Malnoir II

Malnoir II

When I was young, my grandfather would read to me when I returned from ballet practice. I would lie in bed in my pajamas, encased in blankets as if I were mummified. My grandfather, a grizzled old Soviet by every definition of the word, sat adjacent from my bedside, and by the light of the lamp he would read to me from a book of Russian folk tales. I remember his beady eyes glassing over the yellowing pages, his lips stuttering to pronounce English words, occasionally swearing in his vernacular language, spinning me tales of the little grey wolf that came with the snow and pulled children from beneath their warm blankets. I always loved and feared the little grey wolf, loved hearing about his exploits of rebellion and feared his harsh punishment. It wasn’t until after my grandfather’s death that I realized I could have said the same about him.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. This story goes back a while longer. Before I was around. Back when my grandfather was still in his prime out in the USSR. He was an eccentric being. Yuriy the Red, they called him affectionately, for he was the most prideful Soviet the world had ever seen. He was in Afghanistan fighting when everything fell apart, when the world had stood atop one of its ever-constant climaxes and threatened to topple down. Things broke; the iron curtain fell and like a magnet took every bit of mettle left in my grandfather as well. Yuriy the Red turned to Yuriy the Quiet, and when he left for America, his title had been reduced simply to Yuriy.  We don’t know when he acquired the book, but we do know that as soon as he arrived in the house, he placed it in his study, and forbade any and all of us from entering.

The entire family lived in grandfather’s house. My parent’s were too poor to afford a place of their own, and it was as if they felt some familial responsibility to remain close to grandfather in case he needed care in his old age. Not so much a son caring for his father; more like a man tending his guard dog, making sure it didn’t bite a passerby.

The house itself was a ghostly, spectral figure. Located upon the fringes of society in northern Vermont, the place that grandfather claimed most resembled Russia. The house was old and rickety, built in some era long forgotten. The outside was painted pleasantly enough, but the shingles on the roof were in a state of depression, each one climbing over one another to get their chance to fling themselves off the roof and end their pitiful existence. The attic window had broken before I was born, but since nobody ever went up there my dad just covered the hole with a black garbage back. To the right in the yard a creaking old oak tree leaned against the house’s façade, like an abusive spouse or a drunken stranger. Inside it was dark, and the few rays of light that got through showed just how in need of a good vacuum the place was. The furniture was old and moth eaten, but my family, Grandfather, my parents, my brother and I, all got our own rooms, which allowed for some measure of tolerance. The upstairs was cramped, and held an office and my parent’s bedroom. Downstairs wasn’t much better, as the kitchen was forced to double as a living room as well. The bathroom was moldy, and my grandfather’s room reeked of decay. At the end of the hall was the door to grandfather’s study, which was always locked and rarely opened.

Growing up there proved to be lonesome. My brother and I, for the first many years of our lives, had to rely on each other’s company, which was awkward considering he was a good five years my senior. Whenever I wasn’t being carted from school to ballet to violin, we would play games in the backyard. Our favorite was a game we made up, a little like baseball; only it involved two people with bats hitting a single ball back to one another. Our favorite, too, was adventure, where we would reenact Russian folk tales. We had an old willow tree, the base of many of our adventures. I was always terrified, however, of getting too close to it, fearful of the little grey wolf that may or may not live under ever willow tree, in the comfort of the roots.

My brother, Dmitri, teased me often on account of this fear. He was older and had outgrown the clutches of my grandfather’s mythologies. He’d transferred on to what my grandfather referred to as “the great old ones,” namely Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, in their original Russian texts of course. Still, he found a sort of quaint joy in indulging in my more childish fantasies; a release from his daily life of being carted from school to football to cello. He would often play the villain, and I the hero, as we trekked across the backyard, our little Russia, recounting tales of soldiers gone to war and the escapades of Anastasia Romanov, who had managed to survive the Bolshevik takeover.

It was a chilly autumn day when my brother had finally convinced me to venture in to the willow root and slay the little grey wolf once and for all. I was mortified, but kept a straight face and a brave demeanor as I ventured forwards with a sword – a stick we’d found- in hand and my helm – a pot from the kitchen – protecting me. I’d never been near the tangled roots of the willow. They seemed almost otherworldly to the eyes of an eight-year-old girl, like some tangled mess of alien tentacles harboring horrors unknown to the human mind. I looked behind and saw Dmitri in the center of the yard, waving to me with a smile. I nodded, then cautiously began rapping my sword against the root, chanting in Russian, “Come out, little grey wolf, there’s nothing to fear. Come out little grey wolf, no need to shed a tear.”

Then it jumped out, so fast, like a lightning bolt. I screamed, turn and ran, throwing my sword towards the house. There was a crash but I hardly heard it, as I’d tripped over one of the roots and screamed, clawing at the dirt as I swore I felt something grasping the back of my shirt, hot breath on my scalp.

