File 001 - Мальчик по имени Хьюго
*"Transcript recovered from a tenement stairwell in an unnamed Eastern city. Witness believed to be a boy of twelve or thirteen, though his final state is uncertain. *"
----
Snow's crunching. Crunch. Crunch. The sound is too loud. My ears..
don't belong to me. I walk but the ground walks too, under me, like a conveyor belt of ice. Boots sink and the snow sighs. Maybe—sighs. I hear it breathe out like lungs, white smoke curls around my legs.
The towers are tall, too tall, like teeth in the mouth of the city. They lean. I swear they lean toward me.
Concrete stained like ash, pipes sweating even though it's freezing. Brutallism -_ Brutal is right. Every window is an eye, blinking behind the fog, watching me walk.
I hear my name.
> Hugo.
Soft at first. Like my mother. Like she's in the mist. But my mother is not here. My mother is nowhere. My mother is bones in the kitchen chair, head slumped in soup, or maybe that was only once in a dream. I don't know anymore.
Another voice, same word, but cruel now.
> HUGO.
Spat at me. Heavy. Like a stone against the skull. I turn but the street is empty, all swallowed in gray. The mist folds itself, folds and unfolds, folds and unfolds, folds and unfolds, like sheets being shaken, and something stands there.
At the bus stop.
tall.
No face.
A coat hanging off it like wet cloth, long arms ending in nothing. Just the suggestion of fingers. I rub my eyes but it's still there, leaning, patient. The bus stop glass is cracked, bleeding frost.
I whisper to myself, don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook but my neck turns anyway. I see it sway, like a branch in wind, except there is no wind. The air is dead. Dead but hot, like melting heat trapped in my skull, dripping behind my eyes.
The street groans. The buildings hum. Everything wants to collapse inward, crush me flat. My breath fogs, turns red for a second. I blink. White again. Maybe. Maybe not.
I walk faster. Faster. Boots crunching. Crunch crunch crunch. Too loud. I hear a baby cry in the fog but there is no baby. Just a sound the mist carries. Maybe from inside me.
I touch the wall of the tower, concrete wet against my palm. It pulses once. I swear it does. Like a vein. I snatch my hand back and lick my fingers. Tastes like rust. Tastes like blood.
The bus stop is closer now. I don't remember walking toward it. The faceless man hasn't moved but it is closer. The mist keeps pushing me. The mist wants me in. The mist whispers.
> Come home, Hugo.
I shake my head. The heat drips down my neck. My skull is too tight. My thoughts scream like pigeons trapped in the attic.
The faceless man tilts his head. I hear bones crack, not mine, his. Or the air's. Or maybe the earth bending. I don't know.
Snow crunches behind me. Another pair of boots. Slow. Careful.
I don't turn.
I don't dare.
---
The boots. Behind me. Crunch. Crunch. Same rhythm as mine but half a beat late, like an echo, except echoes don't leave tracks in the snow.
I don't want to look. I look anyway.
No one. Just fog, thick as wool, pressing against my face, wetting my lashes. My throat tastes of iron, of radiator water. My chest too tight.
I turn back.
The bus stop is empty.
No, not empty. The man is gone but the shape of him remains burned into the mist like a shadow left after an explosion. A faceless stamp pressed in smoke.
My tongue feels swollen. I bite it. Blood drips warm into my mouth. Good. It means I'm here. Still here. I spit red into the snow. The snow hisses. Steam rises. That's not real. That's not real. I close my eyes.
When I open them the steam curls into letters. Ugly Cyrillic scrawled in the air. Words I almost understand. They crawl, they wriggle. They spell my name again.
> ХУГО
I stumble back, hit the wall of the tower. Concrete rattles under my spine, like there's a furnace inside the building breathing against me. I feel it in my ribs.
The voices in the fog start laughing. Different tones, different throats. A woman's chuckle, a man's cough, a child's squeal. All stitched together. The sound bounces off the apartments like the walls are mouths.
I shout, "Shut up!" My voice comes back wrong, deeper, stretched, like another man said it for me.
And then—windows.
One by one, across the gray blocks—windows flicker with light. Pale, yellow, sickly. Shapes moving behind the curtains. They don't move right. Jerky, puppet-like. Too fast, then too slow.
