The story was published in the “Drakus” anthology (Spring-Summer 2025) by Gaiana Books

The Prodigal Son

“Ah, he’s gone! My soul is gone! My poor little soul is go-o-one!” Widow Ganka collapsed onto the stone-paved path leading to the porch and could not get back up. It was as though all her strength had deserted her at once, felled by some unknown sickness. Her pitiful wails rang through the little yard with its cracked well, rolled down the dusty street on the hillside, and scattered over the tiled roofs of the neighbouring houses. Curious faces appeared - one at a doorway, another at a window - to see what interesting thing had happened outside.

“What are you crying for, Ganka?” Her neighbour Velika appeared in the doorway of the house opposite and, seeing the widow sobbing in a heap in the dust, hurried over to her.

Ganka did not hear her. She went on keening as though for the dead, alone in her grief.

“Oh, Dinko! Dinko-o-o! My boy is gone!”

“What’s happened to Dinko?” the neighbour asked as she drew near.

“He’s gone, Velika!…” the mother sobbed, tugging at her hair. Dirty rivulets of tears ran down the furrows of her face. “He’s disappeared. My only child!”

“Again, woman? Lord above!” Velika clicked her tongue and pursed her lips.

Drink like a bottomless pit, knock back flask after flask at the tavern, then let’s see how you find your way home! You couldn’t manage it with a lantern in your hand! she thought, but she did not dare say any of it to her neighbour. There was no sense digging deeper into an open wound.

She was a mother herself, after all. She had a married son and a daughter still living at home -God forbid so much as a hair should fall from either of their heads. She could imagine how heavy Ganka’s heart must be.

“Don’t carry on like that. He’ll come back! Bad pennies always turn up. God looks after men like him!” She crossed herself.

Ganka raised her filthy, tear-streaked face to her neighbour and wiped her nose. She knew. It was no secret to anyone in the village that her son was fond of the bottle.

“He always comes back, Velika, but… look at this. Third day now, and no sign of him…” She broke into sobs again. “I asked Kosta, the tavern keeper… That night, when they last saw him, he had been blind drunk, roaring that he’d break the bones of Saint Peter himself! Velika-a-a… I’ve searched the village from one end to the other, and not a trace of him! I even went down to the mill! Didn’t find so much as a scrap of cloth!”

“Oh, enough now… He’ll turn up. He’s not a needle you can lose in a pile of hay. Come on, get up.”

Velika took her under the arm and helped her to her feet, then led her towards the house. Still shaking with sobs, Ganka followed meekly across the yard and let Velika take her to the outside tap and wash her face and hands.

Ganka calmed a little, drank her fill of cold water, and sat down on the bench by the door. She sighed and lifted her swollen, red-rimmed eyes to her neighbour.

“He’s the only one I’ve got, Velika… I’m forever worrying over him, forever making sure everything’s ready for him, that he’s got food to eat and clothes on his back… If only he’d at least brought me a daughter-in-law! But no, with that damn drinking… He won’t listen. It’s as if the devil himself whispers in his ear!”

“Some men are like that.” Velika planted her hands on her hips and made ready to leave. “They get a taste for it. My Yordan likes a drink in the evening, too. But you… Your son will come back. Don’t fret yourself sick. You’ll see.”

Except he did not.

The days began to string themselves out one after another, sunrise after sunset, sunset after sunrise, and still there was no trace of Dinko. Ganka cried and cried until, in time, she fell silent. She tied a black kerchief over her head, and life went on, or so it seemed, much as before.

But what kind of thing was a body without a grave?

Ganka’s tears dried up after a while, yet the mother did not stop looking for her lost son. Something was forever pulling her out of doors, over the hills, through the woods, down towards the river, searching for her son’s bones. But of Dinko there was not a trace.

Whenever Ganka sat by the warm stove in the evenings, though, she had the feeling someone was watching her. At night, she slept badly, tossing and turning, unable to settle. Several times she fancied she heard something clatter across the roof tiles, pot lids knocking together in the kitchen, and not long ago, as she was dozing off, she had jerked awake because it seemed someone had shouted straight into her ear.

