Six o’clock comes and footsteps are heard by Vadim Kukin. The footsteps are firm, the wooden floor cracked rhythmically under each step. The streetlights flickered on a fading shadow against the walls.
“He is not coming”, said his father, with a sad expression. “He is a ghost. He roams night for night around passing from house to house.”
He is the ghost of Bucha who is looking for the souls who snubbed out his life. People in the village speak softly when the Ghost of Bucha is raised. Guys lifted their glasses in respect to the “prizrak”, to the Ghost, before drinking.
“It’s for good luck”, Volodin said. The rest of the village waterhole nodded. Tales of magically disappearing members of the 235th Russian Airborne are told and retold.
“Remember the orc who killed Olga?”, everyone nodded, “He disappeared and was found on the highway wandering towards Moscow muttering like a madman. He died shortly afterwards.” More nodding. “The prizrak…”, added Oleg. More nodding.
I left the warmth of bar standing on the corner when I saw a shadow emerging from the night. Coming closer and closer slowly a shape forms and a young man carrying a shopping bag clutching it to the chest.
In passing me he raises his head and smiles and walks past me. My guide Vadim only said, “You are lucky the prizrak is busy.”
