Story Vacation

"Let me tell you a story, a story with strange happenings…"

Vacation

I went on vacation at the end of September, a trip I’d been eagerly anticipating, counting down the days until it began. I wanted to make the most of those joyful, sunny days! That meant biking in the mountains, taking trips to Dombay or Arkhyz, and just catching up on sleep.
The vacation was two weeks long, well-deserved, like everyone else’s. The destination was the city of Kislovodsk, and my stay would be at my grandmother Olga Semyonovna’s house.

A quiet town, a wonderful two-story house located in a private sector on Krupskaya Street, almost in the city center. The second floor used to be home to my great-grandmother Maria Nikitichna, but she recently passed away three months ago at the age of ninety-six, leaving her part of the shared house and eight hundred square meters of land to my grandfather’s sister, Grandma Nadya, and her children. But that’s not important… The first floor is occupied by my grandmother Olga Semyonovna, and it was to her that I was headed. After coordinating in advance with my brother from Murmansk and agreeing to meet in Kislovodsk, I started packing my bags and preparing my bike for the journey. Traveling by train from St. Petersburg isn’t exactly convenient, but it’s quite economical. I won’t even mention the trip itself—you don’t see particularly beautiful scenery from the train window. The only things worth glancing at are the major cities along the way: Tver, Moscow, Yelets, Lipetsk, Voronezh, Rostov-on-Don, Mineralnye Vody—and that’s about it. And then, suddenly, Kislovodsk.

The architecture here differs from typical Russian cities—hints of Caucasian and Eastern styles appear in the roof shapes and building types. The presence of many people on the streets speaking Ossetian, Kabardian, Dagestani, and Chechen languages creates a wonderful soundscape for a change of scenery and a complete sense of being a guest in a small Caucasian town.

On the platform, I was met by my brother, who had flown in a couple of hours earlier and, after dropping his things at Grandma’s, came to the station to pick me up. After the customary family hugs and exclamations of “Wow, you made it!”, we took a taxi and safely reached the house. The first to greet us were the house dogs, Zhuchok and Zhunya, barking loudly. Only then, alerted by the noise and barking, did the grandmothers come out—Olya and her cousin Nadya (daughter of the late Maria Nikitichna, my great-grandmother), who was visiting. For some reason, she absolutely refused to live in this big house, preferring to visit my grandmother during the day and living in her own modest small apartment in another part of the city. Sometimes on weekends, she would drop by my grandmother’s (her daughter-in-law) to chat and simultaneously check on the great-grandmother’s floor: dusting, cleaning up. In the garden, she would gather ripe fruit—apples, plums, pears. And if she knew someone from our family was coming, she always tried to be there to welcome us at the house along with Grandma Olya.

After receiving an overwhelming dose of kisses from the grandmothers and, of course, answering a bunch of questions like:
“So, how are you all doing there?”
“What’s new?”
“Why do you call your grandmothers so rarely?”
“How long are you staying?”
—my brother and I, taking turns sharing the latest events in his and my life, entered the house. While I distracted the grandmothers with stories, my brother quickly dashed to the shower, washed up, and changed clothes, and then we swapped. After changing and collapsing into armchairs, we stared at the table laden with food. Uff… What wasn’t on that table! And how I ate that day—no, I stuffed myself! If anyone knows how to amaze with a table and its variety, it’s Grandma.

I recall that during a previous vacation, I even ended up in the hospital from overeating, but that’s just by the way. In general, she cooks very tastily, and if someone doesn’t eat at the table, she takes it as a personal insult.
Word by word, over the table, we spent the entire rest of the day at home. I think we talked about everything, or almost everything, and well past midnight, we dispersed to our rooms to sleep.

First Morning
I woke up in an amazingly good mood. I felt like breathing, creating, walking, and simultaneously doing nothing at all. The mere word “vacation” brought complete bliss, and the realization that it had already begun washed over me like a wave of pleasure. The sun warmed through the tulle on the windows, and from the kitchen came the sizzle of oil in a frying pan. From the smell, it was clear that Grandma was frying blini or maybe oladushki. That was it—I couldn’t sleep any longer. The appetizing aroma lured me to the kitchen, where Grandma, amid her entourage of kitchenware, welcomed us for morning tea.

It’s strange how the day flew by like a bullet. I’m still surprised how we managed to go to the park with my brother, explore and pick out spots for extreme biking. All I remember is the evening and sleeping like a log.

