Seed of Destruction : Paranormal Tales From The NKVD

[Jape]

Somewhere in the Vologda Oblast
Russian SFSR, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
February 17th 1938



Vasily Katkov tread carefully across the sea of broken twigs and branches, camouflaged by the freshly fallen snow. Every muffled snap or crack was met with a wince or silent curse from the bespectacled young man. He moved between the dark skinny pine trees, black tubes rising out of the white powder into innumerable, skeletal fingers high above. A thin grey fog lay all around, draping the endless forest from view. A deathly silence hung in the air. Only the vague silhouettes of his two teammates, deep in the mist either side of him, kept Vasily reassured he wasn’t alone. As the snow began to fall once more, Vasily drew the high collars of his brown greatcoat together for warmth, and quickened his pace. His flanking shadows understood without a spoken word and advanced in tandem; their culprit was close, the last thing they needed was a blizzard to cover any tracks.

Through the bleak clouds, Vasily could just make out the pale sun, hung low in the sky. Pulling a silver pocket watch from inside his coat, he checked the time. Vasily and his compatriots had started their search at noon, hoping to make the most of the short, winter day. However it was now past five in the afternoon, and as the shadows became longer and night encroached, it seemed their prey would escape once more. Two weeks in this bleak country had revealed little, bar crude peasant superstitions and their alarming predilections towards incestuous relations. Had it not been for the reassurances of the local semi-educated kulak, a man named Sergei Korovin, god knows what these medieval throwbacks may have done to the three strangers on arrival. However now Sergei was gone, vanished in the night, bringing the number of disappearances in the area up to forty-one. If the case wasn’t closed soon, Vasily doubted their chances of returning to Leningrad alive.

Suddenly to his left, Vasily heard a loud crash. Tearing his Nagant M1895 revolver from its worn, leather holster at his waist, he span on his heel to see the black figure of Otto Lebedev picking himself up from the ground. He brushed off the snow and then slowly crouched down. After a moment, Otto waved for Vasily. Looking over his shoulder, Vasily in turn waved for Anton Antonov, taking up the right, to follow. The two men joined their teammate, standing over him as he examined the ground. Otto seemingly ignored his comrades’ arrival, fingering through the snow absentmindedly with the long barrel of his British Webley Service revolver. Though having just turned 40 he could hardly be called an old warhorse, Otto was certainly a veteran, having first been a soldier during the Revolution and then moving into State Security in 1923. He had seen many strange things and seemingly as a consequence was very aloof, however he had a sharp eye for detail.

“What is it Lebedev”? Finally asked Vasily. Merely raising a gloved hand, as if asking for silence, Otto continued his search.

“Come on Lebedev”, urged Anton “what are you doing? We’ll lose the target if we don’t hurry up”!

Anton was the odd one out of the team. Pavel Davidovich, Vasily and Otto’s usual third had broken his leg during an ill chosen combination of ice skating and vodka just prior to the assignment and was now resting up with his mistress up in Karelia. In his place Anton, a fresh baby faced recruit who barely looked old enough to drive, was assigned. Beyond clerical work, he had little experience and had quickly gotten on Otto’s nerves due to constant questions and complaints.

“You Anton Antonov”, Otto answered calmly “are a deskbound, apparatnik squirt with all the investigative ability of a potato, so I’ll politely ignore your advice. Anyway I think this will be of some interest to our inquiries”. Before Anton could ask, Otto revealed a crushed skull, caked in dry blood, previously hidden beneath the snow and a layer of rotted leaves.

“Jesus”! Exclaimed Anton

“Aye”, touted Otto, putting the barrel of his Webley into the one intact eye socket and dangling it in the air, getting a better look “what do you make of it Katkov”?

“Very strange”, Vasily crouched down to inspect “It obviously hasn’t been here long but where is the flesh”?

“Rotted off”? Anton propositioned.

“In the course of several weeks in freezing temperatures? Not likely”, responded Otto

The discussion was cut short by an ungodly howl ahead of them, a chilling shriek, high-pitched and feminine yet violent and distorted. After several moments the sound cut abruptly, leaving only its echo to die out on the air. Otto immediately bolted to his feet, but Vasily was already off, rushing through the forest towards the source of the terrible cry, crashing over the undergrowth that he’d given so much care to preserve. Anton merely stood frozen, looking at Otto with a look of utter fright.

