An old woman felt sorry for a young man who had nowhere to sleep: one night, the woman woke up to the sound of him slowly entering her room, approaching her bed, and doing this… 

The man was simply desperate, with no one to turn to for support. His relatives had turned their backs, and he had no friends left.

Then a distant relative, a kind but naive man, thought that since the old woman he knew lived in a large apartment all alone, why not let a lodger in? She wouldn’t feel so lonely, and he would be safe sleeping under her roof.

The young man, about twenty-five, came to the old woman with a small backpack that barely fit a couple of shirts, a notebook, and an old photograph of his parents.

He looked quiet, modest, and even shy. When the grandmother saw him, something in her heart trembled—she pitied him, as if he were her own.

She immediately led the boy into the house, fussily asking if he’d eaten that day, if he’d like some potatoes and onions, and promised oatmeal in the morning. She even let him wear some of her son’s old clothes, as he’d been away for a while and rarely called.

That evening, the old woman made his bed for him in her son’s room, straightened his pillow, crossed him, and quietly wished him goodnight. She went off to her bedroom, smiling—for the first time in a long time, someone had visited and spoken to her.

She felt as if God had sent her this boy to brighten her loneliness, at least a little.

The grandmother lay in the darkness for a long time, listening to the creaking of floorboards somewhere in the next room; she was plagued by insomnia. And when she finally began to drift off, she suddenly heard a soft rustling sound from the next room.

The grandmother opened her eyes and, through the gloom, saw her bedroom door slowly open. A boy stood in the doorway. He was holding something in his hands, and in the dim light of the nightlight, his face seemed strange, hard, without a hint of the softness Grandma had seen during the day.

He crept toward her quietly, stepping carefully, as if afraid to wake her. But Grandma wasn’t asleep—she watched him, holding her breath, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. The boy stopped at the head of the bed and stood there for a long moment, as if struggling with himself: should he do what he was planning or not? Grandma began to pray silently.

“Oh, God, what was he planning? What’s in his hands? Why did I let a stranger in, and what if he…”

Through her half-open eyelids, Grandma watched in horror as the boy suddenly did this…  Continued in the first comment 

The boy slowly raised his hands, holding the pillow.

“It’s best for both of us,” he whispered hoarsely, pressing the pillow to the old woman’s face.

The grandmother jerked, let out a muffled, desperate cry, and began to thrash about, pushing him away with her hands. The pillow fell to the floor, and the boy recoiled, afraid she wouldn’t die quickly. The old woman screamed at the top of her lungs:

“Help! People! They’re killing someone!”

The neighbors arrived within seconds—the door wasn’t locked, after all. One ran into the bedroom, the other ran to call the police.

The boy stood against the wall, confused and pale, as if he didn’t understand what had happened. They restrained him and led him out into the yard.

Later, when the police arrived, it became clear the boy wasn’t who he claimed to be.

His parents had died many years ago under mysterious circumstances—he was the only witness, and the investigation was never able to prove what had happened. From then on, he lived under different names until he came up with a new plan: to move in with a trusting old woman, and then make it look like an accident in order to take over her apartment.