“Calm down, calm down,” Dmitri said running over and pulling me to my feet. I turned, and saw a chipmunk sitting in the open, its rest disturbed by my assault, contemplating the person who has so rudely invaded its home. And the thing that had been breathing on me turned to have just been a low hanging branch. “Ach, now you’ve done it, Kat,” Dmitri said.

I turned and looked at the house. I’d shattered the window to my Grandfather’s study, and now he stood there, glaring through a crack in the blinds. He swore at us in Russian, then stormed away with intentions of scolding us, sending us to our rooms for the night. Dmitri ran, under the impression that he could escape his inevitable fate if he hid particularly well in the surrounding woods. I exhaled and went to fetch my helmet that had fallen off, knowing that mother would probably need it for dinner.

As I crouched to pick it up, a biting wind suddenly blew across the yard, seemingly emanating from the house. When I turned, I saw a woman’s figure standing the in shattered window of my grandfather’s study, concealed by the shadowy blinds, pulling a gap open in them with her fingers, blankly looking out at me. I thought at first it was my mother, and took a step towards her, but soon realized that something was off. Her fingers seem coarse, dry, as if she had frostbite. And there was not a bit of white in her eyes, just empty, inky darkness.

“Little monster,” Grandfather swore, grabbing me by the arm. Instantly, like a rubber band, my attention snapped to him as his outstretched hand hovered, ready to strike. He spat curses at me, asked me if I had the money to fix his window, told me about how I’d be in big trouble back in the USSR. He calmed after a bit, then stormed into the front yard to find Dmitri. I turned back and saw the window devoid of any sort of life. I picked up my helmet and went inside.

I, too, grew, like my brother, and soon I spent most of my afternoons inside watching television or reading. I didn’t have many friends, but wasn’t bothered by it. My entire family was made up of solitary beings. Still, the feeling of loneliness came too often. The fact that I was often at home alone also aided this mentality, considering grandfather kept in shape by going on long walks to the nearby town, mother and father were both working, and Dmitri had taken up fencing in addition to football and cello. I was alone, and sometimes it hurt, but other times it was liberating.

It was almost five years after I saw the woman in my grandfather’s study, as I was sitting alone with a book on the couch, when I heard a rustling of paper coming from my grandfather’s study. “Grandpa?” I called out. Nobody answered, but the noise continued. I stood and walked down the hall. I saw the door at the far end of the hall. It appeared locked, and grandfather kept the only key with him. But, from the light beneath the door, I saw shadows. Clearly, someone was in there. “Grandpa?” I called again, “Is that you?”

Everything grew still. The noise stopped. I began walking down the hall. I stopped, peering in to my grandfather’s room and saw the pistol he kept there, on his dresser, probably loaded. I was about to grab it when I heard a woman’s voice. “Don’t.” I froze. I heard the sound of a lock switching, and the door slowly opened. “Come in. It’s fine. I’m supposed to be here.”

I was mortified. I knew the logical thing to do would be to grab the gun. To go  and force whoever was in there to leave. But something possessed me. The voice, ominous as it was, had a calming, hypnotic quality about it. Slowly, I walked towards the study. I pushed the door open and stepped in.

“Hello,” said a young woman, standing on the other side of the study. She was tall, and had long black hair and dark eyes. Her skin was pale, almost ghostly, and her lips seemed dry. She wore a dress that seemed outdated, like she’d snatched it out of an old painting. Still, as much as I wanted to lash out at her, I couldn’t help but notice her beauty. “You must be Kat. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a smile, extending her hand.

‘Yes,” I said, searching for the words as I shook her hand courteously, “What are you…”

“You’re the dancer, right? Katya is the dancer. That’s what Yuriy told me I think. Do you dance?”

“Um…yes, but…”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Yuriy never lets me dance but I adore it so,” the woman said with an air of unnatural peppiness, “Although, you do ballet, right?” I nodded. “I never learned ballet. My dad said it wasn’t fitting of a Frenchwoman of class. That’s the Russian’s art. We had other forms of art. I’ve learned many other forms though, like…”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Oh, I’m Mallory. Mallory Nwarkov,” the woman said with a smile, “I’m sorry, this must all seem rather confusing.”

“No,” I said, feeling the need to question her about how she got in here was suddenly not all that important. I closed the door and sat down in one of the two armchairs. Mallory sat in the other. I stared at her, enthralled. “You’re a friend of grandpa?”

“Oh yes,” Mallory said, “We met in Russia when he was small. He never liked me much though, but was such a good caregiver. He carried me with him everywhere he went. I was there with him through good times and bad. You should have heard his stories about Afghanistan.”

