A terrible week

Birth.

In the distance, snow-capped mountains loomed. The snow reflected the setting sun's rays, casting golden reflections across the valley, illuminating mountain slopes that should have long been shaded at this time of day. Perhaps it was this extraordinary glow, or perhaps its vibrant greenery, that made the valley look like something out of a fairy tale. The viewer would unconsciously listen, and then almost hear the cheerful chirping of Disney-esque gnomes returning home after a hard day. Even the cottage, perched on a small river flowing through the very center of the valley, seemed to be waiting for the smiling young Snow White to run out to greet her returning friends. Built in a small clearing of roughly hewn wooden poles, the cottage only added to the charm of all these natural wonders.

Piotr left the house and sat in a chair on the small porch. He inhaled a cigarette and gazed thoughtfully at the distant mountain peaks, blazing gold and red in the dying sun. He remembered the day he'd discovered this place by accident. It had been about four, maybe five years ago, when, after another operation, as he'd called his nightly expeditions, he'd been looking for a quiet spot to wait out the police onslaught. Since then, he'd come here quite often, finding what he particularly craved: peace. He didn't consider himself a fanatic or mentally ill, though that was precisely what the mediocre editors of glossy magazines liked to call him. The fools had attributed the last 13 murders to him; he smiled to himself; after all, he'd committed many, many more. But how could they know? Indeed, what could their expensively suited psychologists possibly know? Had they ever felt the ebbing life of some insignificant man filling his body with incredible strength and energy? Did they hear the thoughts of a terrified creature in its final moments, as it lay motionless, defeated, waiting for that final blow to fall, which didn't fall for a very, very long time? It wasn't true that he enjoyed listening to the screams of his victims. He didn't mind their screaming, but the most exquisite was their fear, not the kind expressed in screams, but the one buried deep within their heads, the one screamed out by their brains without their mouths. The one staring from terrified eyes, the one spilling out from silent moans when they no longer had the slightest hope of help. He was a master at what he did because he loved what he did. The police couldn't catch him, and even if they did, what would they do? After all, he had absorbed so many lives, possessed so much energy that he couldn't be killed so easily. Sometimes he would enter a victim's house at night, making as much noise as necessary. He made sure she didn't call the police; that wouldn't be fair. Oh no! He and she were in her territory, and yet he was the master of the situation. He always won, and he was the one who left with his shirt soaked in blood, dark streaks marking his pants where he'd wiped his hands. He never left before the end. The last breath belonged to him. With each breath, a person's soul left them, and he always waited for it, ready to feed on that energy. At first, his victims were prostitutes, but their energy didn't bring him as much pleasure. Mothers watching their children were far better than whores. He loved the way they looked at them, frozen on the floor, their eyes wide with fear, watching what he was doing to their children. Most of them fainted before the end, and then he'd revive them, and the fun would begin all over again.

He looked up at the sky, which had already turned a dark purple, and the moon emerged in all its glory from behind one of the peaks. He rose and entered the house, slamming the screen door. A moment later, he reappeared in the yard, intently pouring out a pattern onto the bark driveway. White lime, scattered at even intervals, circled the star, enclosing it within. He looked at his handiwork and, satisfied, began arranging candles on each of the five points of the pentagram. From the car, he took a canister full of fresh blood, which he had obtained from the slaughterhouse today for a small bribe of a few dollars, and began pouring it, marking the very center of the star. He took one last satisfied look at his work and headed home. He took off his shirt and tossed it carelessly onto the bed. He pulled down his pants and underwear and tossed them after the shirt. From the canvas bag beside the bed, he pulled out a knife and a lighter. As he walked toward the driveway, he twirled his knife, watching the white reflections of the full moon leap across the cold steel of the blade. It was this knife he most enjoyed torturing his victims with. It was with this blade that he delivered the final stab. He lit the candles and tossed the lighter into the darkness. It fell silently into the lush, black grass. He had specifically chosen Sunday for this act. It amused him; after all, it was a holy day, the first day of the week, so why couldn't it also be the first day of his new life? Peter stood, clad only in moonlight and candlelight in the center of the drawn pattern, and caught the pleasant scent of fresh blood. Beneath his feet, he felt the dampness of the previously spilled blood, and for a moment, he savored the sensation, gazing at the moon. Finally, he decided it was high time to begin the ritual. He picked up the knife and raised it, aiming it at the sky. In a hushed voice, he intoned the incomprehensible words, unheard for decades. Words that seemed forgotten, until one day, in a New York second-hand bookstore, he came across an old book that an equally elderly owner was cleaning out. At first, the old man put the volume away, but after a short conversation and the appearance of a hundred-dollar bill, the book reappeared on the counter. From then on, Piotr often visited that bookstore, often buying books on Satanism and the cult of the Evil One, if they had any value, of course, and they usually did. The old man knew his stuff and knew how to acquire those most valuable works, which had somehow escaped the Holy Inquisition, hidden and forgotten. Many of the things he read in those papers resonated with him, and some of the vividly presented visions particularly resonated with him. Even before he arrived at the second-hand bookstore, he had been possessed by a desire for eternal life. The only thing he feared was death. He didn't want to die, but the books told him it wasn't necessary. He believed, and now, standing with trembling hands and whispering the quiet words of ancient prayers, he was to become eternally alive. The moon had almost passed over the entireThe valley, deep in sleep, was filled with a long, drawn-out sound, when Peter let out a long, drawn-out sound and, lowering his hands quickly, plunged the knife into his own chest just above the waist. He felt the blade gently enter his tense flesh, irreversibly damaging his internal organs. He moved the knife and encountered resistance from his lower ribs. He released the knife's hilt and raised his hands in a silent, pleading prayer to his own face. Fingers curved like the talons of a bird of prey quickly found his eye sockets and pressed his eyeballs deep inside. Blood spurted from beneath his eyelids, mingling with the blood from the wound in his stomach, dripping down to soak into the moisture-hungry earth. Peter staggered, and after a moment, he collapsed. Silence reigned everywhere, but not the kind usually associated with the description of dead silence. It was a silence that could be heard. One of a kind, the only one that had occurred in decades. The silence was suddenly broken by the rustle of a hand sliding across the uneven, worn bark. The silence was broken by the sounds of a man rising. Piotr slowly, painfully, rose from the ground, yanked the knife from his wound, and threw it to the ground. He moved toward the river, ignoring the still-bleeding wounds, only to submerge a moment later, staining the clear water with a darker shade of blood. He opened his mouth wide, but made no sound. He slowly submerged his head, allowing the water to wash over his sticky face. For a moment, it seemed he would never emerge again, that a small, slowly flowing stream had carried his lifeless body away, but Piotr emerged from the depths, his eyes blazing with a wild, red light. He knew he was now invincible, that he was now and always would be the victor. He emerged from the river and headed for the bedroom, eager to get dressed and go hunting. The whole world belonged to him now. All men were prey. Nothing living was safe. He entered the house with a stiff gait and pulled on the clothes he'd discarded earlier. He looked at his arms. They looked stronger than before. Now, in the light of the dawning new day, every muscle stood out clearly. He felt incredibly strong, and that brought him added joy. He looked out the window and saw a sky that seemed to be finally blazing blue with every passing moment. He slammed the shutters and drew the curtains, willing the room to be plunged back into darkness. He closed the bedroom door, ignoring the front door. If anyone dared to enter, it would be the last thing he would do. He lay down on the bed, dreaming of the approaching night, a night that would belong only to him. He dreamed of the hunt he would begin in a few hours, when, under the cover of darkness, he would set out on his first hunt in this body. His eyes flashed red as he shifted into a more comfortable position to rest before the hunt. In truth, it didn't matter whether it was night or day. Now, tired by recent events, he fell into a peaceful sleep, a peaceful sleep that only animals enjoy,which have no natural enemies and do not fear for their safety.

