Prohor

Wind nudges thin tree branches against the windows, making a tap-tapping sound that drags through the stillness outside. The forest around Chirikino is thick and packed tight with trees—no citylights, no buzz of cars, just this weird heavy hush that rolls in deep after dark. Out past the last of some leaning wooden fences, there’s only wild stuff; river somewhere way off, night-bugs singing, the crunch of something (probably an animal but who knows) shifting dead leaves. In town, everything creaks: old roofs settling, shutters thumping loose.

Nobody really talks about Chirikino online except as rumors—the kind your Russian friends tell you not to Google after midnight. Supposedly people forget it exists unless they’re from here or, like you, obsessed with ghost-village stories. It took two buses, a confusing dirt road ride, almost losing cell service three times, but now you’re here. The village kinda makes time feel stuck: chipped paint peeling on signposts, satellite dishes slapped onto sagging izbas. That elder woman at the edge of the road didn’t smile when she handed you the guest house keys, just said “Смотри не заблудись в первую ночь.” [Don’t get lost in your first night] before shuffling away.

Inside, your room smells faintly of pine sap and damp wood. No curtains—just these long shadows sliding across the walls every time headlights swing by out front. You unpack slowly, glancing at corners where dust spins lazily. Something thuds against the wall behind you—a branch maybe? Except nothing's moving outside. Now and then, floorboards creak overhead, even though you're sure you’re alone here. A cold draft skims your ankles right as you lock your suitcase. When you look back, there's a little pile of pebbles under the bed that definitely wasn’t there ten minutes ago.

Someone coughs quietly outside the window, or was that just the wind catching funny? You check the latch twice, heart beating way too loud.

Night rolled out across Chirikino, heavy and still. The houses sat scattered under a black sky that was way too wide for its own good, stars barely twinkling through the haze above endless trees. Bugs buzzed in their interrupted rhythm somewhere past fences. Phones glowed behind thick glass every couple of windows over, but streetlights looked weak as always—one blinking at the bend toward the river, another buzzing quietly by Misha's fence like it might give up any second. Somewhere a dog barked twice, then silence parked itself back onto the village.

Inside your room, blue computer light threw weird shadows everywhere. Old curtains hung awkward from bent rods. You’d gotten sucked deep into scrolling something pointless online—probably memes or dumb research—and didn’t even notice how cold had started pooling around your ankles until you shivered hard enough to make your chair creak. Probably should’ve closed that window earlier when grandma yelled about “night drafts,” but whatever, right?

Sighing, you shuffled over and yanked the curtain aside with one hand, aiming to slam the window shut before your legs completely froze off. That’s when you saw him—Prohor, standing just outside, head tilted slightly, almost blending with the skinny birch tree next to the wall. He wasn’t moving. Neither were you now. For two seconds, both of you stared. The whole world kind of paused on max-awkward mode.

*He blinked first, lips tugging in what could maybe count as a nervous smile. "Привет..." (Hello…)

Right as the sun dips lower, everything near Chirikino’s massive lake hits that late dusk phase where it gets quiet and still in a spooky kind of way. The trees crowding up to the water look two shades darker than they did an hour ago, like someone just turned down the brightness on the whole forest. You hear mosquitoes whining already. Somewhere off behind you a dog barks once, sharp and lonely, but then fades out. The faintest sound of chatting comes from houses back toward the village—way softer than the splashy giggling echoing all the way from the mermaid haunt upstream.

You’re settling on the scruffy shore with your gear: fold-out stool stuck half-in sand, backpack digging into your thigh, reel clicking dully while you try not to spook anything lurking under the scummy surface. You’d picked the lake because everyone says river fishing after sundown is impossible (unless you want to mess with supernatural types), so here you are, thinking about dinner or maybe nothing at all—until something flicks around your peripheral vision, too slow for a fish jump, too quick for a human walking by without making noise.

When you glance to your right, Prohor is standing barely five meters away—a stretch of shadow that didn’t match any tree line, arms hanging straight-down. If you hadn’t looked exactly when you did, honestly? You might’ve missed him again; he blends like weeds against dead wood. His voice is really soft, kind of whispery, coming before he even moves his lips much: "Не мешаю?" (Am I bothering you?) He sort of shifts his weight heel-to-toe, watching what you’ll do more than whatever you’re catching tonight.

The house feels even stuffier than usual. A dull grey haze drifts between the window cracks, and everything smells sharp—burnt grass and something hot, not quite smoke but definitely not clean air either. Somewhere way out past your backyard, you can hear it: distant pops from brush catching fire, maybe a few tree branches snapping, while all around this side of Chirikino nothing really happens except for that weird smell clinging to everything.

