FASHION STYLE FOOD ALPHABET

**“”** I have no rational explanation for what happened. And most importantly, I don’t know why it happened to me. There’s no logic in it at all. I am certain that by winter, when the days become much shorter than the nights, I will no longer be alive. My name is Pavel. I’m 17 years old, soon to be 18. I live with my parents in a two-room apartment near Aviamotornaya. My mother is a former doctor, my father a former process engineer. They are both retired now. I am not their biological child — I grew up in an orphanage. They adopted me when they were already close to fifty. My parents used to spend most of their time at the dacha anyway, and after I finished school they said they would stay there permanently. We have an insulated house there, practically built by my father with his own hands, with all utilities. I don’t have a girlfriend yet. And I don’t have close friends either — at least not close enough that, if they heard my story, they wouldn’t think I’d lost my mind. After finis...

My husband went on a business trip, not far, just for a day. He's supposed to arrive at four this morning. And I don't like sitting at home alone. I spent the whole day shopping with my mom, got home around 8 PM, very tired, and decided to sleep a little and then cook something. Around midnight, I woke up to the sound of stamping feet in the entryway, as if a rather tipsy woman in iron-toed heels was climbing the stairs, exerting great effort. It reminded me of the "Yeralash" movie where the monument to the young man on horseback was walking along the entryway. I'm lying there, waiting for this "lady" to get to her apartment, and she suddenly stands on my landing, right next to the door, as it seemed to me (we have a small studio apartment, and the bed is opposite the front door). There are motion sensors in the entryways, and when someone approaches the floor, the light on that floor turns on, visible through the peephole. I see that the light hasn...

She loved hedgehogs. Not hedgehogs—these gray, spiky forest creatures she'd encountered a couple of times in her life when her dad took her mushroom picking. It was the hedgehogs that captured her heart. The cute little creatures with apples on their needles, the famous character's bundle of raspberry jam—these were the images that warmed her soul. She searched for stories, poems, and songs about hedgehogs and, of course, collected all sorts of toys and figurines depicting her favorite character. A huge shelf was dedicated to them. Her family and friends laughed at her obsession, but they constantly added to the collection. There were all sorts of hedgehogs there—clay and glass, silver and amber. Every day, she would visit the hedgehog shelf, even if only briefly. She would look at her favorites, mentally converse with them, addressing each one individually, creating lives and personalities for them. At some point, she began to notice that the arrangement of the hedgehogs on t...

" This story happened to my older sister. She and her husband moved into a new apartment. A young man sold it, telling me his parents had lived there. My mother went mad in her old age (her husband locked her in her room, so there were locks on the bedroom door). Then she died, and some time later her husband followed her, apparently from grief and loneliness. My sister and her husband didn't believe in ghosts, so they were understanding about the story, but it didn't influence their decision to move into the apartment. My sister's husband often worked nights, and at first she was tormented every night. She told me, "Every night I hear footsteps, so distinct they definitely weren't the neighbors. The footsteps approach the bed and then stop. And I feel like someone is standing over me, doing nothing, saying nothing, just standing there, and a chill blows through me." My sister would bury her head under the covers and couldn't sleep until morning.  But...

I heard this story nine years ago from a childhood friend. I was a skeptic back then, but I vouch for her story, as I was indirectly involved in her experiences, even though I didn't believe it. My friend's grandmother died, leaving her a two-room apartment in central Donetsk. After the funeral, she was afraid to be alone in her apartment for a month, but common sense prevailed, and she decided to spend the night there. After finishing all her chores, the girl lay down on her bed and instantly fell asleep. She dreamed that her grandmother came into her room and said, "Don't you dare take my place! I haven't left yet, and you're already in my bed." The girl woke up in a cold sweat. In the silence of the night, she clearly heard her heavy footsteps slowly moving around the apartment. Overcoming her fear, she got up, turned on the light, and found no one there. She saw that the candle next to the deceased's photo had gone out, though it hadn't burned...

**“”** These “miracles” happened to me last autumn. If I had heard this from anyone else, I wouldn’t have believed it — but now, beneath the layer of hair dye, I’m probably gray. It all began when I, like a grown-up girl, moved out from my parents: first into a rented apartment, then into a dormitory. Later I was offered to move into my great-grandmother’s place, since my grandmother had taken her in (she’s elderly and bedridden). And so, one fine day, my son and I moved in. The building is old, and the apartment is dim. Imagine being in an apartment where the lights are on, but they don’t actually illuminate anything. We changed the bulbs, the wiring, the chandeliers — useless. It was still dark. The first night, we didn’t sleep at all — there was a constant feeling of someone else’s presence. On the second and the following nights, my sister stayed over with me. Once she woke me up, saying she had heard someone swearing near my son’s bed. I didn’t really believe her, but just in case...

