An Island Where No One Lives (part 2)
There, I’m at the airport now, and I have a little time before my flight to tell you what happened that night on the island.
After quite a bit of our silent travel, the boat drifted to the shore, and Andrei helped me out, then took my bags. I squinted in the dark. Before us was a small cluster of six houses, huddled together. Sickly candlelight flickered in several windows, but it was fairly not enough to dissipate the darkness. I was pretty sure I saw some larger light from the sea but couldn’t see it now. As if someone killed it off.
“Why you don’t have electricity around here?” I asked miserably.
“Because we aren’t supposed to live here.”
“Because someone has to protect the mainland.”
I couldn’t see his face well in the dark, so it was hard to tell if he mocked me. He surely was just joking, saying nonsense to impress me. Or else he was just nuts, like the rest of his lot. The thought terrified me so much I quite nearly threw up. Abducted by crazy Russian folk. No one even knew where I was. I told my colleagues and friends I went to Yakutsk, they had no idea that New Siberia even existed. Just like me before I came here.
An old woman walked out of the main house, wrapping her frail shoulders in a warm shawl. Amidst her wrinkles, I could see her past beauty, and her piercing blue eyes were brighter than that of a much younger woman.
“Finally you’re home, child,” she said in Russian.
I was gathering my wits to tell her in the same language that my home was elsewhere, but Andrei bent over to me and whispered to me.
I don’t know why I obeyed him but I ended up muttering hello in my hesitant Russian. She moved towards me and put both of her hands on the sides of my face. I had never felt calmer and more reassured in my entire life before.
“Don’t uncover the mirror,” she said gently.
Unsure I understood her correctly, I turned to Andrei for help.
“When someone dies, all the mirrors in the house must stay covered until the person is buried,” he clarified.
My breath hitched. “Wait. The dead man is in there? In the house?”
“Well, of course. He will be buried on the seventh day. Such are our customs.”
Why, why, why, WHY had I come here? I should have stayed home, safe and oblivious to this dreadful place.
“I won’t sleep in there,” I said firmly. “Take me back to the mainland.”
The old woman, my grandmother, stroked my hair and said something I couldn’t understand.
Andrei translated, “As long as you keep the mirror covered, nothing will happen to you.”
“You’re crazy,” I stated the obvious. “What mirrors are you talking about? What does it have to do with anything? And you can’t keep a dead man in your house, you just—”
“Let’s go inside,” the old woman ushered me. “You need to rest.”
I followed her despite my reservations, because I didn’t seem to be able to stop myself. Darya waited for us inside. I recognized her at once because she looked so much like my mother that it brought tears to my eyes. I walked up straight to her and hugged her.
She held me like I was her child, whispering some sweet nonsense in my ear. Then she pulled back to look at me better. There were several candles lit in the house, and I had to admit that there was certain charm in their warm light. We stood in a vast room, like those in a classic izba, with this big fireplace kind of thing — pechka — that dominated the entire house and warmed it.
The room was evenly separated in two by a large dark curtain. I couldn’t stop staring at it. I knew, I could feel it in my bones, that the dead man was on the other side. I expected the stench of rot to hit my nostrils anytime, but the air in the house felt clean, fresh and alive, for the lack of a better word. It didn’t smell like someone had died recently. There was also a subtle scent of herbs, something delicate and flowery. It eased some of my fears if a little bit.
The grandmother and Andrei appeared behind me. She repeated her instructions about the mirror and climbed on top of the pechka, where her bed was. It reminded me of old fairy tales, where this dude, usually called Ivan, spent most of his days sleeping on the pechka to the point it started moving and took him straight to a tsarevna — local princess — or something.
Chuckling to myself I went after Andrei who took me further into the house and in a small but cozy room, where everything was made of sturdy wood. I had at my disposal a bed, a table with a chair, a small dresser and a peculiar washbasin kind of thing, typical of rural Russia.
“The toilet is outside,” Andrei informed me.
I shivered. I remember those tiny wooden houses that served as a toilet from my previous stays in the village with my family. I wondered know who that family even was, considering my mother had her sister and mother living right here… Anyway, the toilet outside concept was not something I wanted to revisit. Especially not on this island. Even having a chamber pot would be better at this point.
As if reading my mind, Andrei indicated one such pot hidden under the bed. I breathed a small sigh of relief. After he left, showing me where to find candles, matches and even a small torchlight, I appraised my surroundings. One unsettling thing about my room was this mirror on the wall, a small one, entirely covered by a dark cloth. Now that I think of it, I saw another covered mirror in the main room.
So, they were serious about this thing. I’m not one to judge other people’s traditions and habits, but I did need to remove my makeup and wash my face up. So, I needed the mirror. I uncovered it, half expecting Bloody Mary or someone like her jump at my throat. Nothing but my own reflection, not very distinct in the poor candlelight, greeted me.
Sighing, I took my toiletries out of my bag and removed the makeup the best I could. Outside, it started snowing. A half-moon peeked through the clouds for a while, letting me see the snow and the woods beyond the cluster of houses. Wait. What woods? When we stepped foot on the island, I realized why no one officially lived there. There was nothing much to see beside rocky ground and a petty scattering of bushes. If there was a forest, I would have noticed.
So, why was I staring right at one now? It was a creepy forest, at that. It moved, creaked — I could hear it now, even despite the closed window — and breathed. I understood why the Russian people had so many stories about the Nechist, basically a common term for all beings scary and inhuman. It wasn’t hard to imagine the Nechist living right in there, in those woods.