I press my hands against my ears but the laughter leaks in anyway, buzzing in my skull like a swarm of flies. My eyes burn.
The mist parts. Just a little.
There he is.
The faceless one, standing in the middle of the street now, where the tram lines vanish into white. Closer. Always closer. Long arms dangling like ropes. He sways side to side, side to side, like he's listening to a song only he hears.
And behind him—
Figures. More of them. Dozens. Pale coats, blank heads, faceless. All swaying together, slow, like grass in wind. But there is no wind.
I take a step back. My heel slips on ice.
The laughter stops.
Silence.
The whole city holding its breath.
And then, one voice—right at my ear, whispering soft, kind, mother-soft:
> Come inside, Hugo. Come inside.
The stairwell door creaks open by itself. A red glow leaks down the steps like blood spilled from somewhere above.
My feet move before I decide. Into the mouth of the building.
The mist swallows behind me.
The door shuts.
---
The stairwell smells like wet stone and boiled cabbage left too long. My shoes squeak on the linoleum. Water drips. Not water maybe. Something thicker. The sound lands heavy, splat… splat… splat, echoing up and down.
The lightbulbs flicker, red and white, red and white, buzzing like flies. One burns too hot, glass sweating, about to burst. Shadows stretch across the walls, long fingers, crawling.
I touch the rail. Cold metal, but it twitches. I yank my hand away. My skin tingles. My palm smells scorched.
I take the first step.
The stair groans, long like an animal belly. The building sighs. A deep exhale through the pipes. I imagine lungs in the concrete, ribs behind the bricks. Every floor a ribcage. Every window an eye.
My heart beats too loud. It echoes down the stairwell like a drum. The walls answer back—thump thump, not in rhythm, mocking.
I climb. My breath fogs in front of me, but the fog doesn't float up. It hangs heavy, stuck mid-air like jelly. I swipe my hand through it, and my hand comes back wet with something red. I rub it against my coat. Stains don't fade.
A door on the second floor is open. Just a crack. Just enough. Yellow light leaking through. Curtains flutter though the air here is still.
I hear humming. A lullaby I almost know. Something my mother sang or maybe the radio. The melody drips down the stairwell, slow and syrup-thick. My knees shake.
I should keep walking. I don't.
The door opens wider without a sound.
Inside, a figure moves, bent over, back to me.
My throat closes. I whisper, "Mama?"
The figure pauses. Slowly straightens. Slowly turns.
Her face—no, not a face. A blur. Eyes smeared down into the mouth, teeth sliding where the nose should be, skin dripping like wax, folding into itself. She opens the mouth—too wide—and the lullaby pours out, louder now, warping, breaking into laughter.
I step back. My heel hits the stair. My chest cracks open with panic.
The woman shuffles forward. Arms out. Fingers long.
The hallway stretches behind her, red light swelling, pulsing. The walls ripple like curtains, moving with her.
The humming turns into a scream.
The scream is mine.
I run. Up. Up the stairs. My boots slam metal. My breath cuts my throat. The stairwell bends, curves longer, endless. Every landing the same, the same, the same. Red doors, yellow light, open mouths waiting.
I don't stop.
I can't stop.
The building won't let me.
--
The stairs never end. I run, I climb, but each floor is the same mouth opening, spitting me out into the same landing, the same red bulb flickering. The same paint peeling, yellow and gray, wet like scabs. I scrape the wall with my nails—marks appear—but when I circle back, the wall is smooth again.
The rail vibrates. Hums. Like a long throat. I hear voices in the hum. My name stretched long, Hu-u-u-u-go-o-o.
My boots slip on the metal steps. My knee hits hard. Pain shoots up but I don't stop. I can't. Something is behind me. Something slow. Patient. A shadow dragging up the stairwell like smoke.
I force my legs higher.
Third floor, fourth, fifth—numbers don't matter. They blur. The doors all the same. Brown wood swollen from damp, rust eating the handles. Curtains twitch inside. Someone breathing. Always someone breathing just behind the door.
I hear a cough. Old man Pytor, neighbor. He used to sit downstairs, smoking cheap tobacco. I smell it now, sharp, bitter.
I stop. Turn.
