llevando con él todos sus libros y sus posters de las películas de terror que habían marcado su vida. El trabajo como periodista solo era el comienzo para luego dar el gran paso, su sueño más grande, convertirse en el próximo gran escritor de terror. No quería compararse con Stephen King, pero tampoco se consideraba menos que este. Rodrigo no poseía grandes cosas, la mayoría de ella en libros y cuadernos donde escribía sus historias de terror. Así que tener un apartamento equipado era un gran beneficio para él.
Durante sus primeras noches, todo había sido paz y tranquilidad. Hallaba regocijo al encontrarse en una posición ganadora. No todos los días heredaba un apartamento. Dentro del mismo se encontró con cosas valiosas, como un mueble masajeador, una TV de 55 pulgadas, una MacBook casi nueva, un estéreo moderno, utensilios casi nuevos, electrodomésticos de alta gama y un estante de libros con algunos espacios vacíos, y otros con libros muy valiosos; muchos de ellos primeras ediciones de Leo Tolstoy, Charles Dickens, las hermanas Brontë, David Thoreau, Las Mil y una Noches, entre muchos otros títulos que lo dejaron boquiabierto. Su tía abuela tenía una fortuna en ese pequeño apartamento y ahora él era el dueño de todo.
En la habitación se encontró con una cama doble, con grandes postes y un colchón tan suave que lo hacía sentir como si estuviera acostado sobre las nubes. Almohadones de plumas totalmente esponjosos y sábanas de seda blanca se deslizaban sobre su piel morena. Sí, Rodrigo pensaba que se había ganado la lotería.
Con el paso de los días, se sintió como en casa. Iba al trabajo con una amplia sonrisa, y a todos les contaba de su magnífica suerte. Era algo digno de compartir, aunque solo estuviese jactándose de tener algo que no hubiese podido obtener ni con cincuenta años de trabajo. Llegaba de la oficina con la alegría de quién ha escrito la mejor historia de su vida.
Sin embargo, esa historia estaba a punto de cambiar. La cama de pronto se volvió tan dura como si fuese concreto; su espalda empezaba a quejarse y el mueble masajeador ya no quería funcionar. Todos los días siguientes, era como si le hubieran dado la paliza del año. Ya no tenía ideas para escribir, y así mismo la MacBook se apagó para no volver a encenderse jamás. Era obvio que Rodrigo no tenía ni un peso para mandar a arreglar esas cosas, y lo único que le quedaba era volver al modo antiguo: hoja de papel y lápiz.
Los libros que eran el gran tesoro, sufrieron una catástrofe. Lepismas invadieron toda la estantería de los libros, comiéndose cada uno de ellos hasta dejarlos ilegibles. Rodrigo se empezó a preocupar tanto que estaba perdiendo la cabeza. No entendía lo que sucedía. Solo sabía que aquel apartamento estaba cayéndose a pedazos en un santiamén y que debido a su propia arrogancia, no le era posible volver con sus padres. Además, había gastado todo el dinero que había ganado en nimiedades.
Era preocupante lo que estaba pasándole, pero no podía rendirse. Con cada noche que pasaba, su cuerpo dolía más, sentía que la espalda se le quebraba en dos y que sus costillas se fracturaban una a una. Día a día, sentía menos energías; ya no tenía hambre, solo desasosiego por ver en las penumbras en las que se encontraba viviendo. El trabajo iba de mal a peor, sus historias ya no eran suficientes para el periódico, y la paga se reducía aún más.
Una de esas noches, fatigado ante la desesperanza que había crecido en él, se desplomó en aquella cama de concreto y cerró los ojos. Sintió de la nada un entumecimiento en la cara, y al abrir los párpados se encontró a una mujer vieja, con la cara llena de ampollas purulentas y dientes podridos. Quiso gritar pero se encontró inmóvil y si voz alguna. Sus ojos amenazaban con salirse de sus cuencas y lágrimas de miedo corrían por los lados de su rostro.
Una risa apestosa salió de aquella vieja que se posaba sobre él y con sus uñas extremadamente largas, arañó su mejilla izquierda.
Pensaste que lo tendrías todo. La avaricia que demostraste tener, solamente hizo que este lugar se pudriera más rapido. Ya no tienes que sorprender a más nadie, sobrino. Seguramente te convertirás en la historia más triste o tal vez tenebrosa de está horrible ciudad.
Y con esas palabras que desprendían odio y recelo, asco y molestia, aquella mujer inhaló lo más profundo, sacando toda el alma de Rodrigo a través de las ventanas de su cuerpo. De sus ojos que poco a poco quedaron vacíos, y opacos como los de un ciego.