“What was THAT”! Anton cried. It might have sounded like a demand if it wasn’t for his stupefied tone.

“I don’t know Antonov”, answered Otto, cracking a sly grin “but we’re going to find out”, with that the Old Bolshevik ran into the forest, Vasily barely visible ahead in the dense fog. Anton, by now white as a sheet, tightened the straps on his backpack and reluctantly followed the rest of his team.

As the three men kept on, deeper into the fog and the blackness, eventually slowing to a jog, guns loaded and cocked, ready to fire, the alien wail continued in short bursts, like some horrible chirping bird. After fifteen minutes of advancing, as the call rose louder and louder, the three, by now all together, came across a clearing, a fast flowing stream cutting through it. The snow before them was fresh, crisp and fine. Even in the growing dark, it gave off an odd brightness, looking almost like a floor of marble. The façade was ruined however by a great red stain ahead of the men, at the tree line where their culprit stood; in it’s hands, was what remained of a little girl. Anton turned away and wretched. Vasily stood motionless. It all reminded Otto of red wine on cream carpet.

Their culprit stood tall at seven foot, regardless of it’s stooped posture. Its arms dangled low on its gangling frame, like an orang-utan, every joint jutting from the pallid, translucent skin. It dropped the body to the ground and hunched over it, prodding at the remains with distended, pointed fingers. Its head moved from side to side, examining its prize with high, beady eyes on a narrow head, flaps of skin hanging for its face- horrid jowls. It sat there playing with its food, fingering the intestines, having not noticed the three men walking in on its supper.

The team had quickly fallen back to the cover of the trees. Otto sat with his Webley in hand; ready to open fire should the culprit become wise to their presence. Meanwhile Vasily was rummaging through the bag on Anton’s back, finally producing a small tattered hard-back book. Anton merely sat there, his back to the creature. It was growing dark.

“What is it”? Asked Anton. This time he wasn’t demanding but begging.

“I’m looking”, answered Vasily as he feverishly thumbed the pages, everyone containing a horrid picture, like something out of a folktale, indeed many of them were from folktales.

“Oh god”, whispered Anton to no-one in particular “I’ve been working on this stuff for two years, I never realised what it would be like if I ever saw one of these things”

“Calm apparatnik, you’ll be fine”, reassured Otto, never taking his eyes from the target “and don’t say “Oh god”, it’s highly unbecoming of a Soviet officer”

“I’ve got it I think”, said Vasily “a Macilenta Pulpa Essii, or Stuhać. They’re only found in the mountains of Yugoslavia, Bosnia to be exact, very rare. They apparently eat skin and keep the legs of its victims”, Vasily pointed out towards a strange bundle of bones and rotten flesh by the creature’s feet.

“Strange”, said Otto “Pretty far from home. How do we kill it”?

“It’s rare but not demonic, shoot it and burn it seems adequate”

“Damn, why did I leave the rifle in the truck? We’ll have to close with it to get some clear shots, can’t afford to let escape into the forest”

Vasily and Anton both joined Otto, drawing their guns once again. All three stood and slowly advanced across the snow. Otto cocked his revolver. The Stuhać snapped from its daze and glared at the NKVD men, it was little more than a malevolent beast but it knew what a gun meant. The men got closer but it remained still. Otto kept its attention, coming straight on while Vasily and Anton went off to the sides, hoping to surround it.

“Remember Anton”, Otto whispered over the Stuhać’s heavy breathing “aim before you fire don”—

Otto cut short as the culprit stood to full height, towering above the agents. It advanced slowly, its shoulders slinking like a feline while its frail legs seemingly trebled under its own weight. The beast ignored the other two men as they sidestepped outside of its vision.

