My name is Milena and I’m currently 83 years old. I’m here to tell you an old, strange story, which will also be quite lengthy, so consider yourselves warned. Frankly, this is a story best told at night, where the boundaries between reality and the realm of legend blur, and the faces of listeners are illuminated by the flickering glow of the bonfire. But well, we live in the age of internet. Yes, I know, you’re not here to listen to an old person’s kvetching. Let’s move on to my story then.
My parents lost their lives in the Auschwitz concentration camp when I was only 2 years old. I didn’t remember them, so even though I envied other children for having parents, I couldn’t really miss them. I was raised by my grandparents in a remote village, nestled near the woods somewhere in Poland. Life was quite simple there. I was an unproblematic kid, and I gladly lent my hands to assist my grandparents in tending to their flock of chickens and cows. I had a small group of good friends, with whom I used to play outside for hours, exploring nearby fields and woods. That was, until the woods became a forbidden zone. Because strange things started to happen in our once calm, boring village.
It began with the disappearance of a man simply known as Wiesiek, a figure both familiar and shadowed. He was a middle-aged man, often seen intoxicated and without a permanent home, occasionally taking refuge in people’s sheds without asking for permission. We all heard certain rumors about him. Apparently, during the Soviet occupation, he was labeled an ‘enemy of the state’ and subsequently deported to Siberia. After spending some time there, he was eventually granted amnesty and returned to our village a couple of years after World War II concluded. However, he seemed different upon his return, never quite the same as before. Some speculated that the harsh experiences had taken a toll on his mind, as he often rambled about strange creatures straight from the darkest folk tales, which were supposedly lurking in the Siberian taiga. Most people avoided him. It’s sad, but I can’t say that anyone was devastated by his disappearance. He didn’t have any family, and no one seemed to care about his fate, whatever it may have been. The police were involved, of course, but we never heard of any resolution.
However, it was a different story with Krystyna. As a young, beautiful mother, she had garnered the care and concern of many. So when she, too, vanished, the entire community mobilized in search of her. The woods became the focal point of their efforts. Yet, all that was ever unearthed was a single shoe belonging to her, discovered deep within the forest, far from the beaten paths frequented by nature enthusiasts and mushroom pickers. Some people speculated that there was a bear or a pack of wolves residing somewhere in our deep, beloved woods. While not entirely implausible, such animals typically leave traces of their presence behind, yet none were found. Then, a strict ban on playing in the forest and its immediate vicinity was imposed on us kids.
Over the next few months, two more people went missing: a teenage boy and an elderly woman. They too were last seen in close proximity to the woods, which had now fallen out of favor with us. None of them were ever found, despite the intense efforts of our community and the less intense efforts of the authorities. I wondered about the origins of the strange rumors that started circulating in our village. Who started them, and why? Was it because Wiesiek disappeared first? Maybe some people took his stories more seriously than they were willing to admit. You see, it was the ’50s, and our village was nearly forgotten by everyone, even by God himself. Many folks lacked education, and some couldn’t even read. Back then, everyone was deeply religious and superstitious. As a child, I caught snippets of conversations that gave me a vague sense of what people of our village were thinking about all this. It might seem silly now, but it didn’t back then.
One night, I overheard my grandparents’ conversation. My grandpa was telling my grandma about something he heard at the only bar in our village. Apparently, the men were out hunting when they stumbled upon strange symbols carved into the trees, filled with a red substance. My grandma immediately started reciting “Zdrowaś Mario, łaskiś pełna…“, a well-known prayer meant to shield her from all evil. Later, my best friend, a girl named Kasia, told me that her parents were once discussing the discovery of multiple traces of bonfires spotted in the woods. Then, there was the thing that stirred my imagination the most, making it difficult for me to fall asleep for a long time. One Sunday after mass, while I was waiting outside the church for my grandparents, I overheard a conversation between three elderly women. One of them lived very close to the edge of the forest. She mentioned that due to her struggle with insomnia, she often sat by her open window at night, breathing in the fresh air and listening to the sounds of nature. Several times, she heard something that immediately made her shut the window and hide under her quilt. It was a prolonged, high-pitched scream that pierced the ears, rising rapidly before abruptly cutting off. She described it as sounding like the call of some demonic entity summoning its brethren. After a moment of silence, all three of them simultaneously crossed themselves, shook their heads, and went their separate ways.