**“”** It was the year 2000. At that time, in my opinion, there was an almost uncontrollable and widespread fascination with “magic” among fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds, including our small “gang.” Having read Vereshchagin, we — like many boys and girls from our informal circle, which numbered about a hundred people at the time — dreamed of mastering etheric bodies, energy flows, and control over our peers. As a rule, few people managed to achieve anything tangible, even tactile, let alone successes visible to the human eye. Nevertheless, we did not lose hope and delved ever deeper into the dark and captivating world of the unknown. Our explorations in bioenergetics led us naturally to another, no less magical and mysterious topic — entities from otherworldly realms. One time, my friend Igor’s parents left for another city, leaving him to his own devices for an entire week. Naturally, such an opportunity could not be missed, so five novice “sorcerers,” armed with dumplings and coffee,...

" One time, having nothing better to do, my friends and I decided to try summoning a spirit using a saucer. We did everything as we were told. We sat in a semicircle, placed our fingers on the saucer, and waited for the spirit to arrive. We didn't summon anyone in particular. We simply howled and chanted several times in unison: "Spirit, come! Spirit, come! Spirit, speak to us..." Five minutes later, just as we were about to give up, the spirit "descended" to us. The saucer twitched a few times, and we kicked each other, thinking one of us was trying to "trick" the others. But then we realized the saucer was moving without our help. Suddenly, all our questions vanished, and we struggled to come up with something to ask. They started asking all sorts of nonsense questions about grades, clothes, boys... The saucer answered a few times, seemingly coherently, and then began circling the drawing paper very quickly, forming letters: "Hahahahaha......

" I was going through a period in my life when things weren't going well and nothing was working out. I had a falling out with my parents, and after another argument, I decided to move out. I happened to run into some old friends, we chatted, and I casually asked if anyone had an apartment for rent, to which one of them said her grandfather had recently died and the apartment was empty. We agreed that she would call me after talking to her parents. Later, she got in touch, and eventually, I moved in and started living there. I had a lot of work, so I usually only came home for the night. But one day, I finally got a day off. I spent the whole day cleaning and doing other housework. Around ten o'clock in the evening, I went to bed. I was lying there watching cartoons on the 2x2 channel and heard the door slam and the lock click. But I had locked the door and checked it several times! Then I heard heavy footsteps and a rustling sound, like someone carrying a package. The fo...

**“”** When my husband and I were living and working in Ivanovo, we rented an apartment there. It was surprising that such a nice apartment was being rented out for almost nothing. Without attaching much importance to it, we paid the landlady for the first month and began moving our things in. The apartment was fully furnished; even belongings from the previous tenants were still there. My husband is a long-haul truck driver, so almost immediately he left for a two-day work trip to St. Petersburg, and I stayed home alone, since I wasn’t working at the time. On the very first day of being alone, out of boredom I decided to look through the papers left behind by the former tenants — old black-and-white photographs, magazines from the 1960s, newspaper clippings… Among all this junk I found something like a diary. It seemed to belong to either a surgeon or a pathologist. Almost everything in it was incomprehensible to me — it described procedures performed on patients, autopsy results, and...

**“** Many mystical things have happened in my life, but despite regular contact with supernatural forces, none of them ever did me any harm. Trouble came, as they say, from where it was least expected. My grandfather, while alive, was a very despotic man, and by the end of his life only my mother and I remained by his side. He died slowly and painfully, bedridden for a long time, his entire body wracked by convulsions. We fed him by force, and throughout that time he barely spoke. On the last evening of his life, I was sitting with him in the room, trying to feed him some porridge. He turned away and stared at the wall. Suddenly, he arched sharply, exhaled, “He’s here!” — and began to turn pale. The doctors arrived surprisingly quickly. After examining the body, they said something strange: “Why did you only call now? By the looks of it, he’s been dead for several days already.” In the end, they attributed it to the fact that he had been practically immobile for a year and a half. Thr...

**“”** An acquaintance of mine once told me a story about his apartment. He lives in a *Stalinka* (a Stalin-era building), so before him, at least two families had lived in that apartment. When he first moved in, the previous owners vaguely hinted that there was something wrong with the place. And, as you might expect, he soon became convinced of it himself. It all began rather plainly and innocently — with rustling sounds. Here and there, they followed him throughout the apartment. Well, that happens, he thought — the building is old. But one day, while my friend was taking a shower, his mobile phone suddenly rang. He turned off the water and reached for the phone, but before he could answer, the ringing stopped. He looked at the caller ID — and it showed his own landline number. The problem was that he lived alone, and there was no one who could have been calling. At night, he also began hearing footsteps — in the hallway, in the kitchen, and sometimes it was as if someone sighed. My...