Suddenly the Stuhać bellowed its twisted cry and charged forward, forcing Otto to throw himself to one side. Trying to catch it off balance, Vasily dropped the tomahawk from inside his coat arm down into his hand and jumped behind the Stuhać, swinging for its neck. The culprit reacted swiftly, smacking him away. Vasily tumbling onto the frozen mud of the stream bank. Anton in turn acted, opening fire at close range. Two shots went wide, but the third hit, giving off a sickening crack as it made impact into its hip. The beast roared in anger and before Anton could react, it had him by his ankle. The Stuhać’s form belied to its great strength as it swung the young man around like a rag doll, finally throwing him face first into a nearby tree, his violent yelps of pain swiftly silenced.

Vasily opened fire from were he lay, partly to keep his distance and partly because he suspected a few broken bones from his fall. The Stuhać reeled back as two shots connected on its back, dark blood dripping black down the pale, jutting flesh. The culprit turned and walked as quickly as its disturbing gait would allow in Vasily’s direction. Another bullet hit the Stuhać in the chest, the sound of its collarbone shattering grating on Vasily’s eardrums.

But the beast didn’t flinch, it didn’t even yell in pain; the high-pitched shrieking had been replaced by a lower, deeper growl, one of anger. Vasily panicked, wildly firing off his last three bullets. He desperately searched cartridges in his pockets. The Stuhać closed. He loaded one bullet, then another. Vasily could here its breathing again. His raw hands fumbled with the third and the fourth. Its shadow loomed. He tried to stand but the striking pain in his ribs kept him down. Vasily snapped shut his revolver. It screamed into Vasily’s face, flecks of putrid phlegm hitting him.

It fell. Otto’s warhammer crashed into the Stuhać’s fragile leg, snapping it like a twig. It called out in agony, such a horrifying noise that even old Otto winced, as the malformed creature wriggled and squirmed. He stood over the Stuhać and plugged four rounds into its forehead, the noise stopped, the convulsions stopped.

Otto gave Vasily his hand, the younger man hissing away the pain in his chest. Without a word Vasily picked up his axe. He stared at the culprit; he spun the blade and then struck one solid blow, decapitating the head from the body. More syrup stained the whiteness. Otto checked on Anton but with his head caved in from the impact of the pine and his leg contorted into several gruesome angles, he knew it was pointless. He took the small entrenching shovel from the side of Anton’s backpack. They would bury the girl where she lay.

After an hour of digging in the frozen earth they had laid the remains to rest, then the two agents gathered firewood into a pile. It took them another hour in the now pitch-black to get the wet logs to light and then they threw the limbs of the Stuhać into fire. The head would go back to Leningrad for study. Until then they would put it into a pickle jar in the back of the van. Sergei Korovin, as a petite-bourgeois kulak would be found guilty of the abduction and murder of forty individuals by the local Militsya, allegedly killed during a gun battle as he tried to escape authorities. He would become one of history’s most notorious serial killers.

Vasily and Otto would have to carry Anton Antonov three miles in the dead of night. He would be given a ceremonial funeral befitting an agent of the People’s Commissariat for State Security and his family informed of the unfortunate automobile accident responsible for his death. It would a closed casket funeral.

[Spacehusky]

. Fantastic writing and an equally strange premise. Poor Sergei

[Guangxi]

Bloody hell, this looks like it`ll be good! subscribed.

[likk9922]

Ooh, a creepy start. Sounds like an interesting tale.

[Baneslave]

Subscribed!

Great start, interesting one too!

[Kordo]

Simply superb writing dear sir!

[4th Dimension]

Mythology and HOI2?

What will come from this one.

[Dr. Gonzo]

damn, good stuff comrade!

Is the Stuhac your creation or a 'real' mythical beastie?

[Spacehusky]

Originally Posted by Dr. Gonzo

damn, good stuff comrade!

Is the Stuhac your creation or a 'real' mythical beastie?

Apparently a real one.

[Sir Humphrey]

Looking good, looking sweet.

[rcduggan]

hmm... looks interesting

[Jape]

Hey all,

It seems my Polish ATR file has gone walkies, by that I mean my 2nd PC is now a hundred miles away for reasons too complicated to explain

Hopefully I'll get the file back soon but until then I've decided to start this, a Soviet AAR with a twist, I've been writing it for months and so now will begin unleashing in on AARland after a few minor adjustments.

