“An insatiable monster”

At sixteen, I was a very introverted girl who had no desire—or perhaps simply didn't know how to make friends or communicate normally with peers or other people. Back in my youth, there were many subcultures: punks, emos, ravers, metalheads, and plenty of other similar and sometimes overlapping groups of young people. I identified as a goth. Black clothing, dark makeup, messy hair, gloomy music, and the whole gothic theme with hints of mysticism and the macabre drew me in deeply.

We were often mistaken for emos — or rather, those who tried to pass themselves off as emos — since I greatly admired true emos for their worldview. They were against alcohol, drugs, and tobacco, refrained from casual sexual relationships, never betrayed their ideals, and, with their creative, albeit somewhat sensitive, souls, they were dedicated to helping nature and its creatures. I deeply respected them for their protest against the "gray and monotonous" life —until their culture was overtaken by cheap imitators, depressed kids who only tarnished this beautiful subculture. These imitators eventually overwhelmed it with their new ideas of how cruel and unjust the world was to them, poor souls.

The confusion between us and emos stemmed from our shared fascination with the afterlife, and it annoyed me to no end. It infuriated me that our profound and truly majestic reflections on death were compared to the whining of these pseudo-emos about wanting to die. Unlike them, we didn't wish for death. All we sought was to understand what happens to the soul after its outer shell ceases to resist and, ultimately, breathe. We delved into the knowledge of mysticism, demonology, and mythology, while our cheap imitators slit their wrists in a desperate cry for attention.

My parents never showed interest in what their daughter was up to, what she was passionate about, or where she wandered. They only cared about good grades in my report card, which I dutifully provided before heading to the cemetery. There's a reason people fear such places. Have you ever wondered why you feel uneasy there? Why your heart starts racing at the sight of a simple grave? Why your soul feels heavy and unnerved at the thought of stumbling upon a cemetery at night? I never did.

I felt at peace in the company of silent gravestones, each telling me its own story as I sketched, wrote in my journal, or simply strolled along the narrow paths between them, studying the familiar photographs of those who now rested lifelessly three meters beneath me. The souls of the dead never judge, never say anything cruel or hurtful, unlike ordinary people who couldn't understand my passions. The atmosphere of quiet, calm, and yet something oppressively somber relaxed me far more than house parties with strangers or being locked away in four walls at home in complete solitude — a solitude I never felt in cemeteries. There, I was never alone.

It was the same familiar ritual again: coming to that place every evening. It repeated once more. Josh — the watchman, a kind uncle with thick mustache and a large belly — greeted me every time he noticed my figure dressed entirely in black, stepping out of his small guardroom. We had known each other for quite a while, and by our unspoken agreement, I would bring him sandwiches, and he would let me stay there until eleven at the latest. I didn't mind. After all, I didn't want to risk having problems with my parents because of this.

"Good evening, Mister Josh. Here you go," I handed the watchman a tray from my black leather bag, "Today it's sandwiches with tomatoes, sausage, and slices of cheese."

"Thank you, Lira. Come on in, make yourself at," he chuckled: "home."

"At home..." I repeated thoughtfully, inhaling the cool autumn breeze as I stepped along the well-trodden but still green path. It was almost always green here: tall and mighty trees stretched from the cemetery itself into the dense forest for miles, stubbornly refusing to shed their leaves. Flowers and sparse grass poked through the brickwork near some graves, and the tombstones themselves sometimes became so overgrown that it was impossible to tell who was buried there, forgotten by everyone. I would tidy them up myself, feeling it was my duty to the departed.

Usually, by the time I arrived, there was no one else around. But this time, things didn't go as planned. Closer to the end of the cemetery, I noticed a figure — a boy, I guessed — wandering among the stones, studying them closely. Deciding it was none of my business, I settled on a bench illuminated by a soft, dim light and began drawing in my sketchbook.

After a few minutes, I flinched at a sudden "Hi" directed at me. I'd been so absorbed in my drawing that I hadn't noticed the boy sitting next to me, examining my doodles.

"Hi," I responded quietly, hoping to end the conversation there, but he had other plans.

"I'm Mark. What's your name?"

"Valeria."

He sat quietly for a few moments, glancing at me and then at my sketchbook. I can't say it was a pleasant experience, but no one seemed to care about my opinion.

"You draw? Looks good. I also like your style. Are you a goth? As you can see, I am too." he spread his arms, showing off his black cape, T-shirt, and jeans in the same color.

"Thanks for the compliment on my drawing. Yes, I'm a goth. Your outfit isn't bad either."

