Each of us gets to know people who may only exist in our lives for a short period, while others… may manage to contribute to the beautiful story of our lives. We who should never forget who we are, let's not forget how special we are.

They say that our lives are defined by the choices we make. But most of us forget an essential detail… We forget that we have the right to choose a friendship, a love, or to choose a new beginning.

Are we wrong when we think we could achieve the destiny of our own life, without a single mistake? And yet mistakes do not appear by chance...In fact, they give the entire outline of our lives…they teach us that from a disappointment a new beginning is born but above all that each person means something special, through everything that he is through the naturalness of recognizing that no matter how much we would like to control the things in our lives, we end up getting lost in the details and staying put.

God, what if we forgot for a few moments that we are adults and let that child inside us come out after being lost in solitude for years..It will be like that.

I drink my coffee on my little terrace in the middle of nature and take some notes. Thoughts invade my mind..I feel joy, reconciliation and contentment, but I also feel pain and I can't stop smiling and tears flow down my cheeks. Time heals our soul but memories remain locked in the pantry of the mind.

Beautiful people, through the steps of life, you want to practice your own waltz, but you must not forget that you may be the ones who start the first steps, someone else must outline them and both of you define them. Therefore, do not refuse to combine your own steps with someone else's… you do nothing but dance alone endlessly but you will never know how to truly waltz.

The universe of dreams represents a world in which all our desires become possible. The world of dreams is the one created by ourselves and it depends on the creativity of each creature.

I dream of souls communicating with each other, guided by the force of love. I don't want golden things or the moon and stars in the sky. I don't think I'm a foolish romantic if I want to know my heart is safe.

Beautiful soul, don't give up believing in love. But learn to fight, to trust your strengths, and to understand that every challenge that comes your way in life is actually a chance for love.

My dears, I am a collector of emotions. I collect them one by one and place them on the shelves of my soul, hiding them from the occasional illusion merchant who appears on the Alley of my Life.

I love the man shaped by life's trials, and you love the woman I became by making mistakes and learning. Forgive me for not knowing that your soul was waiting for me at another station…I would have come earlier…but I would have been wrong, wounding your pure soul with the claws of my inability to love you as you deserve. But you need to know one thing…I won't let you go too soon..I will love you for a while as I know how, but don't be scared, I won't hold you back for life..You are free in your choices.

When you learn to observe your emotions without identifying with them, something essential emerges: freedom. The freedom to remain yourself, even when your insides are in a storm.

Let the storm wake me up and shout at me that I have the right to be a happy woman. Let the thunder scold me for lying in dead thoughts for so long. Let the lightning scare me, so that I no longer allow dryness to enter my soul. We have the right to life, we have the right to love. We have the right to heal ourselves at least with memories.

I choose to get rid of people who pretend to be what I am not. I refuse to respond to unfounded criticism, to empty words, because this consumes my energy… energy that I could spend constructively.

Reja 35

Have you ever had a dream so real you didn't know if it was really Morpheus's embrace? Certainly. It happened to me too. Let me tell you before you fall asleep. Or maybe you'll wake up? Never mind, there have been many legends and tales about it. Silence! Don't even murmur, or I'll order you to rip your hearts out! What are you looking at? Do you think that without ordering me to gouge out your eyes, you can stare impudently? NO! You don't need eyes, do you know why? Of course you don't... Someone once coined a beautiful metaphor, mind you! I quote: "eyes are the mirror of the soul." My smile frightened you, yes, it's sincere... painfully so, ha, ha, ha, painfully so... Don't fidget! None of my knots, ever, as far as I can remember, and I remember a lot, have managed to break free. Do you know why? You don't know... So once calm, or rather shock, has taken hold of you, I'll begin my monologue...

It was the summer of 2005. I don't remember the exact date, but what does it matter? I was on a seagoing cruise on the Baltic Sea...

***

On a small, seagoing Reja 35 yacht, nicknamed "Desire," something was about to happen that its eight-person crew, including the captain, would remember for the rest of their lives, if such an end exists...

Everything pointed to another ordinary Dog Watch, one from midnight to four. A few minutes after the head of the officer from the previous watch disappeared below deck, the starry sky instantly turned black, and the smooth surface of the water turned to fog...

***

As I recall, we were sailing near the Christianson Islands. I told my companion to maintain the chosen course, but he said the compass was starting to go haywire, and the GPS was slowly calculating, one degree at a time, from 270 to 360, or zero, whichever you prefer. We were supposed to sail west—course 270, but we couldn't because the compass was spinning in circles, and the GPS was stuck on zero—north. I won't explain exactly why both instruments weren't going haywire at the same rate, but that's not important; what matters is that nothing was working properly. At first, I thought it was another variation in the Earth's magnetic field, so I went below deck to make a correction on the map...

***

A young, gray-eyed, long-haired blond man, dressed in thick fleeces and wellington boots, disappeared below deck. In the navigation cabin, he grabbed a map and tried to correct the boat's position and make a logarithmic correction. In the "Notes" section of the logbook, he noted the malfunctioning of the deck instruments. Unfortunately, even the computer, which was used for various tricks to aid in the yacht's control, was not working. They were at the mercy of the weather and bad weather, as even by the stars, nothing could be determined. They were nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, he returned to the deck to inform his companion of the situation. They were motionless relative to the water, because the saliva spat over the side stayed with it, not moving towards the stern – the back of the boat. However, the speedometer indicated they were moving at an astonishing thirteen knots, which, with their current sail area, was impossible, even in a storm and at full speed, with this boat, it was unattainable.

"Did you turn the rudder, did you try to maneuver anything?" – The blond asked his companion sitting at the wheel. He was also blond, but with short hair and green eyes. Due to the low air temperature, he also didn't hesitate to wear a thick layer of fleece. He didn't reply. "Łukasz! Why aren't you answering?" The gray-eyed man noticed, despite the almost perfect darkness, his companion's gaze focused on a point somewhere, far away, ahead of the bow of the boat. Surprised, he approached him and nudged his shoulder, but he remained unchanged. "Hello, is anyone there? Earth to Łukasz, over!" The blond waved his hand in front of his friend's face. No reaction. He became frightened and backed away from his friend. He didn't know what to do. He went below deck and tried to wake the captain, but the captain only snored harder and turned his back to him. A moment later, he realized that everyone was sleeping like the dead and that he wouldn't be able to wake anyone. Disoriented, he returned to his friend. He sat down on the port side and focused his gaze once again on where Łukasz was looking...

***

From that moment on, all I remember is bliss. Yes, it awaits you too, it will spoil the surprise, and I'll try to describe this unearthly feeling. Oh, please, I see the spark in your eye... Okay, I'll take you first, but now listen... I couldn't see anything because I was blindfolded, feeling as awkward as you are now. My hands and feet were tied tightly to the pole, my mouth gagged. I listened. Something cold, sending shivers down my spine, flew past me. Noiseless, just that low temperature... I must have been sweating, because something cold wiped my forehead, something like a hand. It stopped at my left ear. The other one slipped under my fleece. It moved upward, towards my nipples on my chest. A finger circled one, then the other... Cold, my whole hand pressed against my belly. Cold, I concentrated solely on it. A hand to my ear pulled my head back by my hair, and I began to gasp anxiously. Near my neck, I felt a chilling sensation, certainly not breath, then a sting and pleasure, a hellish pleasure. Everything that had been cold began to burn. The knots loosened, I tensed all my muscles, straightened like a string, moaned as if climaxing, and... I woke up with ragged breaths, but I didn't open my eyes yet, as if waiting for it to happen again. I quickly rubbed my hand across my neck, but there was nothing there. The fleece was intact, like the shirt in his pants, and it stayed that way. I looked around. Łukasz was sitting as if nothing had happened, steering. He no longer had that passive look; he was behaving as he should. I straightened my numb legs and asked him what had happened.

***

"What was that?!" Gray-Eyed Man jumped to his feet.

"What's wrong? Dymek, calm down!" It's just a dream," Łukasz laughed.

"What course are we on?"

"Two hundred seventy-two, two hundred sixty-nine, two hundred...

" "Okay, come on, I don't care about general errors," Dymek interrupted his friend. He just laughed and looked at his watch.

"You'll replace me soon. My time is running out, you take over.

" "This dream is strange...

" "Stop thinking about it. Sit down, I'll put on some water for tea.

" ***

I took over the helm. By the end of the watch, we each drank two cups of tea. Before going to bed, I noted our position in the logbook and noticed something that really worried me... In the "Notes" section was my note about the instruments. I went to bed anxious. I didn't tell anyone what had happened. As if nothing had happened, I lay down on the forward bunk, commonly known as the Brothel Bunk. I was lucky, because only three girls slept there. I couldn't go to my room because the officer from the previous watch was sleeping there. Everything gets mixed up at night. Never mind, I liked it then... I allowed myself to be carried away by my dreams. I don't know what to call it, but "dreaming" is probably the best word... So I dreamed that we were sailing into a huge, beautiful, richly decorated salon. There were little angel figurines everywhere, and various landscapes were painted. Only I was on board; Łukasz was mesmerized. He sat there just as he had before I woke up. The boat docked. I was the only one who jumped out onto the polished floor, reflecting everything like a mirror. I remember being captivated by the decorations. I loved them, almost enchanted. I approached each little angel, each painting. As I walked further down the columned corridor, away from the yacht, I felt a growing sense of calm and composure. Something unusual caught my eye. It was an urn, one for the ashes of the deceased. It was the only thing completely covered in dust...

***

Smoke rubbed the tablet, and to his surprise, the date was written on it: 1830. He couldn't remember anything about that number. He'd always been terrible at history. He walked around the urn; there was no name anywhere. He looked at the wall opposite the urn. On it was a portrait of a woman in uniform, her hair blowing in the wind. He wanted to get closer, to see who it was. He took a step toward the painting when the figures' eyes began to glow, their faces took on a pale expression, their mouths opened wide, baring long fangs, and their slender hands transformed into paws with sharp claws. When the beast tried to leap at the boy...

