The Church on the Marsh [EN]

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Chapter 1. Zyblevka village.

Timur cherished his holiday visits to the village of Zyblevka, where a loving grandmother, his best friends, carefree balmy days, and mild white nights were always there to welcome him.

Even the trip itself was an adventure.

He and his mother would travel by train for half a day, and then, from the station, they would walk along a wide, well-trodden path through a pine forest.

Those were the happiest days of his life.

Timur had never seen his father and was not interested in where he was. He was happy just with his mother. He thought they were all the world to each other.

But then his mother met Dmitry, who had a car and money. And not long after, Andryusha was born.

Timur had to forget about traveling by train. There were fewer and fewer friends in the village, and more and more schoolwork piled up.

Going to Zyblevka had lost its charm. He missed his grandmother, but he preferred to stay at home and play video games rather than listen to Dmitry's whingeing for the entire trip and babysit his annoying little brother.

Yet this summer promised to be one to remember.

So, Timur thoroughly deserved being sent to Zyblevka for his poor grades, and braced himself for the ordeal of his stepdad's company.

***

The heavens had opened. The wipers scraped across the windscreen with an irritating squeak, senselessly smearing a solid stream of water.

The white — or rather, now grey-brown — "Lada" had been churning up mire with its wheels for an hour, grinding from one pothole to the next.

"What kind of pig drove a tractor through here?! Did he do it on purpose or what?!" A flustered and red-faced Dmitry yanked the wheel, fighting to pull his car from yet another muddy rut. "These damn potholes are ruining my entire suspension! These country folk never think about anyone!"

Timur was sitting in the back seat with his younger brother, listening to music. But even with his headphones plugged in, he could clearly hear his stepdad muttering.

"What? You don't like something? Walk, then!" Dmitry shot back at his stepson’s sullen glare in the rear-view mirror. "If you studied properly, you'd be sitting at home."

Timur stifled a grin, silently turning his gaze to the window at the blurred shapes of the houses he had known since childhood.

"The weather's shitty because of you. You've always got a face like a wet weekend," Dmitry continued to nag.

It was his stock-in-trade — passing remarks on how people looked or giving them a dressing-down for their poor health. At the same time, he was hardly the pin-up type: a bloated, tubby puffer-fish with sausage lips and a stubbly brush of hair on a knobby head.

Yet, he possessed a dangerous strength and would instantly fly into a rage, like a wild boar.

"Dima," Yana, Timur's mother, intervened. She looked like the very image of her son, with the same scowling expression and a mass of thick, black, curly hair.

"What? Am I wrong?" Dmitry questioned back. "Andryusha is a good boy. He studies well. His teacher praises him all the time."

"He is in kindergarten!"

Timur glanced at his brother.

Five-year-old Andryusha was strapped into his booster seat, watching a shark song on a loop on his perpetually freezing tablet. He seemed to sense Timur gaze and looked up at him from under his brows. Timur didn't look away, and Andryusha, unable to stamp his foot, gave a disgruntled huff and jerked his leg.

At that moment Dmitry turned the steering wheel and floored the accelerator. Everyone in the car was jolted along with heaps of bags, and Timur's tablet landed with a thump under the seat.

Andryusha let out a frustrated whimper, then groaned like an old gate as he tried to free himself from the seatbelt.

Timur picked up his tablet, but didn't give it back right away.

"No! Give it to me!" whined Andryusha.

"Wait just a second!" Timur hushed him.

"Timur, give it to him!" Dmitry ordered.

Timur swiped across the screen, reloading the page. The song that had already got on everyone's nerves rang out crisp and steady.

Seizing the moment the car hit another pothole, Timur hopped out, slammed the door shut to his parents' shouted "Where...?!" in unison, strode through the mud towards his grandmother's house.

***

Timur slammed the door behind him and breathed in the warm air, smelling of cutlets and mashed potatoes.

"Granny!" he called.

"I’m on my way, my lovely!" The door on the left swung open, and Gran Nina stepped out into the corridor. "Timushka!"

Full of energy and always smiling, the stout woman with dyed purple hair dashed to embrace her grandson, whom she hadn’t laid eyes on in nearly half a decade.

"You're completely drenched! Where's your umbrella? Did you come on your own?"

"Yep. No one else is coming," Timur played along, taking off his wet jacket.

"Well, good then!" Grandma winked with satisfaction. "More for us. Come on in, dig into the cutlet. Look at you, all skin and bones—you've gotten as thin as a rake!"

They sat at the table together. Being with his granny in familiar surroundings, Timur felt carefree and loved, just as he used to be. He talked about his school, teachers, and the city, but tried to avoid moaning about Dmitry. He didn't want to put his grandmother in the firing line as well.

But before long, their nice talk was cut short by the rumble of a car outside. Another minute, and the rest of the family had invaded the house.

"Where’s Timur? Who’s going to help with the bags?" Dmitry began to grouse, without even saying hello to his mother-in-law. "Eating already?! Couldn't wait for us?"

"Andryusha, stop wiggling, let's get your shoes off," Yana, as usual, ignored everyone else as she focused on her youngest son, who was fussing because the tablet had frozen up again.

After dinner and tea with cake, everyone went to their rooms to change and rest.

The house was split by a corridor, with the shower and toilet located at the end. On the left side were the kitchen and a spacious, always clean living room with a sofa bed and a large TV.

Yana and Dmitry stayed there. They planned to head out in a couple of days, leaving the kids in the village for a week.

On the right side of the house was Grandma's room.

Limited to a single window and filled with large wardrobes, it looked darker and more cramped than the living room.

An old-fashioned high bed with multiple mattresses stood next to a soft folding armchair. On a large chest of drawers sat an old, bulky TV and a video player, next to a full cabinet of video discs.

Timur's eyes wandered nostalgically over the rows of familiar titles, fighting the urge to hide it all from Andryusha. But most likely, during their past trips, that little rascal had already messed up and scratched every single disc — exactly as he'd done at home.

A low door, constantly piled high with clothes and bags, opened from Grandma's bedroom into a small, tucked-away room.

This was Timur's childhood room.

He flicked on the wall light, dropped his rucksack on the floor, and sank into a battered red sofa, where his old friend, an orange plush dog, was waiting for him.

Stroking its stiff fur, Timur looked around.

The room was much as it had always been. A tapestry of stags hung above the sofa. Before Andryusha’s time, it had been covered in Soviet badges. The wooden floor was covered with a patchwork rug, which was constantly bunching up and snagging underfoot.

There was a huge wardrobe in the corner for jackets and fur coats, along with extra pillows and blankets.An old three-drawer desk was placed right next to it.

Timur systematically went through the drawers. The top two were packed with Andryusha's coloured-in scrawls. Following a sharp jerk, chewed pencils rolled along the bottom of the third one, with drawings resting beneath them.

Timur gazed at his sketches, as if seeing them for the first time.

There was a caveman riding a stegosaurus and shooting arrows at a sharp-toothed pterodactyl. On another page, there was a flying black raven, accurately copied from a book. And there was a warped castle with domes, encircled by a flock of harpies — that was how Timur envisioned the wooden church that stood on the edge of the village, in the very heart of the marshland.

Just the thought of it set his heart racing with joy.

His mobile pinged, alerting him to a new message in the group chat.

Iaroslav: Get over here!

Timur: omw.

Rita: I'll be a litkle late. Wait gir me!

Timur quickly slipped into his wellies, grabbed his coat, and bolted outside.

