Preface

There is no “horror for horror’s sake” in this book. Here, horror is a language a person uses to speak with what is stronger than oneself: with love, with guilt, with death, with one’s own shadow. The vampire archetype in these texts is not a monster’s mask but a way to see how blood becomes memory, how a scar turns into a mark of initiation, how a double becomes a guardian, and how darkness becomes the only medium in which light can be discerned.

Each story is a step inward. “Emma” remains in reality, where a child’s gaze creates a myth to survive displacement and jealousy, and where fear becomes a form of love. “Christmas with Santa” carries us into winter darkness and shows how bodily trauma hardens into armor and the “monster” into protection; the holiday here exposes the price of life and the cost of salvation. “The One Who Defeated Death” opens the perspective wider: the human urge to outwit the limit discovers its own shadow, and the entire architecture of control collapses before an unforeseen truth. “The Nature of Passion” draws the conclusion: passion is neither sentiment nor whim, but a power of fusion and dissolution that can destroy and create; art is born of the same dark matter as fear—and therefore can heal.

These stories rhyme in images: the moon that “eats” colors, mirrors and the absence of reflection, blood on snow, a tin arrow pointing the way, a corset-exoskeleton like a shell, a scar on the neck as the signature of fate. They are also bound by tone: restrained, concrete, almost documentary—precisely where it is easiest to succumb to effect. What matters here are not tricks or “twists,” but how a protagonist’s gaze learns to endure the unbearable; how a myth, once it inhabits you, ceases to be a lie and becomes a form of existence; how the darkness in which one is afraid suddenly proves to be a space of protection.

The heart of horror is not outside; it is within. At the center is a living, vulnerable heart that keeps beating even when arguments are exhausted, explanations run dry, and the light is switched off. If there is hope in these stories, it lies not in conquering death but in learning to speak its language—and in returning from that conversation with something to give to others: a voice, an image, a line, the warmth of a hand.

 

Emma

Jonah first saw Emma before she was even born.

That day, the nanny, Fedora, confided to him in secret that soon there would be another child in the house—Jonah’s brother or sister. Naturally, the boy didn’t believe her, because he already knew where babies came from, and that year the storks hadn’t built a single nest in the area. Where would this baby come from then? Still, he didn’t dare call the nanny a liar, because one mustn’t be rude to elders. That’s what his mother always said. He kept quiet until lunchtime, lost in his own thoughts, and didn’t even ask for seconds at dessert, though that day there were baked pears with honey—his favorite treat. As soon as the dishes were cleared, it was as if he woke up, and he was startled by his own carelessness, so he decided to head to the kitchen and find out what had become of the pears. Maybe he could snag at least one and eat it in secret, hiding in the shed behind a heap of hay. Mother didn’t allow snacking between meals. It was a hurtful word, but being left without seconds hurt even more.

Fedora was sitting in the kitchen, deep in an endless conversation with the cook. Jonah sighed, realizing his plan had failed. The kitchen was dreary; the smoke-blackened ceiling beams hung with braids of onions and garlic, the smell of dried herbs stored on wooden shelves up near the ceiling, and most of all the extinguished stove—gaping like a pit, endless in its blackness—filled the boy with melancholy. Even though the little window with colored panes was flung wide open and the garden’s greenery seemed to be bursting into the room, he suddenly ached to be outside. He grabbed Fedora by the hand and tugged her toward the door.

“Wait, little one,” she said, “wait a bit and then we’ll go. Let me just finish with Marta.”

With nothing else to do, he began to examine the silver rings that studded almost every finger on Fedora’s hand. They were all old rings with niello and multicolored stones. There were especially many blue ones, blue as the sky. Fedora called them Turkish, but his mother had once explained that their real name was firuze, which meant the stone of happiness. Whether these ornaments had brought happiness to Fedora, Jonah didn’t know. She was a young widow. The puzzling word widow didn’t conjure anything in his mind. But young—Fedora was certainly not that. Young was the neighbor Yanka, Jonah’s peer. To a seven-year-old boy, every adult seems terribly old.

“Let’s go-o-o,” he drawled, stroking the round blue stone with his fingertip.

But Fedora was talking with Marta about suitors. How could anyone interrupt such an interesting conversation?

“Go on by yourself for now. Play in the garden. I’ll watch you from the window.”

Jonah trudged into the garden; under the kitchen windows there was a mound of sand, and his toy truck lay there, forgotten since the evening before. It had rained in the night, and the sand looked as if pricked all over with needles; the air smelled damp. A currant bush, brushed by accident, shook off a mist of water that sent a shiver racing across his skin. And a strange sense of impending trouble clasped its icy hands around the small heart that had never yet known worry.