***

I jumped up with a scream. I woke the girls. They asked me what had happened. I told them about my dream. One of my friends, Majka, may her soul rest in peace... reminded me that 1830 was the date of the November Uprising. Then the painting and the inscription in the lower left corner—Emilia Plater—froze before my eyes. I whispered the name. The other friend, a beautiful blonde with sea-blue eyes, flinched. I noticed it. She put one arm around me and told me to sleep. I lay down, and she snuggled against me... I'll never forget it, it was extraordinary... She snuggled into my shoulder, but I couldn't fall asleep. I thought about this painting and this urn for a long time, and in general, this night was still long...

***

Dymek fell asleep for the third time. This time, he stood in front of the painting, without a single figure. It vanished. He turned around. Next to the first urn, a second one appeared, undated. He approached it. It wasn't dusty; on the contrary, it reflected rays of light of unknown origin. The boy decided to return to the yacht. He couldn't see it anywhere. It seemed to him that the room was shrinking, pushing him towards the urns. Everything was gone. Only the columns and the two urns remained. The lid had fallen off the first, dusty one. Something like a ghost had flown out. The vessel fell, shattering. Instead of broken porcelain pieces, aspen pegs lay on the floor. Dymek walked over to them and picked them up, one by one. He held eight of them in his hands. He heard the scraping of feet behind him. The woman from the painting stood crouched behind him, sad and huddled. She looked at him with her auburn eyes and seemed to be crying. She gestured to the urn, on which the date appeared – 2005. A moment later, a second and third appeared, the same. The fourth, last one, was unsigned. The boy couldn't understand, he was frightened, his gaze returned to the girl and whispered...

***

...Mom! I couldn't understand why I'd said it, that's all, just: Mom. I ran to the woman, lost the stakes, I only had two left, one in each hand. I threw myself around her neck and hugged her tightly...

***

"You're choking me!" the sea-eyed girl screamed. Smoke opened his eyes. He loosened his grip.

"I'm sorry, I think I dreamed about my mother..."

"Of course, your mother, she came." Majka joined the conversation. She was lying on the other side of the boy. Despite the darkness, madness was visible in her eyes. Her smile, that smile, betrayed her. She bared her long fangs and tried to lunge at the boy. Her eyes blazed red. She grabbed his arms, tried to dig her claws into the boy's shoulders, but he felt something hard in his hands.

***

I drove two stakes into her simultaneously. I hit her in the heart. Her eyes instantly went out, something fluorescent, like a ghost, flew out through her eyes and ears, dancing above her for a moment, then spinning in a circle in the air and disappearing. Before the glow vanished, Majka whispered, "Forgive me. I forgave you." Afterward, everything happened so quickly. I don't remember how I killed my second friend, no, not the one with the beautiful eyes; she did something else. She gave me pleasure. Something infinitely better than the first experience with the cold figure. The beautiful-eyed one no longer burned; she melted me like hot coal melts steel. Yes, I was breathing raggedly, as if I'd been given an unknown drug. I thought my heart would burst, and those nails were digging into my back! Yes, I moaned with pleasure, I screamed, I saw stars in front of my eyes, billions of them, more than in the sky, finally an explosion, something like lightning, and after that I don't remember anything...

***

When the beautiful-eyed girl tore her bloody lips from his neck and crawled out from under him, she rolled him onto his scratched-up back. She slightly parted his lips and looked at them with eyes as red as a dim inferno. Her expression was sympathetic, as if she felt regret. Like a lover, she traced their line with her fingers and placed a gentle, gradually deepening kiss on them. The boys on the current watch burst into the cabin. They were alarmed by the noise coming from the forward cabin. The sight they found terrified them. Two girls were dead and one kneeling beside a deathly calm boy. She kissed him. She withdrew her head, and a trickle of red water flowed from her lips. It disappeared behind her nightgown. She looked at the intruders. Her eyes burned again, and she smiled devilishly, but she didn't attack. The boy opened his eyes, jumped up, thrusting his chest out in front of him, and tried to take a breath. He swayed sideways. After a few moments, his eyes burned with a fiery glow, and he automatically turned toward the boys and lunged.

***

I killed them quickly and without a second thought. The entire crew. Only she remained. When the bodies were overboard, she approached me. She looked wonderful, walking almost naked, covered only by a light nightgown. Her eyes were burning, but I knew they were the color of the sea. She threw her arms around my neck and whispered, "Hello, my love, now we'll always be together. Come, come, I'll introduce you to our mother." She took my hand and led me onto the deck. Even though I was wearing only the torn T-shirt I'd slept in and shorts, I felt no cold. I saw that I felt nothing. Nothing... I saw the floating corpses of my friends, expressionless eyes. I saw clearly, even though there was no moon—a new moon. Their eyes, they had such empty eyes... soulless. Ha, ha, ha! Now you know why I say you don't need them! See, see what's standing here? Two urns. Why are you looking at them like that? There were four? Yes, there were four, but there are only two, because my two friends... yes. An urn breaks when one of us dies. Why doesn't Mother have an urn? She doesn't need one, she lives in the minds of other people. She's written into so-called history... Yes, I know, you want to know why her... Simply put: haven't you ever dreamed of anyone? What? Vampires? No... we're not vampires, hmm? What are you thinking? What? WHAT?! Not what, WHO, you understand, WHO we are! We are what physics says doesn't exist in the real world. We are literary fiction, and you will become one too. Mother, Beauty, allow me here. This person must be written into the pages of legend... Before you close your eyes and surrender to fantasy, see, see, your urn appears. Now sleep, sleep, but be careful, for sleep may wake you...

Diary

"I should kill you for agreeing to this shortcut.

" "Come on, Mark, it's not as bad as it sounds."

"Isn't it bad? Isn't it bad?!? Instead of walking on some dirt road and simply complaining about the heat, we're making our way through a forest that, instead of thinning out, is getting denser. And it's all thanks to you. 'Let's go this way, it'll be faster. Black, dark forest, the two of us in the middle of nowhere, the girls with John by the car, what could possibly go wrong?' God, I wouldn't have even left a water pistol with John.

" "You just left so much more.

" "I know, and I'm starting to worry about it. I was so stupid to listen to you.

" "You always say that right after you agree to my ideas.

" "I'll never do that again!"

"I've heard that a few times before," Chris countered every argument from his friend with natural grace.

"Seriously, what do we do now?" Do we go back the way we came, or continue into this thicket that will lead us who knows where?

"I think we need to move forward. We're not going to return to our girls empty-handed. We'd look like idiots, and thus admit they were right that this shortcut wasn't a good idea. And I can't afford such an insult." As usual, Chris's pride triumphed over common sense.

"You say idiots..." Chris responded to this sarcastic comment with a genuine smile, then moved forward in the direction they had been heading. Indeed, the forest was becoming denser. The trees they had previously passed within a few meters seemed to be drawing closer together. The sun, which had so recently penetrated the forest without any hindrance through the sparse canopy, now had trouble penetrating the foliage. The upside was the sudden coolness. The shade provided wonderful relief. They had been walking slowly for about thirty minutes when Mark suddenly stopped and began looking around anxiously. It took Chris a moment to notice that his companion wasn't following him. He turned casually and approached his friend. He seemed to be searching for something, but his gaze was distant. It was as if his mind were wandering in a completely different world, hundreds of miles away.

"What happened?" Chris snorted heavily. Unfortunately, he got no answer. He tried again, but this time there was a hint of curiosity in his question. "Mark, what's going on?

" "Can you hear?"

"What am I supposed to hear?

" "Can you hear?" Mark persisted.

Chris couldn't hear anything at all. He thought it might be from exhaustion and thirst, which were slowly starting to make themselves felt. He drew in as much air as he could and, holding his breath, began to listen. He focused all his attention on what had clearly captured his friend's attention. When he began to run out of air, Chris gave up and, breathing heavily, broke the silence:

"I can't hear anything.

" "Exactly, me neither. Don't you think that if we were in the middle of the forest, we should hear something? I don't know, animals, birds, the sound of the wind, something?"

Chris pondered his friend's words for a moment. There was something to it. They were surrounded by emptiness. It was as if they were standing in a bubble of air, separated from the outside world by some invisible wall that impervious to sound. Neither of them remembered when they stopped hearing the sounds coming from the forest. Or maybe they weren't there at all, they just hadn't noticed. But Chris decided this wasn't the time or place to build a sense of dread. He took another deep breath and shouted, "

HAAAALOOOOOO, YEEEEESTTT ...

Within minutes, they were suddenly blinded by the sun. The light was unbearable after the darkness that reigned among the trees. Both squinted and shielded their eyes with their hands. The brightness came so suddenly that neither of them was in the slightest prepared for it. Only after a short moment did their eyes begin to adjust. With the light came a heat. The air seemed to stand still. Both Chris and Mark began to look around to figure out where they were. They were standing in a small clearing. The forest ended there without any warning. Immediately, a structure stood several dozen meters ahead. Mark wondered how he hadn't noticed the building immediately. After all, it was the only significant thing in this empty field, nestled in the middle of the forest. Chris and his companion exchanged questioning glances, then set off briskly toward the cabin. They walked through the low grass, a pleasant change from the roots and branches of the forest. Along the way, they passed several detached, low trees. Not tall, of course, compared to what surrounded them on all sides. However, the closer they got to the cottage, the less joy they felt. They quickly lost any hope of finding the help they sought. The two-story house that now stood before them was made of wood and had clearly been abandoned for some time. There were no signs of life. Most of the windows were broken, and the remaining ones were very dirty and impossible to see through.