Thanks for the great response so far guys, and yes the Stuhac is a 'real' creature, the narrative will be based around Slavic folklore and mythology though I'll probably let a few foreign elements in as are protaganists travel

Anyway, second installment soon, hope you enjoy and I hope you stay along for the ride.

Jape

[Jape]

Narkompochtel Building, Moscow
Russian SFSR, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
March 9th, 1938



Alik Mikhailov didn’t feel so good.

He had worked at the People’s Commissariat for Post and Telegraph for twenty years, had been the Deputy-Manager for the Moscow Post Service for nine years and now the Manager for eighteen months. He had a sterling record and was a truly dedicated Party member. Even when the Leningrad Deputy-Manager and the Minsk Deputy-Manager and even Mr. Popov, his former superior had all been purged, Alik had not only been found innocent of crimes against the state but had been awarded the Medal of Worker’s Valour for his tireless efforts. He wore it with pride, and polished it everyday. All it had taken was for him to point out the collection of lingerie in his Comrade Manager’s bureau desk.

Alik had no such ‘eccentricities’ however, he was clean. He didn’t smoke, except perhaps a celebratory cigar at parties. He drank only occasionally and little, as he thought drunkenness a highly unattractive state. He wasn’t married but wasn’t a womaniser either, it was just that his work often took up his time; he was waiting for the right girl to come along. All in all apart from his waistband perhaps not being quite in line with the athletic Soviet ideal, he was something of a model citizen. He took his work seriously. He had never betrayed the sanctity of the Postal Service, he had never even thought of such a repugnant possibility. That was until today.

He shouldn’t have opened the undelivered parcel. But he couldn’t help himself. ‘Funny thing’ Alik thought to himself absently as he sat at his desk ‘I can’t even remember what was in it’. Such musings were only at the back of his mind. His attention was taken by the buzzing. His head practically vibrated to the incessant drone, numbing his conscience as he slouched in his chair, a pile of unfinished paperwork lightly stained by drool sitting before him. He couldn’t tell if he was ill or if it was because of all the flies. They were everywhere, flying in chaotic formation around the light bulb, congregating on the misted windows, crawling across his cheap, blue suit. Alik had given up trying to shoo them away a while ago, all his energy drained as something black and hungry nestled in his gut. Alik stared at a fat bluebottle in front of him on a small plate. The bloated creature rubbed its forelegs together almost greedily as it stood over the crumbs of his breakfast toast. It vomited over its next meal, ready to suck up the liquid remains.

Finally Alik stood and made for the hallway, his blank mind finally filled with a singular intent. He barged past employees, banging into doors and filing cabinets as he tried to leave, tried desperately to escape. He ignored the calls of alarm behind him as the flies made use of his open door. He briskly rushed down the spiralling stairs, down five floors to the exit. He dripped with sweat as his obese body struggled to meet his demands. The buzzing continued, growing louder in his head. His senses a blur, Alik ran directly into his secretary, Tatiana, near the main door but didn’t, couldn't stop to help her pick up her files.

“Sir! Mr. Mikhailov”! She called, shocked as her manager barged through her obliviously “Where are you going? Are you alright”?

“I’ve got to get some air”, he panted without turning to her, the revolving doors spinning him into the street “I’ve got to eat”!

All that mattered now was food; the chilling wind of the Muscovite spring, the honking of horns and the screeching of brakes, the angry shoves and curses of pedestrians, all were a haze to Alik as he pressed on, desperate to calm the riot inside him. Finally after what seemed like a lifetime of searching through icy avenues, he came across a vendor and his food cart on a street corner, his griddle steaming silently in the chill air.

“Give me six pirozhkis”! Alik called as he rushed towards the vendor

“Six”? Asked the gruff fry-chef, raising a thick, quizzical eyebrow “What’s the matter, did you skip lunch comrade”?

“Quickly”, Alik implored him, pulling out his wallet to reveal a fat bundle of ruble notes.

“Of course”, the vendor answered with a grin. He quickly went to work preparing the meat and potato pancakes.

