This happened when I was a student, back when I went to visit a friend's place.
That friend was somewhat notorious for never letting anyone into his apartment, but I somehow managed to successfully breach it for the first time.
It was tidier than you’d expect from a single guy living alone, and there was no particular reason for him to refuse visitors.
Yet, my friend kept glancing around nervously.
From time to time, he’d mutter things like, "Ah," or, "Oh."
Finding it strange and about to press him for answers, he suddenly widened his eyes and yelled, "Whoa!"
When I asked what was wrong, he ended up saying, "Well, you see, a tiny middle-aged man lives in this room."
He wasn't the kind of guy to normally say stuff like that, so when I probed further, he told me it was a "total old-man type" who was just a little larger than the palm of a hand, wearing a ribbed tank top, traditional loose underwear, and sporting a comb-over.
He doesn't really do anything, but if you keep ignoring him, he gets sulky, so you have to keep an eye on him, he claimed.
It was the kind of story you hear from time to time, but the idea of him getting "sulky" sounded oddly cute.
"If he's like a pet old man, maybe I'd want to see him too," I said.
My friend paused for a moment with an "Ah—" and added,
"Sometimes he comes out with his hands and mouth stained bright red with blood. I was seriously terrified the first time I saw it. I'm used to it now, though."
Perhaps emboldened by my friend's shock, the tiny old man apparently started showing up in that state every now and then.
Since he makes a genuinely delighted face when he gets startled, lately he’s just been putting on a fake look of surprise, my friend explained.
About half a year later, I got a message from my friend saying, "I've decided to move out. If you want to see the tiny old guy, the room is open."
Of course, moving in there was completely out of the question, but I was somewhat curious about his reason for leaving, so I at least wanted to hear the story.
When I called him to say so, he was unusually hesitant compared to how smoothly he used to talk.
After some negotiation, we settled on the arrangement that I would treat him to a meal in exchange for the story.
And so, we were at a family restaurant. The guy sitting across from me was eating food on my dime.
Lately, he’s been couch-surfing at acquaintances' places and hasn't even been back to his apartment.
"What happened?" I asked.
He polished off his meal and began, "Actually—"
It turned out he had happened to ignore one of the tiny old man's scares.
*Uh-oh!* he thought, and when he looked at the old man, he was making an expression of sheer disgust.
"And so—he got pissed."
From then on, a silent war began between the guy and the old man.
My friend ignored him at every turn, while the old man used every trick in the book to startle him.
He’d charge at him with terrifying momentum or let out bizarre screams.
It wasn't once or twice that he woke up to find the old man standing right in front of his face.
"I was actually kind of moved when I finally screamed. Like, oh, he *can* make noise.
Other than that, though, he just kept pulling all these cowardly stunts. Honestly, morning-ambush jump scares were getting annoying."
Apparently, this silent battle was progressing in my friend's favor.
"That day, I was writing a report—"
Right in front of the guy, who was glaring at his PC monitor, the blood-soaked tiny old man appeared.
Accepting it with a mental *'Not this again,'* my friend observed his every move to prepare for the next trick.
He walked with a funny, waddling sort of gait.
The old man sat down right in front of him and looked up at his sworn enemy.
My friend glared right back, refusing to lose.
And then he noticed. The old man was holding something round.
It was about the size of a ping-pong ball, and it was also covered in blood.
Figuring that was today's weapon, the guy stared at it. He watched it intently.
It opened its eyes.
"It was my own—head."
Staring into the eyes of his own severed miniature head, my friend finally let out a scream from the bottom of his soul.
"And then, the tiny old guy vanished looking thrilled. Smiling so genuinely happy.
Even after the old man disappeared and my severed head vanished along with it, I checked over and over to make sure my own head was still attached properly.
That was genuinely terrifying. Yeah, I was utterly defeated."
With an expression of bitterness from the depths of his heart—matching the scream he let out that day—my friend spoke.
When I asked, "Are you moving out just because you're frustrated to lose?" he answered immediately, "Duh."
"Besides, if I forget to be startled next time and the same thing happens, putting my body through anything more terrifying than that is bad for my health."
*No kidding,* I thought, unable to voice the retort as I finished listening to his monologue.