He recognized her shoes first — burgundy, with white inserts. Two years ago, when he’d seen her for the first time, they were brand new. Now the leather was wrinkled, the white dulled to gray and traced with cracks.
His eyes moved up. The same drab, shapeless coat. The same heavy brown purse, more like a rag-picker’s sack than a handbag. He couldn’t remember her name — hadn’t bothered to. Just another client.
She crossed the courtyard slowly, stopped, and sat on a bench. Her eyes were empty, lifeless, but her lips were pressed tight, like an athlete’s before the start.
He stepped closer, studying her face. She’d aged. Loneliness clung to her like smoke. How he wished he could explain everything — if only that were still possible. If only he could turn the clock back two years.
A plain woman in a faded raincoat perched on the edge of a chair. The enormous brown pleather bag sat in her lap like a shield.
Andrei felt her loneliness almost physically — as if it radiated heat. A gray little mouse of a woman; only the burgundy shoes added a drop of color to her washed-out look.
“Who is he to you?” he asked, not bothering to soften his tone.
“The most important person in my life. Or no one at all — depending on how you look at it,” she murmured after a pause.
“And what do you expect from me? You should talk to the police.”
“I did. They said they can’t do anything until he’s been gone three days. And even then, they probably won’t take my report.”
And they’d be right, Andrei thought. A grown man doesn’t show up for work — big deal.
The woman twisted the handle of her bag.
“He’s in trouble, I know it! I can feel it! He lives alone, his parents are far away, he isn’t answering his phone…”
I wouldn’t answer your calls either, Andrei nearly said aloud.
“No, no — it wasn’t me calling,” she added quickly, as if hearing him. “His coworkers tried, then his boss. Please. Help me. There’s no one else.”
Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from crying.
“Fine,” he sighed. “Show me what you’ve got.” He named his price.
“Of course.” She fumbled in her bag and laid out a few crumpled bills — and a New Year’s Eve mask of a pig.
Andrei lifted it by its string. A pig? Seriously? Whatever.
He took the mask, closed his eyes, and rubbed the cardboard between his palms, pushing stray thoughts aside. When his mind was clear, he sent the image of the mask outward, into that blank inner space.
A flash of light. Laughter. Music. A Christmas tree draped in garlands.
An office party — he saw it clearly. A man in the pig mask holding a champagne bottle. Andrei clung to the vision, dragging it forward in time, to the present.
If the man were dead, there would be only darkness and cold. But instead he saw an ordinary courtyard — old apartment blocks, parked cars, bushes turning yellow. The angle was odd, as though he were lying on the grass; a few tall blades even blocked his view. And then came the panic — raw, suffocating terror. It hit Andrei so hard he had to fight to stay in control.
Focus. Find the address.
He made the man’s eyes search the walls until, finally, an address number came into focus.
Andrei snapped back to reality, dropping the mask.
“He’s alive,” he said. “Right now he’s in the courtyard at…” He gave the address.
“Alive?” Relief lit her face, only to twist into alarm. “Then he’s still with her! That witch must be holding him prisoner! We have to save him!”
“So you know the place?” he asked, amused. “How’s that?”
“I… followed him once,” she admitted, blushing. “But it wasn’t jealousy. I just—”
“She’s a witch,” the woman blurted suddenly. “She—”
“Come on,” Andrei interrupted. “You really think a woman can keep a grown man against his will? Witches were burned centuries ago.” He tried to joke, but she only shrank into herself.
“I only wanted to know he was all right,” she said quietly. “That he’s happy. Sorry…”
She blew her nose in a crumpled tissue.
“So he’s fine. Alive, and still crazy about her. Well… let him be happy.”
Fine, but not happy, Andrei thought after she left. The man’s terror wouldn’t leave his head. Something was wrong — badly wrong. Restless, he went to that address himself.
Two stray dogs met him the moment he turned the corner. They barked lightly, blocking his path but not attacking. Wherever he wandered, they followed, wary and watchful. Cats too — perched on fences, green eyes glowing, tracking his every move.
He found the patch of grass from the vision — overgrown with nettles. Why had the man been lying there? And in autumn?
Andrei looked around — and saw her.
He knew instantly. The “witch.”
From a distance she was ordinary, even plain. But the closer she came, the more she changed: large hazel eyes, full lips, chestnut curls slipping loose from a careless bun.
Desire hit him like a wave — an urge to grab her, kiss her, breathe her in. The dogs’ low growl pulled him back to himself. He forced a smile and stepped forward.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, her voice threaded with sadness. “But you should go.”
She tried to pass him, but he blocked her path. Leave? Impossible. What if this was fate? Who said she was a witch, anyway?