"We should go inside and make sure the farmer hasn't returned from his hunt yet.

" "I think we'll walk around the house first; if we don't find anything, we'll go inside," Mark replied. "I'll go to the right, you go this way."

"I don't know what you expect to find, but whatever you can do, you'll be fine." Mark took hesitant steps. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with this place. He'd probably watched too many horror movies as a child. But the feeling of someone watching him kept nagging him. He walked over to the window, which happened to have glass. He put his hands on the glass, put his head just nose-deep in it, and tried to see what was inside. He peered into the kitchen. He saw some old furniture, a scratched refrigerator, and a large round table, indicating that this room had also been the family's dining room. The refrigerator caught his attention; there were no high-voltage lines in sight. Apparently, there was a generator somewhere. In any case, the power was definitely off at the moment, and Mark had no desire to check what was inside the refrigerator.

"Mark!!!! You have to see this!!!" Chris's voice came from behind the house.

Mark immediately headed toward his friend. When he reached the spot, he saw Chris swinging on a small swing. He looked comical, but Mark wasn't laughing at all.

"Want to swing?" Chris laughed.

The swing he was on was handmade for a child. It barely supported the weight of a twenty-year-old man. Even though Chris was slim, he barely fit in the seat. This clearly began to bother him, because he scrambled out of it and onto his feet.

"I just found this," Chris pointed to the still-rocking, creaking swing. "Maybe you had better luck?

" "No, there was nothing at my place. Well, I guess we need to check for the owners.

" "You've got to be kidding. No one's been here in ages.

" "If you're so sure, I knock on the door and you talk," Mark replied sarcastically.

"You're acting like you're ten. And I'm starting to like it." Let's not go crazy. We'll go inside, find a few dead rats, and move on. And when we come back with the gas, we'll tell the girls we found a haunted house. What do you think?

"I like everything about it except the dead rats. Let's not waste any more time, let's see what this spooky castle is hiding."

As agreed, Mark knocked on the door. No one answered. Chris gently pushed the door open. It swung open. An unpleasant, rotten smell emanated from inside.

"Luckily, it doesn't smell like a corpse," Chris decided to break the tension.

"And how the hell do you know what a dead body smells like?

" "Remember little Timmy from fourth grade?

" "You mean Stinky Timmy?"

"So now you know how I know the 'smell' of a decomposing corpse.

" "You're right."

They both smiled genuinely, thinking back to the good old days. This moment of relief was much needed, because although they both tried their best to hide it, they felt uneasy about the situation.

Chris breathed a sigh of relief when he finally stepped inside. From the moment they entered this clearing, he'd had the feeling that this place was haunted. He'd never believed in ghosts; rather, he'd felt haunted by bad memories. Subconsciously, he'd felt that something terrible had happened here. But then again, that was a cliché. An abandoned house immediately evoked bad things. Maybe the owners had simply come to their senses and moved to a more civilized place. He hoped they'd find some answers inside. It would be even better if they found nothing and got out of this unpleasant place as quickly as possible.

"Man, I didn't want to say this, but I don't feel very comfortable here," Chris said, trying to get his friend to talk.

"I know what you mean. But since we're here, let's try to find out something.

In front of them were a tall staircase leading to the upper floor, and to the right was the kitchen. The main room was to the left of the entrance. Everything looked normal, except for the fact that it was very dilapidated and neglected.

"Hellooooo, sorry we came in like this, but no one answered our questions. Did we find anyone???" Mark kept his cool. However, as both intruders expected, there was no answer.

"We should look around. There might be gas somewhere around here.

" "You don't believe that yourself," Chris almost whispered. He wondered why he'd lowered his voice; no one could hear them. Mark entered the kitchen. The floorboards creaked under the weight of his footsteps, indicating there was an empty space beneath him. So there must have been a basement.

Everything looked unused for a long time. Dirty dishes lay in the sink, and the grime on them suggested they'd been waiting for a fresh wash for some time. Everything in the kitchen was covered in a thick layer of dust. The curtains, clumsily hanging by the broken window, appeared gray with age. An unpleasant odor, most likely emanating from the refrigerator, completed the picture, but Mark didn't dare look in there. He told himself it was because of the stench. He searched the cabinets briefly but found nothing but dirty dishes. Finally, he emerged from the kitchen, much to Chris's delight. Chris stood by the front door, prepared for a possible escape.

"Did you find anything?

" "No, let's see what's in the room." Mark emphasized the word "let's see."

Chris took the hint and followed his friend to the guest room.

The guest room was by far the largest room in the house. An ancient sectional sofa stood against the wall, which must have once looked impressive. But now, covered in cobwebs, it evoked only a feeling of nostalgia. Chris slammed his hand on the couch in the middle of the room, sending up a huge cloud of dust that rose to the ceiling. Chris choked.

"Let's get out of here, what are we still doing here?" he blurted out, exasperated.

"I don't know." However, Mark's curiosity got the better of him, and he decided he wouldn't leave empty-handed. "I'll check upstairs, and you see if there's anything else interesting here. Go down to the basement too.

" "No way, we go everywhere together."

"As you like." Chris's behavior was slowly beginning to tire Mark. The second floor proved to be very sparse. All the rooms were empty. Completely empty, without the slightest trace of furniture. Only the last, smallest one at the end of a long, dark corridor was the one Mark expected to find. The room was small, barely enough room for a bed and wardrobe. Next to the bed was a wooden cabinet. A dirty window stared out at them from the wall. Mark opened the wardrobe and found old, moth-eaten clothes. They were mostly dresses, a sign that a girl had lived here. The only remaining piece of furniture to be examined was a chest of drawers. This contained only a hardcover notebook. It was black; it had surely once held some ornate patterns, but time had taken its toll, and the cover was bare. Mark opened it without hesitation to the first page. There was only one word, but it was so telling: "Maggie." Many of the pages were torn out. Only scraps of paper remained at the center of the notebook. Finally, a whole page of text appeared. Mark glanced at it briefly and began reading. From what he could tell, the writing belonged to a young girl, so everything pointed to them being in the room where Maggie had once lived, and in his hand, he held her property.

"What is this?" Chris interjected, curious. "

It looks like a diary.

" "Read it aloud.This is the day. It's finally here. I've waited so long for it. Finally, my suffering will end, and I can escape from here. How much I suffered waiting for this day. But all that is in the past. I have to dress nicely for His arrival. He can't see me like this. What would he think of me? He wouldn't want to take me with him yet. I waited for Him all day, but He didn't show. I sat on the swing, watching for Him to emerge from the woods, but He didn't come. I have no idea why He did this to me. He promised that we would escape from here together today. What could have happened? Night is approaching, and he's still gone. He definitely won't be back. I'm terribly scared. Luckily, Lilly is with me, otherwise I wouldn't be able to bear it. She gives me courage. I have to go now, because the monsters will come soon, and it will start again. I'm so scared, I want it to be over. Why didn't he come?

"That's all there is on this page." Mark didn't even look at his friend.

"Do you understand any of this?"

"Let's see what happens next. Maybe something will become clear."

The day has finally arrived. I told Lilly to wait patiently, because He has to come eventually. Now, when He comes, we can leave here. We'll finally start a new life, see the world hidden behind these trees. It's high time to prepare for His arrival. He's still not here, but it's still early. He'll definitely come. Lilly's worried, but I'm sure she has nothing to worry about. I'm convinced He'll keep His promise and save me today. Why is He still gone? He knows what awaits me at night. How could He let this happen to me again? I've told Him how scared I am and how much it hurts. I've told Him so many times. He definitely won't come today.

- Next page.

Today is the happiest day of my life. The day He'll come to save me. I can't write much because I'm already late, and I long to hug Him. I hope this bad weather doesn't slow His journey. As soon as I see Him, I'll run out to greet Him. I don't worry about the rain; it's not a bad thing after all. Lilly's worried about her hair, but that's irrelevant to me. He's the only one that matters. It's getting dark, and He's still gone. I hope He makes it before the monsters come. Lilly has already started crying, and I'm starting to run out of energy to comfort her. He's gone. He's definitely not coming. I don't understand anything. Why...?

Mark began to skim through the pages. It was practically the same everywhere. He never showed. She was always waiting for Him, but He never came. But the monsters came every night. Mark sat on the couch, completely ignoring his friend. He didn't seem to understand.

"What's this all about? Who is He, who is Lilly, and who are these monsters? Why is it the same every day? It all makes no sense."

But Mark didn't think so. He sat focused on the couch, and everything began to fall into place. In his mind's eye, he saw Maggie, a little girl playing on a swing, waiting for someone who would never come. Living with the hope that the nightmare would end that very day. Living with the expectation that last night would be the last. But it was just another night, one of how many? Hundreds, maybe thousands? Mark didn't even realize the tears were streaming down his cheeks. Chris saw it, and his hair literally stood on end. He had no idea what was happening to his friend. He tried to find out, but Mark's mind was elsewhere. He opened the diary to a random page. He stared at the text, as if it held more secrets, waiting to be solved. Eventually, however, he gave up. He couldn't force his mind to continue, or his hands to turn the pages again. The heat was oppressive, and the thirst was slowly becoming unbearable. Just as he was about to put the book down, his eyes caught a sentence that hadn't been there before. Or perhaps he'd simply missed it in his whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

"...and they'll take me down again. It's so dark down there...

Down...? Down...?" Mark began to wonder what Maggie could possibly mean. It took him a moment to realize it. He was furious with himself for not thinking about it immediately. He felt a surge of new strength within him. He had to find out what had really happened here. He jumped to his feet and ran to the basement. He nearly broke his leg running, or rather, jumping, down the stairs.

The cellar turned out to be a small, dark room that must have once served as a firewood storage room. The only light came from a small window near the ceiling. Mark began to look around nervously, but the light that filtered into the building through the dusty glass was barely enough to make out the outlines of what lay around him. He needed more light if he wanted to focus on the details. As if on cue, a flash of light appeared behind him. He turned to look for the source of the brightness.