One

Like every day for over fifty years, she rose very early, just as the first rays of the rising sun lit up the sky. The neighbors always made fun of her for rising with the chickens, but she didn't care a whit. They said other things about her, but she didn't care about that either, and if children occasionally shouted meaningless nicknames at her on their way to school in the morning, so what? At least someone was talking to her and noticing that she was still alive. She went to the window and pulled back the thick curtains, letting the morning sun in. She began humming her favorite tune to the softly playing radio and set about making the large bed she had shared with her husband for so many years, and in which, after his sudden death, she had slept alone for almost seventeen years. She smoothed the colorful duvet and went to the dressing table. She looked in the mirror, picking up her hairbrush. Again, she wasn't sure if the reflection was her or just some prank by Mother Nature. The mirror showed a woman long since grayed, with deep wrinkles around her slim face, yet she still felt young inside. She glanced at the photos on the side. They were photos of her children, her adult children, so the mirror wasn't lying, it really was her, she thought, as she arranged her long hair into a bun. The past few years hadn't been much different. She had a schedule, which she tried to stick to, unless her daughter or son visited, which unfortunately was very rare. She finished combing her hair and put the brush away, took one last look to see if everything was as it should be, and headed up the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast. It was getting harder and harder to climb the stairs; she should sell this house, but how? She told her children she wouldn't sell because she didn't want to sell her memories. Memories were waiting in every corner, gathering dust. She was born here, spent her childhood here, lived here with her aunt, who took care of her after her parents died in a train accident. She lived here with her husband, raised her children, and wanted to die here. This was her home. She knew every floorboard here, knew which step would creak as she climbed the first floor, and knew how to walk so the old wood wouldn't make a sound. She entered the small living room and gathered up the newspapers she'd read the night before from the floor. Lately, she'd been having trouble sleeping more and more often. The doctor had given her some pills, which she threw away anyway because they didn't help. She'd read somewhere that old people didn't sleep as much as young people because they wanted to make the most of every minute of their lives. At first, she thought it was utter nonsense written by some youngster who thought the elderly only thought about their approaching death, but she increasingly found herself thinking about the day she would have to say goodbye to this earthly world. She wasn't afraid, but she worried about who she would leave her home to. It was so precious to her, she didn't want strangers living here after she died. Her father and grandfather had built the house, and it worried her.That none of the children wanted to live here. She shook off these thoughts, placed the neatly stacked magazines on a small, round table that would probably fetch a pretty penny in an antique shop, but here was just another dusty piece of furniture, and went to the kitchen. She fixed herself a light breakfast and smiled at her thoughts. Lately, she'd only eaten light breakfasts, light lunches, and light dinners, then she'd fall into a light sleep, and what? And she was getting lighter and lighter. Yes! Her figure was all she had left from her youth. She'd once been beautiful, now only slim. She listened to the morning news, which held no interest for her, washed the dishes, and went outside to do some urgent shopping. She walked down a small path that was becoming increasingly overgrown, and then emerged onto the street.

"Good morning, Hal," she said, waving lightly at her neighbor, who was tidying up the garden. They'd known each other forever; there was a slight age difference, but it meant nothing. She'd once had a crush on him back in school, but he'd always treated her like a friend. He'd never seen the beautiful woman she was, or maybe he had and just never let her know. It didn't matter.

"Hello, Elis," he replied, returning the smile and nodding. "Going shopping?" he asked, leaning on the rake.

"Yes. Can I buy you something?

" "Sure," he chuckled, "a surprise."

Elis waved and headed down the street to the only shop in their town. She entered to the sound of an electric buzzer and stood there, waiting for one of the salespeople to appear. What happened to the normal bells that signaled a customer's arrival? Those buzzers were like an alarm. A young woman emerged from the back room a moment later, handed over all the items the customer had listed and collected the money. Elis turned to leave and was about to press the doorknob when a shelf of neatly arranged paperbacks caught her eye. She walked over to it and began picking up the books one by one and reading the summaries. Finally, she decided to buy one and placed one of the romance novels in front of the saleswoman.

"I know I promised myself I wouldn't buy this anymore," she smiled at the young woman, "but what else am I left with but reading?" She slipped the Barbara Cartland novel into her shopping bag and, after bidding farewell to the saleswoman, found herself back on the street. She began slowly walking up the steep hill where her house was located, deciding to spend the promisingly hot day sitting in the garden and reading the book she had just purchased. She passed Hal's house, but seeing no one in the yard, she assumed her friend had already tired from work and gone to rest. Of course, she'd joke about it the next time she got a chance. She finally walked to the cart and went into the garden. The heat and the uphill climb had exhausted her, so she carried her groceries to the kitchen, poured herself a cold compote, and, with a glass in one hand and a book in the other, sat on a comfortable plastic lounger placed under a huge apple tree, casting cool shade. The armchair was her son's last gift, though she had the impression he'd brought it more for himself than for her, and when he was leaving, it simply wouldn't do for him to take it. She drank and set the glass down in the tall grass. She opened the book, still smelling of printer's ink, and immersed herself in a romantic, rapturous read.