With those and a handful of similar clues, my friends and I were able to piece together the haunting picture: Wiesiek was right after all. A sinister presence lurked in the depths of the Siberian taiga, and it followed Wiesiek to our village. It claimed him first, along with the other missing souls, to satiate its hunger. During long, warm summer evenings, we sat around a bonfire and reminisced about the stories of dark mythological creatures that our parents and grandparents had once told us. There was Licho, a one-eyed creature resembling an old, gaunt woman. It was said that it wanders the world, seeking places where people live happily, only to bring upon them all sorts of misfortunes, hunger, poverty, and diseases. When someone deceives Licho, it follows them, always behind their back, glimpsed out of the corner of one’s eye, relishing in tormenting its victim. We all agreed that it’s something that could’ve happened to Wiesiek. Or perhaps he was seized by a strzyga, a female demon with bird-like talons, feeding on blood. We could have speculated for hours, devising theories, each more drastic than the last. While it was obviously tragic that people had vanished, the circumstances were somehow…exciting. At least for us kids. Something was unfolding—something mysterious and sinister—and it ignited our imagination. Filled with anxious anticipation, we waited to see what would happen next.
But…nothing happened. No one else disappeared. Time passed, and gradually, the villagers began to forget. For those who lost their loved ones, the pain lingered, of course. Yet, as the years went by, the wild theories faded into distant memories, becoming more absurd as we grow older and smarter. When I was 18, I left my home village to pursue education. Life under the communist regime was difficult. Most people were poor, and there were no prospects for young people eager to achieve something greater. So, like many other Polish people, I decided to emigrate. I would occasionally visit my grandparents, but after they passed away, there was nothing that drew me back to Poland. I had made new friends and started my own family in Sweden. I lost contact with my childhood companions.
However, as one grows older, distant memories begin to resurface. Childhood becomes an idealized realm of happiness. Sentimentality blooms, beckoning a yearning for the embrace of ancestral grounds. For this reason, I decided to visit my home village. Considering my age, it was likely to be the last time I would tread upon those old paths, embrace the flavors and scents once intimately known to me, and hear the melody of my native language. And as I thought, so I did. I spent a week in Poland during what was supposed to be a month-long stay, when a quite unexpected encounter occurred. I was slowly strolling through the village, which I could barely recognize anymore, when suddenly, from behind me, I heard an old, frail voice:
“Milena? Is that you? I heard that you came back…”
I turned around and saw an elderly, hunched woman with a flowery scarf on her head. I locked eyes with her weathered, wrinkled face, adorned with large, piercing blue eyes. A wave of sudden recognition washed over me.
“Kasia? No way!” I exclaimed, taking her fragile body into my arms.
She invited me into her modest home, where we spent several hours sharing stories about the most significant events from our long lives. I won’t bore you with the details, but I’ll mention that unfortunately, Kasia’s life turned out to be much less fortunate than mine. She never left our village. Later, like old women often do, we delved into the treasure trove of our oldest childhood memories.
“Do you remember those missing people from the ’50s? That darn Wiesiek. We couldn’t believe it.” She spoke with a voice brimming with disapproval, her head gently shaking in disbelief.
I didn’t understand exactly what she was referring to. I hadn’t been interested in the affairs of my village after emigrating, but I remembered that particular time and our wild speculations. So I asked her to elaborate. The story I heard from her made my hair stand on end.
