Aleksey bought a house for just thirty thousand rubles.
The house stood at the edge of the village, right by the forest. Old. Blackened. Its windows were boarded up, and the roof was caving in. Nettles had grown taller than a person all around. The locals avoided it—even the boys never climbed over for apples, though the apple tree in the overgrown garden still produced fruit.
“You should think it over, young man,” said the head of the village council, an older guy named Korobov. “That house has been empty for twenty years. And before that, no one stayed long. People live there a month and leave. Sometimes even quicker.”
“Why’s that?”
“Who knows. Maybe it’s the place. Maybe something else. Folks say all sorts of things. You’d be better off getting a plot on the other end. There’s a solid house there, and neighbors nearby.”
“I’m taking this one,” Aleksey replied.
Korobov glanced him up and down—his city jacket, his haircut, his calm face—and simply shrugged.
“Well, it’s your call,” he said.
They finished all the paperwork in half a day. Thirty thousand—hardly a funny price. More like no price at all. That kind of money wouldn’t even get you a shed in the city. But here—you get a whole house, land, an apple tree, and peace and quiet.
Aleksey was thirty-four. In the city, he worked at a factory as a machine operator. He hadn’t exactly quit by choice—they laid him off. He scraped by for half a year, doing odd jobs, then decided—enough was enough. He sold his apartment, bought an old SUV, and left. Where to? He didn’t know. He just drove until the houses were behind him and the taiga began. That’s where he stopped.
The village sat in a low valley by the river. About fifty houses. A school. A community center. A shop. Everything you need for life, if you’re not picky. And he wasn’t.
On the first day, he pulled the boards off the windows, cleared out the trash, and fired up the stove—it smoked, but at least it drew. He set up a folding cot in the back room and slept like the dead.
The next morning, the neighbors started visiting.
The first to show up was an old woman—thin and upright like a stick. She introduced herself as Maria Ignatievna. She lived two houses down.
“So you bought it,” she said, looking Aleksey over. “Well, well.”
“I did.”
“What was wrong with city life?”
“I got tired of it.”
“Tired of it,” she repeated. “And you think it’s livelier here?”
“I didn’t come to have fun.”
“Then why?”
Aleksey didn’t answer. The old lady stood there a moment, shook her head, and left. But an hour later, she was back. She brought a three-liter jar of milk and half a loaf of bread.
“Here, eat something. You look awfully skinny.”
And she left again without waiting for any thanks.
Then Korobov dropped by to check how things were going. Later, someone else stopped in—just out of curiosity. Everyone was eager to get a look at the odd fellow who had bought the house no one wanted to live in.
“Have you checked the basement yet?” someone asked.
“Not yet.”
“Well, well,” they said, exchanging strange glances.
Aleksey didn’t pay it any mind. Village folks always have their own superstitions.
On the third day, he decided to check out the basement.
In old village houses, the basement is a special place. People stored potatoes there. Preserves. Sometimes homemade booze. Sometimes—secrets. The floor was made of planks, once painted ochre but now peeling. In the kitchen corner, a square hatch with an iron ring waited in the shadows.
Aleksey pulled on the ring. It creaked. The hatch gave way. A chill and the scent of earth wafted out from the black void.
He shone his flashlight. The staircase—just four steps—disappeared into darkness. The steps were intact. He went down.
The cellar wasn’t deep—he could stand, as long as he hunched over. The floor was dirt. The walls were made of old, darkened timber logs, worn by time. The air smelled damp and had a hint of something else—something sweet and musty.
In the corner stood some old jars. Three-liter jars, all cloudy. There was a pile of rags too—rotted and gray. Alexei was about to go back up when he noticed something white beneath a heap of junk against the far wall.
He walked over. Bent down. Reached out his hand. Then quickly pulled it back.
From the earth, beneath crumbling clay, a bone was sticking out.
A human bone.
Two hours later, the house was packed with people.
The local police officer arrived—he was young, named Sychyov. With him was a paramedic, an older lady in glasses. Men from the village showed up too—some with shovels, some just to watch. Maria Ignatievna stood by the gate, making the sign of the cross.
They dug carefully. First one bone. Then another. Then—they uncovered an entire skeleton. It was lying on its side, curled up like a sleeping child. Arms pressed to its chest. Legs drawn in. The skull turned toward the wall.
The paramedic examined the remains. She stood up and took off her glasses.
“It’s been here a long time,” she said. “A very long time. Decades, maybe half a century.”
“Who is it?” the officer asked.
“A woman. Elderly. Or middle-aged—it’s hard to say for sure. Look,” she pointed at the pelvic bone, “there’s a fracture. Didn’t heal right. She must have limped when she was alive.”
Silence filled the cellar.
“Was it a crime?” Sychyov asked.
“Doesn’t look like it,” the paramedic shook her head. “No signs of violent death that I can see. But a proper examination will tell for sure.”
“How did she get in here?”
“That’s for you to find out. My job is just to confirm the facts.”
Sychyov glanced around at the crowd. The men looked away. Maria Ignatievna kept making the sign of the cross by the gate.
“Does anyone know whose house this is? Who used to live here?”
Silence.
“Come on! It’s been empty twenty years. But before that? Someone must have lived here.”
Then old Kuzmich stepped forward—the accordion player and local celebrity, known for his drinking. His face was sober and looked a bit frightened.