“He doesn’t talk about Afghanistan…”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Mallory said with a smile, “My, it’s good to know that Yuriy has such a beautiful grand daughter.” I felt myself blushing. “Katya, right?”

“You can jut call me Kat.”

“No, Katya sounds far more elegant.”

“Okay,” I said with a chuckle, “You sound like my parents though. Have you met them?”

“I met your father once I think, but I’m sure he’s forgotten about little old me,” Mallory said, “It was ever so long ago.”

The question was on the tip of my tongue. “How old are you?” I could utter a single word though. I sat and listened eagerly as Mallory told me of all the people she’d met over he life. She told me tales of my grandfather when he was younger, growing up in the frozen land of Siberia. The two of them would play in a manner not unlike how my brother and I used to play. I was touched, moved, paralyzed. The hours passed and I heard a car door slam outside.

“Oh, you best be going now,” Mallory said ushering me up.

“I don’t want to…”

“You must,” She insisted pushing me to the door, “I’ll be here. Just knock when you’re alone.” I turned and saw her, standing so close to me. My face flushed red and I looked at my feet. She touched my chin and lifted my head up. Making unflinching eye contact, she whispered, “And remember, don’t tell anybody, not even Yuriy, you saw me.”

Next thing I knew I was standing in the hall, sense returning to me. I blinked several times, adjusting to the darkness as the house filled with life once again. “Kat,” grandpa said, a hint of baffled frustration in his voice, “What are you doing over there. You know you’re not supposed to be near my study.”

“Oh, I heard a noise so I came to check it out,” I said in Russian, knowing grandpa understood it better, “It must have been the wind. Sorry, Yuriy.”

“What did you call me?”

“Grandpa,” I said, shaking my head. He glowered at me with suspicion flooding his tiny eyes. His bushy moustache twitched a bit, then he let me leave, after promising to never go back near his study. I broke the promise the very next day.

I grew in to a routine, returning from ballet, not at all tired or hungry from my day, and rushed to the study. I would knock, and Mallory would answer. We grew close, even though I knew nothing about her. Often times I didn’t even think about her existence aside from when we were together in the study. My life was unaffected by her, so much so that I went two years before anything of great note happened. We would just spend our time together. Sometimes I would dance some ballet, then Mallory would dance, or, if we were both tired, we would sit in the chairs, discussing whether or not Raskolnikov had truly found redemption, or if Ivan Illyich needed to die to get the point across.

“You know,” Mallory said one afternoon, “It’s occurred to me that I’ve never seen you waltz.”

“Well, I don’t know how,” I replied.

“Oh, then I simply must teach you. Come,” Mallory said, extending me her hand. I took it and we stood close to teach other, hand in hand. She put on a waltz theme using my phone, which I’d been teaching her how to use. She’d had a lot of trouble comprehending the idea of a touch pad. With the tune playing, we began to move in perfect harmony. I messed up a few times at the beginning, but soon found it to be simply enough. “There we go, you’re learning,” Mallory said, forcing me to look away in embarrassment, “This reminds me of the time we went apple picking.”

“Apple picking?”

“Don’t you remember? Last autumn. Yuriy took us to the local apple grove and we picked lots of green apples. You wanted to make a pie, but I’m terribly allergic to cinnamon, so we ate them raw.”

“That never happened. That couldn’t have happened. You never leave this room, and grandpa would die before he let me do something as meaningless as picking apples to bake into a pie.”

I thought that. What I said was, “Oh…I remember. You danced a little then too.”

“Under the apple tree branches,” Mallory said, laughing, “I was a little too tall, and hit my head a couple of times.” I stared laughing too, so much so that I missed a step and we both fell over one another and ended up on the ground, staring into each other’s eyes. She kissed me. Her lips were cold, but still I melted. I moved my body up against hers, into her embrace and let her have me. She lay atop me as we stripped and made love on the floor of my grandpa’s study. She was wild, fiery in her movements and passion, but still icy cold. I was shivering throughout it, as he frozen, sandpaper flesh pressed against my own. I didn’t care. It felt wonderful.

“It’s time for you to head out,” Mallory said when we’d finished and composed ourselves. She was right. Grandpa had begun returning from his walks earlier and earlier. His age had finally caught up with him. I smiled, kissing Mallory one last time, then left. As the door closed behind me I felt overcome by sickness. My legs buckled as bile shot up from my stomach. I bolted to the toilet and vomited up black liquid, a lot of it. I coughed over the toilet, unable to stand. Pain shot through me. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. It was shockingly terrible. Cracks were running throughout my cheeks, as if I were a statue caught in a particularly violent sandstorm. My eyes were reddening, and slowly the white was disappearing.

What was worst of all was that nobody seemed to notice. My parents treated me as they always did, and Dmitri hardly registered that I was feeling ill. Grandpa stared at first, and I hoped he’d say something. He glanced at me throughout the evening. I smiled at him. “What’s wrong?” I asked, “You’re looking at me as if I were a wolf.”

