Continuation: The Flat Nobody Enters, Dead Bums and Tracks in the Snow

Sup anon, I'm continuing to describe the breakthrough of the paranormal on the outskirts of the city of Omsk, describing the influence of this conjugation of spheres on the volatility of the shares of the Novokuznetsk Steel Casting Plant No. 274 named after Samosborov.
But seriously, there are a couple of loose ends and untold tales left.

This time I'll also go in ascending order from the strange and the everyday, then a 100-out-of-100 tale with no proof, and up to the most paranormal ones, which I saw personally. In general, my opinion of them is that most of them, except maybe the tracks in the snow, have a perfectly ordinary explanation, it's just that the collective consciousness of a crowd of little shits aged 9-15 twisted it into a mystical direction, in order to scare the girls and the yokels arriving from some Ust-Ishimsk.

I think there'll be another 2-3 posts from me, after which I'll go quiet; in this one I'll tell new lore tales, about new UNKNOWN THINGS, paranormal wrecked flats, new mockery of each other and creepy shitters.

The next tale is more of a strange one, without a resolution and with no fucking clue in general what nature it has. You know how in our outskirt district you can tell the flats where the alkies live? By the window units. If the glass there is single, the window unit is wooden or it's even cracked - the people living there are clearly either those who don't give a shit about their lives, or those who physically and financially can't do a damn thing about it. The houses, it's worth noting, were from the '50s, almost without foundations, built by captured Nazis and basically temporary shacks, so in cold snaps from -30 the frost came straight from the walls, and if it was also blowing in from the windows - freezing to death was no big deal. And there was one flat there - with literally a hole in the glass, and living in that house, right next door, was one dude - and he assured us that from that flat richly dressed guys constantly come out, and not go in, but specifically come out. Well naturally his story met a wave of mockery - like, they come out of your mom, that's how she makes a living, but still he convinced us to take a look. So we're sitting in the stairwell on the steps, waiting for when this battered wooden door will open, but overall nothing fucking happened on the first day of observation. Though we were probably glad not to be running around in the winds but to sit in a draft-free stairwell, we still christened this guy a bullshitter and a paranoid, but he didn't back down - "I swear on my mother, boys, they come out, just not every day," so we decided to continue the observation - mainly because the stairwell was draft-free. And also because of the chance to mock a person. But already on the second day a guy really did come out of there, and a very, very decently dressed one - in a black cashmere coat, trousers, shoes, some woolen scarf. We were more shocked by the fact that dressing like that in -27 was about the same as just taking scissors and cutting off your toes, but he was stomping along so confidently. One guy - the son of a convict and an alkie - suggested we steal something from him, but the collective fear of a beating and the cops was stronger, so we refused. We watched this flat for another week and in total, by our count, around 20 people came out of there, but at the same time nobody actually went in. I have no fucking idea, maybe they came at night, maybe it's some secret flat of FSB guys, or Jehovah's Witnesses, or the CIA looking for aliens in our local Gravity Falls, but there was no resolution, at some point we just stopped giving a shit.

There was also an unverifiable tale, seen by no one, about dead bums who are alive and hunt our little shit warm pink asses. And when we told this tale to someone - we'd always describe that these dead bums prefer exactly the type the listener of the tale belonged to. However, the so-called "snowdrops" really weren't rare - and not necessarily bums, just alkies who fell asleep outside in the cold would inevitably freeze and either lose limbs or get covered in snow, and in spring they'd be found by people like us. And naturally we told everyone that in these places live their unquiet spirits, which will definitely try to grab you, all warm, absorb all your warmth and you'll slowly die of hypothermia. And when we discovered the radiation ghosts - how fucking great that fit into our stories about dead bums. But one autistic guy, who hung out with us mainly because he had an extremely not-bad sister that almost everyone was hitting on, told a cool story about how, walking at 5 in the morning to the hospital, he saw some guy in black clothes walking, or rather hobbling, on the fresh morning snow ahead and to the left of the narrator. He walked and walked, and then this autistic guy noticed that there was no chain of tracks behind him. At first he didn't fucking understand anything, and then, quote, "as he understood" and, again quoting him, "was freaked out" properly, turned around and ran in the other direction. That fucker after him, and this one hid in his stairwell with the intercom and didn't come out for about two hours. Of course we didn't believe him, and among ourselves we cackled that it was just a bum-compote walking and wanting to beat a kid out of old memory, but in front of him, and especially in front of his sister, we pretended that we really believed and admired how awesome the tale was, naturally.

And the continuation of the tale about the tracks in the snow. Me and that chick and the guy who saw them on the roof (for convenience we'll call the chick Alice, like in Wonderland, and the guy Vasya, since it's the first name that came to mind)
So then me, Vasya and Alice started going around, questioning the local little shits and their relatives about the tracks, and found out the following:
About a quarter of the relatively adequate respondents had encountered them, from time to time they pursued them, sometimes - as if they were running away. Their stride was always different, from a single track, like mine, to tracks as if someone was jumping with their legs tied together, about 5 centimeters each. Sometimes they make sounds, sometimes not, but always invariably barefoot. Often they're somehow impossible, for example they suddenly break off in the middle of a path, or are so wide-striding that a human can't have legs like that, and most importantly - they cluster in relatively unpopulated places, like a morning parking lot, the yards of abandoned buildings, roofs and so on. We nicknamed these places "Lairs", and those who came out of them - "scouts". And then Alice and Vasya started dating, after which our searches stopped. It was precisely from that time that I became a cuckold.

This is only the middle so far, in the next post I'll tell about time gaps, ghosts of the past, maybe I'll remember something else. Of course the story won't do without descriptions of mockery, fuckups and general little-shit clumsiness, it might be the last one, but knowing myself, I probably won't be able to fit everything remaining into one post. Don't get sick, anon!