"Thanks."

After exchanging a few more meaningless and formal phrases, we switched to a topic that intrigued us both as admirers of all things dark and strange. We got so engrossed in our conversation that we lost track of time, only noticing how late it was when the watchman approached us.

"Hey, Lira, I didn't see you sitting here with a guy. I don't mean to interrupt, but it's already half past eleven. Time to get going—your parents are probably waiting for you both."

"Alright, Mister Josh, we're leaving," I grabbed my bag and was heading toward the exit when I heard my name.

"Valeria!"

I turned to see my new acquaintance still seated on the bench.

"Let's meet here tomorrow at nine, okay?"

After a brief moment of thought, I gave him a thumbs-up — I don't like shouting in cemeteries — and quickly made my way home.

This routine became my evenings. Mark and I would meet at the agreed spot and time, chatting about everything and nothing. Eventually, he introduced me to his friends—a group of peers, both boys and girls, who were also goths. Our cemetery hangouts ended, and we began wandering the dark streets, pondering the afterlife and mysticism, sharing personal stories, and simply having fun. I remember thinking back then that I'd finally found true friends who accepted me as I was, who supported and guided me. But how wrong I was.

One evening, as we strolled through my neighborhood, laughing and chatting, I noticed Mark and another guy walking slightly ahead, whispering to each other. Curious, I moved closer to eavesdrop.

"She's not ready yet," Mark said firmly.

"Dude, stop being so uptight. Everyone goes through this, and we like her. I'm more than sure everything will be fine. She's totally ready."

"Ready for what?" I blurted out.

"For initiation, of course." The phrase echoed and fell into the silence as we all stopped.

"What initiation?" I asked, bewildered, as they led me toward an abandoned eight-story building.

People called it different things: some simply referred to it as "the abandoned building," others, like me, gave it a name that suited its location — Nemishlya. Yet others called it "Blud" after a group of cultists who had occupied it about five years ago, when construction was either halted due to a lack of funds or because someone had died there. Rumors and legends surrounded this place...

The closer we got, the more panic and hysteria gripped me. I tried not to resist too much, figuring it was better to be "a good girl" under such circumstances, since who knew what they were thinking? To this day, I'm grateful to myself for that decision — it might have saved my life.

They led me to a fence with a large hole and told me to crawl through it and wait further inside, but not to enter the building itself. Shaking with fear, I complied, as Mark tried to reassure me, saying there was nothing to worry about — that everyone who joins true subcultures goes through an initiation, and I shouldn't be afraid.

"But I've heard about... those people..."

"Who?" Mark asked, brushing off his hands.

"Cul-tists," I barely whispered.

At my words, he just smiled and, placing a hand on my back, led me into Nemishlya. The black entrance, like the gaping maw of some monster, revealed an empty yet all the more unsettling space — a place that had once been intended as a regular apartment building but now served as a haven for all sorts of riffraff. The walls were mostly covered in various symbols, occasional graffiti, and even less frequently, short phrases and poems. One in particular stuck with me:

"We will all face our deathbed, but this is just a moment in the great nothingness..."

The area was littered with various items, ranging from children's clothing to random construction debris — likely remnants from the days when Nemyshel was still being built. Yet among the urban clutter, something stood out: icons with distorted faces and dark streaks under their eyes. Unlike the rest of the scattered junk, these icons were meticulously arranged on the walls, alongside inexplicably inverted crosses.

"Wh-why does the initiation have to take place here? Why not.." I began to ask but was cut off by a booming voice:

"Careful! Step back!"

Mark yanked me away from a metal plate lying on the floor, which I would have stepped on if not for him. "It's a trap," he said, lightly pressing his foot on the plate. Immediately, it gave way, plunging into the basement below — a deliberately dug pit lined with barbed wire at the bottom.

Needless to say, falling from such a height onto that wire could result not only in breaking every bone imaginable but also in a gruesome death from blood loss due to deep cuts inflicted by the sharp barbs. The more you'd struggle to free yourself, the more entangled and injured you'd become.

"This must be the work of those cultists. It's so cruel — they're just killing innocent people!" I whispered sharply, staring into Mark's narrowed eyes, which seemed to exude cunning, malice, and... was it pleasure?

He sighed and replied ambiguously: "The world is cruel. The cultists are just a tiny fragment of the cruelty you can imagine, Valeria."

"What do you mean?"