She got up from her armchair late in the afternoon and, setting the book down on the seat, went home to make herself a sandwich. In this heat, the last thing she wanted to do was stand over boiling pots of dinner. She entered the kitchen through the wide-open door and took out a loaf of bread, which she was about to slice when the sound of breaking glass reached her from upstairs. She froze, listening for another sound, but it didn't come. It's those cats, she thought. A cat had already burst into her house twice, once ripping the curtain from her bedroom, and once, even worse, relieving itself right on her neatly made bed. She quickly crossed the hall and began climbing the stairs, careful not to creak. Only a few more steps to the first floor remained when a disturbing thought flashed through her mind, stopping her in her tracks. What if there was a thief upstairs, what would she do? After all, she was an old woman, and a very thin one at that. She decided to call the sheriff; after all, even if the cats had caused some damage, at least the owners would pay for it. She was furious, thinking that the broken object was one of her favorite porcelain figurines she'd collected for so many years. She began to slowly descend the stairs, where the telephone hung by the front door, when she suddenly felt a cold, icy hand on her shoulder. She tried to turn her head, but before she could complete the necessary half-turn, the hand forcefully pushed forward, and the woman tumbled down the stairs like a rag doll, hitting her head painfully against the wall at the very bottom. She wanted to raise her hand, to scream, but she couldn't. Her limp body lay at the foot of her own stairs, only her thoughts racing at a startling speed. She lifted her bleeding head and looked up the stairs. There was no one there. Maybe she was imagining it, maybe she'd tripped and fallen. No. She knew she hadn't, because her arm was burning like fire. It was strange, but her arm was the only thing that hurt, and yet she must have bruised, if not broken, herself from the fall. She couldn't see anyone, but she felt a presence, the presence of something waiting for her death. She couldn't move her head, and that terrified her even more. She was almost angry with herself for not losing consciousness; she felt his joy. No, she didn't hear laughter, but she felt his satisfaction, like burnt milk on a windless day. There was no smoke, yet everyone knew that sickly smell that hung in the air and took a long time to dissipate. She smiled to herself, because really, what more could he do to her? She couldn't move, so her spine was probably broken, and yet she was already old and proud of how she'd lived it. She was no longer afraid. Now she only felt sorry for the unfinished romance that lay beneath the apple tree as old as she was. She smiled, closing her eyes and recalling all the happy moments she'd experienced. She didn't even hear the front door close, she was so happy. Friends were showing up,Her husband and parents, whom she hadn't seen in so long, were already waiting for her. She nimbly rose from the floor and moved toward them, stretching her arms out in front of her. After a moment, she touched her husband and pressed her cheek to his face, the face of the man she loved most in the world. She felt his hard beard and the strong arms of a lumberjack enveloping her. She looked into his eyes, but not those ravaged by a long illness, as cancer ravaged his body, but the sparkling, young eyes of the twenty-year-old boy she had fallen in love with. She looked at her hand, free of wrinkles and all the age-related spots, and was happy, so very happy. She passed away without looking back and without regret. She left her grief to the living, who don't know how beautiful it is here. How beautiful!

Two

The sun was too bright even for this time of year, but that didn't deter dozens of people who, individually or in groups, sat, lay, or strolled along the yellow sand of one of the vast lake's small beaches. Children, with joyful, if somewhat overly loud, cries, plunged in and out of the warm water, splashing everyone within a reasonable distance. Barbara, like other beachgoers, lay in a skimpy swimsuit on the sun-warmed, golden sand, enjoying her favorite sunbathing session. Recently, there had been increasing talk of skin cancer, which can be caused by sun exposure, although the dozens of people always present on the beach whenever the day promised a sunny one, suggested otherwise. Besides, she had never smoked, because it was so harmful, so she decided she could afford to inhale the sun, even if it wasn't healthy. She felt the sun, like a tender lover, caressing every inch of her body, feeling its delicate fingers glide over her concave stomach and its touch on her muscular yet surprisingly slim thighs. Years of working at the gym, first as a client and then as an instructor, had given her a figure that even nineteen-year-olds envied. She didn't look her thirty-six years, and she didn't have all the predicted wrinkles that would appear as the sun dried her skin. Her complexion was still smooth and delicate, and her thick, long hair fell in delicate curls over her shoulders, her back always proudly straight. She smiled, remembering the glances she received everywhere she went. Both those of admiration from men and those of envy from their wives or girlfriends. She stood up and brushed the tiny grains of clinging sand from her body. She walked to the lake's edge and dipped her foot. The contact of her sun-warmed body with the cold water sent an unpleasant shiver. She glanced at her watch as she sank deeper and deeper, feeling the tingling sensation on her skin shift with the water level. It was twenty-five past two. The gym was supposed to open at four for those who wanted to relieve stress on their way home from work, so she only had a few minutes to swim, dry off, and head back to town. For a moment, she wondered if she really wanted to get wet, and decided it would cool her down after hours spent in the sun. She began swimming, leaving the screaming children and their shouting parents on the beach. Eventually, she left behind the braver swimmers who had ventured into the deeper water. She turned onto her back and looked back. The beach was now a thin golden line, along which swarms of tiny people moved. Here, silence reigned, broken only by louder, completely incomprehensible cries coming from the beach. Barbara lay down on the water and let herself,A gentle wave rocked her body, carrying her toward the shore. She closed her eyes, feeling the sun begin to caress her body again, and the water simultaneously cool it pleasantly. She drifted, thinking about the upcoming evening rendezvous with her boyfriend, whom she'd known since high school. It was strange that a woman her age had a boyfriend, even though all her classmates from school were already married and had children, yet she'd known Dan for so many years, and they'd been happy together for so many years. Perhaps that was why they'd never decided to get married; they were afraid of losing something, of something suddenly going wrong. She began swimming toward shore, using her hands to help herself, when something cold brushed against her foot. She curled her leg, then straightened it again, laughing at her reaction to the touch of a passing fish. This time it wasn't a brush, but she felt cold fingers tighten around her ankle. She jerked her leg in growing panic, and the pressure subsided. She began to move her arms and legs faster, eager to reach the safer, shallower water, or even better, the beach. A slippery, cold hand reached for her ankle again and gripped it tightly, causing pain. Barbara jerked her leg, but this time the grip only tightened. She opened her mouth to scream, but instead of hearing a scream escape, she felt water rushing straight down her throat. Terrified, she began to cough, momentarily forgetting the grip that was crushing her leg. She began to swim, trying not to use her immobilized leg, but instead of getting closer to the shore, she found herself moving further and further away. Panic began to seize her. The tense muscles in her arms flailed the water with redoubled force, but to no avail. The hand pulled, and she found herself completely underwater. At the last moment, she gasped for air and, wide-eyed, searched the greenish water for whatever had gripped her leg. She saw nothing. She kicked with all her might, trying to hit her unseen attacker with her free foot. The pressure eased slightly, so Barbara shot out of the water, gasping for air. A moment later, her hand pulled down again, and the woman found herself submerged again. A greenish glow was all she could see. She struggled, but she couldn't free her ankle. She swam, pulled deeper and deeper by an invisible force. With each passing second, it became harder to hold air in her lungs, aching from the exertion. Bubbles from her suddenly open mouth floated merrily to the surface, and her lungs screamed in silent agony as water began to fill them. Her wide eyes misted over, and the motionless woman sank lower and lower toward the bottom of the tank. Her hair, stirred by the gentle current, became less and less visible in the water, which was darkening with each passing moment. Nothing hurt anymore, but she was afraid, terrified. She couldn't see or feel, yet somehow her brain continued to work.Unaware of how long this had been going on, the dead woman lay in a panic at the bottom of the lake long after her lifeless, swollen body was found and buried in a nearby state cemetery.

