Lika was absolutely, utterly furious that her parents had rolled off on vacation without her. Allegedly, they needed to "spend quality time alone" to celebrate some mundane anniversary of the day they first met. She might have resigned herself to the injustice if they had at least left her home alone. Instead, they had packed her bags and shipped her off to Gera, her older half-brother from her father's first marriage. Gera lived out in the sticks—some tiny, forgotten hamlet down by the Don River, occupying a wooden shanty that had been passed down to him by their late great-grandmother. It was insulting. She was fifteen years old, for heaven's sake! By all modern standards, she was a fully independent, mature adult. It wasn't like she was going to starve to death in their empty flat. There was a fast-food joint literally in the neighboring building, and food delivery was always an option. Or, if they were that paranoid, Gera could have just crashed at their place while her parents were away. But no, the guy dug his heels in, stubbornly claiming he couldn't leave his house unattended overnight under any circumstances. And so, for four grueling days, Lika had been stuck in this tiny house. The place blinked at the gravel street through two half-blind, narrow windows framed by intricate, lacy wooden trim. Gera—a tight-lipped, towering, wiry guy of twenty-five—had surrendered his bedroom to her. He had moved his own setup into the walk-through front room, where half the available floor space was dominated by a massive brick stove, and the other half by a sagging, ancient sofa. That same room housed the wooden table where Gera had set up his computer—a machine he had strictly forbidden her to touch under penalty of death. Then again, Lika didn't have a single scrap of interest in his gear anyway. During the day, she successfully slept until noon, then spent her hours sunbathing or lounging on a rusty camp bed in the overgrown orchard behind the house. She stayed glued to her phone, spacing out into endless video feeds or gossiping with her girlfriends on social media. She systematically gorged herself on the fresh apricots, sweet cherries, and strawberries Gera cultivated on his plots, categorizing the abundance of fruit as her brother's solitary positive attribute. To his credit, his cooking wasn't terrible either, and he had even greenlit her request to order a delivery pizza once. But still, the place was unendurably, catastrophically boring. The absolute worst part was that Gera was undeniably freaky. The guy clearly had a screw loose. He had slapped a massive list of ridiculous prohibitions over her entire routine: driving her inside the house the exact minute the sun dipped below the horizon, and flatly banning her from stepping foot into the yard after dark. Thank the gods the plumbing was inside an extension of the house rather than out in the yard—avoiding that infamous wooden outhouse with a hole in the floorboards was a minor victory. Lika spent her evenings raging, throwing dramatic tantrums, snapping back at him, and frantically racking her brain for a strategy to survive the remaining ten days before she could finally clear out and return to civilization.

Georgy—known to his family and friends simply as Gera—finished weeding the carrot plot, dragged the heavy irrigation hose from the cucumbers over to the tomatoes, rinsed his calloused hands under a cold jet of well water, and walked into the house. It was time to whip up some lunch and feed his little sister. What a massive headache to drop right on his doorstep. The situation wasn't her fault, obviously; their father had pushed for the arrangement until Gera ran out of excuses. He had dug his heels in for a while, but ultimately relented. In the end, he could endure her presence for two short weeks. Just a fortnight. Fourteen endless days... Gera stepped quietly into the bedroom Lika was occupying. The kid was out cold on the camp bed in the orchard, and he needed to retrieve a removable hard drive he had left on the shelf above the writing desk. Lika's laptop was sitting wide open on the mattress, an unwashed sock—thankfully a clean one—discarded right across the keyboard. Gera let out a disdainful snort, reached over to snag the drive, and his sleeve accidentally nudged the mouse. The laptop monitor instantly flashed to life. Automatically, Gera's eyes darted to an open chat window. He had zero interest in snooping through someone else's personal correspondence, but a quick glance at the text forced him to stop and read the lines carefully. “My precious brother is a certified psycho or has some extreme OCD, I swear! Who the heck knows what his deal is! He’s forced a whole rulebook on me!” What? Why, you ungrateful little snot! Gera’s internal monologue flared with instant indignation. “He has these ancient, cast-iron cooking pots hanging completely upside down on the main gateposts. I took them down yesterday because it’s absolute, pure cringe. And then this psycho made a massive scene and forced me to scrub my hands with this foul-smelling laundry soap twelve times! Twelve times, Carl! Literal child abuse!” The front gates, instead of proper stone pillars, are hung directly onto heavy iron pipes, Gera countered grimly in his head, his