On the damp walls of the bunker, dusty shelves were lined with jars, and next to them, in organized stacks, lay old bags of flour, sugar, and canned goods from the time of Ceaușescu. It looked like an emergency supply depot from the Cold War, but that wasn’t what truly scared me.
In the corner of the room, dimly lit by a ray of light coming through the crack I had fallen through, I spotted something that shouldn’t have been there: an old doll, with its eyes gouged out and hair pulled out, sitting on a small wooden chair, as if in a child’s room. On the back wall, strange symbols were drawn in charcoal, and the air was thick with a musty smell, of mold and something… harder to define.
My heart was pounding. I wanted to scream, but I held my breath. I took a few more steps, trying to understand where I was. Next to the doll, on a small table, was an old, tattered icon of the Virgin Mary. Someone had once lit a tallow candle — the remnants were still visible.
Then I heard… footsteps.
I don’t know if they were real or if my heart was beating so hard that I was hallucinating, but the footsteps seemed to come from a side tunnel. I searched for an exit, but it was clear that the only option was to climb back up the way I had fallen. But I could no longer see the opening. It was slowly closing, like a lid being pulled by someone above.
I ran towards the wall I thought was the entrance and began to scratch at it with my hands. My nails broke, but I was consumed by an animalistic panic. I wanted to get out. To breathe fresh air. To sell the mushrooms at the station. To never hear about the apartment again.
Then, from the darkness, a deep, hoarse voice was heard:
— You arrived just in time, Vera… The time has come.
I froze. My name? Who was there?
From the shadows emerged a hunchbacked figure, holding a lantern. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, and his eyes… were my husband’s. Dead for eleven years.
— You are not real… — I whispered.
He smiled. A sad smile.
— I did not die, Vera. I have been here. This is my house. Ours. And then… you know why you were brought here.
Then I understood. The symbols. The doll. The warnings dreamed for years. It hadn’t been just a coincidence.
Everything was connected to my family. To past sins, to the secrets I had hidden, and to the curse uttered long ago by a woman I had driven out of the village…
But I had no intention of being defeated. Not after all I had endured.
I stood up, looked him straight in the eye, and said:
— If you were strong enough to survive here, so can I. But I will not stay. I am not yours. I am no one’s.
And then, the light went out. And when I opened my eyes again, I was in the forest. Lying on my back, with the basket of mushrooms beside me.
Maybe it was just a dream… or maybe not.
But when I got home, on the kitchen table sat the doll. The same one. With empty eyes and a crooked smile.
Then I knew: nothing would ever be the same again.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to real events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