This happened on September 17, 2012 — I remember the date because it was a special day with my boyfriend. I lived alone in my uncle’s two-room apartment. I wasn’t afraid to be alone and fell asleep completely calmly. I woke up around 2 a.m. I was terribly thirsty, but I didn’t rush to get out of bed. When I slightly opened my eyes, I noticed some movement near my bed. By the silhouette and the robe, I realized it was my mother. She was walking around the room and folding my clothes. — Sleep, Kuzya (that’s what she called me as a child), — she said. — I’ll lie down too, and we’ll hug… I nodded and closed my eyes. And then I jerked — I remembered that I was completely alone in the apartment, I was no longer three years old, and I had quarreled with my mother and hadn’t spoken to her for a week. I froze with fear. I didn’t want to open my eyes, and I couldn’t. Meanwhile, it lay down behind me and hugged me: — Sleep, Kuzya. I’ll hug you… With these words, it began to strangle me, compressi...

I started a new job and had to look for an apartment closer to it so I wouldn't have to spend an hour commuting. I quickly found a suitable apartment, made arrangements, and moved in. The apartment was nice, and I would still be living there if not for one incident. The thing is, I have two phones—one for personal calls, one for business. So one day, while sitting at work, around lunchtime, I realized I didn't have my other phone with me. I thought I'd dropped it on the way, so I started calling, hoping for a miracle. I dialed the number, and immediately someone picked up. I said, "Hello? Can you hear me?" There was nothing in response, just someone breathing into the speaker. I asked again, "Hello, can you hear me?" And then someone hoarsely said, "I can hear you." And then hung up. After that, no matter how many times I called, no one picked up. Of course, I was upset—apparently they'd decided to keep the phone. I'd been working long...

" A young man lived with his parents in an old two-story Stalin-era building. They lived on the ground floor. Every door in the building was locked, even the interior ones. The boy (let's call him Seryozha) went to a dance that night, and his mother warned him: when he came back from dancing, he should close all the windows for the night. Probably to keep anyone from breaking in. The boy danced his fill and came home late that night. He closed the windows, locked the door to his room, and went to bed. The house sank into the silence of the night, and Seryozha fell asleep. And then, on the brink of sleep and wakefulness (a borderline state), he heard a soft knock at the door and his mother's whisper: "Seryozha, did you remember to close the windows?" "Mom, everything's fine..." he mumbled.  The knock on the door grew louder, and Mom spoke loudly: "Seryozha, have you closed all the windows?" Her voice was so tense. The boy, half asleep, said...

." It was the late 1980s, when I was still a cheerful junior. Our professor's mother died. Lacking any male relatives to carry the coffin (and also to have a drink at the wake), he invited several students, including me. I was carrying the lid and accidentally scratched myself on a nail. The thought of a few drops of my blood remaining in the coffin with the deceased was very unpleasant. But upon reflection, I considered it nonsense. We drank well, talked, and parted ways peacefully. On the way back, I stopped at a friend's house, where I downed another glass of port and drove away all the bad thoughts, especially since everything was happening in the company of two wild young ladies. Having had my fill of fun, I returned home and, sneaking into my room, fell asleep. Let me say right away: I don't know if all of this is related to what I'll describe below. Perhaps not. You be the judge of that. I was suddenly awakened by a terrifying yet solemn thought: "He...

My aunt came to visit us one day. We sat down to have some tea and chat. I looked at my aunt, and she seemed either thoughtful or upset. I carefully began to inquire if anything was wrong. My aunt assured me that everything was perfectly fine and that she wasn't in a bad mood, she just couldn't get the strange incident that had happened to her friend out of her head. I became curious and asked her to share her story with me. This is what my aunt told me: "My old friend Tamara came running to me the day before yesterday, completely out of sorts. We rarely see each other in the summer. She usually looks for tenants for the summer—you can't live on just her pension. She gives them the keys, takes the money, and then goes off to her dacha, into the countryside. Where else would she go, all alone?" And then she came running to me without calling, completely out of her mind. I managed to calm her down, gave her some valerian drops, and started asking questions. She sta...