"It was standing under the stairs. I thought it might be useful," Chris said, winking at his clearly surprised friend.

Chris held an old kerosene lamp in his hand. His companion's face looked eerie in the light, which now cast dozens of shadows across the room. Mark had no idea how the device was still working, but that didn't matter at the moment. All that mattered was that he could now thoroughly explore the basement. Maybe not as he'd hoped, but he was certainly in a better position than he had been a minute ago.

"Give it," was all Mark could manage as he practically snatched the lamp from his friend's hand.

"You're welcome," Chris replied with a hint of irritation.

But Mark didn't notice at all. He raised the lamp as high as he could and began searching every nook and cranny. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for. After all, nothing significant could have survived after all this time. Yet he couldn't leave without making sure. Common sense told him that what he was doing was pointless, that he should go back to his loved ones, who were surely worried about him. But he couldn't stop searching. He felt he owed it to little Maggie. He knew exactly why it had shaken him so much.

"Did you find anything?

" "No, there's nothing here." There was weariness and bitterness in Mark's words.

"I told you to get out of here. Come on, we won't find anything here.

" "You're probably right."

As they were about to leave, Mark spotted something in the corner that didn't seem out of place. Right in the corner was an old, worn-out bed. He slowly approached it.

"What happened again?" Chris was clearly fed up with this search. Mark placed the lamp next to the bed. The mattress was dirty and worn. Springs were sticking out in two places. But that wasn't what caught his attention. The wall next to the bed was completely scratched. The boards were gouged by human hands. It was as if someone had tried to use their fingernails to climb out of the basement. Mark also noticed dried blood, which was definitely the result of scratching skin and nails. How desperate do you have to be to do something like that? What must you be going through to try to escape like that? Mark already knew the answers to these questions. He couldn't stand being in this house anymore. Still clutching the diary, he ran outside. He ran to the nearest tree, leaned against it, and began fighting off nausea. A moment later, a disoriented Chris caught up with him.

"What's going on? You're pale as a sheet. You look like you've seen a ghost! Mark, what happened? Please answer me!

" "You still don't understand?" Mark shouted through his tears.

"What are you talking about?

" "There were no monsters, do you understand?"

"I don't understand anything, and if you do, spit it out because I'm sick of all this!

" "Those monsters were some kind of person. I don't know, maybe even her father.

" "Whose? Maggie or Lilly?"

"Maggie!! I don't know who Lilly was. Maybe her younger sister, I have no idea.

" "You don't mean to say that..." Clearly, the truth was starting to sink in. He swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. His shirt was sticking to his body, and insects of all kinds were circling him, waiting for a chance to catch their prey. "Who was this mysterious someone who was supposed to save her?"

"I don't know, but imagine living the same nightmare day after day, endlessly. Finally, you escape into a fantasy world, a world where rescue arrives and everything ends well. And then comes a terrible awakening and a return to reality. That little girl woke up every morning hoping it was over, and every day she experienced the bitterness of disappointment. And then the night came... We can't even imagine what she must have gone through. God..." Mark stopped, his voice breaking into sobs.

Chris didn't know what to say. It was all too much for him. It was like a bad dream that someone was about to wake him from.

"What do you think happened to her?"

"I don't know. I really don't know." Mark continued to cry. "I just hope it didn't last long and whoever was doing all this to her took pity on her and ended her suffering."

"Isn't there anything in the diary?

" "The diary ends the same way it begins." There's only one small difference, and it doesn't bode well.

"What does it say?

" "See for yourself."

Mark, his hands trembling, handed the diary to his friend. "

It's a good thing it's that day. Either way, it'll all end today, because I can't stand it any longer. If only he'd show up as promised. He's still gone. How I long to hug him. I want to feel the warmth of his body so badly. Is that too much to ask? At least a little gentleness, a little tenderness. I so desperately want to stop being afraid of the coming darkness. I always shiver with fear when the sun goes down. I'm so afraid of the dark. It's a shame the sun doesn't shine all the time. It would be so much better. That's how it should be. Once we escape from here, Lilly, I won't let it ever be dark again. I promise you that, little one. He didn't come, it's over. I know it. I know I can't stand this night anymore. There will be no more pain or fear. Goodbye, Lilly."

Chris stood, still staring at the diary. He realized that tears were welling up in his eyes as well. He wiped them away nervously and decided to get himself cleaned up as quickly as possible.

"I'll go turn off the lamp. I don't think we want to burn this house down. Although maybe it would be better that way." He wanted to say something else, but saw that Mark wasn't listening at all. So he headed toward the house, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath.

Mark watched his friend disappear into the building. He knew exactly what had shaken him. He had never allowed himself to think that anything could happen to his beloved little sister. He saw her clearly now. Small, smiling, laughing, playing with her friends. Only occasionally did she look away from her peers to give her brother a smile. He wondered why his sister was able to enjoy her childhood while Maggie had suffered such a nightmare. Who really decides our fate, because clearly, it wasn't us?

Chris finally emerged from behind the door. He cursed under his breath and brushed the cobwebs from his head. Mark was slowly coming back to himself, but he knew there was one thing he would never be able to forgive himself. A sense of relief that it was someone else, not his sister, who had endured such a nightmare. He knew Suzzie was safe now and surely enjoying herself. He was grateful to God for that. As he read Maggie's diary, he only briefly considered that it could have been his sister, and that it was a good thing it had fallen on someone else. It was like a flash of light, like the blink of an eye, and yet it was enough to trigger a pang of guilt. He tried to convince himself that it wasn't so bad, that anyone in his position would have thought the same, but it brought no relief.

"I see you've pulled yourself together," Chris continued, as Mark didn't respond. "You really scared me. How are you feeling?"

"We won't let Maggie's suffering be forgotten."

Chris wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind. He decided silence would be the best comment. He helped Mark to his feet, and the two of them set off back home. Neither of them even looked back at the house that had come their way.Epilogue

There was no sign of the guests. Everything seemed to have returned to its former state. The house was still deserted, the birds sang in the trees, and the wind began to howl through the trees. It had definitely cooled down. Dark clouds had appeared in the sky. The kind of clouds that foretold a storm. Soon, rain would fall and soak everything. The roof was probably leaking and would flood the entire interior again. But the girl sitting on the swing didn't care at all. She was swinging, holding a badly damaged doll in her hands. She was swinging, waiting for Him.

You are driving straight

You drive straight ahead, past the first set of lights, the second, and then a right. You can't miss it, because the second set of lights is that restaurant we went to once, the one where you loved the shrimp. Then you take the main road for a few blocks. You drive, turning on the wipers because it's raining, ignoring the traffic lights because they're off at night and just flashing. You just have to drive straight ahead. You can turn on the radio, which will play some very slow jazz. You'll glance in the mirror and see that there's nothing behind you. Neither behind nor ahead. You're alone on the empty streets. You can feel at ease, but don't speed up. Drive calmly, without stress. It's raining, so there's no point in getting carried away. You start to wonder how it is that I'm gone, that only the memory of shrimp remains. You don't like fish, but you've grown fond of me. You have no sense of direction in the city, but thanks to me, you've learned. You decide not to cry, but the tears start to flow. You're furious. You turn the wipers on high and curse under your breath. Or rather, you shout that you don't care, that you don't want this anymore. You bang your fist on the steering wheel, but the honking horn adds a touch of humor. You honk again, and again. You start laughing. Slowly, you start laughing, and you laugh harder and harder, simultaneously, unconsciously accelerating. I told you not to speed up, but you couldn't hear me laughing. You laugh loudly, and you're already going over 60 km/h. The wipers are going like crazy. Rain is lashing furiously against the windshield. And you laugh. You laugh. And in that laughter, at the last moment, you spot a car. The first one in several minutes. The first one moving, which, pulling out of the subordinate lane very quickly, hits you. You notice it and instinctively press the brake pedal all the way down. Instinctively, you turn the steering wheel and instinctively, you press your left foot against the wiper. You start to skid. You're sliding sideways through the intersection. The car swerves around. It swings around twice and stops behind the intersection, directly in your direction. For a moment, you stare at the windshield wipers, whirring furiously. You grip the steering wheel and watch. Then you feel your foot pressing the brakes start to hurt. Rain drums dully on the hood, and you glance in the mirrors, seeing that nothing happened, that you'd somehow just missed the other car. Turning off the wipers, you slump back in your seat. For a moment, you want to think it was a close call, that it was so close, but then it occurs to you that far, far too much separated you, your car, and your damn memories. You get angry again, blaming me again. You curse under your breath again, and as you press the accelerator, you look at me with a look I wouldn't exactly like. You give me a contemptuous look. As if you wanted nothing to do with me. But you do. You have it, my love, you have it, and there's nothing you can do about it. You ate shrimp there with me. You enjoyed that moment. Like so many others. And then it all ended,Because everything comes to an end, and only you decide whether you treat it as a lesson, a tragedy, or, as I would recommend, a delightful comedy. No, you don't want to hear it. You rip my photo off the cockpit and throw it out the open window. It calms you down momentarily. But only momentarily. Because the tears are coming again. You don't want them, but they are. You try to calm down, but you only swerve to the right. You try to wipe your face with the back of your hand, but you accidentally turn on the windshield wipers. You try to laugh again at the horn, but this time there's nothing funny about it. You realize the futility of this driving. You say loudly that you have to go back, go home, so you swerve again, right, and right. You blow your nose into a tissue you've dug out of your bag and, with a forced smile, you shout that you'll handle it all. But seeing the symbol of the inverted yellow triangle, you already know that compliance isn't your strong suit. So you accelerate. Accelerate. Accelerate. You hope you might hit someone. That in the loneliness of the night, you'll hit someone equally lonely and it'll be two birds with one stone. Two birds with one! You laugh and accelerate even faster. A wolf's sated, a sheep's whole, which adds to the gas and a truly insane laugh! In March, you're laughing like a pot of steam, and as you enter the main street, you slam straight into the car on the left. Instinctively, you press the brake pedal all the way down. Instinctively, you turn the steering wheel, and instinctively, you press your left foot against the windshield wiper. You skid. You glide sideways through the intersection. The car swerves around. It swerves twice and stops behind the intersection, directly in the direction you're traveling. For a moment, you stare at the maddeningly frenzied wipers. You grip the steering wheel and watch. Then you feel your foot, pressing the brake, start to hurt. The rain is pattering dully on the hood of the car, and you look in the mirrors and see that nothing happened, that by some miracle you passed that car.That in the loneliness of the night you'll hit someone equally lonely and it'll be two birds with one stone. Two birds with one! You laugh and accelerate even faster. The wolf is full and the sheep are whole, which adds to the gas and a truly insane laugh! In March, you're laughing like a pot of steam, and as you enter the main street, you slam straight into the car on the left. Instinctively, you press the brake pedal all the way down. Instinctively, you turn the steering wheel, and instinctively, you press your left foot against the windshield wiper. You skid. You glide sideways through the intersection. The car swerves around. It swerves twice and stops behind the intersection, directly in the direction you're traveling. For a moment, you stare at the maddeningly frenzied wipers. You grip the steering wheel and watch. Then you feel the foot pressing the brake begin to ache. The rain is pattering dully on the hood of the car, and you look in the mirrors and see that nothing happened, that by some miracle you passed that car.That in the loneliness of the night you'll hit someone equally lonely and it'll be two birds with one stone. Two birds with one! You laugh and accelerate even faster. The wolf is full and the sheep are whole, which adds to the gas and a truly insane laugh! In March, you're laughing like a pot of steam, and as you enter the main street, you slam straight into the car on the left. Instinctively, you press the brake pedal all the way down. Instinctively, you turn the steering wheel, and instinctively, you press your left foot against the windshield wiper. You skid. You glide sideways through the intersection. The car swerves around. It swerves twice and stops behind the intersection, directly in the direction you're traveling. For a moment, you stare at the maddeningly frenzied wipers. You grip the steering wheel and watch. Then you feel the foot pressing the brake begin to ache. The rain is pattering dully on the hood of the car, and you look in the mirrors and see that nothing happened, that by some miracle you passed that car.