No, no more disappearances occurred, and as I mentioned, the incident faded from the community’s memory. Until the ’90s came. It was autumn. A man was working in the forest, chopping wood, when suddenly, from the somber depths of the forest, emerged a strange, unfathomable figure. It was a very old man, incredibly dirty, dressed only in a hastily woven cloak of branches and leaves. Madness lurked in his eyes. He walked bent over in half, as if in great pain. When he saw the woodsman, he only managed to wheeze a plea for help before losing consciousness. As you’ve probably guessed, it was Wiesiek. He was taken to the hospital, and then questioned by the police in the presence of a psychiatrist. His tale was as fantastical as it was unsettling, and it made headlines, so I’m surprised it never reached me before.
The doctors concluded that Wiesiek was suffering from a severe mental illness. His affliction reached its zenith during his exile in Siberia, where he endured constant starvation in addition to being forced to work beyond human strength. He was plagued by dreadful visions of strange, ancient figures inhabiting the taiga, peering out from behind trees, whispering maddening, crimson secrets into his ears. These creatures spoke of an old era when they coexisted with humans, bestowing peace upon their worshippers in exchange for regular offerings of blood. Yet, with the advent of Christianity, the offerings ceased, and their wrath was awakened. They were hungry with a primal, insatiable appetite, intolerant of defiance. Wiesiek believed that upon leaving Siberia, the haunting visions would subside. His hopes proved to be in vain. His demons pursued him, ever more resolutely demanding restitution for centuries of neglect, wrought by faithless humanity. He attempted to drown out their voices with alcohol, but it proved futile. Thus, one day, he resolved to heed their call. He fled into the unexplored depths of the forest, where he crafted a makeshift shelter for himself and plotted to make his first sacrifice. Krystyna’s abduction was not difficult. She was alone in the forest, gathering wild berries, when she was struck unconscious by a heavy branch and dragged to his new lair. Then, following the instructions echoed by alien voices in his twisted mind, he sacrificed her body in the intricate, blood-soaked ritual. The ceremony also included carving specific symbols into the bark of trees and filling their lines with the victim’s blood. Well, this accounted for one of the rumors I had heard in my childhood.
Unfortunately for our village, the yearning of the ancient beings did not cease. They wanted more. So Wiesiek obediently provided two more victims, believing that his suffering would finally end, and the voices would fall silent. To his astonishment, after the third sacrifice, he was finally left alone. But his relief was tinged with darkness, as he was made to understand clearly that the hunger had been only temporarily satisfied. It was not the end.
However, there was one demon that never left his side: the consuming sense of guilt. He chose to remain in the woods, recognizing he no longer belonged among ordinary folk. He sustained himself by foraging from the forest’s abundant resources. While winters could be harsh, they were no worse than in Siberia. He lived for many years, relatively undisturbed. Why did he decide to emerge from his hiding spot after so long? His explanation was straightforward: the voices, the terrifying creatures—they had returned, seeking his assistance once again. He asserted that he would rather be confined to a psychiatric hospital for the remaining short span of his life than be forced once again to harm another human being. He passed away a few months later.
Well, although this whole story was so shocking, it still made some sense. Minds ravaged by illness possess the capacity to interpret reality through a lens divergent from that of sound minds. Sometimes, this leads to terrible crimes. This was neither the first nor the last instance of its kind. That’s exactly what I thought when Kasia finished speaking. And I probably wouldn’t have given this matter much more thought if it hadn’t been for one thing.
When night fell and I returned to my rented room, I decided to spend a few moments on the balcony, letting the warm, summer air envelop me. The village was settling into sleep. It seemed so peaceful and idyllic. Ahead of me, I could see the forest, still standing despite the passage of time and human activity. A light breeze rustled the treetops. I closed my eyes. Then, carried by the wind, came words spoken in a clear whisper. As a matter of fact, it was one word, repeated over and over, unmistakable from any other:
Krew
Krew
Krew