He turned on all the charm he had, and managed at least one thing: her name. Kira.
That night, he dreamed of her — glowing eyes, warm skin, hair spilling over his hands. When he woke drenched in sweat, she was all he could think about.
Soon he was pacing under her window, flowers in hand. The dogs still circled him, the cats still stared, but he didn’t care.
“Thank you,” she whispered, burying her face in the bouquet. Her smile finished what her eyes had started — he was lost completely.
He pulled her close.
She tried to break free, but he held her tighter.
“I’ll never let you go,” he murmured against her neck — and then a sharp pain shot through his calf. One of the dogs had bitten him.
“Blood!” Kira gasped.
Red bloomed on his jeans. Still he wouldn’t release her.
“You’re rushing things,” she said.
“And I think I’ve been far too slow,” he whispered.
“We mustn’t… you can’t—”
“I don’t care!” he hissed. “Whatever it is — I don’t care!”
“You don’t understand,” she said softly. “You have to love me — truly love me. Otherwise…”
But he wasn’t listening.
The flowers fell to the entryway floor. His jacket somewhere in the hallway. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom.
“What about love?” she asked faintly, turning from his kisses. But he never answered.
He woke on the carpet. They hadn’t even made it to the bed. Clothes scattered. His head throbbed, his whole body ached. When he tried to stand, his legs gave out. The room swayed, the light dimmed, everything blurred like a fogged mirror.
Nausea hit him hard.
She poisoned me, he thought wildly. Drugged me. But why?
Fragments of panic whirled through his mind, but one thought drowned the rest: Get out of here.
Crawling — walking was impossible — he dragged himself toward the door. Then he froze. His hands — his hands weren’t there.
In their place were gray, fur-covered paws.
He leapt onto the bench beside the woman’s brown bag and curled his tail around his feet. She stroked his back absent-mindedly — and he felt it: a knife inside the bag. She’d come to take revenge, convinced Kira had killed her man.
His first instinct was to dive into the bag, grab the knife, and run. Kira wasn’t to blame. She couldn’t help herself — always chasing love, misunderstood, unloved. Men never listened. They brought this on themselves.
But he stayed.
Because what if Kira died — and with her, the spell?
After all… she was a witch.
The Missing One – for magazine
A modern gothic short story by Dmitry Korsak — adapted and translated by Igor Met
He recognized her shoes first — burgundy, with white inserts. Two years ago, when he’d seen her for the first time, they were new. Now the leather was wrinkled, the white dulled to gray and veined with cracks.
His eyes moved higher. The same drab, shapeless coat. The same heavy brown purse, more like a junk dealer’s sack than a handbag. He couldn’t remember her name — hadn’t bothered to. Just another client.
She crossed the courtyard slowly, stopped, and sat on a bench. Her eyes were empty, lifeless, but her lips were pressed tight, like an athlete’s before the start.
He stepped closer, studying her face. She’d aged. Loneliness clung to her like smoke. How he wished he could explain everything — if only that were still possible. If only he could turn the clock back two years.
A plain woman in a faded raincoat perched on the edge of the chair. The enormous brown pleather bag sat in her lap like a shield.
Andrei felt her loneliness almost physically — as if it radiated heat. A gray little mouse of a woman; only the burgundy shoes added a drop of color to her washed-out look.
“Who is he to you?” he asked, not bothering to soften his tone.
“The most important person in my life. Or no one at all — depending on how you look at it,” she murmured.
“And what do you expect from me? You should talk to the police.”
“I did. They said they can’t do anything until he’s been gone three days. And even then, they probably won’t take my report.”
And they’d be right, Andrei thought. A grown man doesn’t show up for work — big deal.
The woman twisted the handle of her bag.
“He’s in trouble, I know it! I can feel it! He lives alone, his parents are far away, he isn’t answering his phone…”
I wouldn’t answer your calls either, Andrei nearly said aloud.
“No, no — it wasn’t me calling,” she added quickly, as if hearing him. “His coworkers tried, then his boss. Please. Help me. There’s no one else.”
Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from crying.
“Fine,” he sighed. “Show me what you’ve got.” He named his price.
“Of course.” She fumbled in her bag and laid out a few crumpled bills — and a New Year’s Eve mask of a pig.
Andrei lifted it by its string. A pig? Seriously? Whatever.
He took the mask, closed his eyes, and rubbed the cardboard between his palms, pushing stray thoughts aside. When his mind was clear, he sent the image of the mask outward, into that blank inner space.
A flash of light. Laughter. Music. A Christmas tree draped in garlands.