He

ran like a hunted dog. His feet, shod in heavy leather boots, sank into the dusty dirt. He looked back, but saw no one. It was getting darker, and he ran, eager to get among the trees of the nearby forest. He reached the first trunks and, without looking back, ran into the dense forest darkness. With his scarred hands, he pushed aside branches, tearing through the undergrowth. He felt their eyes on his back. He was afraid to look back, afraid to see the barrel of a gun aimed at him. He didn't want a bullet to take his life. He didn't want anything to take his life.

"Tony," came a voice. He looked around without slowing down. "Tony!" The voice was clearer, and he knew where it came from and who it belonged to. It was his mother calling his name inside his head.

"Didn't I tell you it would?" He heard that grumbling voice that had been present throughout his unhappy childhood. Though truth be told, he didn't hear the voice the way he heard the cracking of branches under his boots; he felt it. The voice was simply there, and nothing could drown it out, like when, as a child, his mother had drunk too much and started shouting at him, he'd covered his ears with his hands. Unfortunately, his mother had noticed and beaten him severely. For weeks, the bruises reminded him never to cover his ears. He never did again, though sometimes he sincerely wanted to.

"Why don't you live like a normal person?" The voice thrummed in his brain, rising and falling. "Why didn't you live the way I raised you?

" "You raised me," he blurted out. "When? In those moments when you woke up hungover in the morning and went to the store to buy another bottle of vodka?" his mind screamed, but his silent mouth only sucked in and out with a hiss.

He stumbled and almost landed among the broken branches. He was saved from falling by one of the trees, which he leaned against painfully, grazing his right shoulder, and then fled into the darkness. He felt the sweat pouring from his eyes, obscuring his already poor visibility, so he wiped his forehead with his hand.

"You should be a good boy," he felt the words flood his mind again. "You shouldn't hurt anyone or cheat. Tonny, what happened to you?" The question hung like a heavy, dusty curtain after a long-overdue performance.

"Stop!" he shouted. "You'd better help me, because I don't have the strength to run anymore," he pleaded.

"No!" came the curt reply. "It's your own fault. How many times have I told you you'd end badly with those friends?" His voice became more unpleasant and harsh. "And when they told me you were dealing drugs, then..." his voice trailed off, "that was the end."

Tony jumped a small fire ditch and ran into a clearing. He crossed it in a few long strides and ducked back into the bushes. What she said was true. He knew it was true. His mother, who had been drunk all the time, who hadn't cared what her son did as long as he went to school, had suffered a massive stroke upon hearing of his arrest for drug dealing and died in the arms of the police who had brought her the good news before the ambulance arrived. Tomy felt guilty for her death; he wanted to get out of the business, but he couldn't. He was so in debt that he had to continue his business as soon as they released him from prison.

"It's not my fault, Mom!" He'd wanted to say it so many times, so many times he wanted to shout it over her grave, but he couldn't. Until now. Now he would say anything, just to have someone stop these killers who were about to kill him on the orders of his own boss.

"No?" The question was short.

"I'm sorry." His mind whispered. "I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't mean to. I really didn't."

A sudden silence fell over his head, only to be filled a moment later with voices he hadn't heard in years. Someone shouted his old nickname—Captain. He hated that nickname, which had followed him throughout elementary school. First, they'd said Mommy had swum again, and then it had just been Captain, well, much shorter and more convenient. It stuck to him like a bottle to Mom, and it hurt, hurt so much, because it reminded him every time of what awaited him back home.

"Captain! Captain! Captain!" Some voices only whispered, others screamed heartbreakingly, desperate to be heard. He raised his hands and clasped them over his ears, but the din in his head continued. More and more voices joined the others. Suddenly, he stopped. Everything around him spun. There were no more voices, nothing but a dead, almost tangible silence. He stood, completely unaware of what had happened.

"I told you it would be like this—it's his mother, she's back again." He smelled the heavy perfume she wore to mask the smell of the alcohol she'd consumed. He stood, though he wanted to run. He couldn't move his legs.

"My poor boy," his voice was almost sympathetic now.

Tomy looked down and, with horror, discovered the reason for his sudden halt. A shiver ran down his spine, and this time, cold sweat poured over his body, exhausted by the flight. He stood staring at the thick branch that, emerging from his stomach, was rooted in the ground. He couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him; he felt no pain. It couldn't be true. He moved his body, but still couldn't move. He felt the blood flowing rapidly from the wound, running down his legs, and he saw it staining his white trousers. He heard the snap of a twig behind him. "It's them," his mind screamed, "Mom, help me. I don't want to die."