Second Morning
The September weather delighted us with warm days. Children’s voices carried from afar, and I felt like doing something fun. Mulling over what to do during the day, I remembered that Grandma had the keys to the great-grandmother’s upper part of the house. That meant I could go up to the second floor and reminisce about the time when she was alive, our shared games and conversations, and glance over the old items left from those days in search of something memorable for myself. So, it was decided—around three in the afternoon, I would go visit Great-Grandma.

Just a slight digression.
During her lifetime, people called my great-grandmother a witch, as well as her late second husband, Nikolai. Why and for what reason, I don’t know. I only remember that before his death, they specifically drilled a hole in the ceiling and roof above his bed—because, according to some unwritten laws, he couldn’t just die like that. Before his death, he was very ill for a long time, had already suffered a second stroke, and couldn’t speak. As they later said, he was waiting for someone to whom he could pass on his knowledge of witchcraft, and as soon as such a person was found, the knowledge was transferred. Shortly after that, he passed away.

I don’t particularly believe in the supernatural, but like all normal people, I’ve heard a thing or two about it. And a large portion of my knowledge about the darker sides of life came from ghost, vampire, and werewolf movies watched in the evenings at home or in Petersburg theaters.

So, around half past two, I got ready, took the keys, and went up to the second floor. I climbed the long, external wooden staircase and opened the door. After wandering through the rooms, I realized there was nothing to do here. The boring setting of an old space. After looking at the dusty old photos on the tables, some notes left next to them, and twirling porcelain figurines in my hands, I completely dismissed the thought of finding some keepsake from Great-Grandmother for myself. After watering the flowers, I headed for the exit, examining the colorful fake stucco on the ceiling. I passed one room, then another, then another… Suddenly, my gaze fell on a strange small door in the ceiling in a tiny room. O-pa-chki! Here it was—something interesting and intriguing! I’d never been in the attic of our house, I thought. I looked around, pondered how to get up there, and immediately remembered that there was a folding ladder in the last room. I quickly went to fetch it.

A few minutes after finding the ceiling hatch, I was already climbing up to the attic. I didn’t find any significant obstacles like locks or latches and began to slowly open the small door. I couldn’t open it fully—something was blocking it. I only managed to open it a little. Maybe some stick was propped against it from above, or maybe a stone was lying on it—I don’t know. In short, I never managed to open the door. I only got it slightly ajar. And then I started scaring myself with thoughts that this was a plot straight out of most horror movies. You know, where an evil ghost sits in the attic, guarding its secret from prying eyes, not letting anyone in. A strange shiver ran down my leg. No, not a shiver—goosebumps suddenly appeared from an awfully cold breeze coming directly from the crack of that ceiling door. I almost fell off the ladder from the sensation.

In short, any curiosity or interest in further exploration of the house vanished. I lowered the hatch door and climbed down. Taking one last look around the room, I put the ladder back in place and headed for the exit. I locked the door, descended from Great-Grandmother’s, and in the yard, started discussing with my brother how to spend the rest of the day. We decided to visit our uncle, Timya.

It was a good evening for conversation. House construction, politics in Kislovodsk, cars, the shared youth of him and our father—many topics came up in our discussions. Returning home on foot around midnight, we drank fresh compote with Grandma and went off to our rooms to rest.

Third Morning
Whether it’s the special atmosphere here or it gets dark earlier, but here I feel like sleeping by ten PM, like in Petersburg when it’s past midnight. And surprisingly, I sleep here wonderfully. I do wake up early, though. Today, I was up by seven. After drinking tea, I went out into the yard to get some fresh air and fully wake up. After walking around the yard in front of the house, I did some light exercises and accidentally glanced at the wooden steps I’d climbed yesterday to get to the second floor. Everything was basically in place; the dumb color of the old cracked steps, painted with floor paint, wasn’t particularly noteworthy, but some wet spots on them caught my interest. The night had been warm and dry—where did these wet puddles on the steps come from? It was unclear. I thought I was seeing things. Coming closer and looking more carefully, I realized they weren’t puddles but wet footprints. Specifically, only from the left foot, and what was even more interesting—bare and terribly clumsy.

On the first step, the print hardly resembled a human foot. The toes, it seemed, were separate from the foot and oddly off to the side. Curiously, on the second step, there was also a print from the left foot,;; bare and clumsy, but the toes seemed to have shifted—moving closer to their normal position, though still quite far away. The third step had no prints at all. The fourth had another print of the left crooked foot, and the toes continued to “migrate” to their natural place. In general, further on, the left footprints appeared every other step all the way to the top, and on the very top step, there was already a natural print of a bare, slightly crooked left foot.