An office party — he saw it clearly. A man in the pig mask holding a champagne bottle. Andrei clung to the vision, dragging it forward in time, to the present.
If the man were dead, there would be only darkness and cold. But instead he saw an ordinary courtyard — old apartment blocks, parked cars, bushes turning yellow. The angle was odd, as though he were lying on the grass; a few tall blades even blocked his view. And then came the panic — raw, suffocating terror. It hit Andrei so hard he had to fight to stay in control.
Focus. Find the address.
He made the man’s eyes search the walls until, finally, an address number came into focus.
Andrei snapped back to reality, dropping the mask.
“He’s alive,” he said. “Right now he’s in the courtyard at…” He gave the address.
“Alive?” Relief lit her face, only to twist into alarm. “Then he’s still with her! That witch must be holding him prisoner! We have to save him!”
“So you know the place?” he asked, amused. “How’s that?”
“I… followed him once,” she admitted, blushing. “But it wasn’t jealousy. I just—”
“She’s a witch,” the woman blurted suddenly. “She—”
“Come on,” Andrei interrupted. “You really think a woman can keep a grown man against his will? Witches were burned centuries ago.” He tried to joke, but she only shrank into herself.
“I only wanted to know he was all right,” she said quietly. “That he’s happy. Sorry…”
She blew her nose in a crumpled tissue.
“So he’s fine. Alive, and still crazy about her. Well… let him be happy.”
Fine, but not happy, Andrei thought after she left. The man’s terror wouldn’t leave his head. Something was wrong — badly wrong. Restless, he went to that address himself.
Two stray dogs met him the moment he turned the corner. They barked lightly, blocking his path but not attacking. Wherever he wandered, they followed, wary and watchful. Cats too — perched on fences, green eyes glowing, tracking his every move.
He found the patch of grass from the vision — overgrown with nettles. Why had the man been lying there? And in autumn?
Andrei looked around — and saw her.
He knew instantly. The “witch.”
From a distance she was ordinary, even plain. But the closer she came, the more she changed: large hazel eyes, full lips, chestnut curls slipping loose from a careless bun.
Desire hit him like a wave — an urge to grab her, kiss her, breathe her in. The dogs’ low growl pulled him back to himself. He forced a smile and stepped forward.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, her voice threaded with sadness. “But you should go.”
She tried to pass him, but he blocked her path. Leave? Impossible. What if this was fate? Who said she was a witch, anyway?
He turned on all the charm he had, and managed at least one thing: her name. Kira.
That night, he dreamed of her — glowing eyes, warm skin, hair spilling over his hands. When he woke drenched in sweat, she was all he could think about.
Soon he was pacing under her window, flowers in hand. The dogs still circled him, the cats still stared, but he didn’t care.
“Thank you,” she whispered, burying her face in the bouquet. Her smile finished what her eyes had started — he was lost completely.
He pulled her close.
She tried to break free, but he held her tighter.
“I’ll never let you go,” he murmured against her neck — and then a sharp pain shot through his calf. One of the dogs had bitten him.
“Blood!” Kira gasped.
Red bloomed on his jeans. Still he wouldn’t release her.
“You’re rushing things,” she said.
“And I think I’ve been far too slow,” he whispered.
“We mustn’t… you can’t—”
“I don’t care!” he hissed. “Whatever it is — I don’t care!”
“You don’t understand,” she said softly. “You have to love me — truly love me. Otherwise…”
But he wasn’t listening.
The flowers fell to the entryway floor. His jacket somewhere in the hallway. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom.
“What about love?” she asked faintly, turning from his kisses. But he never answered.
He woke on the carpet. They hadn’t even made it to the bed. Clothes scattered. His head throbbed, his whole body ached. When he tried to stand, his legs gave out. The room swayed, the light dimmed, everything blurred like a fogged mirror.
Nausea hit him hard.
She poisoned me, he thought wildly. Drugged me. But why?
Fragments of panic whirled through his mind, but one thought drowned the rest: Get out of here.
Crawling — walking was impossible — he dragged himself toward the door. Then he froze. His hands — his hands weren’t there.
In their place were gray, fur-covered paws.
***
He leapt onto the bench beside the woman’s brown bag and curled his tail around his feet. She stroked his back absent-mindedly — and he felt it: a knife inside the bag. She’d come to take revenge, convinced Kira had killed her man.
His first instinct was to dive into the bag, grab the knife, and run. Kira wasn’t to blame. She couldn’t help herself — always chasing love, misunderstood, unloved. Men never listened. They brought this on themselves.
But he stayed.
Because what if Kira died — and with her, the spell?
After all… she was a witch.
Dmitriy Korsak
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