teeth clenching. Dad dug those things into the ground out of pure, unadulterated ignorance. And now, raw ectoplasm constantly leaks from the hollow iron. I’ve tried plugging the vents, I’ve tried welding the seams shut—the force from the other side rips the seals to bloody pieces every single time. Only those specific, ancient cast-iron pots have the right properties to block the entity's path. Why does it work? Who the hell knows, but the barrier holds. And those hands must be scrubbed strictly with tar soap. It takes exactly twelve lathers to neutralize the residue. Otherwise, some parasitic entity locks onto the skin cells, and three winters later the doctors are running tests trying to figure out why a teenage girl has terminal cancer. “And he has these little stone figurines on every single windowsill in the house. Seven little elephants that look as ancient as mammoth crap. For some bizarre reason, they’re all facing trunks-dead-against the glass. I turned them sideways along the ledge in my room so they’d look neat, standing one behind the other like a proper line. He came in, absolutely chewed me out, and flipped them back to the glass. You literally aren't even allowed to breathe on them!” Those seven elephants are the only barrier protecting the window frames from the things that try to ooze through the glass at night. And believe me, plenty of horrors try to crawl into this sector. Great-grandfather—and he wasn't the only fool in the valley—had the brilliant luck to build this house directly at the foot of White Mountain. And that mountain, by the way, is a massive, ancient cemetery. And not a single soul buried up there received a proper funeral service or a holy cross over their dirt. So they still wander to this day... drifting down the slopes, peering into the houses, looking for a vulnerability. Waiting for some stupid city girl to unlock the door and let them in. “Today I sat down on the porch steps to watch the sunset—he practically chased me off the wood, making a huge fuss about how it’s strictly forbidden. Why forbidden? Because he’s a lunatic, idk!” You cannot sit on the threshold. That is the literal, sacred boundary between the safety of the house and the chaos of the outside world. Beneath that exact wooden sill, an iron hunting knife is buried blade-up, specifically to ensure uninvited guests bleed their essence out if they try to cross. “Then I offered to help him paint the decorative window trim out of sheer boredom. I agreed to help! And the jerk completely lost his mind and cursed me out just because I drew cute little smileys inside the carved sun patterns!” Those sun sigils on the window trim aren't carved there for aesthetics, you little idiot. That is a consecrated amulet against the roaming undead. And she treats it like a canvas for internet smileys. “I peeked into his pantry earlier. He has rows of glass jars filled with plain water sitting on the shelves. I asked why the hell he needs water in jars when there’s a perfectly functional well right in the yard. He violently snatched them away, kicked me out of the pantry, and told me it was none of my business. Absolute jackass!” You’re a brainless little heifer yourself! That isn't well water—that is Holy Water. I collected every single drop myself during the Epiphany frost. Look at her, she was preparing to pour the containment units down the drain! I’ll pour you down the drain first! “And between the window frames, he’s placed these long, narrow wooden boxes filled with coarse rock salt. I asked why, and he claimed it keeps the glass from fogging up by absorbing moisture. Is installing normal, modern double-glazed windows simply out of the question for him? Is he really that broke?” Why the hell would I install modern double-glazed windows? I wouldn't be able to pack the internal chambers with rock salt. And there isn't a single unholy creature across the veil that doesn't absolutely loathe the structural frequency of salt. “He doesn't let me open the windows in the evening or at night either. Not even for five minutes to air the room out! Thank the gods there’s an AC unit, otherwise I’d have literally died from the heat by now. His official excuse? Mosquitoes might fly in! As if screens don't exist!” Mosquitoes aren't even a rounding error compared to the airborne anomalies that actively try to tear through the vents once the sun sets. That’s exactly why the little fool isn't allowed outside after twilight. Gera put the laptop into sleep mode, picked up his removable drive, and quietly stepped back into his own cramped room. He cast a long glance through the window pane. Out in the orchard, Lika remained fast asleep, her arm dangling limply over the edge of the camp bed. Her precious, high-end smartphone had slipped from her fingers, resting forgotten in the thick grass. Let her sleep. He had no intention of explaining how things worked around here to her. The less she knew, the better she slept. He would simply endure her presence for the remaining days, holding the line and ensuring her fragile mortal self never crossed paths with the horrors she wasn't equipped to comprehend. Let her continue to view him as a complete psycho. Or an extreme case of OCD. It didn't matter. As long as she walked out of his house alive.