The smell of the cooking beef made Alik’s eyes water as he felt his stomach tear itself apart with hunger. He ate one after the other, the vendor’s swift hands barely keeping pace as he devoured gluttonous abandon, hot grease pouring from his lips. He ate the six pancakes, then another, and then another but it wasn’t enough. Alik knew it would never be enough. Not a whole herd of pirozhkis, hooves and all would fill the gaping beak of the giant fledgling that cried inside him.

He lumbered through the early evening streets, bones and wrappers scattered in his wake. All was subordinate to his primal urge for food.

In his delirious stumble through the streets Alik finally came across a restaurant, he didn’t notice its name or what food it even served, it didn’t matter after all. Oblivious to all but the pain he worked his way down the menu. He could hear the patrons muttering about him, staring at his disgusting display.

“Look at that fat man”!

“He can’t possibly eat all of that”!

“It’s disgusting”!

"People should have more respect for their bodies”!

"Oh my god he stinks”!

“Look at all those flies around him”!

He shovelled mash potato with gravy with both hands into his yawning maw, plate after plate piled up, porcelain carcasses to his grand gluttony. A waiter walked over to his table, a look of terror in his eyes.

“Is everything…” he paused as Alik, pale, eyes bulging, his face sunken like a bloodhound stared directly at him, directly through him “I everything err, to your satisfaction comrade”?

“More! I want more! Bring me steak, and potatoes and gateaux”!

The waiter backed off and away into the kitchen as dozens of eyes continued to watch. Many had left out of disgust but most remained seated, a mixture of alarm and curiosity almost palpable in the air. Alik felt his abdomen contracting, roaring with famine. He licked his plates clean, taking every morsel he could find. He looked up to see the entranced diners. They’d barely touched their food.

He grabbed a bowl of hot borsch soup from the next table, uncaring as it burnt its way down his throat. It’s owner, a small woman in her fifties scowled at him, while her husband stood up, fit with rage.

“What do you think you’re doing you pig! Stay away from my wife's dinner”!

Alik pressed on, lunging over the table at the bread basket. The table flipped with him, sending crockery and hot candle wax across the dining room. His insides were hallow, he felt fit to collapse in on himself like a dying star. He stood and made for the next table. No one stopped him, everyone was too shocked to hold him back, his insatiability terrifying. He ate whole steaks, devoured dozens of eggs, loaves of bread and toast, gallons of soup and countless cakes and pastries but it just wasn’t enough.

A terrible fear evaporated the last of his self-control. He must choke it. Stop it reducing him, draining and shrivelling his body. He saw a young woman ahead of him, a high heel dangling delicately from her foot, her beautiful legs exposed from under her knee-length skirt. Any other day he might have gazed longingly at it, but now he noticed it for a different reason. He scrambled across the floor towards her table. She gave out a scream as he pulled at the tablecloth, panting and sweating, folds of skin hanging from his neck. He grabbed at her leg, sinking his teeth into her calf. She screamed in abject horror, dozens rushed to her aide, the macabre entertainment having gone too far. Her company, a young man in military uniform stood up and quickly pulled his pistol out.

“Get away from her you animal”!

Two waiters grabbed him by his arms, pulling him away from his screaming victim along with a bloody chunk of flesh. The soldier butted him across the forehead with the handle of the revolver, his last look still that of desperate lust.

[Spacehusky]

Oh my...

[likk9922]

What the... is there some kind of super- tapeworm in him or something?

[Dr. Gonzo]

I think the previous posters' emoticons express my reaction!

Fantastic writing, I hope Alik's condition is revealed, god knows what was happening to him though I assume the package he opened had something to do with it.

Keep going amigo

[Sandino]

Something's rotten in Moscow...

I concur with the Doctor, keep going with the parawierd!

[4th Dimension]

Knowing the way Soviets keep thing secret he will be extradited to the NKVD who will kill him and dissect him to find out what little monster did this to him. Then they are going to file everything, and Alik will be buried as a murderer. All restaurant visitors will probably be visited by NKVD somewhere around midnight and would be persuaded to keep their mouth shut.

[Guangxi]

Who sent the parcel, i wonder.

[4th Dimension]

I think the parcel sent itself.

Or the capitalist pig dogs wanted to destroy the glorious Soviet workers mail, which is clearly superior to it's capitalistic slave driving counterpart.