The rain had only just eased off, leaving a miserable chill in the air that you wouldn't expect in mid-July.

Grandma was showing her daughter and son-in-law around the garden. They were wandering along the fence, near the gooseberry bushes, when Timur, dressed in wellies and a jacket, popped out of the house.

"I’m off to see Iaroslav!"

"Run along, Timushka," said Grandma, interrupting her story about pest control.

"I’m coming too!" Andryusha headed for the gate.

"No, you're not," Timur cut him down.

"I wanna go!"

"I'm not taking you with me," said Timur, turning his brother around towards the house. "It's going to be adults only."

"Adults!" Dmitry laughed sarcastically. "What’s the big tragedy? What do you think you're actually doing here? Your job is to look after Andryusha and be useful, not to fool around with your friends. You've rested enough for the entire year, you mediocre student!"

Timur looked at his mother. She rolled her eyes and shrugged, as if to say he should ignore Dmitry's horrid comments. Well, that's a massive help. Ever since Dmitry came along, it was as if his mother had been completely replaced. She'd gone from being a cheerful, attentive woman to a tormented, indifferent one. And yet, Timur still had that naive, childish hope that somewhere deep inside, she actually cared.

Timur felt a thud against his boot. It was Andryusha, having decided to punish him by hurling a clod of earth at him.

"Serves him right!" Dmitry was bang up for backing the little blighter.

Timur stared at him as if he were absolutely daft.

Over the past few months, Andryusha had been perfecting a new trick to get his way: throwing tantrums and stamping his feet. Dmitry found it amusing, and sometimes he’d deliberately wind him up—"just to build character." At times like that, Timur actually pitied his brother, but getting involved was more trouble than it was worth.

"Great job," he said to Andryusha. "You tried to get me, and look at your hands, Oinky Andy. And now you’re stuck with the mess."

Timur left the gate and, after walking just a short distance, heard a child’s piercing wails growing louder, accompanied by Dmitry's cursing.

***

The weather cleared up, and village life carried on.

A circular saw droned in the background, doors were slamming, and a radio was playing in the distance. Moving in pairs, jackdaws flitted from one garden to another, gathering worms. Somewhere far off, the harsh cawing of rooks filled the air.

The further Timur moved away from home, the more his heart lifted. He trotted happily through the puddles, kicking up mud as he went, and looking forward to meeting up with his friends.

Out of their nine-strong crew, only three were still in touch: the lively and mischievous Ritka, and Iaroslav, the eldest of the group.

Adults constantly criticised Iar for hanging out with kids instead of looking for a bride and preparing for university. As if! The youngsters knew that expecting Iaroslav to be serious was a bit like asking a fish to recite Shakespeare.

Iaroslav's place — or rather, his granddad's — was right in the heart of the village, and the local kids would usually hang about there.

Timur entered the yard through the open gate and headed for the shed where the light was on.

Iaroslav was found under the workbench. The red-haired, burly man in a striped shirt was bent over, looking for something on the floor.

"If you're trying to hide, give it up. I can see you."

With cobwebs clinging to his shaggy head, he crawled out from under the table and beamed at the guest.

"Tim! So glad you're here!" Iaroslav cheered up, flicking the thumbscrew he’d found. "I've almost got everything ready. I've checked the boat, and I'm building the trolley now. I told Grandad we're going to Pine Island to pick berries. How about we head over there later as well?"

Timur missed the last bit of what he said as his eyes fell on the boat.

A dark green inflatable boat, wedged in by a sidecar motorcycle, stood on its side against the wall. In the cramped shed, it looked surprisingly capacious. Iaroslav’s grandad used to take local kids out on it, three or even four at a time. But now Timur wasn't sure if the old boat could take three adults with backpacks.

"Will it actually manage to get through the marsh?" He nudged the boat against the side. "If it gets stuck halfway, how do we get back?"

"There's so much water this year that you could go by steamboat. Although I wouldn't mind going alone. It's dangerous, after all..."

"Are you crazy?! That’s the whole reason I came here. Just you try leaving without me!"

"Okay, okay, calm down, I'm only winding you up," Iaroslav smiled appeasingly. "You seem a bit down in the dumps."

"I'm fine."

"Your stepdad doing your head in?" Iaroslav sympathised without a smile, as he tightened a screw on the trolley. "What about your mother?"

"Nothing," Timur shrugged and pursed his lips. "Dmitry gives them money and drives them around. She doesn't dare breathe a word to him. What am I? Just a grown-up freeloader. I'll leave school and move out."

"College next?"

"Hah, no way. My grades hit rock bottom with all that family drama. What kind of student am I going to be?" Timur muttered under his breath, running his finger along the edge of the rowlock attached to the side of the boat. "I'll find a job and get by on my own. They're better off without me anyway."

"Tim..."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Me? Well, I promised my tutor I'd do a special project on a local church. If all goes well, he's going to hook me up with some media outlet."

The iron gate rattled against the latch a couple of times, and then there came a knock.

"Oh no! I must've locked it," Timur realized, bounding outside.

Rita was waiting outside the gates.

The girl who used to be a chubby, tomboyish giggler had blossomed into the absolute epitome of womanhood. That wasn't down to a curvy silhouette or the classic bun, either. She was standing there in a light denim jacket, grey jeans, and white trainers, as if rain and mud didn’t exist.

"Hi. Why are you locked in? Already discussing everything without me?”

"No, of course not. I've only just arrived myself. Hi."He moved aside.

Rita stepped over the high doorstep, carrying a rustling carrier bag with something square-shaped inside.

“Timka, have you gotten even skinnier?” Rita asked, looking at Timur as they walked towards the shed. "Are you going to disappear entirely?"

"If only..."

"What?"

"Nothing. I genuinely envy your fearless optimism," he remarked, looking her up and down.

"Who is afraid of mud, must not go into the marsh."

"You're not actually going to a marsh like that, are you?"

"Heh. Do I look stupid?"

They entered the shed, where Iaroslav had almost finished the cart for transporting the boat.

Focused on his work, he quickly glanced at his friend.

"Hi, Ritka!" he replied cheerfully, taking the second wheel. "Where are you going to go, looking so beautiful? To the shop? I can take you. It's kinda muddy outside."

Timur silently laughed.

"I actually wanted to celebrate our reunion, you plonkers. So I brought a cherry cheesecake." she explained, sounding as if she was ready to batter someone with the bag. "I made it all by myself. Well, with Grandma."

Iaroslav dropped the wheel and stared at her and her bag.

"You made it yourself?" he said admiringly. "For me?"

"You wish!" the girl snorted. "For everyone. Look at Timur — they're starving him."

The yellow glow of the shed bulb concealed her flushed, embarrassed cheeks, but it was obvious how her fingers were nervously twisting the handles of the carrier bag.

Timur's eyebrows rose a fraction in surprise when he realised what was going on.

Back then, he and the other children were always after Iaroslav's attention. Despite being the eldest, the kids treated Iar as a mate or an older brother. Timur probably saw him as the father he’d never had without even realising it. But he hadn't the faintest idea that Rita harboured deeper feelings for him.

"Well," Iaroslav said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Let's bite down to business."

***

Between the village of Zyblevka and the woods lay a field. Years ago, the land there was desolate and unstable. All the crops would die off, and the buildings would fall into rack and ruin.