Epilogue

He'd been lying there for about half an hour. A dull, excruciating pain spread throughout his entire body. He regretted every movement, even the slightest muscle twitch, but he refused to give up. The gash across his abdomen stretched from his groin to the point where his ribs converged inward to meet his sternum. At this point, the torturer had to stop cutting, as the blade, slicing through the tissue, grated against bone.

His body, pumped with adrenaline, clearly decided to help him fight for his life. Because fear and pain were causing his blood vessels to constrict to prevent excessive blood loss, he was conscious. Slowly, he scooped up the dripping entrails from the floor. He didn't want to look at them, closing his eyes and feeling the soft, moist organs slipping beneath his fingers.

"He'll kill the bastard! And those two bitches too. They don't know who they've messed with, they don't, but they'll find out!" He'll kill you!" He gritted his teeth, clenched in pain and anger. His heart pounded with the frequency of a jackhammer, and his breathing became increasingly short and shallow. Once he had pushed everything back into his gut, his narrowed, nervous eyes searched the room for help. His eyes landed on the bed against the wall, just within arm's reach. He propped himself up on his right elbow and practically roared in pain. The noise of startled crows perched on a metal drainpipe drifted in through the open window. They smelled the meat and awaited a buffet of sorts.

"You won't be disappointed! You scavengers will be disappointed," he said, his voice breaking. He reached out and grabbed a white sheet, which immediately turned a vibrant crimson in that spot. He exhaled with a whoosh and, gritting his teeth, wrapped the makeshift bandage he'd just acquired around himself several times, tucking one end deep into the waistband he'd created, like the end of a towel after a bath. Within seconds, blood had soaked through the cotton. The most important thing for him now was to get out of this place.

It felt like an eternity, though in reality he'd only been crawling for five minutes, and only half a meter separated him from the open door. He grabbed the doorframe and, with great effort, slowly dragged his two-meter-long frame from the house to the porch. The glare of the sun, just above the edge of the trees, pierced his dilated pupils. On the wooden platform in front of the house, where he now stood, lay an old broom. He tucked the flat, frayed-veined part under his arm and slowly, painfully, tried to rise to his feet. First to his knees, then, holding onto the wall and resting on a supposedly new crutch, he put one foot down. The pain made him want to howl, but survival was paramount; he had several matters to attend to. He wanted to keep his cool at all costs. He put his other foot down and, shaking, straightened his legs at the knees. A wave of heat surged through his body; it felt as if it had emerged from the floor and surged towards the top of his head. He only realized how much blood he must have lost during this entire time. He was already on his feet, so he could have escaped, disappeared among the trees; the forest was so dense that nothing could be seen a meter deep. But the desire for revenge, the desire to make up for the wrongs done to him, the desire to shed blood.

"That bastard must have taken them to the hospital," he thought, and apparently he had. On the sandy road, in the setting sun, he spotted the tracks of a large off-road vehicle. He slowly followed the trail, knowing he would find them there. After twenty minutes of walking, when the gray light turned to complete darkness and the stars appeared in the sky, stumbling, shivering from the cold and the terrible pain that tore through his body and surely his mind, he began to doubt. He still had a long way to the hospital, and he was clearly losing strength. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon.

"You're here!" he whispered softly. The glow of car headlights emerged from around a bend in the road, but it wasn't coming any closer; the car must have been stationary. Encouraged by this, he approached and saw him kneeling by the side of his Land Rover, apparently changing a tire. The executioner was so absorbed in his vehicle that he didn't even notice the bloodied figure approach the hood of the car, and despite his wounds, it appeared like a shadow behind him.

"You came back to finish me off?" The car owner was very surprised, even stunned. He dropped the wrench he'd been using to tighten the last wheel bolt. Without turning around, he reached for his belt, where a large hunting knife was attached, but he was faster, despite the pain and the restrictive sheet, he was faster. He grabbed the wooden handle and plunged the gleaming blade into the man's throat. "Now you know what that steel tastes like. Pleasant?" he whispered in his ear as the man, wheezing and spitting, tried in vain to draw air through his slit throat and slumped to the ground against the bodywork. Two more. He got into the vehicle, the keys inside, started the engine, slowly turned around, and, kicking up a cloud of sand on the road, sped off towards the town, leaving the body lying there. Now he knew his revenge would be fulfilled, that his shame would be washed away and his honor restored; it was only a matter of time and a few kilometers.

When he reached the suburban hospital, he parked in front of the emergency room. Apparently, there weren't many patients or calls that night, as no one was around. He quietly got out of the car and noticed that the bumpy road wasn't doing him any good. He was bleeding heavily, unsteady on his feet, and felt himself weakening. It took him a moment to gather himself. He headed for the entrance. He passed the building's large, automatic glass doors and found himself in the main hall, the only things moving there were himself and the current in the power lines that fed the fluorescent lights, casting a pale, weak light down the narrow corridor. In the dim light, he saw a sign on the wall, shaped like a curved arrow, with the white lettering "Treatment Room." He knew they would be there; they had to tend to the wounds. As he turned the corner, his gaze swept along the floor to the end of the corridor, where, on the perfectly polished marble floor, stood two bright red girlish shoes, then white socks, then a red skirt, a red coat, mouths parted in surprise and disbelief, terrified eyes, and… …and a red hood covering her head.

“She must have twisted her back, after all, it took me a little longer to process her.” A thought flashed in his mind.

“One less.” He fell to all fours, unsheathing his razor-sharp claws, and baring his fangs. He summoned the last of his strength and, foaming, flooded the room with a monstrous roar that perfectly matched the girl’s scream echoing off the walls. She dropped the basket; she had nowhere to escape, trapped by the walls surrounding her, half-covered in green paneling. In four powerful leaps, the shaggy, wounded and enraged beast quickly covered the twenty meters that separated them.

What happened next? No one knows for sure, but you can be sure he got his revenge. Jesus, how he got his revenge, how he regained his honor and pride. Only the policemen who found the body in the forest probably know. There are even legends about how she suffered, supposedly banging her head against her knees and eating her own feet to die faster, but he wouldn't let that happen.

So, dear reader, always make sure you finish what you start.

Schizophrenic Tale

I

"Deep inside somewhere..."

This singing woke Karol from his sleep.

"Shut your mouth!" he said to Jarek.

"What, you don't like Brodka? She sings really well.

"She might, but you're off-key like Grandpa Adam's transformer!" Karol yelled, but he was actually glad his friend had woken him up. "We finally came here fishing, and I fell asleep," he muttered to himself like a lunatic.

He'd noticed that lately he'd been talking to himself more and more often, conversing, and conducting profound scientific arguments, just like now. He had no idea what was causing this condition. He suspected delirium. He even seriously considered quitting drinking.

"I'm only 19," he declared, observing the float, "and I'm definitely not delirious! And besides, it probably manifests itself differently!

" "Who are you talking to?" –Jarek asked, although lately he seemed to have gotten used to his best friend going completely crazy. –If you want to cheer yourself up, look at that woman across the pond, she's hooked her fishing rod on a tree for the third time, idiot, hehe.

Jarek croaked like a frog and then shouted at the top of his voice to the woman he was watching:

– Are they biting? What are you fishing with for ticks? – he shouted, still croaking.

– Fucker! – Karol announced to him. – We're going home, it's as boring as mass!

– Okay, man, I'll take you, but is tonight on?