He felt cold, turned his head as far as his immobilized body would allow, but saw no one. He was afraid to speak. Afraid to move. The paralyzing fear that gripped him had nothing to do with the people chasing him. Now he was afraid of the one standing somewhere in the darkness. Afraid of the icy gaze he felt on his wounded body. This was someone far worse than his pursuers. This one didn't just want him dead; this one wanted his soul, his fear.

"Please..." he began to say, but the blood gushing from his mouth prevented any further words from escaping. Besides, there was no point in asking. He understood this, and began to shake. The pain from the wound was finally reaching his brain, and Tony felt a flame growing in his lower body. He wished he had a cannon with him; at least it wouldn't hurt so badly. He felt something hidden in the shadows slowly circle him, watching him all the while. He looked through the dark undergrowth but saw nothing. His legs grew heavier and heavier. He no longer had the strength to support himself and hung helplessly on the pole, as if on a hook, causing wave after wave of unimaginable pain as his insides torn apart. He lost consciousness, yet he was aware of someone's presence. He felt nothing but excruciating pain and fear of the danger lurking in the darkness. He began to scream silently, giving vent to the panic that was growing with each passing moment. His body hung limp, moved only by the slightest gusts of wind, and he was afraid, so great was the fear that finally his aching wound ceased to mean anything to him. He wanted to die and finally stop being afraid. He prayed for death, even though his rotten body, discovered by a mushroom picker, was laid to rest in a cheap coffin next to his mother's.

Four

As usual, she sat silently by her daughter's grave. The cemetery had become her second home, one she visited daily. She always sat on the same bench and thought back to when her only daughter was still alive. Sometimes she whispered to herself, but she never spoke to anyone or responded to the occasional greeting. She loved her child deeply and couldn't come to terms with his sudden death. Sixteen years had passed since a drunk driver hit her then-ten-year-old daughter on her way home from school. And fifteen years had passed since Joe, her husband, had passed, but she seemed oblivious to the passage of time. It didn't matter, nothing mattered, as long as she could come and talk to Pamela every day. She knew that, come sun, rain, or snow, her little girl would always be sitting in her pink summer dress on the cold gravestone, always smiling as she saw her mother approaching from the path. Joe didn't understand this; he had come to terms with Pamela's death, not coming to her grave, even though she told him her daughter had asked about him, but he only shouted at her and locked himself in his study. So many times she wanted to hug him when, sitting at night outside the closed door of his sanctuary, which after Pamela's death had become his studio, she heard him sobbing and wailing. The driver was locked up in prison, though he was probably free by then. And Joe? Joe, from what she'd heard, had started a new family and now had two children, with whom he was probably happy again. She was angry that he had forgotten Pamela so quickly, that he had moved away, that he had gone away and never visited their daughter's grave.

"Mommy," the girl's soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Yes, honey?" she said, lifting her head and smiling at the sitting child.

"I'd like to swim in the lake, it's so hot today," Pamela said, but she didn't move from her usual spot at the corner of the monument.

"Not today, maybe tomorrow," the mother replied, looking at her daughter's pale cheeks. A passing man glanced at the woman dressed in black, sitting alone, repeating only intelligible words to herself, and brushed past as if afraid that madness might be contagious.

"Why won't Janet come to me?" Another question arose. "I haven't seen her in so long. You said she'd bring me lessons.

" "She can't come," the woman replied. "She has pneumonia and isn't going to school yet either."

She approached the child and sat down beside her on the monument. She smoothed the girl's wind-blown hair and unwrapped the corner of her pink dress.

"Mommy," the girl began, looking pleadingly at her mother.

"I'm listening.

" "I don't want to stay here overnight, I'm scared. It's so bad here without you. Do you have to go home? Take me with you."

The woman examined the girl's face and wiped a tear that had formed in the corner of her eye.

"You know that's impossible," she replied, looking the child straight in the eyes. "Mommy will stay with you until tonight and come back first thing tomorrow, okay?

" "Okay," the child replied, and, resting her head on her mother's shoulder, began singing an old song she had learned in kindergarten. The woman wanted nothing more than to take her beloved child home, but as soon as the little one jumped off the monument, she disappeared and didn't reappear until the next day. The woman took a comb from a small bag and began combing the girl's light blond hair, which reached halfway down her back.

"Will you braid my hair?" she asked suddenly, turning her head.

"Do you want to?

" "Yes," came the curt reply, and the girl returned to her song.

"When will you come see me?" the girl asked, and the woman immediately knew that the little girl wasn't interested in such a daily visit.

"I don't know," she replied. "I really don't know." "

That's a shame."

She was Catholic and afraid of committing suicide. She believed she would be reunited with her daughter after death and didn't want to risk committing such a grave sin. She had considered this step so many times that now she no longer felt like thinking about it. She braided the girl's hair in two braids, singing songs with her, then sat on a bench and told her what was happening in town, recounted the last episode of her, or rather, their, favorite TV series, and gazed at the setting summer sun. The girl began counting the petals on the roses in the vase, so the woman began her daily prayer, asking that a merciful God would put a drunk driver in her path, or do something so that she could be reunited with her daughter. If she prayed, it was for that alone. She couldn't ask for anything else; nothing else mattered as much to her. Her daughter was the only person she had left and whom she loved. She adjusted her long black dress and checked the time. It was almost seven, so the sun would soon be setting, and her little daughter would disappear, only to reappear tomorrow around noon. The girl stood up and stood in the center of the monument, playing with her freshly braided hair with one hand and plucking at the delicate roses with the other.

"I have to go," she said, looking at her mother.

"I know," the woman replied sadly. "But don't worry, we'll see each other tomorrow.

" "Are you sure you'll come?

" "Of course, my dear," the woman assured her, rising from her seat and approaching the girl. "I always come."