Around a century ago, Gleb Vorontsov, a priest from the north, arrived in the village and commanded that a church be built right on that cursed field. He disregarded all warnings; quite the opposite, he vowed he'd breathe new life into the land and make it flourish. And above all, he spurred the builders with higher wages, and the working classes too, ensuring they were well-fed and held their tongues. His wealth and generosity made him famous around the village.

Yet it was his mysterious death that earned him the greatest renown. His death has been spoken about so many times and in so many ways that it’s impossible to get to the bottom of what really happened.

The old men recalled tales passed down by their forbears that Gleb had supposedly lost his mind, grown greedy and wicked, struck a deal with the Devil, pleaded for immortality, and commanded ravens to bring him food. People muttered that lights would sometimes be seen in the windows, and in winter, someone would be seen wandering around the church. The rest shook their heads, assuming it was likely local scruffs or drunks, hanging about and burning whatever they liked.

Despite its faded glory and dispelled myths, the mysterious silhouette of the church increasingly attracted the curious. The marsh gladly welcomed everyone without exception. It was during the war that it was most full. And then the village itself began to dwindle. People scattered to the cities. The children were brought back only in the summer, and they grew rather wary and idle.

The church stood idle and quietly decayed, overgrown with moss, litter and eerie rumours, its hollow windows stared bleakly down at the village.

Timur used to just stand and stare at it from the marsh edge, dreaming of going there. But he was stuck in the city, buried in his studies, and at any other time, the marsh was impassable.

He had almost let go of this dream. But just before his final year, luck suddenly smiled on him. The skies were remarkably generous with rain, causing the marsh to overflow.

***

"I'll be waiting for you at six in the morning by the willow," said Iaroslav, scraping the last bits of the pie out of the container.

He ate the lion's share of it while his friends picked at their pieces. Rita didn't mind, barely holding back a smile.

"Take your flashlights and phones. I’ll sort the rest. I bought two punnets of blueberries from a lady on the road yesterday to use as a cover story about Pine Island." He nodded towards the fridge.

"It wasn't worth it. Dmitry wouldn't let me go even to Pine island," Timur leaned back in his chair. "I'll have to slip through the window, anyway."

"At least you won't come back empty-handed. And leave a note. Don't push your luck. "

"My what?" Timur smirked.

"Exactly. Anyway, decide for yourselves. Rain, snow, meteorites..., meteorism — I'm off. If you're not sure or can't make it, don't force it. Don't get upset."

"I will be upset," Tim warned.

"And I'll force it," Rita joined in.

"Right, you two clowns. Off you go, then. W've all got a lot to do. Rita, thank you for the pie. It’s quite nice, despite being so tiny."

"Wow. Thank you for the review. Grandma will be happy to hear that."

Chapter 2. The church.

The morning was grey and dismal, just like the typical start of term at school. Timur muted the phone buzzing beneath his pillow, stared out into the gloom, and rolled over. Then he remembered it wasn't school waiting for him, but his mates, and he jumped up.

The door to the room wouldn't shut properly, and through the narrow gap, his grandmother and Andryusha could hear him making a fuss. The little squealer was sleeping like a hare.

He had to get dressed very quietly, but quickly. After throwing on his jumper, Timur slipped on the wellies he had hidden under the bed.

The rustling jacket had been tucked away in his backpack earlier. Timur left a note on the bed and then walked over to the window.

Yesterday, late in the evening, he had placed a ladder against his window. Meanwhile, inside, he’d forced the window locks off and left the sashes slightly open. It was a bit chilly to sleep, but it was worth it.

The window opened soundlessly.

First, Timur carefully dropped his backpack onto a pile of sand. Then, he climbed over the windowsill and stepped out onto the ladder. After gently pulling the windows shut behind him, he started to climb down slowly and quietly.

All of a sudden, a raven let out a harsh caw behind him.

Timur’s foot slipped. He banged his knee on the next step and scraped his hand on a nail sticking out of the newel post. But the real trouble was the thud when the ladder's prongs hit the wall of the house. The raven wouldn't shut up, as if laughing at him.

There was no time to hide the ladder or deal with his gashed hand. Timur grabbed his backpack and dashed out of the yard.

***

He dashed through the quiet, empty lanes, almost laughing out loud. The triumph of the escape and the upcoming journey sparked a roguish spirit in his heart, just like when he was nine again.

He quickly crossed the village to reach the riverbank ahead, which was overgrown with tall weeds.

There was a time when the marsh was fenced off by a net. It came as no surprise that the fence was soon knocked down and nicked for scrap, and no one was about to put up a new one.

The marshland was heavily flooded this year. Take two steps from the road, and you'd sink ankle-deep into the muck.

The boat was all set. The cart was tucked away in the reeds.

Dressed in a sports jacket and hiking trousers, Iaroslav stood under a tall, sprawling willow tree, photographing the church through the picturesquely hanging branches.

The clouds drew back like a theatre curtain, revealing a clear, deep navy sky, above the marshland. The silhouette of the church grew sharper. The tented dome reflected in the gaps between the duckweed, shimmering like gold in the early morning sun.

Amidst all this splendour, frogs and birds were singing, just as they would on any unremarkable morning. Yet Timur's heart hammered in his chest with impatience, as though he stood on the brink of an enchanted realm.

"The weather’s an absolute treat. Right, Timka?" Iaroslav turned and noticed that Timur was holding one hand with the other.

"What's happened?"

Timur reluctantly held out his palm, revealing a deep cut near his thumb.

"Iar, got a plaster?"

"A bleeding plaster?! Your arm’s practically falling off, we’re calling in the trauma team!" Iaroslav's eyes widened and he clutched his head, making his usual theatrical fuss about absolutely nothing.

The kids always found it funny and it would even make any pain disappear; even now, Timur couldn't help but smile, forgetting all about the itchy discomfort.

While Iaroslav was bandaging Timur's wound, Rita appeared. Winded, she saw her friends and gave a sigh of relief.

"I thought you'd taken off. What happened to you?"

"Just a scratch," Timur replied.

"A scratch," grumbled Iaroslav, tying the ends of the bandage on Timur's arm. "Going off into the marsh with a scratch like that is just asking for trouble. And the church isn't sterile, you know. Ritka, are you going on a boat in jeans?"

"I wasn't. I’d barely made it outside the gate when I slipped on the bridge over the ditch and ripped my jogging bottoms. I had to change."

"Did you get hurt?" Iaroslav asked.

Rita waved her hand.

"Only my pride. Damn raven..."

"I also fell because of the raven," Timur shared.

"Funny," Yaroslav chuckled. "I stepped out to enjoy my tea on the porch, and the stupid bird just cawed right above my head. I almost choked to death."

All three fell silent, exchanging glances.

"What if it's a bad omen?" Rita mused, playing up the mock dread.

"That’s it, we’re doomed. And we aren't going anywhere."

"Yeah, right!" Timur scoffed, standing his ground. "If I go back, that’ll be the death of me — no omens needed."

"Right then, all aboard! Let's live it up while we can."

***

The boat slipped effortlessly through the marshland, dispersing the yellowed mass of duckweed. Iaroslav rowed carefully, avoiding the hidden snags. Every now and then, bubbles would rise to the water's surface. And occasionally, a swift ripple would sweep across the blossoming surface.

"What was that? A fish? Can they really survive in here?" Rita asked in surprise.

"Maybe fish," replied Iaroslav, gently pushing the oars through the calm water. "Maybe mermaids."

"Mermaids."