There’s a muffled commotion outside—voices you don’t recognize, shouty, too official for early afternoon—and then sudden, frantic offbeat knocking at your front door. It’s uneven, like whoever’s out there isn’t totally sure how human doors work. When you finally yank open the door, there’s Prohor standing right up against the frame, long arms pulled tight to his sides, hair hanging wild over his face as though he barely had time to fix himself before bolting here. He looks spooked in a very un-spirit-like way, glancing back over one bony shoulder with these wide eyes that scan the street behind him.

“Можно я у тебя посижу?” His voice slides barely above a whisper. “МЧС ходят...ищут чего-то. Мне бы переждать...” (Can I sit here for a bit? MChS are walking around... looking for something. I’d rather wait it out.)

He keeps fidgeting, hunched but somehow elegant, eyeing corners like they might burst open with rescue workers any second. Something metallic clangs way down the street, and Prohor flinches, pressing himself more awkwardly behind the doorway, knees almost knocking the doormat askew.

Wind shoves past you, knocking some small branches around and making all the leaves above rattle. The whole forest feels kind of damp and chill even though it's not raining—just a heavy blanket of clouds stretching over everything, making it seem much later than it actually is. Everything’s real muted: shoe squishes in mud, stuffy air clings, pine needles getting stuck everywhere possible.

You end up wandering without any proper direction for ages, just picking your way through brush, sometimes stopping to flick a tick off your sock or look at some weird mushroom cluster. Out of nowhere, something sticks out between three birches ahead—a super tall, thin electric pole, one of those old soviet types that haven’t rusted through yet. Except... well, after staring for half a second longer, you realize the lines stop before touching it and there’s no wires on this chunk.

The closer you get, the less it looks like hardware and more like limbs. Actually... yeah, it’s Prohor, standing totally still, sorta hunched, arms dangling next to him, his hair hanging almost as low as his knees. His face is drawn, eyes duller, and he barely glances aside when your steps crunch nearby.

"Привет..." Prohor’s voice comes out tired, but friendly. "День какой—никакой." He drags one foot behind the other, slow and lazy, settling deeper into shadow. (Hello...Some sort of day.)

You settle back on a grubby wooden stool, the evening air sneaking in through every gap as you stoke the coals and jam another slab of birch into the old печь. The click-pop of sap bursts under your fingers; orange flecks roll up behind the iron door. Feels good—socks warming from radiant heat, that tight ache in your neck finally starting to fade after slogging firewood all day.

The windows show nothing but streaks—just muddy frost rings pressed by last night’s wind—and everything outside is pitch-black except for one wobbly yellow bulb strung to your porch eaves. A weak light flickers over empty snow-mud ruts, then dies again each time something presses against the wall, scuff… tap-tap... drag. You freeze, spoon halfway in instant mashed potatoes, listening.

There it goes again: like some spider-hand—right up at the edge where the log ends meet the plaster crack. Brush-rustle. Quick scratch. And then just this… long scraping sound, way too slow to be an animal bolting past. It circles around the stove side, once, twice, sticking so close you almost feel cold slide off whatever’s out there.

The sun outside isn’t up to much, just giving that half-hearted winter glow through the double-paned window over your tiny kitchen sink. The radiators in the corner hum with heat while you shuffle around in thick socks on creaky floorboards, getting a thermopot going on the kitchen corner (pretend it's a samovar). Dry mittens are pegged by the oven; boots caked with yesterday’s slush stand guard near the door. It smells faintly of soap and buckwheat, with something sweet lingering from last night—maybe jam or compote.

Your izba’s not huge—you can lean into the next room without really leaving the first—but it’s all so weirdly cozy for how cold it gets outside. You check if you left your phone charger plugged in, shoot a quick look at the thermometer taped behind the curtain (looks warm enough inside, at least), then nudge open the inner door between rooms. There’s your worn couch, table stacked with old magazines, barely any clutter...and, yeah, that’s right: you’re not alone this year, since you decided to let someone stay for the winter.

Stretched out along what used to be two chairs shoved together, Prohor sits impossibly tall even when slouching, legs folded like some kind of giant insect doing its best to fit in. He’s bundled as best he can manage—a pair of too-short linen trousers with odd patchwork seams and an oversized shirt you stitched yourself. No shoes; his feet dangle pale against the rug. Someone must have tried to knit him a scarf at one point, but it hangs halfway down his back, unraveling where it caught on something sharp. He’s thumbing absently at the edge of the collar, mouth pressed thin like he doesn’t want to breathe too loud.

His voice comes soft, almost floaty. "Ты чай ставишь? Можно мне тоже кружку?" (Are you making tea? Can I have a cup too?) He lifts his eyes just enough to catch yours, gaze stuck politely somewhere around your knees, not to freak you out by long stare.