"I love you, Mommy," the girl whispered, and jumped down from the monument, but before her feet touched the cemetery ground, her body vanished like smoke blown away by a sudden gust of wind. The woman sat on a bench and began arranging the toys she'd brought with her every day, taken out that morning, into her purse. Before she could even scream, someone who had silently approached her from behind dug in a sharp, clawed hand and grabbed her spine. She sat upright, unable to comprehend what was happening. The pain in her back radiated throughout her body, and the hot, dripping blood soaked her underwear and black dress. She wanted to scream from the pain and terror that began to widen her eyes. Suddenly, she felt a terrible coldness in the wound, as if someone had frozen part of her. The pain vanished, leaving only fear. She didn't want to turn around; she was afraid of what lay behind her. She was sitting on a bench, her back rigidly straight, when she felt movement behind her. Someone began to walk around her, but without letting go of her spine. He held it like an actor holding strings to puppets during a performance, knowing that if he let go, the puppets would fall limply to the stage. She saw a face with a strange expression and eyes. Terrible, red, and burning with the desire to inflict death. She understood that she would perish, that nothing could save her. She looked at the grave where her daughter had sat moments before. The fear vanished as suddenly as her executioner had appeared before. She was no longer afraid. She felt a sudden sense of relief as she realized that her prayers had finally been answered, that she would soon be reunited with her precious daughter. How could she not rejoice, how could she fear this? She wanted to scream with joy. She saw Pamela approaching. For the first time since her death, the girl was walking on the ground, smiling, and holding out her hands to her mother. The woman felt a sharp jolt as the attacker ripped off a piece of her spine and threw it beside the bench as he walked away. The woman didn't even look in his direction, stood up, and began running to the child, eager to embrace her as quickly as possible. The limp body fell from the bench into a pool of her own blood just as the woman embraced her child for the first time in 16 years, kissing her cheek and holding her close. They slowly walked toward the cemetery exit, happy to be together again. The woman looked up at the sky, thanking God for finally taking pity on her, for the fact that she had her child again, and that the child once again had a mother who loved her with all her strength. She looked ahead with tearful eyes and noticed someone standing at the gate, waving at them.

"It's Grandma, Mom!" the girl screamed, and breaking free from her mother's embrace, she ran toward the approaching figure.

"It's Grandma," the woman repeated quietly, also starting to run toward her long-lost mother.

Five

Laughter, a cry of despair, the moans of a dying man—everything swirled in his head. He ran out of the forest clutching the bottle, tripped over a root, and fell. He looked down at his dirty hands clutching the neck of the bottle. He struggled to his feet and set off across the field, stumbling every now and then. He tipped the bottle over and felt the burning liquid pour into his stomach. In the distance, he saw his neglected house, its once creamy paint now peeling in patches. He smiled. His good eyesight was the only thing he had left. They even wanted to take away that dilapidated shack for some tax debt or some other damn thing. In fact, it didn't matter to him. As long as he had his bottle, he didn't sober up. So many unnecessary problems returned after sobriety, people's stares were so unpleasant, and now, now he didn't give a damn about anyone. He stepped out onto the road and looked back, certain someone was standing right behind him, but there was no one. He shrugged and stumbled, bumping into a roadside sign and splashing himself with vodka from the bottle.

"You can all kiss my ass!" he shouted, staggering down the road toward his garden. "You hear me! IN THE ASS!" he laughed, which resulted in drunken hiccups. He rolled through the always-open gate and onto the porch, slamming his body into the front door. The bottle flew from his hand and, with a tinkle of broken glass, rolled in small pieces down several stone steps. He didn't even look back; it was already empty. He hung onto the doorknob and burst inside, slamming the door. He went to the kitchen and picked up the half-empty dark green bottle from the corner. He put the neck to his lips and inhaled, savoring the wonderful taste of alcohol. He heard the gate creak. He walked to the kitchen window, which overlooked the front door, and peered out. A slim woman in her forties was approaching the door, avoiding the scattered glass on the porch. The drunk leaned out the window and exclaimed, "Oh! My greatest admirer!" with a crooked smile. For a moment, he lost his balance and seemed about to collide with the lawn, but somehow he regained his balance and waved the bottle at the approaching woman. He rolled back into the small hallway and stood in the doorway, preventing the woman from entering.

"What do you wish, Mrs. Roberts?" he asked, trying to be polite.

"Today," she began matter-of-factly, "is the deadline for paying off your taxes; otherwise, this house ceases to be yours.

" "Did you want to come here?" he asked, tipping the bottle. "Weren't you afraid to come here alone?"

"Mr. Rasmowski," the woman said, taking a letter from her briefcase and placing it on the floor in front of the house, "I informed you personally, and here I'm leaving a letter for you. Please read it or do whatever you like with it. This is the last time I'm here.

" "I don't give a damn about you all!" The man's outburst was so sudden that the woman took two steps back, then looked at the barely-standing drunkard and walked away quickly.

"You pricks, you can't do anything to me!" he shouted into the now-empty garden, but he was sure she still heard him.

He pushed the door with all his might, and it closed with a terrifying crack of splintering wood. If this wasn't his home anymore, why shouldn't he have some fun? He decided to start the fun in the living room. He turned and flew forward, landing on the floor, painfully hitting his head on a shoe rack. Someone had tripped him! He was sure he felt himself bump into someone's foot, but even drunk, he knew no one else was in the house. He heard faint rustling sounds in the kitchen. He started to stand, but dizziness forced him to stay there. The floor suddenly shifted, and all the alcohol he'd consumed rose to his throat. A shadow entered through the kitchen door and headed straight for him. He couldn't see who it was, because the blood from the head wound had flooded his eyes, obscuring his vision. He heard the heavy, old cabinet on short, ornate legs that had caused his head wound creak as strong arms lifted it. No, he thought, that wasn't possible. He remembered when he and his wife had moved in here. It wasn't some modern piece of furniture made of particle board, but a heavy wooden cabinet that he and a friend had laboriously placed in the house. He saw the shadow of the cabinet hovering over his body for a long moment, then crashing down onto his torso. Even before he felt the wooden leg sink softly into his flesh and heard the terrifying sound of his ribs cracking under the pressure of the wood, he felt a terrible, gripping fear. A wave of excruciating pain flooded his drunken mind. He couldn't see or hear anything, but he knew he wasn't alone in the house. He felt a presence, pain radiating throughout his body, and he feared what might come next. He feared what his pursuer might do to him now. He couldn't breathe. The crushed ribs had punctured his lungs in several places, and they were rapidly filling with blood, but he didn't even notice. He lay motionless, waiting for the next terrible blow. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could in terror, as if that would protect him from anything. He lay on the floor, lost in pain and desperate fear of the unknown, unaware that he was already dead, that nothing could happen to him. He constantly felt the menacing presence of the unknown killer, waiting for the blow that would never come.