At first, Ganka paid little attention to such small noises and coincidences, but when the earthen pot of walnuts on the shelf suddenly began to tremble and fell all by itself, she was frightened in earnest. It was as though something had deliberately pushed it. Ganka looked round in alarm, but in the light of the oil lamp she saw nothing except cobwebs gathered in the corners of the ceiling.

The embers were dying in the hearth with faint little cracks, but Ganka could not hear them, for she had dozed off on the divan in the sparsely furnished, warm little room. Outside, it was dark, deep into the night, and the little house lay silent - not a mouse skittering across the wooden floorboards, not even the rafters creaking beneath the burden of the tiled roof.

A thin thread of cold slipped through the dried and crumbling putty around the windowpane and settled on Ganka’s chest as lightly as a fly.

It woke her.

Ganka felt it.

Her body went rigid. Her eyes flew open, but she could not move. Her heart began to hammer. She lay utterly still, eyes wide and fixed on the dark ceiling above her.

The air in the room thickened and grew damp, as though a veil of mist had lowered from the ceiling and covered her. The smell struck her first - a foul reek of rotten water and mud. Ganka’s nostrils flared, her lungs contracting convulsively. It was a sharp, sickening stench, like stagnant, muddy marsh water mixed with something else, something harsh and biting.

It smells… of mud… and… brandy?

The thought flashed through her mind like lightning.

Sweet Mother of God!

Her heart went wild. Ganka felt every beat throb painfully in her temples. She tried to lift herself, but something clamped down on her chest so hard that her breath came out in broken little bursts. Her eyes widened in terror.

An invisible weight settled over her, pressing her down into the blanket, and she felt as though strong, unseen hands had seized her by the shoulders and would not let her move.

It’s as if someone’s sitting on me!

The thought came sharp and painful, and paralysed her with fear. She tried to scream for help, but even that seemed impossible. Her mouth had turned to stone.

Somehow, she managed to drag in enough air not to suffocate. Damp darkness spread around her-cold, greasy, clinging. It seeped through her clothes and into her skin. Ganka felt her fingers stiffen, felt the strength draining from her body.

Everything inside her screamed and struggled to move, but the weight bearing down on her only grew heavier.

Get off me, devil! Leave me alone!

The words rang through her mind, though she could not move her lips, as though they had been sewn shut.

Then the torment took on a new and even more dreadful form.

Something wet and cold slid slowly, almost tenderly, down her neck - like a greasy drop trickling over her skin, thick and heavy to the touch. It crawled lower over her body like a cold breath, and she felt it pass through her clothes.

Ganka screamed inside her own head. Dear God, how could she stop it?

She felt it close around her breasts and squeeze them. The pressure crept lower, down over her stomach, towards her legs, winding itself around her. Something settled between her thighs and began prodding at her.

Ganka went numb with horror. Tears flooded her eyes.

It’s an evil spirit from the other world! Holy Mother of God, Jesus Christ… Have mercy on me, a sinner, deliver me from the Evil One…

The widow prayed silently and tried once more to move, but could not.

The stench grew stronger - of sourness, rotting carrion, and spilled brandy.

In the hollow space above her, a dark shape began to form, shadowlike, with a face that had no features. The woman sensed the dreadful, suffocating presence of death. She could not see it, not truly, but she knew it was there, bent over her.

Something wants to take my soul!

The mother fought not to fall into panic.

Who are you… What are you?

No answer came.

In her mind rose the moustached face of her son Dinko, wearing that hateful, mocking look that always made her want to smack him as he laughed and poured himself another glass from the bottle of brandy.

No… It can’t be him… N-no, it isn’t him…

Her thoughts buzzed chaotically.