Something white flickered beyond the fence, a branch swayed, and a thin giggle rang out. Yanka!

“Yanka!” Jonah shouted with joy and ran to the fence. “Yanka, have you seen any storks?”

“Haven’t seen any—why?” A shiny blue eye appeared between the boards. “They haven’t flown in yet. And I’m not supposed to keep company with you—you’re rich.”

“All right, so what. They won’t see.” Jonah waved it off. “See, storks bring babies, and we’re going to have a baby soon. Only—where will it come from?”

“You’re so silly! Babies jump out of their mother’s belly, and adults lie about the storks. And I’m going—if they see me, I’ll be scolded. It’s good for you rich folk, but I still have porridge to cook.”

“Porridge to cook… Braggart. As if it won’t cook without you.”

But Yanka had already run off. Always the same—she never finishes an important conversation. It’s always porridge, or the laundry.

Yanka’s mysterious words did nothing to scatter the boy’s anxious thoughts. Jump out of mother’s belly. Brrr… No, the stork still sounded more convincing. Who could he ask? Father was at work, and Mother had gone somewhere. And Fedora—how would she know, she had no children. Maybe he should go up to the castle? It was right there—an arm’s length away. No, he couldn’t— that was Father’s work, and children shouldn’t get in the way of grown-ups working.

Just the other day Yanka had said they were rich. Probably they were the richest in the village, because Father served as curator of the museum. Did people think the castle belonged to Jonah? Anyone could come to the castle, pay money, and look as long as they pleased. Jonah had been there too. There were tourists as well. And one funny old lady in short pants, like a little boy’s pants, had given him a thing. A little box with music hidden under the lid. As soon as you opened it, invisible bells began to chime a delicate melody that instantly made you want to curl up under a blanket and fall asleep. Every evening, when going to bed, Jonah made sure to listen to the bells. It had been an unchanging ritual for a whole week now. He only worried that one day the music would fall silent forever, but Father said the battery would just need changing, and the boy calmed down. Of course, Yanka and her little brothers had no such toys. Jonah sighed. He would have given away his treasure, but then he would have had nothing left himself. “I’ll just take it out to the garden tomorrow,” he finally decided. “Then Yanka can listen too. It’s just music—it’s for everyone.”

In the evening, as always, Aurika washed her son herself. She combed his curls, murmuring:

“You’re my prince. You’re my handsome boy.”

The prince dodged the brush, winced, and whined. He’d gladly be not handsome at all—and not a prince either—if only they’d shave his head and spare him the nightly torment. The brush tore at his hair mercilessly, and there were still so many things to think through before sleep—how could one think when they were yanking the thoughts straight out with the hair? At last the ritual was over, and Jonah dove under the blanket. Mother kissed the top of his head, dimmed the lily-shaped nightlight, and left, pulling the door to. An interesting nightlight, that—no actual bulb, it seemed, and yet only the petal edges glowed, pink and green, for some reason. Father said the lily was made of light-conducting plastic. It didn’t give off light, so it felt as if it simply hung there in the dark, but if one woke up, one could tell at once where the table was and where the wall. Good thing there were no monsters in Jonah’s room. Otherwise the lily wouldn’t save him—just look how the darkness pools in the corners. And the door is only half shut, and from there a pale beam falls across the wall. Jonah listened; voices drifted from the next room. That was his parents’ bedroom. What were they talking about?

Carefully, Jonah slid his feet off the bed and, without putting on his slippers, tiptoed to the door. The hardest thing in such moments is not to snuffle. One must press against the wall and hold one’s breath with all one’s might. Through the narrow crack he could see Aurika sitting before the mirror and… brushing her hair. Her favorite occupation. Father was the luckiest of them all—he was almost bald, or she’d have tormented him too.

Just then Father’s voice sounded, and Jonah pricked up his ears.

“Did you get the result?” Jonah Senior asked, suddenly anxious. “Is there some kind of problem?”

“The test is normal,” Aurika answered.

What a sad voice she had. What was a test? They were always saying unfathomable words—how was one to make sense of them?

“But when they put in the needle, they accidentally scratched the baby,” she said. “They said she’ll have a scar. They said she floated in her own blood for a week. Just like that…” Aurika sniffled, and Jonah nearly burst into tears himself, he felt so sorry for his mother. But he held back in time.

“They disfigured her?”

“No, no. They only scratched her leg, but they say she’ll most likely have a scar.”

“Who—she who?”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” his father whispered soothingly. “A scar on the leg is little, compared to what could have happened. And she’s healthy otherwise. Once she’s born, you won’t even remember the scar.”

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