Air Conditioner

[Posted： 2025/11/14]

This is a story told by C., who experienced it sometime between autumn and winter.

C. lived alone in an apartment that came with an old, outdated air conditioner.

It wasn't efficient, and the electricity bill was never kind, but it kept the heat and cold at bay well enough. Since he didn't have to pay extra rent for it, he considered it a blessing.

What he didn't consider a blessing was the cleaning.

Hiring a professional was out of the question?C.'s only air conditioner was this ancient built?in unit, and he didn't have the money to pay someone every season.

So, at the change of seasons, he always cleaned the inside himself.

That evening, he opened the front panel and removed the filthy air filter.

Behind it, the silver fins were choked with a thick layer of black dust.

C. took an old toothbrush and began scrubbing the narrow gaps.

That was when he felt it?

A strange resistance at his fingertips.

Heavier than dust.

Sticky.

When he leaned in and looked closely, he saw it:

A clump of long, black hair

?packed into the fins as though kneaded there like clay.

C. lived alone.

He had no girlfriend visiting his place.

And his own hair was short.

There was no reason?no possible reason?for a bundle of long black hair to be jammed inside his air conditioner.

Uneasy, C. pulled out the hair with tweezers and finished what he could of the cleaning.

That night.

When the cold set in, he switched the AC to heat.

The motor hummed?“Wiiiin”?

but beneath it, something else began to sound.

“Kiri… kiri… kiri…”

A dry scraping noise.

Like something catching on the spinning fan deep inside.

C. shut the unit off immediately, opened the panel again, and shined a flashlight into the vent.

And there he saw it:

On the rotating drum?fan's central axle?

several strands of the same black hair

wound tightly around it, pulled taut as though trying to resist the spin.

Disgust crawled up his spine.

That was the moment he decided?he couldn't do this himself.

He'd dip into what little savings he had and call a professional.

He didn't want to touch it again.

Not even once.

＊＊＊

On the day of the cleaning, the technician took one look inside the unit and, as if making idle conversation, began to tell C. a story.

He once serviced a unit in a completely ruined apartment.

The woman living there had apparently fallen apart mentally?she could no longer clean, cook, wash, or manage any of her daily life.

Plastic bags from supermarkets, empty bottles, instant noodle wrappers, garbage bags, cardboard boxes, old magazines… all of them were scattered or piled knee?high throughout the room.

And everywhere?

everywhere?

were strands of the woman's hair.

She had been cutting her own hair regularly.

Her hair littered the floors.

Her bed.

Her kitchen.

And, worst of all,

her air conditioner had been stuffed full of it?jammed so deep inside that the fan could barely move.

The technician paused before adding, quietly:

Some time after that cleaning job,

the woman had taken her own life.

The technician sighed.

“Of course,” he added hastily,

“that was a different apartment. Not this one.

So you don't need to worry.”

But his voice carried no conviction.