What son does such vile things to his own mother? This is only a dream! Only a dream…

But the weight on her did not lessen. She breathed as though through a narrow crack, her lungs burning to open and draw in one life-giving gulp of air. Her body began to twist beneath the pressure of the unknown hands exploring her, pawing at her without the slightest shame.

Pain and fear clouded her mind.

Ganka surrendered.

And then, just as she thought the dark force would take her soul, that it would drag her down into the abyss of that sticky darkness that had pinned her beneath it, roosters crowed outside.

The weight vanished from her body in an instant.

Everything disappeared - the cold, the stench, the impossible, suffocating heaviness of whatever had come to her in the night.

Ganka remained lying in the dim room, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard and unevenly. She felt the rough blanket prick her through her clothes. Her skin was sticky with sweat. Her hands began to tremble as the horror slowly loosened its grip.

“By God, how could that have been a dream…” she muttered, and fear washed over her in a wave. “It felt just like the real thing…”

Dizzy and breathless, she pushed herself upright and wiped the sweat from her brow. She drank from the glass of water on the table, then got up and began to pace, trying to clear her thoughts.

What had happened to her that night?

She burned to tell someone.

But whom?

She wanted advice.

But from whom?

And what was she supposed to say? That at night someone lay on top of her, pressed down on her chest and shoved their invisible hands beneath her clothes? That something choked her until she could barely breathe? That at night she was smothered by the sour stench of carrion, lake mud and brandy?

Who would believe her?!

“I can’t tell anyone…” Her heart grew heavy as lead. “They’ll think I’ve lost my wits.”

And with that thought in her head, Ganka remained there, staring through the window at the paling sky until the blood-red morning itself.

But evil had already sunk its claws into the little house and into the heart of the wretched woman.

The violation of her body happened again the next night.

And the night after that.

A week passed.

Ganka began to waste away. Her face grew hollow, with evil giving her no peace, drinking away her soul with its unholy acts.

One day, her neighbour Velika saw her wandering about the yard and knew at once that the woman was unwell. She ladled out a bowl of soup from the chicken she had cooked the day before and carried it across to her neighbour. She walked straight into the yard without knocking, without asking to come in.

“Ganka! Hey, woman! Show yourself!”

Ganka heard her calling from the courtyard and lifted the curtain. Her neighbour peered through the glass, trying to see inside.

“Come out here and let me see those black eyes of yours, damn you! Where have you been hiding all this time, woman? Are you sick?”

Ganka muttered something and let the curtain fall again. A moment later the door opened, and the widow let her in.

“I’m in no state for visitors, Velika. I don’t feel well.”

“Here, I brought you soup! Are you eating?” Her neighbour looked her up and down suspiciously. “Woman, you hardly look like a human! Look at yourself! You've turned into nothing but a shadow! What’s wrong with you?”

Ganka sat down on the divan again and said nothing. Velika put the bowl of soup on the table and sat beside her.

The widow lowered her eyes. She could not bear her neighbour’s searching gaze.

She had to tell someone. She sighed bitterly.

“Something evil has got hold of me, Velika.”

“What evil, Ganka?” the neighbour gasped.

“The worst of its kind.” The woman hid her thin fingers in her apron. “It comes at night and lies heavy on my soul.”

“Well, what does it want from you?” Velika bit her lip.

“How should I know what it wants? To torment me, perhaps!” The woman lifted her wasted face towards the icon of the Virgin Mary hanging on the wall. “It comes at night, lies on top of me and presses me down… No prayer does a thing.”

“Good thing I saw how poorly you looked and came over.” Her neighbour sprang to her feet. “What are you wondering about? It’s plain as day - something’s possessed you! Listen to me, Ganka, go to the church!” Velika urged. “This can’t be some accident. Your Dinko’s gone, and he’s got neither grave nor bones to his name! His soul probably hasn’t found peace because no priest ever read the rites over him. And if he hasn’t been given the proper rites, he’ll torment you until you send him on to the other side. You need a priest to read prayers over you, sprinkle you with holy water and drive the demons out!”

