Siberian Sprites

An optimistic horror fantasy set deep in the Siberian forest

Elly Campbell lives in her hometown of Salt Lake City, Utah. Her livelihood is in construction; however, her personal life is enriched by literature, reading her cats’ tarot, and short story writing.

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A hill marches into a clearing of trees on a pair of thick, white legs, mimicking the surrounding chalky aspens with their many black eyes. The mound of earth bobs up and down, lurches right then left, and spins in methodical circles. It’s the size of a hut and cloaked with unusual greenery. Mismatched wildflowers and mushrooms poke through its squishy moss, swaying with each movement. The tall nightshades and tiger lilies whirl with each turn. 

An aspen-like arm descends from the hill's underside, rustling the forest floor and then returning back into its dark belly. The entire mass moves closer to the perimeter of the clearing, looking surprisingly innocent until the claw descends once again.

"She's looking for something!" Olya whispers, pressing her face close to Kirill's ear and releasing a wet cough. 

"Jesus, don't cough directly into my ear!" 

"Sorry…" 

The two children, one nearly a teenager, roost in the hollowed trunk of a fallen oak tree, odd in the sea of white bark. Both peer over the serrated edges of the trunk, watching the creature inspect fallen leaves. Kirill rests one foot on a small cage which houses a stuffed rabbit with an empty smile. Next to the bunny sits a crumpled blanket and bowl. The red bowl was once full of kibble, but the nuggets had escaped with each of Kirill's careless en-route bumps. Olya clutches a bundle to her chest. It’s wrapped in a generic floral scarf, the kind of lazy gift you'd find in the Mongolian-operated stalls outside the mall.  

"I wonder what she's looking for?" Olya says, unable to properly roll her rs. 

"How do you even know it's a she?"

Olya states blankly at Kirill, realizing he hadn't listened to her the entire walk. She huffs like a miffed horse and rummages in her yellow jacket, pulling out a page taken from a children’s book. On the crumpled page looms a figure illustrated in a manner most would deem inappropriate for children of Olya's age. Formed by chaotic drops and splashes of dark watercolors, the depicted creature is bent unnaturally at its back. Its willow tree arms hang loosely towards the ground, and its head is cranked away from the reader. The ill-fed and saggy body is adorned with rancid green algae for hair and clothes. Olya flips the page to its other side; now, the creature is in the same position but with its inhumane face snarling at the reader. The eyes are black, and its face is indeed somehow feminine. 

"This is the swamp one," Olya clarifies, then nods towards the clearing. "I think she'll be more beautiful than the one in the book."

"That's creepy as fu—" Kirill pauses, envisioning his mother's angry eyes. "Where did you get this? It's not even in Russian or English," he says, running his finger along the fairytale-styled text. 

"Uncle Ted says it's Latin." Her eyes narrow, becoming sagaciously wise as she adds, "Stupid." Then, she stands back onto her tiptoes to continue observing the mound. Kirill rises to his feet, mumbling about abstaining from violence only because it's her special day. 

A branch snaps behind the young spies, startling both. From the corners of their eyes, they see movement in the brush and both turn. A pair of beady eyes on top of a foaming snout soar from the bushes towards the children, spittle trailing behind. With a horrible thud, a rack of antlers lodge themselves into the trunk’s opening, and all three mammals scream. As it bleats, the rabid reindeer pushes its blackened tongue through the froth in its mouth, inches from Kirill, and continues to scream. A blackened bitemark bleeds a dirty, tar-like substance down its hindlegs, and it begins to growl and gnash at Kirill. Terrified, Olya squeezes herself and her bundle out of a slit in the trunk, as a trapped Kirill tries to strategically dislodge the disoriented animal's antlers.

“It’s sick! It’s sick! Don’t let it bite you!” Olya yells as she backs toward the clearing.

 She bumps into a regular aspen tree and yelps, fearing the tree might wrap itself around her and lift her into the air. Holding tightly to her beloved bundle, she blindly runs across the clearing, thinking she’s running in the direction of home. However, she sees the sun is on the wrong side and sharply pivots back around. The awkward movement causes her to lose balance and she belly-flops onto the forest floor, the bundle flying out in front of her.

Despite having the wind knocked from her, she gasps as she crawls to the floral scarf and wraps her arms around it as if it’s keeping her tethered to the earth. A trail of blackened blood skips along the green and yellow leaves past her head. 

Still struggling for breath, Olya notices a shadow creeping over her. As she rolls onto her back, piebald legs slowly stomp down on each side of her and she screams. The mound’s jagged claw shoots toward her face and everything goes black. She hears a crunching noise and assumes it’s her facial bones caving in, yet she feels no pain. With eyes reopening she timidly turns her head and watches the claw rustle the dried leaves inches away from her. The twiggy yet sharp fingers pinch a bloodstained leaf and pull it into the darkness of the mound.