I went up, checked the door—it was locked. Quickly descended and started carefully examining the prints on the first steps. They looked like ordinary wet footprints, possibly of an elderly person. But whose? No one but my grandmother could have made them. Grandma Nadya hadn’t come at night—why would she? And barefoot at that? Strange, I thought, and decided to ask Grandma about the purpose of the nighttime “barefoot” visit to the second floor.

Fortunately, all elderly people wake up early, and my grandmother was no exception. Finding her was easy—she was already making something tasty in the kitchen, specifically, cutlets.

“Grandma, do you know who went to the second floor this morning or last night?”
“Hmm…”
“I was walking in the yard and saw footprints on the stairs leading to Great-Grandmother’s door. Any idea who it was?”
“I didn’t go. What, I have nothing else to do? I’ve been making cutlets for you since early morning—why would I go there!”

This information left me slightly bewildered.
“You didn’t go? Then whose footprints are they? Grandma Nadya didn’t come, did she?”
“Nadya didn’t come. Who went? I don’t know…”

After finishing another couple of cutlets, Grandma came with me to look at the footprints.
“Yes, footprints. But I didn’t go. Don’t know where they came from. Some devilry!”
And we both stared at the footprints, as if our intense gaze would make them confess their origin.

Then my brother woke up, came out to see what we were doing, and approached us:
“What are you looking at?”
“Well, what do you think this is?” I asked.
“Dunno, some kind of marks.”
“I can see they’re marks. Any idea where they came from?”

He shrugged. We looked around—not a single puddle, no hint of dew or any other damp spot in the yard. Where these footprints on the stairs came from—I had no idea. While I was pacing and coming up with theories, my brother took a rag and wiped them all away. Recalling that scene now, I think he shouldn’t have done that. I should have taken a picture.

We didn’t dwell on it for long. After breakfast, we hurried to the station, where our bikes had been delivered as luggage and needed to be picked up.

Fourth Morning
Waking up early, tuning up the bikes, putting on protective gear, and arming ourselves with a video camera, we headed to the mountains for some extreme riding. The ride was a success. After briskly climbing through the park to an altitude of fifteen hundred meters, we sped down bumpy, winding mountain paths at high speed. Our blood boiled with adrenaline, and our emotions were off the charts. This was only the first day of rides—who knew what awaited us next.

By lunchtime, pedestrians started appearing on the park trails, and we decided to head home—people kept trying to get under our wheels. To avoid accidents, it’s better to ride without people on the paths.

Luckily, the town is small. Fifteen minutes on the bike—and we were already home, washing our hands and getting ready to sit down to taste Grandma’s new culinary delights.

“How was the ride?”
“Oh, Grandma, don’t even ask! My heart’s still pounding.”
“Aren’t you scared, doing such nonsense?”
“Nah, Grandma, it’s awesome! We’re going again tomorrow,” my brother commented.
“You must be tired?”
“No, on the contrary, we’re pumped. Now we’ll eat and come up with something else interesting for tomorrow.”

The plan for tomorrow was to change the route—lengthen it and try to descend steeper and more dangerous sections. We just needed to review maps of the mountain area and find suitable trails.

After eating heartily, I went to my room to study the maps. Entering, I automatically closed the door tightly behind me to block out any extra noise from the kitchen. I sat at the table and started studying possible descent routes. There were about four new routes we could try. But damn, why is it so drafty around my feet? Impossible to sit—my toes are cramping from the cold draft. Who opened the windows? I thought.

Looking up from the maps, I noticed the curtains on both windows, which were tightly closed. They bulged inward from a strong draft or wind from the window. It felt like just a little more, and they’d be torn from the rods, fly across the room, and land on me. They bulged so much that if the windows weren’t closed, the tulle or curtains would surely be ripped from their attachments. Apparently, the weather had suddenly turned bad outside, and a heavy rain was about to start. Damn, I need to close the windows quickly, I thought; with such a strong wind from outside, rain would inevitably pour into the house.

Jumping up, I quickly approached the nearest window, sharply pushed aside the curtain and tulle with my hand, and was surprised… The window was closed! Tightly, all latches secured. How could that be? Strange…

I went to the second window—it was also closed. Returned to the door—it was closed. Weird, I don’t get it. Went back to the windows—everything closed, not even a crack.

“Then what’s with the tulle?”

Looking at them, they hung on the rods like sails in a calm, without the slightest flutter.

“No-no-no, I don’t want to think about nonsense. I didn’t have enough imagination to explain this.”

Everything has an explanation, even this, but at that moment, I couldn’t find one. I simply went outside with the map, where the weather was good and sunny with no hint of rain. There, with my brother, we continued choosing the route for tomorrow.

Fifth Morning


The full text of the story is available on Litres, currently only in Russian. https://www.litres.ru/72569608/