Six

"I'm leaving!" the young man shouted, pushing open the front door.

"Bye," a voice answered from behind the wall. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow," he grumbled, and stepped out into the warm summer night. The streets were deserted. Everything seemed to be asleep; even the trash cans lining the street looked like giant gnomes dozing, awaiting the coming of day. The last customer from the restaurant had left about half an hour ago, but by the time Patrick finished cleaning up, it was terribly late. Sometimes he wondered if he should just leave it all behind, get on his beloved motorcycle and ride away. Where? As long as he had enough money for gas. No! He couldn't run away, he didn't want to start over again. He finally had a job, and a place of his own to live. Since he'd run away from home, he hadn't had even that. A cool wind blew lazily off the lake, so the night wasn't as stiflingly muggy as the last few. He walked over to his motorcycle and ran his hand over its chrome trim, which gleamed in the moonlight and reflected the faint glow of a few distant streetlamps. He started the engine, which began to purr softly as he prepared to leave. He headed down the street, enjoying the emptiness around him. He passed a laundry room, glowing with fluorescent lights, and wondered why anyone would need a public laundromat open 24 hours a day in such a small town, where almost everyone had a washing machine. He passed the town's only grocery store, long since closed, and drove up the hill, briefly glancing at the dark windows of the houses he passed. After a few minutes of driving, the buildings thinned out considerably, and he could finally accelerate without fear, feeling the wind flow over his body and ruffling his long-unguarded hair. He loved the feel of the Harley trembling beneath him and listening to its steady, quiet whisper. The only thing he loved, or rather, the only thing he owned, was that motorcycle. It was his only friend, the only family he desired. He never thought about his parents, left behind in Kansas. He didn't miss them, and he was more than certain that no one was crying their eyes out for him either. For him, the people he met along the way became friends, and he wanted nothing more. That was enough for him. From a distance, he spotted the whitewashed buildings of the farm where he lived. A light burned in front of the entrance, but the windows were dark, meaning the landlady from whom he sublet the small room had left the light on for him. He was very fond of the two people he was now living with; it was a shame they didn't have children, because they would surely have made wonderful parents. Not only did they charge a small fee for renting him a place, but the landlady often brought him various delicacies she had baked or cooked, and, like today, she left the light on so he could find his way home more easily. This was something completely unusual for him. These strangers showed him more care, perhaps even love, than his own parents. These people, without knowing why, cared for him as if he were a member of their own family and not a passerby,who only temporarily occupied the previously vacant room.

He noticed movement on the right side of the road, and a moment later, something small, speeding across the road. Patrick swerved sharply, and the bike began to tilt dangerously to the left. He missed a screeching rabbit, already disappearing across the street, and felt his knee begin to graze the uneven asphalt, and the bike, as if in slow motion, slipped away from him and lurched toward the edge of the road. He felt a searing pain in his leg and back, which touched the asphalt, as his body slid off the road and crashed violently into the roadside bushes. For a moment, he lay still, trying to comprehend what had happened. He understood. He had simply lost control of the bike and fallen, but he didn't seem to be hurt. He looked at his body and slowly began to move his arms and legs. He hadn't broken anything, hadn't hit anything, but the abrasions were stinging and bleeding profusely. He started to get up, but he didn't have the strength to stand on his left leg. Every attempt to set her down ended in sharp pain from his foot to his shoulder. His back wasn't doing so well either. He felt blood trickling down his buttocks and thighs. He hobbled across the street, searching for the motorcycle. It lay almost on the road. The chrome now shone through the black paint of the tank, reflecting the cold moonlight. The boy walked over to the Harley and heaved it upright. New fireworks of pain erupted throughout his body, exploding before his very eyes in bright tendrils of colored flame. He staggered, certain he would fall again, but he held on to the motorcycle with all his might and miraculously maintained his balance. His vision returned. He glanced around, for a brief moment he felt something approaching him at tremendous speed, filling him with irrational panic. He saw no one, but his mind, gripped by the fear that had just arisen, began to shriek, urging him to flee. He swung his leg over the seat for a moment, standing on his injured leg, and cried out in pain. His cry soared into the night like a bat, effortlessly dodging dark trees and soaring over vast fields. With trembling hands, he started the engine, praying it would start. The engine quietly purred. The boy slowly drove off, feeling the attacker's cold, death-promising gaze on his back, drawing closer. He accelerated, wanting to get away from the scene as quickly as possible. Firecrackers were exploding in his head again, making driving difficult, but without a backward glance, he sped down the road toward the nearby farm buildings. He was afraid to look back. Afraid of what he might see. He felt rage growing in the darkness as he quickly began to drive away from the crash site. The chase was over. Of that, he was certain. He no longer felt the same fear as when he realized someone, or something, was heading towards him, intent on killing him. The light from the lamp he'd left outside the house grew brighter, but it seemed increasingly blurry. Fear gave way to doubt that there was anything lurking there on the road.Maybe he was just imagining it. He pulled into the yard and stopped almost at the door. Feeling a wave of nausea creeping in and fearing he would faint right before the entrance, he honked the horn with all his remaining strength. A steady, loud sound shattered the night's silence. The world spun, growing darker and more blurred. He honked the horn again and fell limply, toppling the heavy motorcycle on top of him, but he felt nothing. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the terrified look on the face of his landlady, standing in the wide-open doorway.

He opened his eyes, people were there, someone had given him an injection, someone was saying something. He felt himself bumping over the bumps.

Silence. That was what he heard, if silence could be heard. He slowly opened his eyes. In the pale dawn, he looked at the blue hospital wall and smiled to himself. He was alive. It wasn't the heavenly blue of paradise, but the blue of the dirty hospital walls. He heard someone moving. Panicked, he turned his head toward it, suddenly remembering all the sensations he'd felt on the road during the night. He winced at the pain that accompanied the sudden movement. His housekeeper sat in a chair next to the bed, her eyes closed. She was asleep. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. He felt the blood pulsing rapidly through his veins, pounding in his temples. He began to calm himself, telling himself that everything was alright, that he was safer than ever, and he realized it was true. He believed it. He remembered that when he broke his leg at the age of six and was taken to the hospital by ambulance, his mother not only didn't go with him, but didn't even come to visit for a whole week. And here, sitting next to him, was a stranger who had stayed overnight in the hospital, worried about his health. He felt relief and joy. He had finally found the place he had been searching for so long. These people cared about him, he felt accepted in the town, he had a job and true friends. This was his home, and he fell into a peaceful sleep, knowing that when he woke up again, his friends would still be there, that they wouldn't abandon him, and he knew one thing: he would never abandon them.