– You mean our ambitious plan to get drunk and wake up in an unknown place? Of course it is on!

– Well, that's sweet. –Jarek was still croaking, but he rubbed his hands together at the thought of another drunken evening.

II

Entering the house, Karol had only one thought in his mind, in fact, that was all he'd been thinking about lately: suicide. This act had planted its seed in his head after his girlfriend's death, and recently, that seed had begun to grow. His entire life had been a room, empty because he lived alone. He'd moved out of his parents' house last year; they'd sent him money, most of which he'd spent drinking anyway.

He loved being alone, like now; there was no better moment for him than the moments spent alone. He imagined the door, always taking a long time to open it, but when he finally did, he found himself in a different world, happy again with Kasia, as alive as when they'd first met, before she'd taken drugs. They'd spent the most beautiful moments together, holding her hands and smiling... He'd give anything for one of her smiles... But then he'd open his eyes and find himself back in that same dark room.

He reached for a cigarette. He couldn't even remember when he'd started smoking, but lately, nothing had cheered him up like a Pall Mall in his mouth. He inhaled so deeply that he felt dizzy. He cried, as he did every day.

With every drag, he remembered Kasia. He'd never loved anyone so much in his life. He remembered when they'd met – he was a party animal, a sixteen-year-old, an ordinary boy, a typical average guy. She was beautiful, intelligent, and could have anyone. They'd met at Jarek's party, and Karol was making bets with his friends. Who could drink the most? As he put it, "a fucking drunken party." Kasia just watched. He looked at her, their eyes met, and that was all he thought. He'd had a crush on her for a long time, and all his friends knew it; back then, he couldn't hide his thoughts. After that very ambitious competition ended (that is, after he'd puked), he returned to the others and, he doesn't even know when, he started talking to her. It happened; it was probably the chemistry Karol never believed in. They became inseparable, and probably, as Kasia's friend Ania used to say, "They would have a nice, shitty house and a slew of insufferable brats." If it weren't for THIS!

His depressing thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing, but instead of answering,

Karol lit a second cigarette.

He would remember this day forever.

They were supposed to meet as usual—in front of her apartment building. He'd arrived full of hope. He was ashamed to admit it to his friends, but she hadn't given him one yet. Karol saw Jarek coming out of her apartment building. "What the hell is he doing here?" he asked himself, but he didn't really care. Kasia was late, in fact, she'd been late for the first time. A few months later, he wondered what had happened that day, because it had never really sunk in. Someone called. He couldn't remember who. All he said was, "Kasia's dead, she'd been high." He felt awful, he felt it was because of him. The funeral, the rest of the time he had left after her death—all of it seemed like an illusion. But it wasn't, he was sure of that.

Now he sat in this empty room and felt terrible. He lit a cigarette and ran out of the apartment.

Five minutes later, Jarek knocked on his door. "

The shepherds have arrived in Bethlehem! Open up, the bars are waiting for us!"

Jarek yanked the doorknob, and to his surprise, the door was open. He burst into the apartment, looked around.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, and flew out into the street.

By this time, Karol was already in the park and had no idea that his entire life was about to change... Karol sat down on a park bench. At

that

moment, even the best psychiatrists and psychologists wouldn't know why he had done it. Why he had even come here. Sitting with a cigarette in his mouth, he looked like a bum—in fact, he had looked like one lately, hadn't shaved, and had completely lost all self-care. Someone who didn't know Karol might have said he was crazy, and truth be told, they wouldn't have been far wrong.

"What am I going to do now?" he asked himself aloud.

"With what?" he heard a slightly drunk male voice. Karol shot out like a slingshot.

"Who's here?!?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry I scared you," Karol said, dumbfounded. He was faced with a tall, dirty man with an axe in his hand. "My name is Jasiek Tomicki," the man continued. Karol shook his hand but continued to stare at him with those eyes he always considered pretty. That was until a certain girl he was trying to pick up said she had "eyes like insulators from poles." "

Do you have any fire?" Karol heard, then tossed the matches to the guy he'd just met, who had already sat down on the bench next to him. "

Excuse me for asking," Karol began. "But what do you need that axe for?"

"Well, you see... I'm a lumberjack. " "A

lumberjack?" Karol said in disbelief. "Why are you wandering around here with an axe when there are no forests here?"

The lumberjack glanced at him, and Karol noticed that the man he was talking to had a funny-looking nervous tic—his jaw was shifting slightly to the right.

"And how is it possible that half of Poles don't realize they constitute 50% of the population?" the lumberjack asked, his jaw dropping open.

"I have no idea," Karol replied, surprised

. "So don't ask me such stupid things!" the lumberjack shouted. "Tell me, why are you sitting in the park in the dark? Do you want some psycho to attack you? You can't be sure of anyone these days, Mr. Lumberjack, you know!" the lumberjack informed him like a teacher. "

I'm sitting here because my life is shit!" Karol announced . "

An axe!" the lumberjack shouted, making an incredibly stupid face.

"What? What axe?

" "I said an axe?" Jasiek added, making another stupid face. "Why would I say that when we're talking about something else? But talk about your problems, you know, sometimes strangers can help each other a lot," the lumberjack declared, his jaw dropping to the right.

"I've been thinking about death all the time since Kasia, that's my girlfriend, she...

" "Shut up, you idiot!! Axe!" Jasiek roared like a fool.

"Hey! What's wrong with you roaring like that?" Karol asked, but he began to seriously wonder if his interlocutor was completely sober.

"Am I roaring? Did you mishear something?" the Drwal announced. "But tell me what happened after your girlfriend died of a drug overdose."

"After Kasia's death, I started... Wait! I haven't said that Kasia died yet?

" "What do you mean not?" the Drwal asked, then screamed, "AXE!!"

"Sir! Are you normal?" Karol couldn't take it anymore, "because you're acting like a lunatic!

" "And you know what, dear?" the Drwal said, and his jaw snapped to the right. "I feel great, look how beautiful these trees are, don't you think?" "

I've got your trees somewhere!" – Karol was becoming more and more irritated by the conversation with Jasek.

"What?? AXE! How can anyone care less about trees!" The lumberjack was making increasingly stupid faces and, on top of that, was shaking his head strangely from side to side. "Trees are our greatest treasure!"

"Yeah? So why are you cutting them down when they're so lovely?

" "Shut up!" The lumberjack's face twitched . "

Get out of here, I want to be alone, you lunatic! You idiot!" hissed Karol

, now very angry. "Possibly AXE! But I'm not the one sitting in the park and AXE! I'm trying to kill myself because some AXE bitch got high!" Jasiek screamed, then his jaw dropped to the right. "You know what I'm telling you? AXE! You're not suicidal, and why did you forget about tonight with Jarek? You could have a drink and it would go away! What a mess!

" "How do you know about Jarek?" How do you know so much about my life?!" Karol roared, then grabbed the Lumberjack by the shirt and started shaking him. "Who are you?!? Talk to me!"

"You want to know who I am? Really? " "

YES," Karol roared

. "So," the lumberjack named Jasiek began, "if you want to know the story of my life, imagine a faraway country, so far away that you can't even get there in a Mercedes with the word 'Missile' on the hood," the Lumberjack said, and his jaw dropped to the right. "In that country, people live happy, they have everything they want, they love each other, and they adore their leader. That country is North Korea," the Lumberjack announced, and then he made a stupid face, and his jaw dropped to the right.

"What nonsense are you talking about Korea, and what does it have to do with the whole story?" Karol asked, even more irritated.

"Exactly as much as you do with common sense, he he," Jasiek laughed, and his jaw dropped to the right. "You know what, my dear?" I'm just an ordinary, stupid lumberjack, but I know one thing, you're not normal, I'll say even more: You're a complete lunatic! – the Lumberjack announced, then his jaw dropped to the right. – And finally, I'll say one more thing: AXE!

Karol stood there, unable to believe his ears. How could this Lumberjack know so much about my life? And how dare he speak to me like that?

– Karol! Karol! You're here – he heard Jarek's voice – we've been looking for you everywhere!

– We're following you around town and you're sitting alone in the park like a lunatic! – another familiar voice, this time a woman's, announced to him. – Jaruś called me and told me what happened, we were very worried about you!

Karol turned around and saw her face; it was Kasia, alive as ever!

– Kasia! You're alive! – Karol roared.

– And why should I be dead? We're worried about you, what's happening to you again!?

– Let's go home, man! – Jarek announced – and tomorrow I'll call your parents and have them admit you back to the hospital for a while until you get better, okay?

- What?? What hospital?? And where is that lumberjack? Jasiek!! Where are you? – Karol was roaring like crazy.

"Dude! There wasn't any lumberjack here, you were sitting on the bench talking to yourself!" Jarek told him, then added, "Let's go home."

And indeed, there wasn't any lumberjack, although listening closely, you could hear a strange, almost mad laughter.

IV

After walking Karol home, Jarek and Kasia walked back hand in hand.

"Do you still think," Kasia asked, "that it was because of me? Because I broke up with him and chose you? That he went crazy because of it?

" "Do you regret that decision?" Jarek asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"No!" Kasia replied, then hugged Jarek tighter.

"It wasn't because of you. I think in his situation, it was only a matter of time," Jarek said, and finally added, "I love you!"

"I love you too, very much," came Kasia's words.

"Answer me a question," Jarek's words echoed strangely on the empty street. "Why were you with him?"

"He was funny, but you're different.

" "What? Is it because I have money?" Jarek seemed strangely nervous.

"It's true that he didn't have any—but I've had the feeling for a while now that Karol had started taking drugs. But that's not important.

" "True," Jarek replied. "You did the right thing. You're happy with me, aren't

you?" "Very happy!" Kasia replied, and they walked away, nestled in the darkness of the night.

That night, more people noticed the strange man with the axe.

