Blood memory

Czechoslovakia. December 1935

It was a foggy, dull, and cold morning. The car stopped by a house that looked both old and luxurious, covered in white snow. It was clear that no one had lived there for a long time. The car door opened. A tall, thin man stepped out. The driver, having received his payment, drove away. "Hello, house..." Oscar said, exhaling a puff of steam, then continued. "I never thought I'd come back to you." Oscar slowly walked towards the house, dragging a small suitcase behind him, the snow creaking beneath every step. He looked around, reminiscing about the old days of his childhood and youth spent here. He reached the doorstep, unlocked the door, and it opened with an irritating creak, snow falling from it. Before entering, Oscar took a deep breath. He stepped over the threshold, kicked the suitcase aside, and walked further inside. It was cool and dusty inside, with a smell of age hanging in the air. "House... You know, you're the reason I abandoned you." In the living room stood a large fireplace that clearly hadn't been lit in a long time. On it stood a dusty photograph. Noticing it, Oscar slowly approached, picked it up, and carefully wiped it clean. "Hello, Mother," he said, his voice full of mixed emotions. He continued: "It's been a long time since I've seen you, Mother." Oscar had seen his mother several years ago, just before he left the country. Back then, it seemed like the best decision to him. "I'm glad I left you back then. That I ignored your pleas to stay," he spoke to his smiling mother. "Why are you smiling? Is it funny?" he said with pain in his voice. The woman in the photo smiled back at him. "Pleased with your efforts? Happy to see your son like this?" Oscar smiled. He smiled in such a way that it was clear he was trying to hold back tears that were about to spill over. Oscar gripped the photo frame so tightly it was about to crack, growing angrier by the second. "How many times did I ask you to stop..." Tears welled up in Oscar's eyes, the ones he had so desperately tried to hold back. "How many times did I tell you, Mommy, that everything would work out, that everything would be fine... But you didn't listen. You took the wrong path. And look at the result. See what you've achieved?" Oscar stared at the photo. Emotions churned inside him, ready to tear him apart. He admired his mother – her eyes, her smile, her hair... "I hate you... do you hear me?" Oscar whispered. "I hate you... This is all because of you. Everything is on your conscience!" he shouted. Oscar squeezed the frame so hard that it finally couldn't take it anymore and cracked. He threw it against the wall, and it shattered into small pieces. "It's all because of you! You ruined my life! Wherever you are, curse you!" After breaking his mother's frame, Oscar felt somewhat relieved and calmed down a bit, but his expression remained just as sorrowful. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, and then exhaled. His mother's photograph remained on the floor. His mother, still smiling, her face now scattered with shards of glass. --- Evening came. Oscar was in his room, examining the things he had used before leaving for Switzerland. He touched them with his hands, lightly dusting them off. His gaze fell upon a suit hanging by the bed. "I never wore it..." Oscar said. "The suit you bought for me, 'Mother,' I never put it on." The suit Oscar spoke of had been bought for him by his mother. He was supposed to wear it to the art university he had dreamed of attending, but he wasn't accepted. "That was the worst day of my life," Oscar said in a spiteful voice. Back then, all his friends had managed to get into the art university in Bratislava, except for him. Oscar had been rejected for one reason – a memory that instantly filled him with rage. That resentment had lingered in his heart for a long time. And it remained there to this day... Oscar walked to his bed and lay down. He closed his eyes to forget himself and rest for a while, but this house seemed unwilling to grant him that. "What a strange feeling..." Oscar said, looking around. Cold air blew from somewhere unknown, even though the doors and windows were closed. "The house is old. Who knows where the draft is coming from." --- The next day. Much to his own surprise, Oscar quickly began getting used to the house and living in it. He decided to clean up a bit, as everything around was indeed very dusty. Finally, after a long cleaning session, he decided to rest and headed to his room on the second floor. As he lazily climbed the stairs, Oscar thought he heard a sudden noise coming from the storage closet directly under the staircase. Oscar stopped and, confused, turned his gaze to the closet door. "What the hell was that?" Oscar stood still for a moment, waiting to hear the sound again. The crash had been distinct, and he doubted he had simply imagined it. After a short wait, Oscar eventually decided that his fatigue must have made him hear things. "Just my imagination. Or maybe some little animal." Oscar continued on his way. The closet door shifted slightly, as if wind were blowing against it from the inside. A small piece of paper peeked out from the crack... --- Oscar was about to enter his room when his attention was caught by his mother's room. He paused for a moment, looking at the door, wondering whether he should go in. He slowly made his way to his mother's room, opened the door, and stepped inside slowly, looking around. He felt disgusted being there, but something compelled him to enter. "This is one of the most disgusting places I've ever been..." Oscar was angered by the very thought of why he felt so uncomfortable in his mother's room. "This is the room you brought strange men to, and on that bed you..." Oscar stopped himself. He grew angry and didn't want to finish the sentence. He recalled a moment from his childhood... ---