The door nearest me opens. He stands there—yes, it's Pytor, the sagging face, the long nose, the yellow teeth. He smiles. "Evening, Hugo," he says, but his voice cracks, splits into two. The smile stretches wider, too wide. The skin at the corners of his mouth splits like wet paper. Teeth spill out. Not one row, but three, four, sliding out of his gums, dripping.
"Not evening," I whisper. "Not evening, not evening."
His jaw unhinges. His body slumps forward, face sliding off like a mask. Flesh hits the floor with a slap. Beneath: nothing. Just wet muscle, twitching, grinning without lips.
I run again.
The walls drip. The drip thicker now. My hand brushes the concrete—sticky, warm. I bring my fingers to my face. Red. Blood. Not water anymore.
The stairwell smells of iron.
Doors slam open as I pass. Faces peer out. Mrs. Kravchenko from the second floor, her hair in curlers, but her eyes on her cheeks, her mouth on her forehead. She scolds me with three voices at once, the words tangled: Late… shame… sin… murderer… son.
I scream back, "Shut up!" My voice breaks. The walls echo me—shut up shut up shut up. The whole building shouting.
I press my palms to my ears but the sound drills in through my teeth, my bones.
Another door bursts open—smell of soup, overcooked cabbage. My stomach lurches. A woman leans out, holding a pot. Her face is melted, running down her apron, but she keeps smiling, ladling the soup onto the floor. It steams red.
I stumble, fall to my knees in it. The soup burns my skin. No—no, not soup. Hot blood, thick, bubbling. I gag. Vomit rises. I swallow it back.
My head pounds. Melting heat, melting brain.
I crawl up the next steps on all fours. The walls close in. Narrower. Closer. My shoulders scrape. The stairwell breathes on me, hot and damp.
Then I see her.
At the landing above.
Mama.
Standing in the glow of a red bulb, dress faded, slippers on her feet. Hair tied back. Her face shadowed, but I know. I know it's her. She lifts her arms. She whispers: "Hugo."
I freeze. My chest cracks with longing. My throat aches. Tears burn. I climb toward her, step by step, hands trembling.
But her face shifts. Skin sliding like clay. Eyes sinking. Mouth opening too wide, splitting ear to ear. Inside, no tongue, no teeth. Just a tunnel, endless and black.
She croons, voice sweet, broken, "Come, Hugo. Come inside."
Her arms open wider. The stairwell melts. Walls drip. Red light floods downward, pouring like liquid fire. It coats my shoes, runs down the steps, into my socks. It's warm. Too warm.
I scream and run through her, through the shadow of her body. She bursts like a wet bag, splashing red across the walls. It sticks to me, burns my skin.
I don't stop. I climb, blind, choking, soaked in red.
The stairwell keeps going. Higher. Higher. Endless.
The building won't let me out.
The building has swallowed me whole.
---
The stairs narrow, choking me, pressing me to the rail. My chest scrapes paint, flakes stick to my lips. The red light drips thicker, pooling on the steps, making them slick. Each step I climb, it pulls me down, like the building doesn't want me higher, doesn't want me free.
I kick. I claw. I drag myself up.
A door ahead.
It isn't like the others. Not swollen, not rotting. Clean. Painted pale green, peeling only at the edges. The knob glints in the red glow. My breath stabs my throat, ragged, but I crawl to it. My fingers twitch around the metal.
It's warm.
Warm like skin.
The knob turns itself.
The door opens inward.
I don't want to go in. I don't. But the stairwell groans, the walls shudder, the blood floods harder, rising around my ankles. If I don't step in, I'll drown.
So I go.
The door closes behind me.
The stairwell breathes a last sigh. Then silence.
,--
The apartment smells like bread and bleach. Familiar. Too familiar. My shoes leave red prints on the linoleum. The floor squelches. My ears ring but the silence is louder.
The light is weak, yellow, dripping from a single bulb. The shadows move when I don't.
At the table she sits.
Mama.
Hands folded. Dress gray-blue. Steam rising from a chipped cup. She looks at me, finally looks at me, eyes soft, mouth curled the way it used to, the way I want it to.
"Sit," she says.
My knees bend before I think. Chair creaks. My hands won't stop shaking. My throat burns. I try to swallow but it sticks.
"You're tired, Hugo." Her voice strokes my ears. "Always running. Always crying. No need. No need."