And so the rumour tore through the village like a gale.

One person told another, that one told a third, the third a fourth, and on it went.

By evening, everyone in the village square was talking of one thing only - that the Devil himself had possessed widowed Ganka.

Another night lowered its dark veil over the village.

Ganka crouched in the small room beside the hearth. She built the fire up well so it would keep the place warm through the night. She burned incense through every room in the house, lit a candle she had kept since Easter, just as the priest had taught her, and recited the Lord’s Prayer. She sprinkled the corners with holy water and coarse salt.

She had just dished out her supper and sat down at the table when she froze.

There it was again. She heard it again. That sinister scratching along the ceiling beams.

The floorboards gave a miserable creak.

A shiver ran through her.

She remembered the priest’s words.

You have to kill it - or it may take your soul! Call it by its name! And when it appears before you, don’t so much as flinch. Christ is with you! Remember - show no fear. God will help you!

She tried to summon her courage.

God is with me! God will not let a hair fall from my head!

Something breathed behind her.

Then the sour stench of rotten carrion reached her, sliding into her nostrils and choking her. The familiar cold shiver crawled over the back of her neck down between her shoulder blades. Her skin prickled.

Ganka felt terror slowly freezing her senses and her body.

"I won’t give in to you, devil! I won’t give in to you!" she thought.

“Dinko?” she whispered, her mouth dry, barely making a sound. “Is that you?”

The cold shiver stopped crawling down her back, and the mother clearly saw something dark dart past her.

Her eyes, huge with fear, followed as the shadow that had flown in front of her thickened and slowly took shape before her astonished gaze.

Out of it emerged a hideous dark creature. Two horns lengthened from either side of its head. Two blood-red mockeries of eyes fixed upon her and pierced her to the bone.

“Know me now, Mother…” it snarled, and a deep, rasped voice ripped through the air.

Dinko loomed over the woman, his bestial face twisted with malice, smeared with mud and river muck - a true vision of horror. Rotten breath poured from his mouth and poisoned her breath with its reek.

“I’ve come to take you…”

“Dinko!” Ganka screamed in terror and dropped her spoon. She leapt up and stumbled backwards. “What happened to your soul, my son?”

“The river took it, Mother,” the monster growled. “I'm food for the demons… And now… now I’ll take you with me…”

He stretched his long, black fingers towards her throat.

Ganka waited no longer.

With one hand, she reached blindly behind her towards the hearth and seized the iron poker she had left there, ready to use.

She gathered whatever courage and strength remained in her long-suffering heart and hurled herself at the abomination.

She swung.

The poker struck it across the side, and the fetid flesh hissed beneath the iron. A deafening shriek filled the room.

Dinko doubled over and staggered back.

Panting, Ganka swung again. Then again. Deadly blows rained down upon the demon’s body.

“Die! Die, you devil’s filth!” the mother cried, striking without mercy as the poker tore deeper into demonic flesh with every blow.

Inhuman screams, steam and hissing filled the little room. Ganka struck with savage fury, a determination she had never known before driving every swing of hers.

“Die, you spawn of Hell!” she cried, beating him with strength she drew from the memory of his shameless weight upon her, the memory of those devilish hands roaming over her body. “Go back to Hell where you belong! You’ll torment no other woman!”

With every blow that followed, the iron poker sank deeper into the unholy thing's flesh, weakening it further.

The demon’s eyes flared in its death agony. It opened its toothed maw and let out a mighty roar.

Then it was as though fire blazed across its face and body, and the creature melted into a thin wisp of smoke.

The room filled with the smell of burning sulphur.

Having driven the demon from her house, Ganka let the poker fall on the wooden floor and dropped to her knees.

She crossed herself.

The weight of grief at having killed her only son - or whatever had been left of him - crushed her like a boulder and bent her shoulders.

How was she to live from now on?

Child-killer… Child-killer…

Ganka covered her mouth with one hand and shook with bitter sobs.

©Elissa Hess, 2025

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