Where the Dead Sing Lullabies.

Table of Contents

Where the Dead Sing Lullabies.

The Secret of Brustury

Evil Lake

The Horrors of Fastiv Tavern

Chumaks

After reading these stories, you'll thank God that it's all just the author's fiction and that it could never happen to you... Probably.

​The Shadow of the Cross

Autumn of 1667 descended upon Veremiyivka with a cold wind and the scent of fallen leaves. The village, nestled amidst dense forests and golden fields, lived quietly, far from the roads where Cossack sabers clashed and Polish hussars marched. Straw-roofed huts were shrouded in morning mist, smoke rising from chimneys to merge with the low clouds. Peasants tilled the soil, women wove, and children played in the meadows, scaring crows. Yet, an invisible web of anxiety hung in the air—troubled times spared no corner, no matter how remote.

At the heart of the village stood the church—old, with blackened logs and a crooked cross that gleamed under the sun like a smoldering ember. It was the heart of Veremiyivka: where infants were

baptized, young couples wed, and the elderly were laid to rest. Father Vasiliy, a grey-haired elder with a white beard and weary eyes, had served there for forty years. His voice, hoarse but warm, comforted the villagers, but in recent years he had grown peculiar: forgetting names, muttering about sins, and pausing during services, gazing into nothingness. Some saw him wandering near the church at night, whispering of sacrifices in the name of salvation. Some pitied him, others whispered that old age had clouded his mind, or perhaps something worse. Petro, a young shepherd and Vasiliy's assistant, had arrived in the village five years prior. Tall, with black hair and a sharp gaze, he was quiet but hardworking. He repaired the church, herded sheep, and assisted with services. The villagers respected his work but

sensed a coldness. His dark eyes rarely met others, and his smiles seemed forced. No one knew where he came from, and he cut off questions with silence. Whispers followed him: he lived alone, avoided people, but no one saw him as a threat—only a sullen laborer, the shadow of Father Vasiliy.

The Kovalenko family lived at the edge of the village. Ivan, a strong blacksmith with calloused hands, was the family's pillar. His wife, Mariya, quiet and devout, managed the household, praying before an icon each morning. Their daughter, Anna, a five-year-old girl with golden curls and bright laughter, was their joy. Anna loved to weave dandelion wreaths, listen to fairy tales, and run to the church where Vasiliy rang the bell. Sometimes she noticed the priest looking at her strangely, as if not recognizing her, and it frightened

her. The sun broke through the clouds, painting the fields crimson. Ivan had gone to the fields to plow with his neighbors. Mariya, having kneaded dough, began washing clothes, humming a Cossack song. Anna played in the yard, sitting on the grass. Her fingers wove dandelions into a wreath, and she hummed a tune.

Anna, dinner! Mariya called, wiping her hands.

There was no answer. The wind rustled through the apple tree branches, and silence squeezed her heart. Mariya stepped onto the porch, surveying the yard. The wreath lay on the grass, half-woven, but Anna was gone.

Anna! she called louder, but only crows cawed.

Mariya ran around the yard, checked the shed, and rushed to the neighbors. Olena, weaving cloth, shook her head. "Haven't

seen her, Mariya. Perhaps by the river?"

Mariya rushed to the river. Boys were catching frogs, but Anna was not there. Haven't seen her, auntie, said Hrytsko, wiping his hands. She was here this morning, then she left.

Mariya's heart pounded. She returned home, but the anxiety grew. The hut was quiet, only flies buzzed. The borscht had cooled, the bread lay untouched. Mariya sat down, clasping her hands, and stared at the floor. To the church? To the forest? she thought, but fear whispered otherwise. Ivan returned by evening, exhausted. Seeing Mariya in tears, he froze.

Where's Anna? he asked, his voice trembling.

Mariya, sobbing, told him everything. Ivan was silent, his eyes darkened. He threw down his hat and said, Gather the people.

The village stirred to life. Ivan gathered the men: Hryhoriy the elder, Fedir the miller, Luka the hunter. Others came, with pitchforks and torches. Women prayed by the church, children hid. Father Vasiliy, despite his limp, insisted on joining them. He held a cross and a lantern, whispering prayers. The Lord will protect, he said, but his voice trembled, and his eyes were clouded.

The men split up: to the river, to the forest, to the mill. The forest was