"Who do you think is making the bubbles?"

"They're basically fish. They don't need to hold their breath."

"Right. But I doubt they’ve got swim bladders like other fish, so I guess… to get down, they have to..."

Timur let out a quiet chuckle. Rita caught his mood and let out a brief laugh before turning serious.

"Hold on a sec. Then how do they get up?"

"It’s shrouded in mystery."

A prolonged rumble cut through the chorus of frogs.

Iaroslav looked behind Rita.

"Tim."

"Huh?"

"You haven't had breakfast yet, have you? Take the sandwiches and tea in the thermos from the backpack. Rita, you too. You can't go to church hungry."

"Where did you find that rule?" Rita grinned doubtfully. "In the statutes of this church?"

"It's folk wisdom. So tuck in! Lunch is served at the Happy Marsh Kindergarten."

"I'm on a diet," Rita refused.

"You're in my boat! Everyone. Here. Takes. Orders. From the captain!" he commanded, striking the oar against the water for emphasis on every single word. But the only response he got was a chorus of sniggering.

***

The bracing aroma of pond scum and a chorus of croaking toads lent a thoroughly unique ambience to their breakfast.

Iaroslav was in no rush to dock, giving everyone time to absorb the greatness of the moment. After all these years, they were finally seeing that church not just as a shadow in the distance, but as a living legend.

It was much like how the astronauts must have felt before taking their first steps on the Moon.

Up close, the church was astonishingly large. The covered, two-flight porch was crowned by an onion dome and cupola. Behind it, a tall octagonal belfry stretched upwards, just obscuring a tented dome capped with a finial.

The church's timber frame had warped, and the eastern half was slumping heavily into the water. The base and the first five or six stairs of the blackened, slippery staircase were submerged too. Thick, slimy green moss was splattered across the walls. Empty bottles, crisp packets, and cigarette ends floated beneath the skeletal trees lining the water. The roof had weathered to a leaden grey, missing a few planks here and there, and the entire structure was swarming with nests, resembling spiky warts.

However, this didn’t ruin the church's majestic look. Instead, it made the building resemble a tough old man who had faced a hard life, yet kept his wise calm and grandeur despite the struggles.

Iaroslav pulled the boat up to the left flight of stairs and tied it to the decorative post.

"Lady and gentleman, our cruiser has reached the Church of Gleb Vorontsov," he spoke into his fist, mimicking a tour guide. "Please step off for the excursion."

Iaroslav handed out gardening gloves and torches to everyone, and slung a camera and a camcorder around his neck.

"I'll go first to see if it holds up. And to film everything in a way that keeps you out of the shot. Though feel free to talk."

"Thank you so much for that."

Holding onto the wobbly railing, he stepped on the slippery steps, putting his weight on them to test their strength. He headed upstairs, recording the whole thing, and stomped about, testing the floor.

"I'm bored. How much longer?" asked Timur, mimicking a typical tourist.

"How much free time do we get?" Rita played along.

"Is there a toilet nearby?"

"Where can I buy authentic local souvenirs?"

"Okay,okay, I'm coming! To untie the boat with you on it."

He headed back to his friends and and helped Rita up the stairs first, then Timur.

Huddled together on the porch, the friends looked out across the calm surface of the marsh.

The blocky shadow of the church rippled on the thick duckweed, creating the illusion that they were surrounded by an ordinary meadow of lush grass. The gentle splash beneath the stairs was a reminder that beneath the green carpet lay still water and a thick quagmire.

The sharp peaks along the roofline pierced the flat, uniform boxes of the suburban houses in the distance.

Timur couldn't quite believe he was finally looking down on his village from the church, and not the other way around. He felt this day would mark a definitive turning point in his life.

"Shall we take a picture?" he suggested. "We won't show a soul, obviously."

Being the tallest, Iaroslav leant back against the railing, bundled his friends together in front of him and reached out with his camera over Rita's shoulder.

"Say 'Mi-ire!'" he called out, and when Timur and Rita giggled, he took a photo.

Having seen enough of the view from the porch, they eventually turned their attention towards the dark mouth of the entrance.

On the jambs remained only the fractured notches where the hinges had been torn off.

Iaroslav stepped into the narthex, eager to capture every single bit of the room on camera. Every nook and cranny was choked with swallows' nests and dusty cobwebs. The window bars had been unceremoniously ripped out. The floor was littered with cigarette stubs and bottles, and the walls were scrawled with chavvy tags.

Looking through the mess, Timur caught sight of dark patches.

"Iar, look. Is that blood?

"It could be," Iaroslav shrugged. "You never know who hangs out here in winter."

"I hope there's no one here right now," Rita said.

"We'll find out soon," he whispered mysteriously, turning towards the double doors that concealed the church's most intriguing feature.

The heavy timber sashes, held by sturdy lintels and secured with massive forged iron bolts, made it feel far more like a giant's lair than a place of worship.

"It’s so strange. They took the bars, but left the latch on the door."

"Maybe they couldn't be bothered with a piece of scrap metal for a few coppers?" Rita suggested.

"Since when have they ever turned down small change?"

Iaroslav jiggled the latch, filming it. Then he gripped the wooden handle and pulled the door open. The rusted hinges screeched, sounding exactly like the cackle of an old man. At that moment, the temple seemed to come alive, vibrating and rustling with wood dust.

The torchlight faded into the gloom of the prayer hall.

Everyone walked in and felt the raw chill creeping up through the floorboards, as if the air con was blasting right down there.

"What an eerie chill," Rita remarked, pulling her shoulders together.

"Like a draft from the grave," agreed Iaroslav.

"And it stinks like hell!" Timur added, taking shallow breaths as he got used to the damp basement.

"Step behind me," Iaroslav said, and for once, he wasn't joking. "The floor can be quite dodgy."

He moved slowly, holding the camera and torch steady in both hands.

The cramped interior opened up at the center, where the stepped ceiling gave way to a dome. Arched openings to the left and right led into shadowed alcoves, illuminated by nothing but a faint, dusty daylight.

In the altar pit, the window was loosely boarded up, and dark, stagnant water lapped across the floor. Great curtains of spiderwebs, clotted with wood dust and dead insects, clung to the walls and nooks. The centre of the hall floor was strewn with feathers, twigs, bird droppings, and debris.

Iaroslav pointed his camera upwards, capturing the painted ceilings and walls. Yet what truly caught the eye were the nests that occupied every empty ledge along the log walls and in the window spaces.

Rita felt something crush under her foot. She stepped away and shuffled with her boot in the rubbish and cobwebs, only to reveal a small cat's skull from under a clump of matted feathers.

"Bones..." Rita breathed.

Iaroslav laid a hand on her shoulder.

"No wonder. Ravens are predators and scavengers. "

"Where are they, then?" Timur's voice echoed from the far end of the left alcove.

"Perhaps they’re out for food," Iaroslav assumed, looking over the paintings on other walls.

"All at once?" Timur muttered to himself.

He brushed the cobwebs off the window with his sleeve and wiped the dusty glass. From within the dark, cold timber church, the marsh— with bubbles still shivering on the water — looked even more eerie.

Turning around to head back to his friends, Timur caught sight of a door in the wall —one he had completely missed at first behind a heavy blanket of cobwebs. He pulled the handle, and it opened easily, the webs tearing like fine tulle.

Rita, meanwhile, approached the altar and stepped onto a submerged board. It dipped into the dark water with a soft splash.