10 years earlier...

A teenager sat in his room, cutting something out of newspapers. He seemed to be making a Dadaist piece. It was his favorite art movement. Immersed in creating his collage, the boy suddenly heard someone open the front door, followed by familiar female laughter. He left his work, quietly unlocked his bedroom door, and peered out. He saw exactly what he had wanted least of all in the world. "Mom's brought another man home..." the teenager said despairingly, fully aware of what would follow. The joyful woman was going up the stairs with her companion. Afraid of being seen, Oscar went back into his room, closed the door, leaned against the bed, and sat on the floor. He heard the door to his mother's room open. "That brat of yours won't hear us, will he?" the man inquired. "He's my son. Don't talk about him like that," the woman replied neutrally. The man touched the woman's lower back with his right hand, then slowly slid it down, saying: "Don't be offended, darling. You know I say it with love." The woman couldn't help but smile back at the man. They entered the room, and the door closed. Oscar was hurt by being called offensive names, even if they were said "with love." But what upset him more was what he was forced to witness. From the room came the sounds of satisfied laughter, both female and male. Oscar squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands... "No, not again..." ---

Present day.

Oscar's memory was interrupted by a sharp slam of a door, making him flinch and spin around. There was no draft, so the already agitated man was baffled: how had the door closed by itself? "What the hell?" He walked to the door, slowly took the handle, and pulled it. The door opened, and he slowly stepped out of the room. There was no one there. What had made the door close? "Alright. I don't have time for this right now..." Oscar waved his hand dismissively, returning to his thoughts. "Nadya Shvets... thank my mother for the fact that I took your life," Oscar muttered. "For people like you, life is just a trifle. So I took it from you. Your unborn brats are probably grateful to me." Immediately after his words, Oscar heard a sound. He stopped and listened. The sound resembled a woman's laughter. "Well, maybe someone was passing by," Oscar guessed. "Oscar, don't make things up that aren't there, heh." He waved his hand and entered his room. The soft laughter continued. Oscar tried to ignore it, but someone seemed to be laughing just to spite him. "What's so funny?" Oscar shouted, abruptly throwing aside a book, jumping up, and looking out the window. The man was surprised to see no one on the road. "Then who's laughing?" Oscar found it strange – this endless laughter, and most importantly, where was it coming from, since there was no one on the road? "Maybe someone's playing a trick on me?" Oscar left his room and headed for the exit. He went down the stairs. Something was bothering him – he felt like he was being watched, which made him uncomfortable, and he occasionally felt goosebumps run down his body. As Oscar walked toward the exit, he looked around. Sometimes the house seemed far too frightening to him. The laughter continued, but as soon as Oscar stepped outside, it abruptly stopped. "What the hell? I don't understand. What was that just now?" Oscar stood outside for a few more seconds. Seeing nothing but falling snow, he turned around and went back inside. "Why am I surprised? With memories like these, a person could go completely crazy. And the laughter – it's just fatigue, probably, now I'm imagining things," the man reassured himself. Oscar himself couldn't tell whether he had actually heard the laughter or if it was just in his head. That frightened him more than anything, but, as always, he decided to blame it on fatigue. ---

Later that same day...