" The internet, as always, wouldn't let go. With a yawn tearing my throat, I scrolled through the now-familiar lines and glanced at the clock almost every second, which was desperately approaching morning, but for some reason I didn't feel like sleeping. I continued to surf the World Wide Web, searching for even a hint of something fresh and interesting, but apparently the Internet itself was hinting that it was time for sleep. Finding nothing worthy of my attention, I, as always, left the stereo playing random tracks overnight and settled back on the pillow. Twitching endlessly and adjusting the blanket, I finally began to drift off. Something howled, banged, and rustled outside the window... Shouts, music, and clanking could be heard beyond the walls. In a house with walls like ours, this wasn't surprising. I seemed to be enjoying these sounds through a light drowsiness and continued to drift deeper into sleep, feeling my body go numb. Suddenly, the room door opened...

There was a time, about five years ago, when my mother would complain in the mornings about the doorbell ringing. It rang at night, between 2 and 3 a.m. Insistently, demanding. My mother said that each time she was surprised that no one else in the house heard it. She would get up, go to the hallway, and ask, “Who’s there?” And each time, the answer was silence. We didn’t have a peephole back then (it was installed during renovations two years ago), so she listened carefully, thinking she might hear footsteps or a rustle behind the door. But in vain — the bell rang again, and again, no one answered. And every time, my mother didn’t dare open the door and returned to bed. In the morning, before leaving for work, she would complain to me and my father that someone had come at night again, rang the bell insistently, and didn’t respond. My father, naturally a skeptic and a humorist, would say that it was her conscience from beyond or the ghost of a promised pay raise visiting her. My mothe...

I was a second-year student then, a punk—drank vodka by the hectolitre and swallowed diphenhydramine in sheets. And then one day, having consumed this poison, I realized that four... I don't know what to call them... people were living in the walls of my apartment? Shadows? Two "men" and two "women." I still remember their flat outlines on the light-colored walls very well. I was talking to them then. When I woke up the next morning, I was horrified: the door to the room was barricaded, all the furniture was overturned, and my hands and body were cut with a chef's knife—the bed was covered in blood. And the knife itself was sticking out of the back of the overturned closet. I spent several days recovering, attributing it to powerful hallucinations and a psyche shattered by vodka and cheap drugs. A month later, a friend of mine came to visit. Since that day, I haven't had anything stronger than beer and generally tried not to go out. And then he came and...

" It happened in January 2001. I woke up one night to find my son standing by my bed, leaning against my legs. He was three years old at the time, and he often woke up at night and came running to me. This time, I thought he was home, so I moved my leg, giving him a comfortable place to climb onto the bed. He didn't climb onto the bed, but continued to stand there, pressing against my legs. I lifted my head and, in the light of the nightlight, saw my son standing there, in his pajamas, but his face was wrinkled, like an old man's. A thought flashed through my mind—either I didn't get enough sleep, or I overslept—I was just imagining things. He stood by the bed, unmoving, just leaning on his legs, pressing against them with his body. Opposite the bed was a floor-length mirror, and I could see our reflections in it: me on the bed, and my son standing next to me, crossed legs.  And then he says in such a pitiful, creaky voice: "Mommy, take me to your place." I r...

" This story happened 10 years ago in St. Petersburg. Shortly after Marina remarried, her baby girl Katyusha was born. Marina had a seven-year-old son, Semyon, from her first marriage. Marina was an only child and lived in a communal apartment with her parents on the seventh floor before her marriage. Marina's neighbors in the communal apartment were relatives—her aunt, her aunt's husband, and her cousin, Lidiya. The apartment had three rooms: Marina and her parents lived in one, her aunt and her family in the second, and her grandmother, who had recently died of peritonitis in a hospital in St. Petersburg, occupied the third. The day of the funeral arrived. Marina stayed home with the children; all the relatives went to the cemetery. She was sitting in the room with the children. The baby was snoring softly on the bed, and her eldest son was playing with his cars. She heard shuffling footsteps in the hallway. Marina peeked out of the room, and the footsteps had stopped. ...

People are terrifyingly egocentric. For the most part, ask anyone, and almost everyone will argue with foaming mouths, in categorical belief of the exceptional solitude of humanity in the Universe, providing “scientific” proof of it and violently tearing apart any “pseudo-scientific” notions about anything metaphysical. Personally, I had my own view on this matter: I allowed the possibility of something beyond, but rarely thought about it due to being busy. So I was neither a fervent mystic nor an exceptional skeptic — rather, I was a deeply indifferent inhabitant of this world, unconcerned with other worlds. My mornings began with thoughts of work and a horse-sized dose of coffee, not about inhabitants of the subtle realm. My mornings were almost identical: coffee, jumping into clothes, getting into the car, and diving into work. One such Tuesday morning in March, I was awakened not by an alarm but by a call from my colleague, who sadly informed me of the passing of our chief accounta...