As I was led through the floors, forced to see everything—the traps scattered throughout the building, each more horrifying than the last — Mark elaborated:

"Why do you assume these traps are cruel? Do you think good, decent people come here? No, Valeria, this place attracts society's scum — drug addicts, vagrants, drunks, and perhaps even past or future murderers and rapists. So tell me, is it truly wrong or cruel for the cultists to kill them? Of course, I won't argue that occasionally, an ordinary person—someone harmless—wanders in, driven by a misguided sense of adventure, but those are rare. After all, who in their right mind would enter the Blud?"

"Then why are we here? We're not society's scum. We're good people who've never wished harm on anyone!"

They led me into a spacious room shrouded in darkness. At first, I could see nothing, but as Mark's friends moved to their corners and lit red-wax candles already set up, the scene became clear. A massive pentagram, painted in red hues, sprawled across the floor. Skulls and animal bones were arranged inside and around it. I desperately wanted to believe that the pentagram had been drawn with paint or melted wax, not with the blood of innocent creatures.

"Because this is our home. Because we are the Blud." Mark spoke calmly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

My heart, already pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from my chest, now threatened to stop altogether. My mind raced with questions—so many that I couldn't form a single coherent thought. My eyes darted around, taking in everything, and with each detail, the realization grew clearer: if I tried to run now, it would be the end. I was surrounded, cornered. There was no escape.

"Blud? You're cultists? Why would you choose to become that? And why that name?" I fired off questions, trying to buy time.

"We didn't choose. The choice was made for us. And as for our name — it's not because it sounds like the word "blood," as many assume, but after the malevolent spirit of Ukrainian folklore: Blud."

As Mark spoke, I pretended to examine the skulls, icons, crosses, and symbols on the walls, slowly inching toward the room's exit.

"Blud is invisible, just like us. No one ever notices us. We're invisible people, but we decide the fates of others, just as Blud does—leading them astray, confusing them, forcing them off their paths, driving them to death. An unseen monster." He closed his eyes, likely envisioning the greatness of his cult.

That was my chance.

I ran. I had never run like that in my life. My heartbeat roared in my ears, and only one thought pulsed in my mind: "Don't trip! Just don't trip!" Thankfully, they had shown me all the traps on the way here. Without that knowledge, I'd have already fallen somewhere below, my neck snapped. Angry shouts echoed behind me, but the vacuum of panic that enveloped me drowned them out, repeating over and over: "Run! Don't stop, just run!" And so I ran. Without looking back, I dodged skulls, traps, and falling icons that shattered into shards around me. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I silently thanked it for keeping me going.

Sixth floor. A large ritual knife, its cold steel blade marked with dried blood, hurtled toward me. In slow motion, I saw intricate carvings on its wooden handle. It narrowly missed my ear and embedded itself in the wall ahead. I dove into the next passage.

Fifth floor. Someone yelled: "Raise it'" I barely dodged a net that snapped shut inches in front of me. I kept running.

Fourth floor. My breath was failing, and I tripped over a toy train—once a vibrant blue but now faded. The stumble cost me precious seconds, and I heard the pounding footsteps of five pairs of shoes closing in. I caught a glimpse of heavy, polished boots before scrambling to my feet, deciding not to descend the last flight of stairs but to jump instead. The leap regained my lost time.

Third floor. They were too close. I made a critical decision—perhaps my last. A window. "It's just the third floor, not too high. This is better. It has to be better," I thought as I jumped.

I fell. Raindrops struck my body like holy water as if baptizing me. Lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. For a brief moment, I felt weightless, as if floating in space, and I wished it could last forever. In the window above, I saw their faces, shouting something I couldn't hear. Time seemed to slow, but nothing lasts forever.

The painful landing came on my right shoulder, but I didn't feel it. I immediately got up and stumbled toward a gap in the fence—the one I had entered through. The barbed wires snagged my tangled hair, ripping out chunks, scratching my face and exposed skin as if trying to hold me back. But I didn't care. I tore myself free and ran. Ran. Ran. Ran…

I don't remember how I made it home, but I vividly recall my thoughts during that moment. That building was like an insatiable monster, swallowing dozens, hundreds, if not thousands of victims. And I could have been one of them. But I got lucky. Something saved me — whether it was my fortune or something supernatural, I'll never know. Yet I remember the terror, the despair, and the burning hope to escape. To crawl my way out of Nemyshel, even if it cost me my hair, to survive no matter what.

That evening, through tears, I recounted everything to my parents, who had been about to search for me. We decided to move to another part of the city — thankfully, it's a big one. Especially after familiar symbols and verses began appearing in my building. One verse, in particular, stayed with me:

"We all shall face the bed of death, but it's a mere moment in eternal nothingness..."