"Rita," Iaroslav gave her a warning look, momentarily distracted from his photography.

Putting on a show of mock terror at his severe look, Rita backed away from the dangerous spot.

"Iar, do you..." she began, but bit her tongue, praying he hadn't paid any attention.

"What?"

"Do… do you honestly think people used to come to this church for the services?" she hastily improvised.

"Who knows. By the way, there isn't an iconostasis — I didn't even spot any traces of one. No mounts, no notches. This is so strange."

Yeah. Does this church even have a proper name, or is it just 'Gleb's'?"

"Hm. I have no clue."

"Have you any idea where Gleb got the money to build his own church back in the day?"

"I don't know. Conjured it up, I suppose."

"Do you honestly think he made a pact with the devil or something? What actually happened to him?"

"I'd like to know. I couldn’t find any records relating to him."

"How come you even know his name?"

"This is the only thing all the rumours have in common."

"So, your project will just be photos, videos, and rumours?"

"If they’re still not impressed, I’ll hit them with our mermaid theory," he said, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as Rita giggled.

"Guys, there's a staircase!" Timur called out, his voice muffled by the thick walls.

The friends huddled together by the entrance to a tiny room, facing a steep flight of stairs. It climbed to the landing above the narthex, which clearly led on to the bell tower.

"I wonder if I could..." Iaroslav took a couple of steps up, keeping one hand firmly on the handrail. The wooden treads creaked, and the railing wobbled. He backed down. "Or maybe not."

"You're too heavy, leave it to me," Timur offered.

"Yeah, right."

"Or me," Rita chimed in, joining Timur's laughter.

Iaroslav kept a straight face.

"I really appreciate your enthusiasm, but no project is worth risking your neck for. I’ve shot quite enough now. Let's head back."

"Oh, come on, Iar. Let me have a go. I'm thin as a rail," Timur pleaded, "those boards will take me for one of them."

"Right, yeah. You've already had one nasty fall on the stairs and nearly tore your arm off!"

"Blame it on the bloody raven. If you both keep your beaks shut, I’ll be absolutely fine. I give you my word I'll be careful. I'll just snap a quick photo and be right back. Please. It's highly unlikely we'll ever be back here, and once we're back home, all the fun’s over for me. Give me a chance to do something real in this life."

"Oh, my God," Iaroslav couldn't help but let out a sympathetic chuckle. "Poor thing. What am I going to do with you? Alright then. Knock yourself out. But if you have even a shadow of a doubt about the floor — "

"I’ll be back like a shot."

"Very well. Here’s your camera. Here’s the zoom, the record button’s just here, and here are the stairs."

Timur slipped the camera strap over his neck and headed up.

"And the financial reward. For services as operator and bell ringer," he said.

"You're on a traineeship. No money."

"Okay," Timur sighed, already stepping onto the landing, "risking my life for free."

"That's it. Get down here, you cheeky monkey!" Iaroslav barked jokingly.

"Are you kidding me? The further, the more interesting!"

"Just be careful," Iaroslav added, his tone growing more serious. "Don't risk it. And don't go any higher!"

"Yeah, I know!" Timur waved him off, disappearing around the corner, "These stairs were built to outlive us all!"

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," he shared a helpless look with Rita, sighed, and decided to look through the photos he had already taken.. The memory card was almost full, but not a single shot worked — instead of them, grey smeared pictures.

"What the hell?" he frowned, "Rita, I'll be right back — just popping to the boat to grab the old camera. Stay put. If anything happens..."

"I'll shout like crazy."

"Well done."

Iaroslav left. The church became quiet, creepy.

***

Timur climbed higher. A nauseating smell drifted up from the basement, making it difficult to catch his breath.

The gloves were too loose and kept snagging on the bandages, leaving him no choice but to take one off. Due to the friction and pressure, the wound started soaking through the gauze, yet Timur paid it no mind. All he cared about was reaching the very top of the tower to see the world from above.

Yet, reaching the absolute summit proved impossible, as the harsh weather had rotted the upper spans. Timur reached as high as he could, but the camera was still a few centimetres short of the window, which probably offered a stunning view. After making sure the floorboards wouldn't give way, he switched on the camera. He smoothly tilted the frame upward along the wall to the oak beam beneath the rafters—where the bell should have hung, but now only a frayed rope swayed in the eerie stillness.

***

Iaroslav went outside, took a deep breath of fresh air, and straightened his back. He felt as though a heavy winter coat had been lifted from his shoulders. However, the relief was short-lived. The boat sat just a couple of metres from the steps, with a deflated bow.

"What kind of performance is that?!" he grabbed a rope securely tied to a post, only to pull up nothing but the frayed end from the water. "Oh, blow it!

Iaroslav ditched the rope and stepped into the water.

***

For a long while, Rita stood looking up, waiting to catch a sound.

She tried calling out, only to be met with silence from the belfry.

She shrugged her shoulders. It was chillier in that tucked-away corner compared to the previous chambers. And a horrible reek of death was coming from somewhere. Most likely, as they had opened the door, the chill draft blew the pong of dead rats all around the church. Rita emerged from the stairwell to get some air and looked out the window.

Hearing a subtle creak of the floorboards, she turned quickly, catching sight of Iaroslav's silhouette as he wandered through the church.

Turning back to the window, she braced herself for a moment before she finally asked.

"Iar..."

"Mm?"

"Are you… seeing anyone?"

"Mhm."

"I imagine she's quite attractive."

"Yeah," a satisfied smile was heard in his voice.

"Oh. Why haven't we seen the pictures? Is she some sort of celebrity? Or did you just make her up?" she asked in a light-hearted way.

"Why? Were you hoping to be the one, you lardass?"

"What?" Rita spun round, hoping she’d just misheard that rubbish because of the terrible acoustics.

Not a breath, nor a footstep stirred. The great church felt as empty as a tomb.

The girl headed into the prayer hall.

"Iar! Are you there?"

There was no soul in sight. Suddenly, the submerged altar bubbled ominously. Rita gasped, directing her trembling torch beam into the dark. As a fresh cluster of black, oily bubbles broke the surface, something pale and rounded pushed its way up. It turned its empty sockets to Rita, grinning at her with the decayed teeth of its upper jaw.

"Iar!" Rita threw herself towards the exit, but a floorboard gave way beneath her with a deafening crack.

***

Timur stretched upwards, hoisting the camera toward the high window frame to catch the view. Right then, the screen gave a sharp beep and cut out.

"Damn!" Timur lowered the camera and tried to power it up again, but the screen barely blinked and died straight away.

A rope creaked softly just by his ear.

Timur ignored it at first, but catching a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye sent shivers down his spine. A human shadow fell across the patch of light on the wall. To the sound of a long, sickening squeak, the gallows-like silhouette slowly spun around.

Covered in goosebumps, Timur snapped his gaze upward — nothing. Not a shadow, not the faintest creak.

He had just managed to steady his nerves, putting it down to an illusion, but the second he looked away, the shadow crept back into view.

Timur hung the camera around his neck and, leaning over the railing, called out.

"I… Iar! Iaroslav!"

"~ha~?!" The echo only brought back a questioning voice.

"The...there's… Uh. Can you...?! I don't know..."

"~omin~!" the hollow voice calmly mumbled.

Timur desperately wanted to get the camera going and catch the shadow on film, but panic paralysed him, forcing him to grip the railing for dear life.

