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For the Stalker, there is an exclusion zone,
Where lies and truth wrestle in silence;
Where the hands of others, sins congregate,
Evening twilight’s midnight mirages.
For the Stalker, roads remain untrodden,
And around, it’s overgrown like wild grass,
Thick fog, but the Gods will show the way,
To delight in the rights of gray heavens.”
Flying in a Dream
An unknown creature grabbed Marianna by the hand and carried her off. It was a dream, yes, it was incredible that this could happen in reality. They flew. The creature looked like a spirit, a devil, or God knows what. Marianna watched, seeing where it was taking her… They passed by cubicles, it was dark and smelly everywhere. In one cubicle, it seemed a person was suffering, chained, missing a leg, blood dripping, in some cubicles there were parts of human bodies. It was dim, hard to make out. The companion looked like something ethereal, moving quickly, dragging Marianna along. Now they were near a table. A little devil, playful, semi-transparent, like a spirit, was sitting at the table. In front of him was a large book or notebook, he was flipping the pages, searching with his finger, writing. He seemed to be having fun, with airy movements, writing the date in a marked column with special pleasure and joy. If it could be expressed in music, a cheerful polka would be playing like tra ta ta ta, tra ta ta… Marianna leaned over to see what he had written: sixty-four or sixty-seven, the numbers blurred, because she wasn’t seeing with her eyes, just seeing in the twilight. The creature pulled Marianna back.
Clock
Marianna enters the house, returning from work. Everything seems normal. Grandmother Klavdia is sewing on her sewing machine, hemming a curtain. Grandfather Anton is lying down watching TV. Great-grandmother sits on the bed, staring vacantly into space. But something is wrong. Empty, as if an unfamiliar thief sneaked in and stole the most precious thing. Marianna’s gaze falls on the wall. The clock… In place of the antique chiming clock, there are cheap modern plastic ones. She rushes into Great-grandmother Vera’s room:
– Where are the clocks?
Great-grandmother wearily, barely moving her lips:
– Amina came…
– Why did you give them away… Why…
Marianna felt as if some grace, some goodness, had left the house along with the clocks. A few days later, Great-grandmother passed away. She passed away easily, as if she had followed after the clocks.
Later, Grandmother Klavdia confessed that along with the clocks, Amina took all the family gold that Great-grandmother had hidden in her bed, intending to split it between me and Amina in the future.
Where Am I?
A dark face appeared in the Facebook[1 - Extremist organisation banned in the Russian Federation. hereinafter] window.
Oh… It also messaged me on Messenger. Let me reply.
– Hello.
The conversation began. Questions poured in: where are you from, who are you. Maybe a bot, not a person? In the photo – a smiling young man resembling an Arab. The Messenger chat dragged on, I no longer want to reply, his green dot lights up again on Facebook. If he’s online, maybe he’s a real person…
I found myself trapped. I felt it as soon as I replied to him… on Facebook. I grope the space with my hands, invisible; I’m locked in, my consciousness is locked, where am I?
“Where am I? I’m lost there,
Where I used to be;
At first, I sailed everything in waves,
Now I search for myself – through times.
Walked to unexplored places,
Dangerous, difficult, on paths.
Where am I? Tell me: Where am I?
The wind blows somewhere there…
And at night – darkness,
I’m lost, where – am I?
I won’t find myself,
Without help, and master
Searching for myself – everything is difficult,
But where – am I? I may find myself…
And won’t be lured by its lies,
Around me – no one deliberately.”
Evening. I’m at the computer desk. Facebook. The page of the dark face that lured me into a trap. Darkness. People emerge from the darkness, dressed in black. They are not alone, they keep coming, one after another, in a crowd. Men in black are walking, and I see them exiting and disappearing, showing me their backs. They march as if heading into battle.
Icon
Marianna knew her colleague, Afrosinya, was a devout believer; she even wore a headscarf to work. She also knew Afrosinya often visited monasteries.
“Bring me a small icon from the monastery,” Marianna said, approaching Afrosinya.
“Alright, which one do you want?”
“Any one, a small one.”
Two weeks passed…
Afrosinya approached Marianna.
“I brought it, here,” she said.
“Thank you,” Marianna replied as Afrosinya handed her a small square wrapped in cellophane.
“It’s the Kazan Icon,” Afrosinya clarified.
Marianna pressed the icon of the Virgin Mary with the child to herself and walked down the corridor.
In the evening, Marianna hung the icon above her bed. The icon hung there until one moment when something unusual appeared from it.
Marianna saw it – a light, a transparent light flowing gently from the icon.
“Is this light for me? For me? Then everything will be fine.”
Object in a Dream
A huge purple contraption was in front of me. I observed it from the side. It was a flying saucer, like the ones I had seen in pictures before. There was no fear, as it was a dream. Light streamed and blew out from the purple contraption like a fan. My consciousness was right there beside it.