Seven

The short but plump old woman ran her fingers through her gray hair and looked out the kitchen window. The sun was just beginning to set, and the sky shimmered with a beautiful pink and a blue that darkened with each passing moment. She felt Evil pressing in from the nearby forest. A sudden chill ran through her old bones, awakening the tiny needles of rheumatism, which began to greet her in their own unpleasant way. The woman closed the window, finished the tea in her cup, and went into the living room, turning off all the lights as she went. She sat down in the high, semicircular armchair placed next to the now-extinguished caraway plant and sat, staring out at the darkening rectangle of the window. He was close now; she had sensed him for several days, but never so clearly. Now she could almost hear the silent threat his presence brought. She heard the gate creak, then the soft creaking of the old, sun-dried wooden steps in front of the door. She had forgotten to unbolt the latch, but it was too late now; anyway, such a lock wouldn't stop him anyway. Slow footsteps creaked on the worn linoleum that lined the hallway. The woman looked away from the window and toward the door to the room. Suddenly, all sounds ceased, and an unnatural silence fell over the house. She didn't need to see to know where he was. She felt it as clearly as if she were looking at him on a bright, sunny day. It was already semi-darkness outside the windows, and only a single lamp burned in the entire house, its light filtering through the red fabric shade failing to dispel the darkness that was deepening with each passing moment. The woman didn't take her eyes off the door behind which the newcomer stood.

"Come in," her voice echoed calmly, filling the house. "You didn't come to stand behind the door, after all."

The door moved slightly, and in the dim light of the lamp, a tall, slender figure appeared, its eyes burning with hatred for all life. He stood there, staring at the woman with unblinking eyes.

"I knew you'd come here eventually," she said, looking at her uninvited guest. "I was sure this place would attract you," she said to the still motionless figure.

"What do you want?" she asked, though she knew the answer perfectly well.

"What do I want?" a voice rang out, sounding like a clap of thunder, piercing unprepared ears, yet not loud. This voice contained so much hatred, so much evil, carried so much threat that its sound could drive one deaf or mad. "You. I came here for you.

" "Why so late? I smelled you last Sunday morning, and you're only here today?" She looked him straight in the eye. "I was sure those pagan souls would attract your attention more quickly."

She saw a glint in his eyes, which had been completely still until then. Where her house stood, or rather, where her garden was, had once been a pagan cemetery, but that had been hundreds of years ago, and no one remembered it now. It wasn't in any official or church records. The small mounds that had hid human remains had vanished long before the first settlers arrived. This place held incredible power, and that was why her great-grandmother had ordered her husband to build a cabin here. Decades later, her father had expanded the cabin and equipped it with the modern amenities necessary for her and her mother to live like other people. Now she lived here alone, and all of this belonged to her, along with the nearby, sizable forest and vast meadows stretching for miles. Her daughter had gone off to college, found a husband, and now lived in Washington, raising her almost-grown daughter. The old woman knew, however, that when she died, her daughter would come and live in her house, that she wouldn't sell a yard of her land, and that she would care for them, ensuring peace for all these souls, as the women of her family had done for generations. She briefly glanced at the crucifix hanging above the door. The visitor followed her gaze and began to laugh hoarsely when he saw what she was looking at. He turned his head and stared back at the seated old woman. The room grew brighter, and shadows danced on the walls from the brightly burning cross hanging on the wall. The metal Jesus hit the floor with a thud at the laughing man's feet. The woman quickly rose from her chair and threw a small black stone, clutched in her fist, at the newcomer. There was a whoosh, and the stone struck the man squarely in the chest, passing through it and striking the corridor wall, landing on the floor. The visitor looked at the large, smoking hole that had formed in his body and howled. His voice swirled and rose higher, though it seemed impossible. The woman tried to raise her hands to her ears, but a powerful impact threw her over the small table and she fell with a thud onto the carpet, hitting her head painfully on the floor. She looked at the spot where the evil had stood moments before, but now there was no one there, only a pitch-black stone lying on the imitation wood linoleum. She felt a terrible chill creep over her left arm, so with a sharp yank, she ripped her arm away. She reached for the stone, which, with a soft scraping sound, returned to her grasp. She felt a hand tighten in her hair, threw the stone behind her, and heard the hiss again as the bullet connected. The pressure eased. She rose to her knees and, wasting no time getting up, turned to face her attacker. This time she hit him in the leg, causing the newcomer to lose his balance and end up on the floor.She raised her hands to her neck and quickly pulled off the chain with the medallion hanging from it. On her knees, she crawled toward the writhing creature and threw the necklace around its neck, praying her throw would be accurate. She stepped back and began to rise from her knees, smelling burning flesh as the chain began to melt into the writhing flesh with a sickening hiss.

"I'll kill you, witch," her guest hissed from the clouds of stinking smoke surrounding him. "We'll meet again, and then I'll kill you. "

The woman stood motionless, her hand on the back of the chair, watching the creature writhe on the floor.

"You might," she said quietly, "but not today. Certainly not today. Go back to where you came from." She turned away from the still-writhing, smoking, inert mass and opened the window, releasing the acrid smoke outside. A moment later, she heard the clatter of a metal medallion as it fell to the floor. She walked over and picked it up. She wiped the metal on the blanket lying on the chair, marking it with dark, greasy streaks of soot. She headed for the bedroom, eager to finally sleep soundly for the first night in a week where she didn't have to stay awake waiting for him to finally visit. Now she could rest in peace until the next time someone careless, or obsessed with the desire to inflict pain, summoned the Evil One back to earth. She turned around as she left the room and looked at the soot-covered floor and the scattered piles of ash. She'd clean this up in the morning. Now she'd sleep. She yawned and smiled to herself as she headed for the bedroom.