“I know,” he said. “Or rather, my mother told me. A long time ago, when I was just a boy.”
“And?”
“Here, in this house, Lukerya lived. Lukerya the Lame, that’s what everyone called her—because she limped. She moved in before the war, right after being dispossessed. Alone. No husband, no children. People said she was exiled. From the north, maybe the south—no one really knew. She kept to herself. Never visited anyone, and no one visited her. Then, during the war…” he paused.
“During the war what?”
“She disappeared. Just vanished. People thought maybe she left, or died in the woods. Those were horrible times—no one went looking. The house stayed empty. But turns out…” he nodded towards the cellar. “Turns out, she never left at all.”
“You’re saying this was during the war?” the officer asked.
“Yes, in forty-two. Or maybe forty-three. My mother said it was a terrible famine. People were starving and dying. There was no one left to bury the dead. Maybe she went down into the cellar and couldn’t get out. Got too weak. That’s all.”
Again, silence filled the room.
Alexei stood by the wall, staring at the curled-up skeleton. At the small skull facing the wall. And he thought.
That evening, he sat on the porch.
The village was quiet. Only some dogs were barking somewhere far off at the edge of town. The sky hung low, as it does in August—stars big and heavy overhead.
Maria Ignatyevna came over. She sat down beside him.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t go,” she said. “This house isn’t just a house now. There’s a soul here. A restless one. It needs to be sent off properly. The right way.”
“You think it’s Lukerya?”
“Who else could it be? The lame woman. I don’t remember her—I was little. But my mother told me about her. She said she was quiet. Never argued with anyone. Never asked for anything. Wore an old shawl, patched felt boots. In winter, people would stop by—bring her firewood, some bread. But in the spring of ‘43, she stopped opening her door. They thought she had left. But she…” Maria Ignatyevna crossed herself. “She was right here. All through the war. Even after. After us, too. Sixty years she lay there. No one noticed.”
“Why?”
“Who would notice? She was alone. All alone. People like that—they live quietly and they die quietly. It’s different now. Every person counts. Back then… back then, death was like the weather. Just a part of life.”
Aleksei said nothing.
“Listen,” Maria Ignatyevna said. “You should bury her. Properly. The house will stay. The house isn’t to blame. It just stood here. And kept.”
“Kept?”
“Yes, that’s right. Think about it—for twenty years, no one ever broke in. No one destroyed it. No one burned it down. Even the boys stayed away. As if they sensed there was someone there. There was peace inside. It couldn’t be disturbed. But you came—and you found her. That means the time has come.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“No maybe about it—it’s true.” She got up. “Tomorrow we’ll call the priest. We’ll say the rites. Bury her at the churchyard cemetery. I’ll arrange it.”
And she left.
Aleksei was left alone. The stars burned above. The taiga rustled in the distance. And under his feet, beneath the old floorboards, rested a woman who had waited sixty years.
Not exactly for a miracle. Just—for a person. Someone who would find her.
The next day, the priest arrived.
Father Nikolai—the one from the district center. They gathered the remains. Laid them in a small coffin. The funeral service was held right in the yard, because the priest wouldn’t go inside: “That wasn’t a house for her, it was a tomb. We’ll hold the service outside.”
She was buried in the old cemetery, by the overgrown church. A lot of people came—almost the whole village. They stood in silence. The women wept. The men shuffled their caps in their hands. Maria Ignatyevna recited prayers with the priest—from memory, without a book.
When the coffin was lowered, Aleksei tossed in the first handful of earth. And suddenly he felt a strange sense of relief. As if he had known this woman. As if this was the very reason he had come.
After the funeral, Korobov came up to him.
“Well, Aleksei,” he said. “The house is really yours now.”
“I’m staying,” Aleksei said.
“I know.”
“How?”
“You’re the first one who wasn’t afraid to go down into the cellar. The previous owners—even they never opened the hatch. Guess they felt something. But you opened it. That means the house accepted you.”
And he shook his hand.
In autumn, Aleksei replaced the roof. Put in new windows. Built a new porch. He filled in the old cellar—didn’t dare to use the old spot, so he dug a new cellar on the side of the house. And in the corner where Lukerya had lain, he planted a viburnum bush.
In the deep winter, during the harshest frosts, he would sit by the stove and reflect on how strange life is. He set off with no clear direction—yet ended up exactly where he was meant to be. He bought a house for next to nothing, and ended up with an entire destiny. One that wasn’t his to start, but somehow became his own.
Maria Ignatievna visited often. She would bring pies and share the latest village news. They didn’t talk about Lukerya anymore. But sometimes, when she glanced at the viburnum bush, the old woman would cross herself—quickly, almost unseen.
One day, as spring arrived, Alexey asked:
“What was her last name?”
“Lukerya’s?” Maria Ignatievna paused. “No one ever knew. Maybe she had one, but who would remember it now? She was just Lukerya, the one with the limp. That’s all.”
“How can that be? A person lived—and nothing remains.”
“Something does remain,” Maria Ignatievna replied. “You’re here. The house still stands. The viburnum is blooming. Her grave is at the cemetery. So, she’s remembered. A last name? That’s just paper, it will crumble away.”
Alexey nodded.
And he walked over to the viburnum bush. It was already blossoming—white and pure. Its scent was so strong it made him dizzy.