I pulled the curtains over the window determinedly, washed my face, removed my clothes to put a nightgown on and got into bed. I all but forgot to cover the mirror back…
I woke up several hours later to some weird noises. They were these small scratching sounds, innocuous all in themselves if I weren’t in a house on an island where no one’s supposed to live. I suppressed hysterical laughter that bubbled up in my throat. In twenty-first century, things like that weren’t supposed to exist.
The noises continued, and I was too unnerved to fall asleep now. Without a second glance for the bare mirror that caught the beam of my torchlight when I lit it, I walked out of the room, determined to find the source of noise. Darya’s and Andrei’s room were further down the hallway, and it seemed to me that the sound came from the pechka room where my grandmother slept. Maybe she was working on something, plagued by insomnia? I would say hello then and go back to sleep, reassured.
I crept into the pechka room silently and immediately heard grandmother’s gentle snores. She was asleep, so she wasn’t the one making noises. The torchlight wobbled in my hand. As every good story goes, the scratching was evidently located behind the curtain, with the dead man. Thankfully, no one had suggested me to go see him before, and I grew persuaded I would avoid the unpleasant encounter altogether.
But someone kept scratching right in there. A kid maybe? I didn’t remember seeing kids, but it didn’t mean there weren’t any in the house. Obviously, the sensible thing to do would have been to go back to my room and ignore the noise. No one goes to look at dead men at night. Well, guess what? I did want to see him now.
I took a deep breath and pulled the curtain back. There was no one in the room. No one alive, that is. I saw the coffin at once. There were candles burning at the head of it and several chairs stood in a circle around the coffin. I could only imagine the family sitting there, mourning the dearly departed. There was no stench here, either. Just this fresh air, like we were — who we, the dead man and I? — outside.
The scratching stopped of course, as if I had dreamed it up. I walked closer to the coffin and peered inside. My cousin was a young man, around my age. Quite handsome in that Russian way with fair hair — not quite blond — and square jaw. We could have been friends had I known him alive. I felt sorry for him and decided I should ask Darya or the grandmother what he died of in the morning, what he was like, what kind of life he had…
I touched his hand lightly, surprised that it felt almost warm and started back to my room. As soon as I pulled the curtain into place behind me, the scratching renewed. I stopped, a scream frozen in my throat. What the hell was going in? Was it my dead cousin, haunting the house? Like I told you before, I don’t believe in that stuff. But I dare you stay skeptical in that bloody house.
On unsteady legs, I went back to my room, closed the door and leaned against it. There, Nathalie, breathe. Just breathe.
The scratching was very loud in here now, as if someone was right there, in my damn room. God, what had gotten into me? Old houses make weird noises all the time. Everyone knows that. I would just get into bed, cover my ears and sleep.
Something moved in the mirror. I swear I saw something move right inside there! I directed the beam of light straight at the mirror. Nothing.
Jesus. Stop being such an idiot, Nathalie.
A candle stayed burning on the dresser, near the mirror. It seemed to me I put all candles out before going to bed, but maybe I forgot this one. By the light of that one candle I saw a silhouette in the mirror. The figure seemed far away at first, but it was getting closer.
My breathing became ragged and uneven. I even wheezed a couple of times. This was just a vivid nightmare. I would wake up now. I pinched my arm strong enough to bring tears to my eyes. The figure was still coming. It was tall, gaunt, skeleton-thin, dark, altogether horrible. The bloody Nechist from Russian folklore.
“Go away,” I whispered, as if it would make any difference. “Leave me alone.”
The torchlight went off, and I dropped it with a thud. I could see the creature’s face now, peering at me. It was remotely human with a set of eyes, a nose and thin-lipped mouth. But what I felt most about that thing was its hunger, its need for something which I hoped wasn’t me.
His long, bony fingers grasped the mirror’s frame, on this side of the room, like it was a freaking window. I gasped, knowing this was as good time as any to call for help. No sound came out of my mouth. I couldn’t move. I just watched those fingers find a better grip, then the second set of fingers, then the creature began to pull itself out of the mirror that I stupidly left uncovered.
Maybe if I burned the thing with a candle or hit it with something, it would go away, but I was too much of a coward. I just inched away from the door, crawling along the wall, praying that the monster would eat Darya or Andrei instead of me.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the monster, the vurdalak, got out of the mirror, unfolding himself to his full size, his head brushing the ceiling.
“P-please… Just go away…”
He didn’t answer me, didn’t even look my way, his dark-dark eyes set on the door. I crept away from it, I would have even opened it for him if I dared. The vurdalak passed by me, inches away from me, the air around him ice-cold, putrid, deadly. That thing wasn’t alive, I realized with mounting, primitive horror. I unleashed something not alive because of my stupidity and arrogance.
His fingers locked around the door handle and pulled. He went outside. I slipped along the wall, closed my eyes, started praying, even though I didn’t know any prayers at all. Then I straightened up abruptly. I couldn’t — I wouldn’t — let the vurdalak hurt my family. I grabbed the torchlight from the floor. The light wouldn’t turn on, but I could use the torchlight like a weapon if I had to.
Slowly, my legs like cotton, I crept in the hallway just in time to see the vurdalak headed to the pechka room. Where the grandmother was.
I quite nearly jumped out of my seat when I heard my flight being announced. I need to go now. I’ll have reception in Moscow and will hopefully have time to tell you the rest. Wish me luck.
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