“It’s nothing.”

That night I tossed in bed, beset by feelings of pleasure and sickness. I felt touched by the idea of having had sex with somebody I loved. I couldn’t stop thinking about the manufactured memory of the time we went apple picking, or the time we’d caught a bunch of crows that were nesting in the willow tree, or the time we went to the farm and met a poet who was writing something about the nobility of a bull, and then the farmer said we could go and pet the bull and we did and the poet wrote about us to. And then there was the black liquid. Always there, pouring over me, making me writhe in agony. I felt the same throughout my day at school, and could hardly muster the strength to dance at ballet lessons. My instructor let me go early.

I sulked over to the study and opened the door. Mallory was waiting. “Katya, my love.”

“My love,” I said smiling as I went to her. We cut to the chase. I don’t know why we had sex again. I wasn’t feeling up for it, and she did most of the work. I just closed my eyes and screamed. When we were finished, I got dressed and sat on her lap.

“I’m writing a book,” Mallory said, “About all the times we spent together.”

“Really?”

“About apple picking, and the crows, and the time with the poet and the bull,” Mallory said.

“He got published.”

“Good for him.”

“And the time with the little grey wolf and the willow tree,” Mallory said.

“Remind me again…”

“We were little. You thought there was a little grey wolf living in the willow roots in the backyard. So we got a bunch of sticks that we pretended were swords and marched on the willow tree. We tried to force him out, but he wouldn’t come. So, we decided to make a fire…”

“No, there was a chipmunk,” I said.

“A what?”

“A chipmunk,” I said, remembering a different event, “when I started hitting the roots a chipmunk ran out and scared me and I threw the stick at the window. And then I saw you…” I felt Mallory’s grasp growing tight. “I was…you were watching me that day, weren’t you, Mal?”

“Darling, I have no idea,” Mallory said, putting me down, “Come, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” I said, following Mallory to the desk. She opened a leather bound book and flipped to the end page, where she’d written all of our adventures.

“I need you to sign at the end for me,” Mallory said with a smile, handing me a pen. I moved over, happy and willing to sign for her. I let the pen touch the paper.

“Katya, don’t,” Grandpa said, kicking the door in. I screamed as the sound of gunshots ripped through the silence. I heard the window shatter and felt Mallory’s cold blood splatter on my back. “Get away, Katya.”

“Grandpa, stop…” I said, turning to face Mallory. Mallory stood there, a bullet hole between her eyes. Her mouth was agate as black ink leaked from the wound. Her skin began to flake, turning papery. Her face grew dry and her dark eyes shifted into dark, empty slits. She made a noise as she stepped forward, pointing at Grandpa, hissing his name as she fell to the ground and turned into a pile of papers, all with the name Malnoir written in shifting letters.

“Are you okay, Kat?” Grandpa asked, rushing to my side. He held my face still and looked me in the eyes. Slowly, everything came back to me. All the time I thought we’d been dancing, I had been sitting there, smiling dumbly, as Mallory, a twisted monster made of paper and ink, wrote in the leather book. The memory of the apples turned to a time where I’d lay there, nude, and she played with my body. And the crows became a memory of her pouring ink down my throat as I smiled. Throughout it all I was smiling.

I broke down crying into my grandfather’s arms. “It’s alright. She can’t hurt you anymore.” I was apt not to believe him. I felt the cold cracks in my skin, noted the ink dripping from the sides of my mouth onto the floor, staining the carpet. “It’s a monster I keep away from the world,” grandpa said, “It lures people in, writes a story about them. If the person writes in the book, when the story is finished, their soul is bound to the book, and the monster inhabits the person’s body. Those creatures, they are called the Malnoir.”

I shivered. “Get rid of the book,” I said, bursting into another fit of sobs.

I cried for a while. When I’d calmed grandpa took the book and brought it out to the base of the willow tree. He doused it with gasoline and set it aflame, watching as it burned red and black. I didn’t feel joy, but I wasn’t in a state of despair either. I just had the crippling desire to get far away from the study for a very long time.

I can say, proudly, that I moved past all of that since. My face has since outgrown the scars Mallory had carved into it. I’ve grown up, gone to college, and married twice. I’m happy now. Grandpa passed a few weeks ago, and I’ve returned, with Dmitri, to the house. We cleared it of grandpa’s possessions, and put it on the market. Before we left, I visited his study one last time. It was old, dusty, with books still lining the shelves, and ink still staining the carpet. I exhaled, peeking through the blinds at the willow tree, at the place where the book was burned. All was quiet. Mallory was not there, in the willow root, nor was there any sign of the little grey wolf. The only thing put to rest there were memories long forgotten.