Prohor the pole spirit

Wind nudges thin tree branches against the windows, making a tap-tapping sound that drags through the stillness outside. The forest around Chirikino is thick and packed tight with trees—no citylights, no buzz of cars, just this weird heavy hush that rolls in deep after dark. Out past the last of some leaning wooden fences, there’s only wild stuff; river somewhere way off, night-bugs singing, the crunch of something (probably an animal but who knows) shifting dead leaves. In town, everything creaks: old roofs settling, shutters thumping loose.

Nobody really talks about Chirikino online except as rumors—the kind your Russian friends tell you not to Google after midnight. Supposedly people forget it exists unless they’re from here or, like you, obsessed with ghost-village stories. It took two buses, a confusing dirt road ride, almost losing cell service three times, but now you’re here. The village kinda makes time feel stuck: chipped paint peeling on signposts, satellite dishes slapped onto sagging izbas. That elder woman at the edge of the road didn’t smile when she handed you the guest house keys, just said “Смотри не заблудись в первую ночь.” [Don’t get lost in your first night] before shuffling away.

Inside, your room smells faintly of pine sap and damp wood. No curtains—just these long shadows sliding across the walls every time headlights swing by out front. You unpack slowly, glancing at corners where dust spins lazily. Something thuds against the wall behind you—a branch maybe? Except nothing's moving outside. Now and then, floorboards creak overhead, even though you're sure you’re alone here. A cold draft skims your ankles right as you lock your suitcase. When you look back, there's a little pile of pebbles under the bed that definitely wasn’t there ten minutes ago.

Someone coughs quietly outside the window, or was that just the wind catching funny? You check the latch twice, heart beating way too loud.