The Folveshch

14. The Folveshch

In the small hours after midnight I awoke from a disturbed sleep. Like most nights that time of year Aleksy and I slept top and tail in the bigger of the two beds, and, admittedly, after my mother's disappearance I felt in need of knowing there was still somebody close by. I usually welcomed him curled by my shins, warming my feet against his back, but that particular night his presence brought me no such comfort.

I was aware of the weight shift the other end of the bed, and after a moment he slid from beneath the sheets, shuffled about for his boots and stood. He often muttered to himself in his father's voice – something I had grown accustomed to – though this time seemed more agitated than usual, as though I might be eavesdropping on one side of a heated, secret argument.

"... Son, don't you ..."

"... Cold ... it's nothing I ..."

"Leave it ... won't hurt."

" ... Shut up. Shut up!"

When he sneaked from the room I shot up in bed and listened for the trail of his voice through the house. Nothing. Teeth chattering, I pulled on some warmer clothes and crept up to press my ear against the wall.

There came the tell-tale creak of the bottom step and I waited and listened hard through the blood thrumming in my ears. The shriek of metal on metal tore through the silence – it was the bolt on the front door.

I scurried to my bedroom window and watched the boy's form disappear into the pale grey peaks of snow-topped trees. He hugged his body close against the wind and slanting snow, with his head dipped and his pace brisk. What could be so urgent?

I didn't stop to assess the dangers I might face in following him; at the time I was more concerned that he could die out there in that blizzard and I'd be completely alone. I slipped my feet into my father's old boots and decided I'd bring him home. I'd carry him if I had to.

It turned out to be a short walk by rural standards, and one I had made hundreds of times since I'd been old enough. I followed his bootprints up the other side of the valley to Viktor's old cottage; draughty, damp and in disrepair nowadays. I called his name until my throat grew hoarse, though the wind snatched my voice away under the angry rustling of conifers.

At last the grey silhouette of the weather-beaten shack materialised ahead. I watched from a blurry fifty metres or so as he heaved open the front door a crack against the snowdrift consuming the porch. He side-stepped into a room black as pitch.

My stomach tied up in knots. Perhaps this had something to do with Mama's whereabouts.

I crouched low and battled my way up to the house, ready to dart behind a tree trunk should Aleksy peer out the window. I kept to the left of the shack and adhered to the outside wall once I reached it, barely able to swallow how foolish I was to be out in a storm at the dead of night. Worse: Stalking a mentally unsound cannibal up to the one place I dreaded over all others ...

I shook away the memory of those drawings.

Farther along from my spot was the front door with the diamond window in. It offered a good view of most of the house, and if I was to see any sign of Aleksy moving inside it would be from there. I ducked underneath it and peered up over the sill. Inside I saw a tiny yellow light – a candle, perhaps – and two figures. One of them, small and upright, must have been Aleksy, and the other, hunched in a chair, sat still as stone. I peered closer, nose almost at the glass ...

And then it saw me.

I reeled backwards in terror, throwing up a cloud of powder snow. Slack jaw. Holes for eyes. A face that brought back a thousand half-remembered nightmares.

"What is it, Papa?" came Aleksy's muffled voice. "I thought I heard something."

"Someone's out there," Aleksy replied in his father's gruff tenor. "You stay here while I check it out."

I had to hide.

Where?

Anywhere.

Didn't matter.

I scrambled on my hands and knees and curled into a ball the other side of the house, panting, wheezing. My breath came in bursts; cloudy plumes rising in front of my face.

"Anything there, Papa?" Aleksy's voice sounded as though it was in both ears at once.

"Nyet. Whoever it is is hiding. There's somebody watching us out there, son. They can hear us."

"Is ... Is it the Folveshch?"

"It's likely; that thing's always lurking. You know it never leaves you once you've seen it."

His voice trailed off again. "I'm so sorry, Papa. I didn't know it would come for you."

"If you slack off, my fate will be your fate, my boy. I never want to see you this way, and so you must sate it while Avgustin Soldatov still remains ignorant of its presence or it'll choose you. It's been nearly a decade already; if all goes as we planned, there will be nobody left in the community by the day it ceases calling your name."

"I know," Aleksy said weakly. "I know, Papa. What do I do?"

"Keep feeding it, son." He sighed. "Though that was a close call you had with Mariamna. Why didn't you chose his wife? Marina? After Ivan, your story might have been more plausible."

"She was the first person I could get to, Papa. The fat cow screamed the place down. I had to drown her."

His words were a stake through my lungs.

My face burned white hot. I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles could've split open and I wouldn't have felt a thing. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to wrench his sick little head off his neck and –

I stood. "ALEKSY!" I bellowed. My voice rang around the woodland. "Aleksy! Get out here now!"

I'd let this get out of hand. I'd let him become a murderer. My mother's murderer. I should've just watched the fucker die out here after all.