Oscar was about to have dinner. He sat down at the table, picked up his fork, raised it to his mouth, and at that very moment, a knock came at the door. The man froze for a moment in bewilderment, then let out a tired, lazy sigh and dropped the fork onto his plate. "And who's shown up now, I wonder?" Oscar stood up irritably and headed for the front door. He unlocked it and saw a man standing on the doorstep in simple clothes, boots, and a hat. "Zhdán? Is that you?" "What, don't you recognize your own friend, since you have to ask?" "Zhdán!" Oscar spread his arms and rushed to embrace his old friend Zhdán. "Zhdán, it's been so long since I've seen you!" "Same here, Oscar. You went off to your Switzerland and completely forgot about your homeland." Zhdán – Slovak by nationality, Oscar's best childhood friend. They had gone to school together, spent most of their time together, looked for interesting adventures, and did just about everything together. "Come in, Zhdán. I've just set the table." "It's been a long time since I've been to your place. Alright, I'll come in." Oscar invited him inside, and Zhdán entered. The men sat at the table, eating snacks that Slavs typically enjoyed – sausage, bread, cheese, and the like. All of it, of course, washed down with beer. "Beer isn't really the best choice in winter," Oscar began awkwardly, "but I don't have anything else to offer you." "Ah, don't worry about it. I drink beer all the time, you know that." That was true. Zhdán was a beer lover and didn't care what season it was. "So, tell me what's new with you," Oscar said to his friend. "What could be new with me? Everything's the same as always, same old story. You're the one who should talk – you're our traveler." "Hardly..." Zhdán didn't know about all the things Oscar had done in Zurich. Although Oscar was a famous serial killer, that news had passed Zhdán by. "Nothing special," Oscar began. "As you know, I didn't get into the University of Bratislava like I wanted." "Yeah, I remember that. You were beside yourself with grief." "So I decided to try my luck abroad," Oscar said with a slight smirk. "And?" Zhdán noticed that faint, sly smile on Oscar's face. "And..." Oscar hesitated. "And... you know what, let's have a drink." "Let's!" his friend readily agreed. Oscar skillfully changed the subject, and they both sank into memories. A drunken Zhdán was telling Oscar yet another story from their youth, but Oscar wasn't really listening anymore... --- A dark room. Oscar walked around, looking about. "Why is it so dark in here?" Not only was the room in complete darkness, but it was also cold – a strange kind of cold. As if it shouldn't be there at all, but yet it was. "What is this place, anyway?" Oscar was bewildered. He couldn't understand where he was, how he had gotten there, where the exit was, or what to do. Suddenly, a light appeared in the middle of the space, drawing his attention. In the center of the light stood a chair, and on the chair, with her back to Oscar, sat a young woman. "And who is this?" Oscar stared at the woman for a while, but she remained motionless. "Hey! Who are you? And what is this place?" There was no answer. The woman seemed not to hear him. She was like a motionless statue, not a person. After a moment's hesitation, Oscar slowly walked toward the woman. He didn't know why, but he began to feel anxious – an inexplicable feeling gave him no peace, and it grew stronger with every step. "Oskar Havel..." the seated woman spoke in a cold, serious voice. Hearing himself addressed, Oscar stopped immediately. He was even more confused. He couldn't understand what was happening. "Who are you? And how do you know my name?" The woman continued to sit with her back to him, not moving. It felt as if she were staring at a single spot, unable to look away. "Have you really forgotten me so quickly, Oskar?" Silence fell. Oscar didn't know what to say. The woman also remained silent for a while, then laughed, making Oscar wary – the laughter seemed familiar. "I asked you who you are!" Oscar said angrily. "You'd better not provoke me." "And what will you do?" "I'm done with this conversation!" Saying these words, Oscar quickly walked toward the woman to finally find out who it was. As soon as he touched her shoulder, the woman instantly rose from the chair and dug her nails into the man's throat. He hadn't expected that. And when he saw the woman's face, he was even more stunned. "Y–you...?" the man said in a shocked voice, his eyes wide and his mouth agape from shock and fear. "You recognize me now, Oskar?" the woman said in a sly, yet simultaneously gentle, voice. "Y–you... how..." Oscar couldn't believe his eyes. "This... it's impossible..." The woman tightened her grip on his throat with her nails. Oscar was forced to struggle, but he was completely overwhelmed. "As you can see, it's possible," the woman answered in a sly voice. "Everything is possible, Oskar. Just as it was possible back then, it's also possible now." Oscar didn't answer. He couldn't. It was hard for him to breathe, let alone say anything. He desperately tried to break free from the grip of the woman's tender hands, but it was useless. The man slowly closed his eyes...