When Grigory Melnikov decided to return to the village of his childhood after 26 years, he expected nostalgia, perhaps a few old faces, and the comfort of rural silence. The city had worn him down — the noise, the failures, the loneliness. He longed for something real, something untouched. The road to the village was barely more than two tire tracks through the forest. As he drove, the memories began to stir.

But the moment he stepped onto the village road, something felt wrong. A woman at the well turned her back without a word. A man pushing a cart ignored his greeting completely. Then — a boy, no older than ten, saw him and threw a stone at his feet before running away.

Grigory stood there, stunned. He didn’t recognize any faces — a new generation had taken over. But the place was his. This was where he was born, where his parents had lived, where his grandfather was buried. And yet, it felt like the ground itself was rejecting him.

The house he grew up in stood on a small hill. The fence had collapsed. The roof sagged. The windows were nailed shut. He knew his parents had died years ago — a letter had reached him long ago. He hadn’t come then. Work, obligations, excuses. Now, looking at the decaying ruins, regret stabbed at him.

He pushed open the door. A heavy wave of dust, rot, and something else — something… alive — greeted him.

Then he heard a whisper. Quiet, but clear.

“You came. Too late.”

He spun around. No one. The house was empty. Still, he stepped inside. The wooden floor moaned beneath his feet — not like old wood, but like something that didn’t want him there.

The village had always had a dark undercurrent. As a boy, he remembered stories. Strange disappearances. Wolves blamed for too many missing people. Screams heard at night that no one spoke of in the morning. He had chalked it up to old folklore — tales to scare children.

But now, walking the village streets, he noticed the oddities: every house had its windows covered, doors locked tight even during the day. And at each entrance — small, strange objects hung like talismans: dried roots, pieces of cloth, bones bound with twine.

He found Agrafena, an old woman who had once fed him pies and kissed his bruises. She peeked through a crack in the door, and her face went pale.

«You shouldn’t have come back. You’re a Melnikov.»

“Yes,” he said, confused. “Why does that matter?”

“Leave. While you still can. And whatever you do — don’t stay here tonight. We prayed you’d never return…”

He stayed.

Grigory was stubborn. He wasn’t leaving without answers.

That night, he woke to a sound. A creaking. It came from outside.

He looked out the window.

Someone was standing at the well.

A tall figure. Dressed in black. Perfectly still. Staring at the house.

He grabbed a flashlight and went outside. The grass was cold and wet. He approached the well.

Empty.

But on the wooden edge — a fresh, wet handprint.

As though something had climbed out.

In the morning, he went to the village church. It was falling apart. No priest. Just cobwebs, dust, and a scent of wax. On the altar, an old book. Beside it — a letter.

He recognized the handwriting.

His father’s.

“If you’re reading this, it means you came back. Which means it begins again.
Our bloodline is cursed. Long ago, an ancestor betrayed his own. He saved his life — and doomed us.
Every Melnikov who leaves this place must never return. If they do, they awaken it.
I begged you — don’t come back.
But you’re like me. Foolish.
Soon it will come. It will call your name.
Do not answer.
Do not look up.
And if you hear your mother’s voice — run. That is not her.”

He rushed to the door.

Locked. From the outside.

Behind him — a voice.

Soft. Familiar.

“Grishenka. You’ve come home. I missed you…”

He froze.

He didn’t turn around. He remembered.

Do not look. Do not speak. Run.

They found him three days later. Sitting outside the church. Eyes wide. Skin pale. Silent.

He never spoke again.

Now he lives in a shack near the woods. Alone. Never leaves. Only at night do neighbors hear footsteps around his home. And whispers.

The same sentence, over and over:

“I came back. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve stayed a stranger…”

And to this day, anyone passing through that village will notice one strange thing.
A house on the hill — always shut. But fresh footprints appear on the porch every night.

And if you ever stop in that village…
Don’t answer if someone calls your name.
Even if it’s a voice you know.