I nod. Tears crawl down my face. I don't wipe them.
"Drink," she says.
The cup waits. Steam coils like fingers. I grip it. It feels too heavy, like stone. I lift. Bring it to my lips. Sip.
The liquid is thick. Metallic.
Not tea.
Blood.
Hot.
It slides down my throat. I gag. I cough red onto the table.
I look at her—her face smiles but her skin is running, dripping like wax, like fat melting on a stove. One eye slides down to her cheek, the other sinks into her nose. Her lips stretch up her forehead.
She keeps smiling.
I scream, push back, chair crashing.
She rises. Her body warps taller, arms pulling too long, fingers splitting into more fingers, sharp as glass. Her mouth opens wide, wider, splitting ear to ear, then across her face, down her neck, a red gash that keeps going, peeling her open like cloth.
Inside her, something wriggles.
Voices burst from the hole.
My mother's scold: "Useless boy."
A stranger's laugh: "Hugo, Hugo, Hugo."
The building's groan: Mine.
I clutch my head. My nails dig scalp. Pain sharp but not enough.
The table shakes. The walls pulse. The cupboards slam. Plates crash.
The thing in her body pushes out, pushes through. A black hand, long, wet, claws dripping. It reaches for me.
I stumble back into the kitchen. Grab the first thing—knife, long, sharp, cold.
The black hand lunges. I stab.
Once. Twice. A scream, many screams, bursting like glass shattering in my skull.
Blood sprays the cupboards, the walls, the ceiling. Splashes my face, my eyes, hot and blinding.
When I blink, when I see again—
It isn't Mama anymore.
It's a man. Neighbor? Stranger? Face I half-know. Blood pumping from his chest. He gurgles, hands clutching the knife. His lips move. "Please—"
But I don't hear the word. I hear hissing. I hear laughing. I hear the walls chanting, Cut it out, cut it out, cut it out.
The man's face melts. Slides. Muscles twitch. His eyes droop like eggs cracked open. I see the monster inside trying to crawl free.
I slash again. And again. Ribs crack. Flesh splits. I scream with every cut, until his chest is open, until I see inside.
But nothing comes out. Nothing.
I drop the knife. My arms shake. My breath tears my throat.
Blood covers everything. Pools around my boots. Drips from the table, splat splat splat.
Then—movement.
The door to the next room creaks. A little girl. Tiny. Braids. She stares at me with wide eyes.
I freeze.
She whispers, "Papa?"
Her face flickers. Blinks. Half child, half stretched mouth. Her skin ripples, melts. I see the monster coiled beneath, waiting.
I pick up the knife. My fingers slip on the handle, wet, sticky.
"No," I tell her. "You're not real. You're not real."
She steps closer. "Papa, stop."
The voices overlap again. My mother, the man, the walls, the faceless one outside, all screaming at once.
Kill it.
Save it.
Cut it out.
Set it free.
The knife rises. My arm moves without me.
Her scream splits the air.
The walls scream back.
Red floods the room, floods my eyes.
I keep cutting until she stops moving.
Until everything stops moving.
And in the silence, I hear only my heart.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
But it isn't in my chest anymore.
It's in the walls.
The apartment breathes with me. The building swallows with me. The blood runs down the linoleum, down the stairwell, dripping floor to floor.
I sink to my knees. My hands covered. My mouth tastes of iron.
I laugh. I sob. Same sound.
I whisper, "I freed you. I freed you."
The walls whisper back, soft, kind, cruel:
> More, Hugo. More.
----
# Closing Notes – Dr. Nikolai Dvitra
> I have presented only a fraction of the files in my possession. Many remain sealed, either by my own hesitation or by the warnings of those who would prefer they never be read.
You may be tempted to dismiss these accounts as dreams, psychosis, or the fictions of troubled minds. I will not argue. Yet dismissing a fever does not halt the infection. Explaining away the shadow does not extinguish the darkness.
What binds these cases together is not geography, nor language, nor culture, but something older, patient, and attentive. Each subject glimpsed the same absence, the same faceless figures waiting at the periphery. Whether they called it ghost, delusion, or memory, the shape was always there.
I do not record these files to comfort. I record them so the pattern cannot be forgotten.
If you are reading this, you are part of the pattern now.
End of File. For now.*