He felt someone standing just behind his right shoulder. All he could see was a tattered black cassock and a greasy, overgrown beard that looked like a matted web.

"There is nothing there. Turn and see," Timur assured himself, but he was too terrified to even draw a breath. Whoever was lurking behind him didn't breathe, didn't stir, and absolutely refused to fade away.

Timur squeezed his eyes shut as his breathing quickened, and the unbearable stink only made things worse. As he opened his eyes, he saw a grotesque angel figurine on the side, gripped by swollen, yellowish-grey fingers. The little figure, about the size of an adult’s hand, was smeared with wet earth. Through the dirt, brightly painted details glinted with gold.

Unable to believe his eyes, Timur stared at the solid, undeniably real statuette. Time seemed to stand still. The ghost seemed ready to wait until the end of time, barring the way with his gift.

Fighting a wave of nausea, Timur forced his trembling hand forward and took the cold, wet figurine.

The ghost vanished like a feverish nightmare, his tattered cassock and rotting beard dissolving into the damp shadows as if they had never been there at all.

Timur abruptly dropped the angel and bolted down the stairs.

But before he could even clear the first flight, the bell struck. Timur crashed down onto the landing and clamped his hands over his ears. A second, deafening toll pierced the air, splitting his head.

In sheer panic, Timur scrambled to his feet and started dropping down entire flights. Clawing at the stair edges, he badly scraped his palms and drove several sharp splinters deep into his hands. But in the heat of the moment, he was completely oblivious to the raw burn of his hands and the deep, bruising pain in his heel. The bell tower's shaft felt bottomless. Battling a suffocating wave of panic and the sting of tears, Timur pushed himself forward.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he practically collapsed onto the bottom landing and dashed to the final set of stairs. Halfway down, as though he had been shoved from behind, he tumbled hard onto the floor.

Scrambling to his feet, he realised his hand was gripping something wet and cold. Overcome with disgust, Timur snatched his hand back, sending the angel statuette skittering into the corner with a sharp clatter.

***

"Iar! Timur! Iar!" Rita cried, struggling to pull herself out of the hole in the floor.

Exhausted and shivering, she paused to draw a steady breath and gather her thoughts. A splash behind her broke the restored quiet. Rita whipped her head around, staring back into the shadowed altar area.

The dark water churned and splashed. The floorboards creaked, and a wet, grimy hand reached into the pale light. Rita writhed and fought with a manic, renewed strength.

"Help! Iar!"

Splat, splat, splat — the filthy slaps grew closer, dragging across the floor.

The sharp edges of the boards tore into her hands and dug brutally into her hips, but consumed by sheer panic, Rita didn't care about the pain. She kept dragging herself up, only to crash back down again.

A heavy thud struck the floor right beside her. And then, a hand with an inescapable grip closed around her shoulder.

Rita struck out blindly.

"Go away!"

"It's me! It’s only me!"

"Timur!" Rita sobbed with relief, recognising her friend. "Get me out!"

Timur crouched down, grabbed her by the arms, and pulled her up, but he just didn't have the muscle to lift her.

"I'm sorry. I can't!"

"It's all because I'm fat!" Rita howled, letting go of his hands.

"I'll call Iar. Hang on!"

"Wait!" Rita called out, but Timur was already gone.

Left completely alone once more, she froze in horror, her wide eyes locked on her sleeves, which were soaked with Timur's blood.

***

Bursting outside, Timur stumbled to a halt, entirely disoriented, as if he had just dropped into another world — one that was glaringly bright, aggressively alive, and filled with the whistling of the wind.

"Iar!" he shouted, and dashed towards the boat. "Iar!"

Iaroslav was in the water up to his neck, as if beneath him lay a bottomless abyss instead of shallow water. He clung to a rope attached to the boat, which had drifted off and was sinking after its captain.

"Help!" he coughed, spitting out filthy water.

Gripping the railing, Timur stepped into the water and reached out. But Iaroslav was too far off, splashing wildly at the water's surface to to push his friend back.

"No! Find a rope or something!"

"R… right, okay!"

Timur hurried back to the church.

"Where's Iar?" Rita blurted out in a breathless panic, as he stormed in alone.

"He's drowning!"

"What?" Rita gasped. "Do something!

"I'm trying!" Timur was on the verge of tears, defeated by his own helplessness and cowardice. There was only one rope left—the one in the bell tower — but going back there would take too long. Not to mention, it gave him the creeps to just think about it.

While scanning the room wildly, he caught sight of the damp sleeves on Rita's sweatshirt. The most obvious solution popped into his head, even if it wasn't the best one.

"So stupid!"

He dashed outside, pulling off his jacket as he went.

***

Iaroslav's head had already slipped beneath the water. One of his hands thrashed blindly above the water, in a last attempt to grab onto something. His other hand still clung to the boat, dragging the deflated bow underwater.

Securing the left sleeve around his wrist, Timur flung the right one toward the water, barely placing it within reach of the thrashing hand. Iaroslav caught it with a death grip. The sudden, forceful yank nearly dragged Timur in as well; he only just managed to catch the railing post with one hand.

His torn palms stung fiercely. Blood dripped into the water, trickling down the post and onto the steps. The sleeve twisted tightly around his wrist, biting into skin. His arm was going numb, threatening to loosen its grip.

Timur felt as if the roles had reversed: instead of him pulling Iaroslav to safety, it was he who was being dragged into the water.

Looking for a proper handhold, he glanced back and nearly threw himself into the water.

The ominous figure in a black cassock stood on the steps, holding out the angel statuette.

Accepting the grim offering was the last thing he wanted to do, but Timur was completely powerless — the ghost left him no alternative.

He let go of the post for a split second to grab the statuette, but before he could catch onto anything else, he lost his footing and fell straight into the water.

The world flipped upside down. Cold water surged into his nose and throat. In a growing panic, Timur kicked and flailed wildly, unable to touch the bottom. A clump of matted, mossy sludge got caught in his fist. Timur tore his arm away and tried to distance himself, only to lose his bearings in the water completely.

Suddenly, firm fingers sank into his shoulder and jerked him upward. Timur swallowed water and air at once and broke into a cough, entirely disoriented but offering no resistance. Iaroslav hauled him out to the stairs, settled him on the steps, and took a seat right in front of him.

"You alright there, Tim?"

Choking on a cough, Timur nodded.

"Good. What is that?" Iaroslav nodded at the angel figurine clutched in Timur's hand.

"It's a… Oh! Iar! Rita! She's inside! Help her!"

"Shit! Hold the boat!".

Left alone with the rope, Timur pinned it down against the step with his foot, not daring to wrap it around his wrist. Trembling, with a sharp pain in his chest, he rested against the railing, staring at the figurine.

With folded wings, the angel held its hands in a pose of prayer. Yet up close, its face appeared far too angry for an angel — almost gloating. Did this thing save them? Or maybe Gleb just let them escape because he tricked them into taking a gift?

Timur heard footsteps and turned around. Iaroslav held Rita close, supporting her as they walked. She was shivering, her clothes torn, damp, and blood-stained.

"It's flat!" she let out a frustrated sigh when she saw the boat. "How are we going to get back in this?"

Iaroslav reassured her, "It's okay. Only one compartment is flat. I’ll add a little air and tape it up. We’ll make it to dry land."

***

The hastily patched hole was still leaking air, and the bow of the boat was slowly going soft. They had no choice but to shift the seats right to the back.