Lilies

She loved the privacy of her home. A single-family home, unremarkable among the dozens of others nestled side by side along a sparsely traveled street. She wanted the interior to be cozy. Red bulbs in the chandelier, soft pouffes, a comfortable, spacious sofa, a carpet so soft to the touch you could lie on it for hours, admiring its ruffles in the slight draft between the crack under the door and the half-open window.

A window beyond which lay a garden, full of roses planted in a row along the path, young cherry trees growing nearby, a greenhouse on its edge, and lilies planted right next to the house. Their sweet scent filled the bedroom every evening, creating an ethereal atmosphere.

It was after sunset. The air was heavy. She gently lay down on the made bed. The duvet rippled slightly, so pleasantly cooling after a long, hot day. She inhaled the scent of lilies, breathing deeply, and listening to the sound of her husband's shower. The sound of the water soothed her. She coughed. Something clicked. It was definitely too stuffy.

Outside, birds suddenly took flight.

The overwhelming aroma filled her lungs, making her feel irritating.

She felt hot. The first trickle of sweat ran down her cheek from her forehead and hit the pillow. She decided she needed to open the window wider. Slowly, she rose to her feet, stood, walked over, then grabbed the handle and pulled.

But nothing happened.

She tugged harder.

The window wouldn't budge an inch. She was surprised; she'd left the window ajar. How could she have found it locked at that moment, and locked for good?!

Locked.

She flinched. Something scraped against the door. She rushed to it. Now it, too, was locked. The overwhelming scent of flowers grew stronger by the moment. She felt faint. She turned toward the window and froze. Behind the glass stood a tall man in a tight black cap and leather jacket. He held a can of some kind, with a thin rubber tube emerging from it, the end of which was inserted into the gap between the windowsill and the frame. From the tube's mouth streamed wisps of dark pink smoke.

She began to scream and pound on the door with her fists. The pungent smell choked her and pierced her lungs. Her next scream was muffled by another coughing fit. She ran to the table, where a vase of her beloved tulips and an alarm clock sat. Her legs gave way. She collapsed onto the table, knocking it over. The vase shattered, and the alarm clock began to blare. She heard the doorknob being pulled. She glanced toward the door and tried to scream, but the growing aroma prevented her from uttering a single syllable. Everything was drowned out by a cough and the frantic shriek of the alarm clock, which grew louder.

Someone began pounding on the door, then tried to force it open. Something rattled on the hinges.

She glanced toward the window. The man with the can was watching her with curiosity and indifference in his eyes.

She grabbed the already blaring alarm clock and threw it at the glass. It didn't reach her. She was too weak now, she needed air. She began to crawl toward the door leading to the terrace.

Another bang on the door.

The lock gave way. Her husband burst in. He saw her lying there, semi-conscious, desperately looking at him. The man behind the glass twitched. He snatched the pipe, quickly tucked the can into his bosom, and began to run.

Her husband ran to her. He opened the terrace door and pulled her outside. Finally, she felt air and began to breathe deeply. Meanwhile, he was chasing the madman. He saw him run into the greenhouse. He grabbed a shovel lying by one of the rhododendrons and went inside. It was stifling, even more so than outside. The tall flowerbeds blocked his view. All he heard was the hiss of the lawn sprinkler in the garden. He took a few steps, carefully holding his shovel in front of him. Ahead was the alcove where he kept his equipment. He spun around. The man in the cap sprayed some kind of gas in his face. He was momentarily blinded. A moment later, he lost his balance and fell straight into the alcove. He felt pruners, rakes, shovels, and fertilizers fall from shelves and racks, burying him under their weight.

His stinging eyes flashed with a blurry image of a man standing with a knife by the pots of anthuriums he had purchased and planted that year. He tried to move, but his legs and arms were paralyzed. He tried to lift his head, but he hit one of the shovels.

Meanwhile, the man had cut several massive flowers, then spoke in a silky voice.

"Anthurium. A beautiful houseplant. It needs a fairly high temperature and humidity." He cut another flower. "Yes... this one looks beautiful. You can see it." Anthurium andreanum, larger flowers, straight spadix… long-lasting after…" another red petal fell into his hand, "…cutting. And they are more valued as a component of floral arrangements."

He crouched down next to the man with the flowers and brutally pried open his mouth. The man tried to close it, but the man held his jaw tightly. With his free hand, he crushed the first flower and forced it down his throat. The man began to choke, but the madman ignored him, then crushed the second and did the same to it. Panic and helplessness gripped the man. He felt the use of his limbs slowly returning, but he feared it might be too late. The man in the cap released his jaw, stood up, and walked over to the pots of gerbera daisies.

The man, meanwhile, moved slightly and violently spat out a crumpled anthurium. Meanwhile, the madman glanced at him, cut off several gerbera blossoms and roses growing nearby, and then knelt down. He quickly and forcefully grabbed his face, opened his mouth again, and began to force the damp remains of the anthurium deeper into his mouth. Then he forced a few rose heads into his mouth. He took the gerbera blossoms, crushed them in his hand, and continued his psychopathic work.

"Gerbera care… we constantly keep the soil slightly moist." He grabbed a nearby bottle of water, unscrewed it, and began pouring it onto the man's face. "We fertilize every week…" He looked through the multitude of bottles scattered across the soil, then selected one and poured the brown liquid onto the flowers lodged in the victim's throat. "...and every spring we transplant it to a plump,..." He took out a knife and tore open one of the bags of soil, "...a humus mixture..." He lifted it and tilted it, burying its contents over the man's body from the feet down, stopping at the neck. "...or standard soil with sand." He scooped some soil from the neighboring pot and stuffed it down his throat. If there were any gaps through which air could reach him, they were being filled with the ubiquitous earth. His eyes bulged. He tried to spit it out, but the man in the cap kept pouring it in. Suddenly, he stopped.

He groaned. He staggered. The man lying there didn't know what was happening to the madman; he was beginning to lose consciousness. He saw the tip of the blunt blade pierce the executioner's chest. The psychopath was completely surprised. The blade retracted, then pierced the body in a second place. Someone twisted the murder weapon and delivered another blow. This time, the madman collapsed among the empty water and fertilizer bottles, muttered softly, and died.

Moments later, the man lost consciousness, but before he did, he saw his wife, pale and terrified, holding a bloody pair of pruning shears.

He still smelled the lilies.

The scent of death.

FANGS AND CLAWS

Albus didn't feel like going any further. Instead, he sat against the wall in a position that would cause any human serious spinal injury and a number of other organs, and began carefully tending the equipment that would one day allow (if not already) the continuation of his species.

"Fucking cat!" Krystian Villon cursed. He hated it when Albus did that. "Come on, flea man!" he hissed, nudging the cat with the arm of his crossbow.

Albus glared at him reproachfully, but stood up and walked along sewer number 57/06, which ran beneath Warsaw's Dolna Street. The ginger tom skillfully avoided the larger piles of various filth in his path. Krystian checked the map again. They should soon reach a fork.

The Warsaw Water Management Department had ensured that the sewer system at this point had adequate capacity, so Krystian could move in, let's say, an upright position. The tunnels were very old, possibly built in the late 19th or early 20th century. The solid, massive walls and ceiling reminded Krystian of the dungeons of medieval strongholds. The deeper he sank into the darkness of the fetid labyrinth, the more he sensed a presence somewhere nearby.

The redhead stopped suddenly, sniffed for a moment, flattened his ears

(or rather, one. His left one had been bitten off when he was a kitten)

, and hissed in a long, drawn-out hiss. Villon froze in an instant. He stared into the darkness and held it for a moment. Albus was still hissing, fur bristling.

The hunter finally saw the eyes of the man who had forced him to wade ankle-deep in the filth of half Mokotów half the night before.

"Tell this scum to be quiet, or I'll deal with him," the man hidden in the darkness rasped with a thick Russian accent.

"Albus, be quiet!" – Krystian whispered nervously.

The cat fell silent after a moment. “

Damn it, how does he know my name?!,” the newly minted Guild agent wondered. “By the way, I have to change it. Why did my mother have to marry a frog?”

“You’re coming with me, Rubov. The Guild office issued a warrant for you,” Villon growled, putting as much confidence into each word as he could muster.

“What?” the hunted man rumbled.

“18 corpses, all torn to pieces. That’s enough for the Guild.

” “Why would I go with you, rookie?

Damn Russian,” Krystian cursed silently. It infuriated him when someone pointed out his lack of experience.

“They pay well for you, both alive and dead,” the hunter hissed, gripping his crossbow tighter.

"Chardyś," the Russian cackled. "You say the Guild sends you... alone... for me... You're already dead." The calm, or rather amusement, with which Rubov uttered his last words terrified the hunter even more than the scream that followed, quickly turning into the roar of a wild animal, than the sickening squelch of tearing skin, than the droplets of blood falling on his face, than the sight of Rubov's eyes widening, filling with blood, changing color—wolf eyes. The

next second, a hairy, two-hundred-kilo projectile, bristling with claws and fangs, plunged at Krystian with tremendous speed. Villon raised his crossbow, already pulling the trigger, almost hearing the snap of the bowstring... Or was it the sound of the hunter's ribs breaking? Too slow. He wouldn't make it. He fell against the wall under the blow, momentarily dazed. The werewolf roared and charged at Krystian, whose entire life was flashing before his eyes…

•

“Damn boring,” muttered Krystian Villon, a twenty-year-old medical student at the Medical University of Warsaw. A bachelor.

The girl across from him looked at him searchingly.

“Really, nothing interesting has happened in your life?” asked Ewa Majewska, a twenty-one-year-old law student at the University of Warsaw. A single woman.

“Seriously, nothing comes to mind. Just some nonsense, nothing special.”

