Inheritance

This body of text is intended to be delivered to Brother Constantine of Saint George's monastery, and to whomever else he deems necessary to learn about its contents. Due to my peculiar conditions, however, I cannot ignore the possibility that it could be found by an unrelated third party. If you are such a person - if you perhaps found a briefcase containing these documents next to a smoldering wreck, or in a mysteriously abandoned car – I implore you to either deliver this text, along with any other items you found inside, to its intended recipient, or leave it as you found it. Just the act of picking up this piece of paper might put you at risk, and the more you read, the more danger you’ll be in. Continue on your own responsibility.

Before I begin the story proper, I believe a little background is in order.

Back in the 1970s, when my father, as did many young men at the time, moved to the capital to study at the university, my uncle decided to remain in his home village of Brzivode and, like his forefathers, live as a farmer. A few decades later, by pure accident, he discovered a pot of silver coins buried in his orchard. He believed this was a lucky break, blissfully unaware that his life would go downhill from that point on.

He made a rather naive attempt to sell the silver off, where it ended up confiscated by the state. He was allegedly entitled to some sort of compensation, much, much lower than he hoped for, but a compensation nonetheless (don’t ask me how any of this worked legally, I was always terrible at understanding such matters, and so was everyone who has ever recounted this story to me). Nothing came of it, however, as the case fell through the cracks once the civil war broke out. Any grievances over gold were quickly and tragically overshadowed anyway once his son, and my cousin, got drafted into the army and promptly killed. He was some 20 years my senior, and died before I was even born, my father being the younger brother and getting married fairly late.

From that point onwards, my uncle turned to drink and never recovered. He managed to eke a miserable existence for another 25 years, living on while lacking any particular desire to do so, selling off the land piece by piece until he was left with the house and the orchard where the unfortunate silver was found. Had he lived a few years more, he would’ve sold that too, and in turn spared me a tragic fate. Unfortunately (for me that is, as by that point he lacked any attachment to this mortal coil), he suffered from a fatal stroke and was found by a neighbor five days later.

Uncle left no last will, so my father, his only living relative, ended up inheriting the property and immediately transferring it to me. He had no need for it, being perfectly content with urban life, while moving to the countryside perfectly suited me at the moment.

When I was a kid, I dreamt of being a journalist. I can’t remember why exactly – was it some book? Something I watched on a TV? The career seemed more glamorous and exciting to my young mind, and I decided to pursue it. In time, I became completely disillusioned with my chosen profession, or with its present state at the very least, considering the average journalist to be perhaps even morally lower than the average lawyer – “road to Hell is paved with clickbait titles”, to paraphrase a much better wordsmith than myself. I thus found myself in an unfortunate position: I did not wish to work for any of the local newspapers and televisions, I had no other marketable skills, and I needed money.

Luckily, there are other ways for a man to earn a modest living in this modern era. I decided to try my hand at podcasts. As a topic, I chose local folklore and supernatural stories, and I decided to target western audiences instead of local, expecting them to be more likely to throw a few dollars my way. The result, Balkan Ghouls, was a modest success. Money was still tight, however, so the surprise inheritance was more than welcome. It wouldn’t be worth much if I sold it, but moving there would be a decent option. I wouldn’t have to worry about rent, and Brzivode was located in the eastern part of the country, well-known as a hub of supernatural and occult activity, allowing me to do a lot of work without too much hassle.

These were, more or less, the circumstances under which I ended up moving to the countryside. I packed up my meagre possessions, left the city, and headed east. To reach my uncle’s house, which was at the village’s edge, I had to pass through the entire hamlet.

Driving down Marshal Tito’s street, named after it was first paved and never renamed even decades after the socialist regime fell, revealed a sorry sight. The village’s population was below 300, and the average age was probably well over 50. Numerous houses were abandoned, and the only facilities still working were a small grocery store and the church; the school was closed down as there weren’t enough kids to warrant keeping it open, and the few who remained travelled to a slightly more well-off nearby village. The only new buildings were the kitschy manors, their gates guarded by obligatory marble lions, built by folks working in Austria and Germany who would occasionally return home to flaunt the fruits of their labor.

My new home was at the very edge of the settlement. There was another house further along the road, but it was abandoned for decades. A local witch used to live there. According to a family anecdote, she once cast a spell on my grandfather, causing him to have nightmares and trouble breathing in his sleep. Waking up from one such unpleasant dream, he found a whirling strand of hair wrapped around his neck. The next morning, he picked up his shotgun and paid the witch a visit, threatening that she would cease whatever she was doing, or else. From that point on, his health troubles went away – or so the story goes. Whether there was any truth to this and other similar tales (back then, I was extremely skeptical; now I think it could go either way), she built up enough of a negative reputation that nobody was interested in her property once she passed away, fearing it would bring bad luck. Judging by future events, perhaps the bad luck was contagious.

After getting the wooden gate open and parking my car in front of the house, I went to inspect it.