Well, my name is Ivan, I’m an anthropology student who grew up in North America listening to mysterious stories from my grandfather, an immigrant from the former Soviet Union. His house always exuded an enigmatic atmosphere, filled with memories and peculiar objects from that distinct nation.
My family immigrated from the USSR decades ago, but my grandfather carried with him a baggage of skepticism and a story that he held dearly. Despite being 86 years old, he is still a strong and skeptical man. He always made a point to discredit and sometimes even mock certain beliefs, whether they were folklore or political ideologies. He used to say that ideologies were the mythology of a man who thought himself intelligent.
However, there was one specific legend he dared not joke about or even mention. I recall a time when my older cousin Nicolas casually mentioned the name of that creature as a joke during a family gathering at my grandfather’s house, only to receive a stern reprimand. After that incident, we never spoke of it again, neither at my grandfather’s house nor at any other family gathering.
I’m sharing this for a reason: he told me about it during our last visit. We have a close relationship, and I often visit him. Not to brag (and I pray that neither Nicolas nor any of the others see this), but I am his favorite. He always tells me how much I resemble him when he was my age, and I receive many gifts from him.
This time, however, I was visiting him with a purpose. In college, we were studying Slavic culture, the differences in the development of Eastern and Western Europe, and who better to talk about it than my old Soviet grandfather? I called him, asking if he was free, and we arranged to have coffee in the afternoon. He prefers climates that remind him of home: snow, mountains. Therefore, he lives near Aspen, Colorado. It’s about a two-hour drive until you spot his “castle” (by which I mean a wooden cabin he built himself). It’s a charming place, to say the least.
We talked for a long time, losing track of how late it had become. He shared stories of happy days, his childhood running through the streets of Moscow, his beloved babushka, the monks distributing bread in the city. Due to my young age, he didn’t provide many details about the war since he remembers very little. His father was a radio operator, and his mother a seamstress. He had a good education, learning to read early, with early exposure to his favorite authors, Dostoevsky and Nietzsche. His stories filled more than 10 pages, and while I’d love to share them, they don’t fit the purpose of this occasion. I’m here to report what happened next.
I glanced at the clock and almost jumped backward. It was almost 9 pm, and it was really late. I grabbed my coat from the bench, saying I was leaving. He didn’t even say goodbye; I thought he hadn’t heard. But upon opening the door to go to my car and seeing the snow falling heavily, rapidly increasing in level, I returned and found his sarcastic smile. “Ivan,” he said, “you’ll have to spend the night here, lad. It’s not safe to hit the road in these conditions.” The old man was right, and I believe he was also happy to have some company. Since my grandmother passed away, he feels quite lonely, so I was also glad to keep him company.
He made a batch of black bread and borscht for us to eat. While he poured the hot soup, he looked outside, closed the curtains, and sat in his armchair, more solemn this time. “Ivan,” he said, “You came here wanting to know about my history, but there’s something I left out. There are reasons why I didn’t talk about it, but look, I’m getting old, don’t have much time left, and I need to tell someone.” “Don’t say that, Grandpa,” I replied, referring to his earlier remark about not having much time. “You’re so fit that you could outlive us all.” We laughed. “But now, seriously,” he continued, “I need to tell you what made me leave my country and start a life here.” The following account is a transcription of my grandfather’s words. I can’t vouch for its accuracy, but if a man as skeptical as him asserts it with such certainty, God, what might exist out there without our knowledge?
“I was around 25 when it happened. You must remember that I was a metallurgical worker, strong and full of vigor at the time. As a result, I enjoyed nights socializing with factory comrades, getting drunk, and going out with girls.”
He looked at the icon on his table, as if reflecting, regretting past indulgences.
“That night, I hadn’t been drinking; I was too busy trying to win over a German beauty at the bar. My friends left while I was still talking to her, attempting to convince her to come to my place. She left soon after, leaving my night to end sober and alone, a true loss!”
He chuckled.
“Without the comfort of vodka to warm my thoughts, I had no choice but to walk home. Public transport, already scarce, had ceased its operation at that hour, and vagabonds roamed the streets. If a cop caught you… well, you better have a really good excuse. I must have walked about two blocks after leaving the bar when, turning into a narrow alley, I came across… it.”
His gaze was uneasy, as was his voice and the swallow in his throat.
