The Hole in the Wall*

***

Olya’s parents were artists. When the crazy 1990s hit, they were living in Omsk, and the situation was dire—people had no time for paintings, many didn’t even know what they would eat tomorrow. Because of this, Olya’s childhood passed in constant moving: they agreed to any housing available, whether it was an overcrowded communal apartment or an old studio belonging to an artist friend. All those places blended together in her memory into one endless stream; only small details remained, like a plastic spider on a curtain or the intricate pattern of wallpaper. But there was one apartment Olya could never forget.

She was about four years old then—at least, she clearly remembered that she couldn’t reach the sink to wash herself, and her mother would place a stool for her. And every time, awkwardly balancing on that stool, she tried to finish washing as quickly as possible and climb down, because under the sink, in the wooden wall, there was a small hole. No, icy grave-cold air didn’t come from it, and there were no rustling sounds, but being near that hole felt uncomfortable and frightening. Without knowing why, Olya was firmly convinced that children lived in the hole. Those unborn children whose place she had taken by being born. And they were very angry with her for it.

Years passed. Olya’s family moved many more times until things finally improved and they could afford a place of their own. Olya grew up, and that hole in the wall remained just a childhood fear, something not worth remembering. Only occasionally did she marvel at how bizarre a child’s imagination could be. After finishing school, she enrolled in a university in Moscow. Her parents gave her some money for the first few months until she could find a job, and the girl left for the capital.

Finding a rental apartment wasn’t particularly difficult. After celebrating her housewarming alone, Olya began cleaning her new home. A whole pile of useless junk had been left behind by the previous tenants, and cleaning took more than an hour. Finally, when three huge bags of old trash were stacked by the door, she remembered that she hadn’t checked the trash bin. As in most Russian homes, it was located behind a cabinet door under the sink. Sure enough—dried orange peels and eggshells lay at the bottom of the bin. Squatting down to take out the bag, Olya flinched. Behind the bin was a hole, large enough for even a dog to crawl through. Peeling green paint around the edges and a black maw leading who-knew-where.

The first thing Olya thought of was a rat hole—she was panic-stricken by rats and mice, and the realization that such creatures could be nearby filled her with genuine terror. Hastily emptying the bin, she shoved it back and slammed the cabinet door shut. Barely aware of her actions, she grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and placed it in such a way that a rat wouldn’t be able to open the door from the inside with its weight. It was too late now, but tomorrow she would definitely have to call the landlady and ask about the hole.

On the way to the trash bins outside, Olya wondered where the hole might lead. Most likely to the basement—the apartment was on the first floor, after all. That thought didn’t make her feel any calmer. And only as she was falling asleep did she remember that apartment in distant Omsk with the terrifying hole in the wooden wall, where the unborn children had languished. At night, in an empty apartment, the story no longer seemed like a childish fantasy. Cursing herself with every word she knew, Olya somehow managed to calm down. A few minutes later, she fell asleep.

She dreamed a strange dream, as if she were sitting in a small, completely dark space. Suddenly, a creak sounded above, and in the darkness appeared a spot of light—at first dim, but then growing brighter, as if whatever had been blocking the light had been moved away. And then, a moment before waking, a face appeared in that spot. Despite the bright light, Olya recognized her own features in it.

When she opened her eyes, Olya couldn’t immediately understand what was wrong. The dream had undoubtedly frightened her, but there was a feeling that she hadn’t woken up because of it. A moment later, she realized—there was knocking coming from the kitchen. Beside herself with fear, she clutched the blanket and listened, afraid to even breathe. The knocking repeated, stronger this time, and then there was a real crash. It sounded like a chair had fallen. Olya sprang up as if stung and climbed onto the windowsill with her feet tucked under her, wrapping herself in the thin blanket. The noise in the kitchen continued, and among the strange rustling sounds she made out soft slaps, like the patter of small bare feet. The slaps were getting closer, and Olya felt like she was about to lose consciousness from terror. She couldn’t even move a finger. The little steps stopped at the entrance to Olya’s room, and a small figure appeared in the doorway. The light from the streetlamps outside was enough to see it clearly. It looked like a child no more than a year and a half old, as if it had only just learned to walk. But there was no trace of babyish plumpness. A scrawny, dirty little body and an enormous head that seemed grotesque, completely bald. The child, with eyes like saucers, stared at Olya and opened its wide mouth. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was its sparse but long teeth.

Olya came to on her bed. It was the middle of the night. The pillow and sheets were soaked through with sweat.

Just a dream…

Olya let out a relieved breath, but the fear didn’t leave her. Tomorrow morning, first thing, she had to call the landlady immediately, let her—

Her thoughts were cut off by a loud knock and the crash of a chair falling in the kitchen.