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.
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.
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. Fantastic writing and an equally strange premise. Poor Sergei 