No pasaría muchos días, cuando alguien notara la pestilencia y llamase a la policía al ver qué nadie contestaba a la puerta del apartamento donde yacía sin vida el cuerpo de Rodrigo. Era claro que se volvería una historia importante en el periódico y más allá de eso, una leyenda urbana.
Nadie en su vida volvería a pisar el apartamento en la calle Tod.
The Tod Street Apartment
Waking up had never been a problem for Rodrigo. His mornings used to be full of energy, until he moved into the new apartment on Tod Street. He had received it as a small inheritance from a great-aunt he rarely heard of. His days as a journalist were just beginning, and the salary was not as promising as he had hoped, so the apartment had fit him like a glove.
The death of that woman had been of total indifference to him, since he didn't really know her. However, she must have known him to leave him an apartment on that street. For Rodrigo it was like winning the lottery, he no longer had to live with his parents, or rent a miserable room. Now he had his own home. Rodrigo's family was not convinced that moving into that apartment was a great idea, but no one would tell him what he could or could not do. He was an adult now and his decisions were the ones that mattered.
He moved out in a hurry, taking with him all his books and his posters of the horror movies that had marked his life. The job as a journalist was just the beginning for him to take the big step, his biggest dream, to become the next great horror writer. He didn't want to compare himself to Stephen King, but he didn't consider himself less than him either. Rodrigo didn't own much stuff, most of it in books and notebooks where he wrote his horror stories. So having a furnished apartment was a great benefit to him.
During his first few nights, all had been peace and quiet. He found joy in being in a winning position. It wasn't every day that he inherited an apartment. Inside he found valuable things, such as a massaging armchair, a 55-inch TV, a nearly new MacBook, a modern stereo, nearly new utensils, high-end appliances and a bookcase with some empty spaces, and others with very valuable books; many of them first editions of Leo Tolstoy, Charles Dickens, the Brontë sisters, David Thoreau, The Thousand and One Nights, among many other jaw-dropping titles. His great-aunt had a fortune in that small apartment and now he owned it all.
In the bedroom he found a double bed, with large posts and a mattress so soft it made him feel as if he were lying on clouds. Totally fluffy feather pillows and white silk sheets slid over his brown skin. Yes, Rodrigo thought he had won the lottery.
As the days passed, he felt at home. He would go to work with a broad smile, and tell everyone about his magnificent luck. It was something worth sharing, even if he was just bragging about having something he could not have obtained even with fifty years of work. He came home from the office with the joy of someone who had written the best story of his life.
However, that story was about to change. The bed suddenly became as hard as concrete; his back began to complain and the massager no longer wanted to work. Every day that followed, it was as if he had been given the beating of the year. He no longer had any ideas for writing, and just like that the MacBook shut down, never to be turned on again. It was obvious that Rodrigo didn't have any money to send to fix those things, and the only thing left was to go back to the old way: paper and pencil.
The books, which were the great treasure, suffered a catastrophe. Silverfish invaded the entire shelf of books, eating each one of them until they became unreadable. Rodrigo began to worry so much that he was losing his mind. He didn't understand what was happening. He only knew that that apartment was falling apart in no time and that due to his own arrogance, it was not possible for him to go back to his parents. Besides, he had spent all the money he had earned on trifles.
It was worrying what was happening to him, but he could not give up. With each passing night, his body ached more and more, he felt his back cracking in two and his ribs fracturing one by one. Day by day, he felt less energy; he was no longer hungry, only anxious to see the gloom in which he found himself living. The work was going from bad to worse, his stories were no longer enough for the paper, and the pay was shrinking even more.
One of those nights, fatigued by the hopelessness that had grown in him, he collapsed on that concrete bed and closed his eyes. Out of nowhere he felt a numbness in his face, and when he opened his eyelids he found an old woman, with a face full of purulent blisters and rotten teeth. He wanted to scream but found himself motionless and voiceless. His eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets and tears of fear ran down the sides of his face.
A stinky laugh came from the old woman who stood over him and with her extremely long fingernails, scratched his left cheek.
You thought you would have it all. The greed you showed had only made this place rot faster. You don't have to surprise anyone anymore, nephew. You will surely become the saddest or perhaps darkest story of this horrible city.
And with those words that gave off hatred and suspicion, disgust and annoyance, that woman inhaled the deepest, taking out all of Rodrigo's soul through the windows of his body. From his eyes that little by little became empty and opaque like those of a blind man.
It would not be many days before someone noticed the stench and called the police when they saw that no one answered the door of the apartment where Rodrigo's body lay lifeless. It was clear that it would become a major newspaper story and beyond that, an urban legend.
No one in his life would ever set foot in the apartment on Tod Street again.