Tonight is my first night in my new home.
Even calling it a "home" feels strange.
Because it isn't really a house.
It's a cortez—a massive stone building that once was a church.
Three floors high. A tall tower. Old stained-glass windows with faded colors.
And tonight, I am completely alone.
Snow is falling softly outside.
Inside, everything is silent.
I sit on the soft carpet, a cup of coffee warm in my hands, and wonder—
Was everything really this easy?
Only five months ago, I joined a pharmaceutical company.
Then one day, out of nowhere, HR called me in.
"Congratulations, Naziba. You are now a permanent employee.
And if you join our special project, you will receive housing allowance too."
A few weeks later, something unbelievable appeared on a government auction list—
an old cortez, listed as abandoned church property.
The price was shockingly low.
That place is now my home.
Seventy thousand euros.
In Dhaka, you can barely buy a decent flat for that much.
And here I am, standing inside a massive building that once echoed with prayers.
I smile softly.
New job.
New country.
New home.
Life suddenly feels like it's moving too fast.
Yet, as I walk through the cortez,
a strange discomfort slowly grows inside me.
During the day, I explored the entire place—
the high ceilings, the cold stone walls, the endless corridors.
At the very center lies the old church hall,
where I've now placed a small dining set and a sofa.
But the strangest part of the building is underground.
In one corner of the main hall, there was an old iron trapdoor.
The moment I opened it, a rush of icy air burst upward.
Switching on my phone's torch, I carefully walked down.
Below, I saw five small rooms in a straight line.
Metal bars at the front of each.
A narrow corridor in the middle.
At first glance, it looked like a prison.
I even laughed back then.
Such a grand cortez—
and beneath it… such a terrifying place?
I told myself,
"Old Europe. Old history. Churches and prisons everywhere."
Still, it made me feel oddly excited.
Such an ancient place, filled with stories—
and now, completely mine.
The library upstairs felt even more unreal.
Bookshelves covered every wall,
filled with ancient books.
Many pages were nearly falling apart.
The air smelled of dust, old paper,
and a strange mix of sweetness and decay.
That afternoon, as I entered the library,
sunlight filtered through the glass
and shattered into pale shapes on the floor.
That's when I noticed it.
From the middle shelf, one thick book was slightly pushed forward.
A dark cover. A golden cross.
Faded letters beneath—
a mix of Latin and Polish.
When I reached for it,
it almost felt like the book jumped into my hands.
I startled, then laughed quietly at myself.
Placing it on the table, I opened the cover.
On one side of every page—printed holy scripture.
On the other side—
thin, shaky, girlish handwriting, scraped with charcoal.
All in Polish.
I understand Polish,
but this old style was hard to read.
As I tried, a sudden chill ran through my body—
it felt as if someone was standing behind me.
Goosebumps rose on my skin.
I turned around quickly.
No one.
Just the empty library,
snowlight on the windows,
and the slow ticking of the clock.
I looked back at the page.
This time I noticed a small heading at the top:
"Dakinia."
The spelling was strange,
but the meaning was clear.
Without realizing it, I licked my lips.
The cracked skin burned—
a drop of blood, maybe, from the dry cold air.
For some reason, I smiled at that red mark.
Inside my mind, an image appeared—
someone crying toward God
in a vast, empty darkness.
The first few lines meant something like this:
"I am an unfortunate woman…
My name is Ales Vontezian…
They have imprisoned me here, calling me a witch…"
The moment I understood that,
a strange pain tightened inside my chest.
The suffering of an unknown girl,
written in darkness beneath an old church—
and me, a completely unrelated woman—
yet my eyes grew wet.
Maybe hormones.
Maybe exhaustion.
Or maybe the words were simply too raw.
I didn't read any further that day.
I closed the book and pushed it back onto the shelf.
Some instinct told me—
if I stepped any deeper into that darkness,
sleep would abandon me.
Now it is night.
I wake suddenly from sleep.
The pillow beneath my neck is wet—
I must have been dreaming,
but the dream is already gone.
Silence fills the cortez.
Outside, soft wind moves through the trees.
Far away, a dog barks.
Sitting up in bed, I listen carefully.
That's when I hear it.
Something…
A faint sound—
rising slowly from deep below.
A woman's voice.
Not loud crying,
but long, stretched, silent weeping,
heavy with pain.
It seems to be coming from the direction of the library.
My heart starts pounding.
I step off the bed
and grab the small torch beside the door.
For a moment, I hesitate—
is it right to walk into the dark like this?
Then I remember—
my pistol is in the drawer.
Not from Bangladesh.
A registered one I received here
after a self-defense course.
My hand opens the drawer on its own
and touches the cold metal.
"Maybe a wolf…
maybe a drunk person wandered inside…"
I try to convince myself.
I do not want to think of anything else.
The corridor is dark.
My steps make no sound on the carpet,
yet even my own breathing now frightens me.
I stop before the library door.
The crying—
no, now I hear nothing.
Slowly, I reach for the switch.
Yellow light floods the room.
Dust floats in the air.
Rows of books.
The table.
The chairs.
Everything looks normal.
Everything is fine…
Except one thing.
The book.
It lies open on the desk.
My eyes narrow.
I clearly remember putting it back on the shelf.
Then how did it come here?
A cold wave passes through my chest.
Still, I move closer.
Leaning over the pages, I see—
the pages after what I read yesterday
have turned forward by themselves.
As if they are calling me.
A faint whisper brushes my ears,
but no clear words reach me.
Only a strange tingling spreads through my toes
against the cold floor.
I know what I should do.
Close the book.
Leave the room.
But I don't.
My lips feel dry.
I wet them and look down again.
As my fingertip touches the corner of the page,
it feels… warm.
And I begin to read:
"It has been two days since I was brought here…
They have not given me even a single drop of water…"
Suddenly, my own throat burns with dryness.
Without thinking, I look around for a glass—
nothing is nearby.
At that moment,
a faint reddish shadow falls over the page,
as if some distant fire is burning,
and its light has reached these words.
A low buzzing begins inside my head.
It feels like someone is standing very close behind me.
But I am too afraid to turn.
The crying returns—
this time right beside my ear,
soft, broken, whispering—
"I am… not a witch…"
The page beneath my fingers trembles slightly.
A sound catches in my throat.
And then—
somewhere deep within the cortez…
far, far below—
a heavy door
slowly…
slowly…
slowly…
opens with a harsh, cracking sound.