They were both sitting in the corner of Ewa’s favorite café, Zielona Filiżanka. The subdued colors, soft lighting, and soft music playing gave the place a unique character. It was even romantic.

“If you don’t want to tell me anything about yourself, fine. I’ll leave it at that.”

Krystian smiled slightly.

“I wish I could tell you something, but unfortunately… You know, I haven’t thought about it until now, but now I’m starting to wonder… I don’t have any interesting memories. I must have been terribly wronged by life.” Or retarded," he added.

They both started laughing. It was nice. They'd been sipping coffee and chatting for quite a while, and more importantly, they weren't bored—their first date was going perfectly. Krystian glanced around the room. At the next table, a gray-haired man sat with a cigarette in his mouth. He was reading a newspaper, and in front of him, on the table, was a makeshift ashtray made from a saucer with a rather large pile of cigarette butts.

"Excuse me," the student said. "Could you put out your cigarette? This is a non-smoking establishment?"

The stranger looked at him strangely but removed the cigarette from his mouth. He stubbed it out

and said in a low voice,

"Sorry, I didn't notice."

The meeting dragged on until late at night. Then, as planned, he walked Ewa home, kissed her, promised to meet her soon, and headed for the dorm. He was excited. As always, he intended to get to his apartment through the park. The problem with the park was that lately all sorts of shady characters had taken a liking to it. After dark, it was rather dangerous there. Walking along the main path, Villon wished he had eyes in the back of his head. Then he wouldn't have to wave his head so often to see what was happening around him. Despite the lit streetlights, the park was very dark, difficult to navigate, and various thugs had gained plenty of hiding places where they could ambush a potential victim—him, or so Villon reasoned. As he walked, he drew closer and closer to a well-lit bench where, Krystian thought, some guy was dozing.

"Give me your cell phone," hissed a ragged man sitting on the bench directly in front of him.

Krystian froze. The man had the hood of a worn sweatshirt pulled up over his head. His attire suggested he was homeless. The thief stood up and approached Villon. Seeing the fear in the student's eyes, the tramp smiled devilishly and pulled down his hood.

He looked like a desiccated corpse. He also had completely red pupils and bloodshot whites of his eyes. In his mouth, however, were unnaturally long fangs.

"I was joking," he hissed again, "I think I'll settle for a little of your vitae."

Krystian didn't know what he meant, but decided not to wait for an explanation and ran. He heard wild, manic laughter behind him. He turned to assess the distance between them, but there was no one behind him. He didn't like it at all. When he looked ahead, he almost collided with a fanged beggar standing in front of him. The man instantly grabbed his arm. Then it turned out that his fingers were tipped with razor-sharp claws that easily pierced clothing, skin, and muscle, reaching bone.

"AAAAARRRGHHH!!!" Villon roared like a slaughtered animal.

He backhanded the monster, hitting it square in the face, and it let go. Adrenaline took over. Despite the pain, Krystian jumped to his feet and ran faster

than ever. Farther. He had already run about 25 meters when he heard the monster burst into laughter again and jump.

THUD!

With the force of a locomotive, something knocked him off his feet and pinned him to the ground. It was the beggar sitting on his back, about to bite into his neck.

At that moment, somewhere near the macabre scene, a gunshot rang out.

The snow around the unfortunate student turned completely red. Villon lay in a pool of blood and entrails. He was panting and vomiting alternately. His savior approached a little. Krystian recognized his weapon—a Colt 1911. He also recognized the savior himself. It was the smoker from the café. The gray-haired man stepped closer, examined Krystian, and finally spoke.

"You'll get over it, son. Now listen, I have an offer you can't refuse.

"

Villon tore off a page from the calendar in his current apartment—room 19 in the west wing of the Hunters' Guild Hall. It was March 23rd.

"How time flies," he muttered.

"Yeah."

The one who nodded was Damian Kożycki, Villon's roommate and also a fellow student from training and lectures at the elite monster hunters' association. They were the same age.

"Did the Smoking Man drag you into this too?" asked the usually uncommunicative Damian.

"What?

" "Nothing. I was wondering if he was their only scout.

" "Hehe... Damian?

" "Well?

" "How did he recruit you?

" "I saw him take down a ghoul at Powązki Cemetery, so he gave me a choice: Either I'll be useful, or the best specialists straight from the Soviet KGB will brainwash me.

" "Hmm... it's like with me..."

Krystian glanced at his watch. 21 - it's time...

" "Time to go, partner, wish me luck.

" "Hazing, huh?... Break a leg," Damian smiled.

Viollon smiled back.

"I hope not," he thought, "I like my legs."

•

The newly minted Guild hunter walked down a wide, dark corridor in full gear. He was wearing Kevlar, light version. The long, thick leather coat on top was full of nooks, crannies, and hidden pockets. It was perfect for concealing and carrying a variety of equipment whose sole, or primary, purpose was to inflict harm on others (and a whole host of other beings).

He carried all manner of shurikens, spiked balls, smoke bombs, a crossbow, offensive and defensive grenades, silver and aspen stakes, a crucifix. Conventional bullets, piercing, incendiary, blessed, and silver. A Bowie knife, and the latest toy in his collection, the symbol of the hunter, a shiny, chrome Colt 1911 with the guild symbol engraved on the handle.

"Fuck, this is all heavy!" Villon groaned. "I have to leave this in the briefing room later."

He wore sturdy military boots, but despite this, he moved silently. Perhaps it was due to Villon's superior skills, or perhaps to the soft, ancient carpet beneath his feet. As old as the carpet but slightly less worn, portraits of the Guild leaders who had guided this secret and powerful organization for centuries glared at Krystian with critical eyes from portraits on both sides of the corridor. The hunter didn't reciprocate. He was too focused on the door marked "Briefing Room" at the end of the path and... on maintaining his balance. Entering the room at the end of the corridor

,

he took the designated seat in front of the projector screen. Villon was now sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair. The seat creaked loudly with every movement of the man it carried, so Krystian tried not to shift too much, which is why he didn't take a close look at the place he was in. It was a rather spacious, dark, oval room. The old paneling had clearly worn thin, warping and peeling here and there. On the walls hung maps of the Guild's operational areas and a substantial collection of all sorts of weapons, from ancient bladed weapons to state-of-the-art toys so technologically advanced that a soldier's only task was to pull the trigger; everything else was handled by the weapon itself. In the center stood a long oak table. Behind one end stood a desk with a projector, and further on, a screen for showing slides or films was mounted on the wall. The table itself was surrounded by a number of chairs, one of which Krystian was currently sitting.

Out of nowhere, his "partner" appeared – a ginger tomcat missing one ear – Albus.

What a ridiculous name for a cat, Krystian thought.

Albus was the guide – a specially selected and trained cat from the Guild's in-house breeding facility. A rather unusual animal. Well, a guide, as Villon learned during lectures at the Hunters' Guild academy, is a cat that accompanies the hunter on every mission. It has a natural ability to perceive or detect supernatural phenomena. That's why Krystian also needed a guide – he was given Albus, and the fact that neither side liked the other didn't matter.

The redhead took a seat next to Villon, curled up, and took a nap, deeply disregarding what the operations commander had to say. The latter, in turn, spoke volumes.

"Alexei Rubov," began Michał Borowski, the operations commander, while slides were projected on the projector screen set against the wall behind him. "Aka the Saint, or the Saint of the Homeless." That's ironic, of course, do you understand, Krystian?"

Villon nodded. Borowski continued.

"Rubov is a lycanthrope, a renegade, and a multiple murderer. As a werewolf, he has to kill to obtain food, but Rubov turned every kill into a slaughterhouse, a bloodbath… Not that I'm justifying other murders, but Rubov is a true beast."

Images of the mutilated bodies of Alexei's victims flashed on the screen.

"The Guild decided to capture him and attempt to 'rehabilitate' him," the operations commander smiled knowingly. "Of course, in the event of determined resistance, they allowed him to be disposed of once and for all. The price on his head is €200,000 – difficulty category II, but I think you can handle him, Krystian."

Villon frowned, not liking being criticized for his inexperience.

"Where did I end up?" Aha. Rubov was recently hanging around the sewer system in Mokotów. Good. Briefing over, good luck, Krystian, break a leg.

I hope not, the hunter thought, I like my legs. The

monster

lunged at Villon, but halfway there, he slowed, stopped, and groaned. Krystian glanced at the groove in his crossbow—it was empty. The hunter's gaze drifted toward Rubov. The silver bolt was now embedded in the guts of the half-man, half-wolf. The monster, spouting blood from the severed arteries inside its body, took a few hesitant steps back, staggered, and collapsed against the wall opposite the hunter, splashing sewage mixed with gore everywhere. What fell was still a werewolf, but what hit the wall was only a man. A short, plump, bald, naked, and half-dead individual. Rubov wheezed and coughed heavily. Blood poured from its mouth and wounds appeared on its stomach. The sewage in which he lay was beginning to take on an increasingly intense crimson hue.

"You got me, you damned witcher," he poured as much hatred and contempt into his words as he could muster.

Krystian said nothing. Rubov panted. Blood foamed at his lips. Life was draining from him rapidly. The moment of silence was broken by another coughing fit.

"I hope they offered more for a living one," the Russian cackled.

Then he coughed again, wheezed, and died. His body went completely still. The diffuse, flickering light of Villon's torch, abandoned nearby, created hypnotizingly macabre shadows on the lycanthrope's body.

Albus's sneeze woke Krystian from his shock and trance. Staggering, he stood up and approached the Russian's corpse.

"Fuck, I hate this job," Villon cursed under his breath. "Come on, Albus, let's get going."

The Hunter gathered his things, slung Rubov's body over his shoulder, and set off back the same way he'd come. Albus ran ahead of him, looking around warily.

"This place stinks...

I'll have to wash my coat again when I get back," thought Krystian Villon, the newly minted field agent for the Hunters' Guild.