Rita and Timur sat huddled together, staring vacantly at Iaroslav’s back as he pulled the oars without a break, desperate to get them home.

All of a sudden, a loud caw echoed through the air.

Looking up, the friends watched as a massive wave of black birds surged across the village. A shrieking tempest of ravens rushed over the marsh and completely consumed the church.

Seeing them, Iaroslav put his back into rowing even harder. As they reached the shore, he jumped into the shallows and pulled the boat up onto the dry land.

Without waiting for anyone to help, Rita was the first to step out and just walked off in silence.

"I'm going home. See ya," Rita stepped out of the boat and just walked off.

"Wait", said Yaroslav. "I'll walk you home."

"Don't bother."

Look, I messed up. I’m going to explain to your grandmother exactly where I took you and what happened. And..."

"That’s not it," Rita sighed, a tired smile in her voice.

"What then?" Iaroslav looked completely bewildered, darting a questioning glance at Timur, who could only shift his tired and confused eyes between him and Rita.

"You shouldn't be wasting your time on lardass," Rita muttered.

"Where did that come from?!"

Rita stopped, but she didn't turn to face him.

"You told me yourself. I heard it."

"When?! I would never...! How could you even think I would say something like that?"

Rita knew he couldn't, yet she still explained:

"But… When you went to the boat, then came back, and..."

"I didn't come back. I almost drowned!"

Rita looked at Timur."

I don't think it was him," he confirmed. "There was someone else in that church. You weren't just scared of me back there, were you?"

"Well, yes… Something crept out of the water and tried to get to me. You saw something too?"

"I think so. Some… old man in a cassock. Maybe it was Gleb, I don't know. But he forced this thing on me." Reaching under the boat's seat, he retrieved the small angel figurine and passed it to Iaroslav.

"Well, that face is… quite something. A rare vintage find. With a touch of gilding," Iaroslav said, looking it over before handing the souvenir to Rita. "You can always drop it off at a pawn shop."

"Funny hearing that from you. What about cultural heritage, saving our history, and all that?"

"That Gleb and his heritage can go jump in the marsh."

"That’s exactly what I was thinking!"

Timur took the angel from Rita and hurled it towards the church. The wooden statuette plunged with a gentle splash and popped straight back up.

""I'll walk you home anyway," said Iaroslav. "And I'll explain exactly what happened. You guys hardly look like you've been out picking berries."

"Why, don't we? Maybe we look like three absolute idiots who wandered into a cursed church and nearly got killed by an ancient evil? If my grandmother finds out, she’ll finish the job herself."

"And Dmitry would be right there to assist her," added Timur.

Iaroslav lowered his eyes and nodded, imagining the consequences of such a straight-up tale.

"Yeah, that makes sense."

"We all fucked up. So could we just pretend today never happened?" suggested Timur and smiled. "Just don't forget to send me the pics."

Chapter 3. Angel.

Carrying a bucket of berries, Timur made his way to his grandmother's cottage and peered over the garden fence. Andryusha was playing in the garden. n his bright-red hoodie, like a giant poisonous berry, he rustled through the currant bushes. The muffled voices of Mom and Dmitry could be heard from behind the house. There was a light on in the kitchen; Grandma was cooking dinner.

Stepping into the garden, Timur gently pulled the gate shut behind him with his bandaged hands, then swiftly made his way to the porch. But on his way to the house, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Andryusha’s find — the bloody angel.

Gripped by a sudden terror, Timur set the bucket on the bottom step and walked over to his brother.

"Wow, where did you pick that up?" he asked, as nicely as he could, doing his best not to let his voice falter.

"Found it." Andryusha hid his treasure behind his back.

"This thing is bad, you know that? You need to throw it out, or you'll get sick and end up covered in warts."

"Daddy will kill you for leaving," the kid stated casually.

"You're right. So… Since I'll be killed, can I at least have a look at this?"

"No!"

Andryusha made a desperate dash, but Timur caught him by the hood and grabbed onto the angel.

Snatching anything from a child’s hands is easier said than done. Andryusha clung to the figurine for dear life, shrieking and even trying to wriggle out of his sweater. Timur tried to twist the angel from his grasp, but a sudden, forceful shove to his shoulder sent him crashing onto his back.

"What do you think you're doing, you parasite?!" Dmitry hissed, sounding absolutely venomous.

"Dima, what's happening?!" Coming up from behind, Yana clutched her husband's elbow.

"Your psycho kid just tried to strangle Andrey! He hates him, I knew that."

"You're psycho yourself!" Timur snapped. "I don't need your precious 'Andryusha'!"

"There! Did you hear the way he speaks? I'm telling you, I saw the whole thing. One more second and he'd have killed him."

Yana looked at Andryusha, who was holding onto her leg and screeching, as though the very devil were being cast out of him. Then stared at Timur in confusion.

"I wasn't strangling anyone! I… I grabbed him by the hood to take this off him. He must've dug it out from God knows where, and… the paint might well be toxic."

"This junk?" Dmitry effortlessly plucked the angel from the child and turned it round to look at it.

"Look — it's gold. Now it's clear. He wanted money! Yana, just look at him! He simply vanishes whenever it suits him, mucks about with a bunch of slackers, and attacks a toddler just for some shiny tat. Who knows what he'll do next. We can't handle him. The right people will take much better care of him."

"What’s all the yelling about?!" Grandma hurried out to the porch. "Why are you picking on Timka again?"

"Keep out of this, Nina Mikhailovna. This is strictly between us family members."

"Oh, you the one who..."

"Wait, Mom! Dmitriy! Stop shouting and let's get this sorted!" Yana yelled.

She looked again at Andryusha, who was still screaming his head off, then at her eldest son and asked in a gentle, coaxing voice.

"Tim, why are you doing this? Can you explain?"

"Seriously? Better ask your Dmitry. What is he doing?" reasoned Grandma.

Timur didn't hear the following argument. He gave his mother a blank look as if she were a complete stranger. Unclenching his fists, he stepped back. Completely drained, he had no energy left to justify himself. He’d had enough of being the family peacekeeper. Wherever this cursed figurine popped up from, Andryusha and his dad could gladly have it.

"Screw you," turning his back, Timur headed indoors, kicking over the bucket of berries on his way.

***

Once he thawed out under a hot shower, Timur went to bed. He didn't show up for lunch or dinner, unable to pull himself out of the heavy, suffocating quagmire of his sleep.

In the dead of night, Timur suddenly opened his eyes. He wanted to check the time on his mobile, but he couldn't even move a single finger. He wasn't surprised, yet he was anxious all the same. Sleep paralysis was an old, familiar enemy, yet there was still no way to brace himself for it.

It always happened exactly the same way. First came the noise: like a stranger clumping over a clean floor in dirty, heavy boots and clanking about with the cutlery. This time, Timur saw that shadow more sharply than ever. It had a thick, tangled beard, translucent against the grey sky… Yet, Timur was unable to raise his eyes to see the guest’s face. And he didn't really want to.

The ghost swiftly whispered something that sounded like a spell or a prayer. Straining his ears, Timur caught the words: "As the last of breathing souls are touched by an Angel, may they take flight to the ringing of the holy bell."

"What a load of rubbish," Timur thought as he listened to the endlessly repeated phrase until he drifted off without even realising.

When he woke up, it was already bright outside. As soon as he realised the paralysis had gone, he instantly sprang up from the sofa.

His belly rumbled with hunger, so he headed for the kitchen. It no longer mattered to him what anyone might say. Whatever happens, would happen.