She looks up at the underside of the animated hill, and among an enormous tangle of aspen branches and roots, returning her gaze are a hundred motionless aspen eyes. She looks to the right, and a pair of the eyes quickly close. She shudders but continues to search the wooden void for more of the sentient eyes. Finally, she spots a sleeping woman's face deep in the tangle. 

Olya squeezes her eyes shut and she wants to run. However, she surprises herself as she croaks, "Zdravstvuyte." 

The face in the darkness remains still.

Olya opens an eye. "Or do you speak English?"

The face slowly creaks open an eye, mimicking Olya. The she-creature's pupil, irises, and sclera are a glob of shimmering black ink against her white barked skin. 

"Zdravstvuyte means hello in Russian. It's formal. It's formal because you're older than me. Wait, right?" She scrunches her face in confusion about the age part. 

The face also scrunches, and cracks form along the furrowed wrinkles.

“Can you help me?” Olya whispers.

The legs then take a few steps back, and the ground shakes as the wooden innards violently snap and untangle. The branches circle around at a dizzying speed to form a torso to rest on the legs, and the creature unwinds herself into a humanoid figure. She straightens, becoming tower-like in size; the busy greenery she hid under unfolds, becoming her hair and dress. Her face is long and angular, fitting for an eldritch creature, but her expression is that of a mother: soft, pitying.

Olya shakily rolls onto her knees, relieved that this version of the creature seems more inviting than the one from the picture book. She lets out a wet cough and a mixture of snot and blood leaks from her nostril. She stretches out her arms, holding the bundle towards the creature. 

The creature bends its great back to come face to face with Olya; her intermittent breaths smell sappy. It reaches a finger and lifts the floral fabric upwards and over. A lifeless brown puppy's face peers out. The creature cocks its head.

"This is Misha," whispers Olya. "All the other puppies woke up today, but he didn't." She stresses, "He's my favorite." 

The humanoid observes the little girl's fragile face and body with sorrow. Streams of ink run from its eyes diagonally across its cheek and rain onto the ground, joining the dried blood drops. It tenderly recovers the dead animal's head with the scarf, focusing its intense gaze on the little girl.

"Please?" 

The finger reaches toward Olya's face, and she stares pleadingly at the creature. The finger inches closer and then adds pressure below Olya's nose. Steadily, it wipes away the light red snot and gently pats her on the head with its other arm. It straightens and stomps away from the little girl and her dead dog.

"Hey, wait! Help me!' 

The bleating commotion returns as Kirill finally dislodges the reindeer, and it wildly bursts into the clearing, bucking in pain.

The witch snaps its head with rapt attention, finally locating the rabid reindeer. Saliva starts to fall from her mouth, eyes and tears lightening into a muddy red, and she releases a low vocal fry that matches the creaking of her bones. Her decorative flowers and mushrooms wilt and melt, and the greenery becomes charred as ashes float upwards. She continues to cry the blood-like substance as she stalks toward the miserable buck.

Kirill emerges wildly from the tree, grabbing the back of Olya’s coat and pulling her back towards the trees as the witch howls. Olya fights him, still holding the wrapped pup out towards the lethal life form, tears in her eyes as she whispers, "Please." 

Kirill hooks his arms under her armpits and drags the sobbing Olya through the trees. The baritone howl returns and is underscored by the relieved reindeer's scream.  

Kirill carries the crying Olya, holding the now rigid bundle, and they cross the stream back onto their dacha's property. Immediately, their frazzled mother spots them and runs across the garden with primal wrath. Their uncle calmly follows. 

"Kirill, what in the hell were you thinking?! Taking your sister out to the woods in her state!" Their weary yet animated mother grabs Olya from Kirill, cooing, "What hurts, my sunshine?" 

"Nothing! It didn't work!" The shrouded dead dog slips from Olya's arms as she thrashes against her mother's back. The violence causes the scarf to fall from her head, and her bald head reflects the golden hour light. "She wouldn't do it!" 

Soon, her repetitive cries become unintelligible as the hospice nurse hops over the beet seedlings toward them. "She's delirious. We need to get her back in bed immediately," the nurse assesses, then turns to Kirill and hisses, "You are a very bad boy." The two women race Olya towards the logged house.

Kirill picks up Misha and holds the little dog tight. "It's alright, kid," Uncle Ted says as he approaches. "I know you were just trying to give her one last adventure." His voice cracks at those last three words, and he puts an arm around the vacant-eyed boy. 

Then suddenly, Kirill's eyes brighten. 

"Uncle Ted?" 

"Mmm?"

"On the way back, she didn't cough once." 

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