With my arms full of junk, I waddled up the staircase of my new apartment building this weekend, beads of sweat dripping down my face.

I turned the corner on my floor and the door next to mine was wide open. An older man and woman were having a heated discussion about how fast kids drive these days.

"Why do they do that?" the old woman said. "They go so fast."

As I labored past her door, I felt both pairs of eyes burning holes into my back, but I couldn't stop because I had barely even started moving in.

I trudged back down to my car and came up with another load.

This time, the dynamic duo was talking about getting ready for bed.

"I'm so tired," the man said. "I think I'll head back to the hotel."

It was no later than 5:30.

I kid you not.

As I carried my speakers, my television and all three of my guitars into my new place, I couldn't help but feel like I was stepping into trouble, like I was carrying a load of meat into a vegetarian's house.

Living next to Old Mother Hubbard, as I call her, can't be a good thing.

I'm sure she's a wonderful person, but I'm going to go ahead and set the over/under on noise complaints for the next six months at eight.

The weird thing is that she is easily not the strangest thing about my new apartment.

Oh, no. Not even close.

Take, for starters, the second bedroom. I'm not sure who, or what, designed this place, but the second bedroom is not even half as large as the master bedroom.

The closet at my old place was just as big as this room, maybe even a bit larger.

My buddy Joe and I, who were short on time and had to sign the lease without really inspecting the place beforehand, didn't notice how small it was until we put the key in the door and started moving stuff in.

"This is the smallest bedroom I've ever seen," he said.

I took a longer look and said, "You know, I think you're right. You can have it."

He wasn't going down that easy - keep in mind he's well over six feet tall and close to 250 pounds, which means he could crush me into a bloody pulp of a man if he wanted to.

Let's just say there were some heated discussions about it, but things worked out for the best and I still have all my limbs and the big room.

For now, anyway.

But even that isn't the strangest thing about the place.

On Sunday afternoon, as we were arranging the kitchen, hanging pictures and generally hating life, we got a knock on the door.

Joe opened it and this 45-year-old man just walked right in, a bottle of Rolling Rock in his hand and a wicked breath to match.

"Hey guys, I heard you hammering on the walls and thought I'd come hang out for a while," he said to us, not noticing the stunned/scared looks in our eyes.

So he went into this story about his life, about how he's a self-proclaimed "ski bum" and then proceeded to tell us several very personal, and not necessary, details of his day as I tried to make awkward conversation and avoid eye contact.

"Why don't you guys come upstairs for a few minutes?" he asked. "I've got something to show you."

I'm thinking a cache of drugs, a dead body, maybe even some sort of torture chamber.

"Slot cars," he said. "I've got a slot car track set up on my kitchen table."

"Slot cars?" I asked. "Like the little electric ones?"

"Yeah, man," he said.

Amazingly, he talked the two of us into going upstairs and playing with these cars, which we did for at least 20 minutes before the novelty wore off and we started fearing for our lives again.

Even THAT isn't the strangest thing about this place.

Right after we signed the lease, to make it all official, the landlady told us the story of the guy that used to live there before us.

When I went in by myself to check the place out one day on a lunch break, I spent roughly 25 seconds in there, just making sure that it didn't have any holes in the ceiling and things like that.

What I noticed was that the guy still had all his stuff in there - stacks of dirty magazines, a life-size cutout of former Iowa Hawkeye football coach Hayden Frye and all of his bedroom furniture.

Interesting, I thought.

This is the explaination she gave us:

"The guy that was living there before you guys, his mom had a heart attack," the lady said. "He was on his way home to take care of her when he got in a car wreck and died."

"Wow," I said. "That's horrible."

Then I thought for a second and had a very important question.

"Is this place cursed?" I asked.

"No, I don't think so," she said.

I'm not sure I believe her.

John VanVleet is a writer for the Hungry Horse News.