The cottage was cold and forgotten, its insides wearing the scars of time. Dust hung in the air, thick like it had been collecting there for centuries. Broken furniture lay scattered around, a sad reminder of lives long abandoned. There were shards of plates on the floor, cutlery thrown about like someone had left in a hurry, maybe even in fear. The wardrobe was crumbling, and the clothes inside were moth-eaten, threadbare and torn as though they had been gnawed at by the world itself. She wasn't from here, but even she could tell that clothes didn't look like they were from current period.
And then she found those damn diaries. Everything in the house had rotten like but the diaries—those were different. They were old, the leather covers cracked and brittle, but their pages were still legible. She found them stacked in a corner covered with clothes, almost as if they'd been left there intentionally, hidden, but not too hidden. She wiped a layer of dust from the top book and opened it carefully, the binding creaking with the effort.
The handwriting inside was elegant but shaky in places, as if the author had been writing in haste, or fear.
January 12, 1912
It's been three nights now since the birth. Mother says it's bad luck to have twins on the twelfth day of the new year, but how could it be? Two beautiful boys, strong and healthy. Tomasz is quieter than Marek, but they are both a gift. We are blessed, and nothing Mother says can change that.
January 18, 1912
There's been a chill in the house since Marek was born. It's strange—no matter how many fires we light, it lingers. I find myself shivering even under heavy blankets. Tomasz sleeps through the night without issue, but Marek… Marek wakes at odd hours, staring at the window like he sees something out there. I've started closing the shutters at dusk.
Mother has grown silent. She watches Marek too closely.
February 5, 1912
Marek's eyes… they're different. Darker, somehow. Tomasz laughs, cries, acts like any other child. But Marek watches. Always watching, even when no one is speaking to him. I caught him staring at Tomasz today, as if waiting for something. It unsettles me in ways I cannot explain. Mother is now constantly whispering prayers, and she won't let Marek touch her.
She's started leaving salt at the windowsills and doors. I asked her why, but she wouldn't answer.
February 20, 1912
Something happened last night. Marek was crying—louder than usual—and I rushed into the room. Tomasz was fast asleep, as he always is, but Marek… He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes following something I couldn't see. When I picked him up, his skin was cold, colder than it should've been.
Mother confronted me this morning. She says I need to choose. I don't understand her madness. What is she talking about? Choose between my own children? Tomasz and Marek are both mine—how could I possibly—?
March 2, 1912
It's growing worse. Marek barely sleeps now. I find him standing in his crib, looking out the window as though waiting for something to come. Tomasz doesn't wake anymore. It's strange. No matter how loud the crying, Tomasz sleeps on, undisturbed. I shake him sometimes, but he never stirs until morning.
Mother says I should have listened. She says Marek is not mine, not truly. That something else was born with him, or in him. I'm beginning to fear she might be right.
March 12, 1912
I had a dream. In it, Marek was standing in the field behind the house, but when I got closer, I realized it wasn't Marek. It had his face, his eyes, but its body was twisted, gaunt, like it had been starved for years. It smiled at me with teeth too sharp for a child. I woke up sweating, heart pounding.
When I went to the boys' room, Marek was sitting in Tomasz's crib, just watching him. Tomasz was still asleep, unaware.
Mother says I need to act soon, or it will be too late.
March 14, 1912
I can't ignore it anymore. Marek isn't… right. Last night, I found him with blood on his lips. There was a small cut on Tomasz's hand—just a scratch—but Marek… he was feeding. Mother was right. I see it now. One child born under God's light, the other in shadow. I don't know what he is, but it's not just a child. It's something older. Something darker.
I can't stay here anymore.
March 16, 1912
Mother has prepared the rites. I am terrified of what I must do, but she says it's the only way to protect Tomasz. To protect all of us. She calls it Styrgzi. An old word, one I had never heard before. She says it's a cursed thing, a creature that feeds on life, on blood, from the moment it's born. It grows stronger as it ages, and soon, no one will be able to stop it.
I don't know if I can go through with it. He's still my son.
Isn't he?
March 17, 1912
We're leaving. Marek is gone. Mother performed the rites while I held Tomasz. I couldn't watch. I heard his cries, but I forced myself to turn away. It wasn't him anymore.
It couldn't have been him anymore.
We'll bury this place in the past. I'll tell Tomasz that he was born an only child, and no one will ever speak of Marek again.
But the chill is still here. And sometimes, at night, I hear a soft tapping at the window, like something wants to come back inside.
***
She shut the diary with a shudder. The pages told enough, though not everything. The family had left in a rush, abandoning this cottage and their past. But she could feel the story in every crack of the walls, every creak of the floorboards.
Outside, the wind howled through the trees, and suddenly, she wasn't sure if it was just the wind at all.