The Curse of the Vurdulak
A word before the tale begins...
What you are about to read is but the first of many cursed murmurs, each drawn from the mist-veiled lore of Eastern Europe.
Tread softly, for not every soul endures the dimming of its light, the deeper it wanders into the shadowed hollows of these pages.
Let it be known—You have been warned.
V.N. Czernova
Hast ever heard tell of the Vurdulak who did curse the noble House of Skorobogatov? “And who were they?” thou mayest well ask. Why, none but the most esteemed and influential family of this region — proud and gilded, dwelling in a manor so vast, ten of our humble abode would scarce suffice to match its breadth. They wanted for nothing: servants, cooks, footmen, horses, carriages... whatsoe’er one might desire, they possessed in plenty.
Yet misfortune befell them.
The matron of the house, Madame Uliana Skorobogatov, vanished without trace. Many moons passed and still no tidings came. Concern waxed heavy upon the hearts of her kin. Each morn the young daughters would beseech their father thus:
“Papa, Papa, when shall Maman return unto us?”
And he, poor soul, would reply with a faltering smile:
“Soon, my darlings... soon.”
But the lie gnawed at his heart. Search parties had been dispatched, all in vain. In hushed corners of the village, folk began to whisper that Madame Uliana had perished — it had been nigh on half a year since her departure. Yet Master Maxim, her husband, clung still to hope.
Then came a night most wretched — the wind howled, the heavens wept, and thunder tore the sky. Upon the stroke of midnight, a knock fell heavy upon the great oak doors of the Skorobogatov estate.
“Who would come at such an hour?” muttered the housekeeper, descending the stairs with a lantern in hand.
She opened the door with caution — and gasped.
“My lady...!” she stammered, “By the saints, you have returned!”
“Master Skorobogatov! Master Skorobogatov!” she cried out, “Come quickly!”
The lord of the house, fearing some deception, came forth with musket in hand. But when he beheld his servant’s ashen face, he turned toward the threshold — and there, framed by the tempest, stood a figure he knew too well.
“U-Uliana? Is it truly thee? Merciful Heavens — thou art returned to us! I shall rouse the girls at once—”
“No,” spake Uliana, her voice a whisper. “Let them sleep. It is late, and they must be weary.”
“Indeed, indeed,” murmured Maxim. “Let the hearth be lit, and food prepared! My lady must be famished!”
But Uliana would not eat.
“I should prefer to rest,” she said, eyes distant.
And Maxim, too stunned to protest, led her to their chamber without further word.
The days crept by, yet joy did not return to the house. The daughters watched their mother with unease. Her step was strange, her manner colder than frost. The family hound, once fond of her, now barked and growled with every glimpse of her passing.
“Silence that cursed beast!” Uliana would shriek, her voice like iron scraping stone.
But the dog would not be calmed. It howled and gnashed as though to warn of some great evil... yet none knew what doom loomed upon the family.
Uliana slept by day and wandered the halls barefoot by night. The servants whispered among themselves:
“She is a Vurdulak...”
What is a Vurdulak? Some say it is a soul damned to wander beyond death. Others, a revenant risen from the grave, thirsting for the blood of kin. But none dared speak it aloud — and those who knew for certain... did not live long.
One by one, the staff departed. By year’s end, only five souls remained in the house: Maxim, his two daughters, the housekeeper... and Uliana.
On the eve of the new year, Master Maxim looked aged beyond his years — near as old as the housekeeper herself, though he had not yet seen five-and-forty winters. That evening, he rose to dine with his daughters, Uliana having long since shunned the family table. Yet ere he could reach his seat, he fell to the ground with a terrible thud.
The old housekeeper rushed to his side — but he was gone. Lifeless. Light as bone. Pale as linen. Bloodless.
The girls screamed. Chaos reigned. The housekeeper, fearing for their lives, seized them and fled to her chamber. She barred the door with all her might, pressing her back against it with trembling arms.
“She must not enter,” she whispered. “That thing... that thing is not thy mother.”
They could not flee into the night — the village was far, and the world beyond too dark. So they waited in silence, as the air grew thick with dread.
Then came the voice.
“Girls?” called Uliana from beyond the door, her tone sweet as poisoned honey. “Where art thou, my little darlings? Wilt thou not welcome the new year with thy mother?”
The housekeeper clapped her hands over the girls’ mouths. They dared not make a sound. For they knew — if Uliana found them, they were lost.
The creature began to prowl, knocking upon doors, scratching the walls, seeking them by echo and instinct. But the old woman held fast. She would not abandon the children she had raised.
At last, the first light of dawn — or so she thought — crept upon the world. Believing it safe, she gathered the girls and made for the exit.
But the curtains were drawn. The house lay still in shadow.
Had dawn truly come? Or had the Vurdulak deceived her?
Too late. Uliana was upon them.
Some say the housekeeper alone escaped that day. Others swear she gave her life to save the girls. Some very few say the Skorobogatov now are condemned to roam the halls of what once was a lovely manor, home of lovely people — but as creatures of the night, creatures who crave the blood of their own kin.... none can say for certain.
But travellers who pass by the ruins speak of cries in the night and footsteps that echo where no soul walks.
So remember,
Never open the door to one thou knowest to be dead — even if she calleth herself ‘mother’.
Not unless thou wouldst part with thy life.
To the wandering soul who found their way to these cursed words,
I thank you from the depths of these haunted halls.
May the next whisper find you in safer light.
V.N. Czernova