As he wandered through his grandmother's room, he spotted Andryusha. That little nuisance was sprawled out across the unfolded armchair, munching on pancakes and watching cartoons, blissfully unaware of Timur’s presence. For someone who'd been 'strangled', he seemed remarkably chipper.

Timur went out into the corridor. Muffled voices drifted from the bathroom, arguing over something. It was a perfect chance to grab a bite to eat and take a plate back to his room.

He stepped into the left side of the house. The whole room was bathed in warm sunlight, as a sweet scent drifted through the air like an enticing mist. Grandma was just flipping the perfectly round pancakes with a spatula, muttering away to herself about the ones that were clinging to the pan. A TV set in the background was quietly droning with a programme about folk songs. The morning felt completely peaceful, as if nothing bad had happened at all.

"Have a seat, Timushka," Grandma offered, her voice as warm and cheerful as ever.

"If you don't mind, I’ll eat in… my..." he caught a familiar golden glimpse out of the corner of his eye. The angel figurine sat gleaming on the shelf above.

Bells rang out happily on the screen, and people in folk costumes broke into boisterous singing.

An icy dread locked Timur in place, his mind helplessly pulled back to the haunted church.

Yesterday, up in the belfry, the bell started ringing around eight, if not earlier. Timur's eyes darted to the pendulum clock on the wall. There were less than ten minutes left until eight o'clock.

"The last soul to be touched by an angel will fly to the sound of the bell," the words echoed vaguely in his mind.

Was Dmitry going to die? That’s exactly what he deserves. But it would leave Andrey without a father. And Mom would be left to raise the child all by herself. Once again. What's worse — what if she, or even Grandma, had been the last one to hold the angel?

His thoughts stampeded, clashing like a flock of birds.

He heard footsteps in the corridor. There was simply no time to think it through.

Timur quickly picked up the figurine. At that very moment, the door swung open, and Dmitry and Yana entered. Timur attempted to sneak past them to get out, but Dmitry firmly grabbed his arm.

"What did you take?"

"Nothing," Timur answered, clutching the little figure tightly behind his back.

"For heaven’s sake! Dmitry! What on earth's got into you?!" snapped Grandma.

"Shut up!" he barked back, keeping his eyes locked on Timur. "Hand over what you took, or I’ll break your arm."

"Dima, what are you saying? Calm down!" Yana shook her husband by the shoulder.

In a flash, Timur cracked the base of the figurine against his stepdad’s head, then shoved him back with a force he never knew he possessed. The man stumbled backward, crashing hard onto the floor.

Timur rocketed into the hallway. He aimed to break outside, but fiddling with the lock would waste precious seconds. He bolted the other way and scrambled up to the attic in a heartbeat.

Timur stumbled through the maze of hanging laundry, frantically searching for a bag, a cupboard — anything — to hide the figurine. From below, the floor thundered with furious, heavy steps, mingling with his mother’s frightened, pleading voice.

"Dima! Calm down! Leave him alone!"

No time to hide it. He had to run. The only way out led to the roof. Dmitry would never go up there. Timur opened the window and climbed outside. His socks were instantly soaked by the damp moss and leaves. The chilly air bit through his sweat-dampened T-shirt.

Timur was pretty sure Dmitry wouldn't be able to step over the high sill and squeeze through the window, but just in case, he backed further away.

It was a perfect call made at exactly the right moment.

A bulky head popped out of the window. Dmitry caught sight of his stepson, and his face instantly turned beet-red. He forced his way out, bulging through the gap much like dough being pressed from a small saucepan.

Stunned by the sight, Timur felt the best move was to apologise and surrender the figurine to his stepdad as his well-earned prize. But doing so would mean admitting total defeat, putting his very life at the mercy of a complete stranger.

Dmitry hauled himself onto the roof and charged at Timur without a second thought, completely ignoring the terrifying height or the slick surface beneath his feet. He was going to put the arrogant punk in his place once and for all. Within his family, any form of disobedience was viewed as an act of criminal insolence.

Timur found himself cornered at the very edge of the roof. Fear and defiance tightened in his chest. He stood rooted to the spot, staring directly into Dmitry’s furious eyes.

This short-tempered man's outbursts were nothing new, yet this eruption of pure, unbridled ferocity was bordering on a sick, feral madness.

Dmitry yanked him forward by the T-shirt. His free hand darted toward the angel, but Timur kept the figurine out of reach, his face as blank as stone.

"Dima, stop it! Leave him alone!" Yana clambered out of the attic window, desperate to pull herself onto the roof, but her mother caught her just in time.

Dmitry heard nothing over the pounding of blood in his head. He gripped Timur’s wrists, squeezing hard to force him to drop the angel. The boy didn’t flinch, holding the statuette tight, right in his stepdad's face. Dmitry struck him with a brutal backhand to the face, slamming him down onto the roof, and instantly seized the chance to wrench the angel from his grasp.

Timur refused to unclench his fingers, letting the figurine drag him along. A sudden, violent yank threw him off balance, and he found himself swaying right on the edge of the sheer drop. He dug his heels into the brink, throwing his weight into the angel, practically hanging from it.

Dmitry felt himself losing balance and let go of the figurine on pure reflex. Timur choked on a silent gasp. The light wooden angel remained useless in his hands, offering no protection when the freefall hit him like a punch to the gut.

Watching Dmitry swiftly recede into the distance, Timur managed to think that when he hit the ground, he’d have to jump up fast and get the hell out of there, no matter how much his back hurt. He needed to hide the figurine and lie low at Rita's or Iaroslav's.

He met the ground with a breath-knocking thump.

Andryusha, who had heard the terrifying racket and dashed outside to see what was happening, stood there in shock, staring at his brother, who had fallen onto the garden path right in front of him.

Timur wasn't moving at all. He just lay, staring blankly at the sky, his limbs flung wide in a deeply unsettling way. A pool of dark red blood steadily spread across the stone beneath his dark, curly hair.

Out of nowhere, a black bird appeared right in Timur’s hand. A young raven hopped onto the motionless body, cawing frantically while stamping on its chest. The bird beat its wings and made a sudden lunge at Andryusha, who happened to be standing by. The boy shrieked and flailed his arms.

The petrified adults finally rushed out of the house. Seizing the vicious bird by its wing, Yana shoved it roughly aside and carried Andryusha into the house.

The raven flitted anxiously around the yard, then clumsily hopped up onto the fence. Trembling and panic-stricken, the bird sat with its beak agape, witnessing an old woman weep with grief, utterly unable to comfort her.

From far away, the faint bell-toll called out to him.

Flapping his wings awkwardly, he lifted himself above the gardens and the rooftops.

The further he flew from home, the more his memories and anxieties faded, giving way to a feeling of pure, weightless freedom. Everything simply ceased to matter. He was no longer bound to the ground, no longer caged by the triviality of human life.

One particular yard seemed familiar to him; there, a chubby girl and a tall guy stood locked in an embrace. The girl was holding a carrier bag. There was a pie inside. The raven somehow knew that. They were muttering away in some gibberish, yet he thought he caught his own name.

He circled above them, cawing helplessly. But they just gave him a strange stare and walked away into the house.

The young raven was called from above. A whole flock of ravens.filled the sky, calling out a loud welcome to the newcomer.

He soared to join them, heading home with his new family to the old church on the marsh.

Natalya Oleneva 15. 06. 2026