“It was a slender thing, pale, leaning over a guy I didn’t know, but God rest his soul. The man’s coat was stained with blood, a large hole in the fabric revealing a side wound. The thing seemed to be draining the crimson liquid oozing from the wound. I took a few steps back, but it was too late; the devil’s spawn had seen me, looked at me while growling, and its eyes were so… so bright.”
His hand holding the coffee cup was trembling.
“I turned around to start running, but I could hear its agile footsteps behind me. Glancing back, I saw it running on all fours, like an animal. I could see my door just over 50 meters away when it pounced on me, knocking me down. I turned and saw its deformed face a few inches from mine. It growled while its iron-like breath flooded my nostrils. The creature seemed prepared to make me its victim, just like the previous man, but upon opening my coat, it encountered my crucifix.”
He clutched the crucifix around his neck, a constant companion since I can remember.
“For a brief moment, the creature hesitated, fell backward, and I, not being a fool, continued running. I almost broke down my door with the speed I rushed at it. I could see the beast regaining composure and coming, this time more furious. I had already entered, but there was no way to close the door before it arrived. It was a few meters away when it stopped, out of nowhere. It stared at me. My legs wobbled. It circled for a few moments and then left. I closed the door while breathing heavily, collapsing into the armchair, utterly incapable of standing. My breath condensed into dense, wet clouds when a quick, subtle knock on my door made me jump. It repeated once, followed by a female voice. ‘Hey, Mika… it’s me,’ it was the voice of the German girl from the bar. ‘There’s something out here; I’m so scared. Let me in?’ I couldn’t move, just mumbled, ‘The door is open,’ and I can only credit God for putting those words on my lips.”
He made the sign of the cross.
“Her knock was louder this time, ‘CAN I COME IN?’ Her voice was more restless now, not just scared but even impatient. ‘I said the door is open, didn’t I?’ I walked to the peephole. There she was, it was indeed the girl, but gradually, as she heard me approaching, her strange smile grew, her canine teeth enlarged while her nose retracted in a strange and elevated manner.”
He avoided explicitly mentioning the term ‘vampire’ (as I mentioned earlier), but every detail painted the image of a bloodthirsty creature.
“‘You can’t come in…’” She knocked so hard that it nearly knocked the door off its place. I jumped back.She knocked harder, nearly taking the door off its hinges. ‘Get out of here, demon!’ I shouted. ‘You can’t hide forever, Mikhail,’ she said, turning around. ‘I know where to find you.’ Well, I guess you can imagine why I moved here. I fled two days later, afraid that something would happen to me. I came here, where I met your grandmother, and things couldn’t have worked out better than they did.”
I was processing that for a while. I expected a laugh at the end, a proclamation that it was just a joke, but no. Those words were true. I won’t include them in my work, except as an urban legend that my grandfather heard in his hometown. That’s why I came here to report what happened. We stared at the flames in silence after the story, while I digested everything that had occurred. Suddenly, a thump made me jump. A knock on the door. My grandfather chuckled.
“Are you scared, lad? Relax. If it’s one of those things, I have a bag of garlic in the kitchen.”
He laughed again to himself as he walked to the door. A muffled voice through layers of clothing sounded, “Hey, is anyone home? My car is stuck in the snow, and I can’t go back home. Can I come in and use your phone?”
My eyes met my grandfather’s. What kind of twist of fate was this? I looked out the window. Someone in a thick orange coat, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of their face, and a beanie on their head. My grandfather opened the door.
“Do you want to use my phone?” he said, stepping back.
“Yes, please,” the voice seemed clearer now, without a door in the middle, and she pulled the scarf slightly away from her mouth.
My grandfather stared at her.
“I swear I won’t take long; I just-“
With a subtle movement, my old man had taken off his crucifix. The creature was now retreating.
“You’re getting old, Mikhail. You won’t stand there forever.”
She hissed as she moved away from the door and disappeared into the forest. That was… the same girl from that night. My grandfather seemed somewhat affected; he tried to conceal it with his characteristic manner, but I noticed. He didn’t let me leave until he was sure the sun covered the entire plain. I came home, constantly checking my rearview mirror and taking extra care when entering my house.
It’s been a few months since that happened, and I’m finally reporting it. Two weeks after that encounter, he disappeared. Shortly afterward, presumed dead, probably some animal got him or his old age and confused mind made him lose his way. We’ll never know. But I know one thing: my grandfather told me that for a reason, and if that thing crossed the ocean to reach him, how much time do I have before someone knocks on my door?