777
On July 17, 2014, in eastern Ukraine, a Boeing 777 crashed – Marianna reads in the news updates. It’s so close… Donetsk region… people died…
The numbers 777 will continue to appear in Marianna’s life, but she didn’t know it yet…
The Rider on the White Horse
Marianna walks along a path resembling a forest road. Around her, dense forest, with tall trees towering over Marianna. The forest seems gloomy. She steps lightly on the ground. There’s no one else on the path. It’s as if she’s waiting for someone and walking towards them. He appears majestically, magnificently: the rider on the white horse, her prince. Marianna lifts her eyes – their gazes meet. This semi-dream is not the first time Marianna has seen this. What happens next? She was destined to meet him in the dark forest.
It’s gonna take a lot of pain
Marianna brought her grandmother Klavdiya to the hospital in their small town. All the regional hospitals had refused treatment; cancer at this stage was untreatable.
Grandmother stepped out of the car, moving with difficulty. She repeated like a mantra, “Before death, one must suffer. You must suffer before you die.” Marianna looked at the old woman with pain in her eyes. She didn’t fully understand these words. Grandmother endured excruciating pain from kidney cancer, and no ordinary painkillers helped. When Marianna asked for something stronger, the doctor refused, citing unclear reasons. Grandmother died in agony. To comfort herself, they gave her drips and injections. From the pain, grandmother would rise and cry out, “Give me your hand!” Then she would lie back on the pillow, only to rise again. When grandmother died in the hospital room, Marianna stood bewildered beside her.
“What am I supposed to do now?” she wondered aloud.
“Bury her, Marianna! Bury her!” a confident voice nearby replied. It was an elderly woman from the patients’ ward, sitting on a bed in a headscarf, clearly experienced and knowing what to do.
Several years passed. One thought persisted and returned to Marianna: “Why must we suffer? It’s necessary for there to be pain so that a person curses life and the fact they were born into this world. Who benefits from this? It’s as if someone invisible watches people’s pain, smiling and enjoying the torment of the victim. And then they calmly bury and that’s it – no more person.”
The Spiritual Path
Marianna put on a black ankle-length skirt, a black blouse, and sat in a chair.
Seems like everything is ready… Oh, yes, I need to call Roma. Roma lived in the neighboring village and had proposed to Marianna back in college. Marianna remembered the funny story of how Roma first proposed to her, and when she declined, he proposed to her friend Nastya. He even brought both of them to his village to introduce them to his parents. His father then said, “You brought two girls!”
Just the other day, Marianna met Roma, and he suggested they meet up.
Marianna went to the payphone to make a long-distance call.
“Roma! Hi!” Marianna tried to speak louder, the line was crackling and it was hard to hear. “I can’t come to the meeting, I can’t, I’m leaving for a faraway country. That’s it, Roma, goodbye!”
The deed was done, and Marianna sat back in the chair, waiting for something. That’s it…
The next day, the neighbor girl dragged Marianna to church to confess.
She remembered not to eat or drink anything in the morning. At the church, the neighbor pulled Marianna by the hand to the priest for confession. The neighbor felt at home in the church; she and her aunt and mother often went to church. At the end of the service, Marianna saw people lining up for communion, and the neighbor’s aunt and mother were the first in line. Having done this many times before, it was routine for them, and everyone here knew it.
At home, late in the evening, Marianna couldn’t sleep. A wild fire in her chest was bothering her; it seemed like she would soon be reduced to a pile of ashes. She didn’t feel like sleeping or eating. Maybe there was something wrong with the apartment, or witches were attacking?
She needed to read the Gospel… The stars were shining outside the window. Marianna opened Bible pages on the internet and began reading aloud in Russian. This would drive away evil forces if they were attacking. But, the miracle didn’t happen, and the fire in her body flared up even more, and insomnia wouldn’t let go. After browsing the internet, Marianna read: you shouldn’t read the Gospel at night; dark forces could even kill you.
The spiritual path had begun…
In the Mirror
Today, a young priest visited my apartment, sprinkling holy water and drawing symbols on the wallpaper. Nothing helped, it even got worse. I couldn’t sleep at night and didn’t even read the Gospel. Electric shocks tormented me all night; closing my eyes, I only saw graves.
I simply died… I ate only because I had to, my body refused to digest food, and my body was exhausted from endless agony and insomnia, I lost weight.
“It feels like I’m dead…
They buried me, there… a hill behind the garden,
Where the eternal frost is, where they melted the soul,
Burned it, poisoned it with a potion.
I barely breathed, the lilacs bloomed,
I inhaled their aromas and scents;
And in the evenings I walked somewhere,
I walked in the morning, by the clock and thoughts.
I talked to my soul, is it dead?..
Do you hear, where are you? In which direction?
It froze as if inside me,
Give me the number of the soul’s ICU urgently.
I spoke again… the blizzard blew,
Howled, scattered tracks,
Along which I quietly walked again,
To the soul’s ICU, if I have enough strength…”
Evening. My face in the mirror, no… not mine. I see the face of a monster in flames, two bumps or horns on the head; eyes – two bulging spheres burning with a ruthless fire, who is this… The image changes to another face – it’s Jesus, with long hair, I feel Jesus in me, in my body. And again – the Devil – Jesus, flickering like slides in the mirror.
