Chapter 1
My name is Danya, and I live in a city, on the top floor of a nine-story building. When this whole story began, I was living in the same place—like I had my entire life. Usually, stories like this are written by old people who have nothing better to do than reminisce about their past. But I’m only twenty. And yet, we have something in common—time, or rather, what’s left of it.
When I was very little, my parents and I used to visit my grandparents in the countryside. Later, when I was about eight, I’d go there with my friends instead—Marina, who was ten, Zhenya, who was eight, and Pavlik, who was six. Our relatives were always happy to send us off to the village for the holidays, closer to nature—and we were more than happy to go.
At first, Mom used to come with us. That’s when I noticed a strange stick by the side of the road with a rusted sign hanging from it. I couldn’t make out what it said.
The second time we looked at it together and caught a glimpse—just a glimpse, because the train was moving fast—of a strange gray blur that looked suspiciously like a house.
“There was a black hut there just now,” Pavlik said.
Mom looked out the window, but all she saw was forest.
“Probably just some kids like you built it,” she said.
Hearing that, Marina decided that once we got to the village, we absolutely had to build our own hut—one that would be a hundred times better. The others agreed, and then we all fell quiet again. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that hut. Kids built it? Out there? Where would they even come from, when there was nothing but forest for miles around—or so we thought at the time.
No one really watched over us in the village—farm work kept the adults too busy. But we got plenty of treats—pies, fresh apples. Funny thing is, I’d never seen big, bright red apples grow on our trees. Only green ones, usually speckled and half-eaten by worms.
So year after year, we spent our breaks at my grandmother’s place. But by the sixth grade, my friends and I were expected to help out around the house. Every year, Grandpa and Grandma gave us more and more work, and those magical summer holidays turned into watering potatoes—and fall breaks into digging them up.
Then came another spring break when I was in the ninth grade with Zhenya, Marina was in tenth (she’d been held back a year), and Pavlik was in seventh. We were sent back to Grandma’s again.
That spring was a rough one: the ground was hard, the cold wouldn’t let up, clouds hung low and heavy. But you couldn’t skip the planting season—what if the neighbors planted first and harvested more? Those six days were grueling. We worked harder than God must’ve worked when he made the Earth—and potatoes, too. On the seventh day, completely exhausted and fed up, we boarded the train, hoping to spend at least one day of break at home.
Zhenya and Marina were sitting across from Pavlik and me, cuddling. Lately, they had something like a relationship—though I doubt they cared much about sex or sacred vows. As my friend once said, “We just liked kissing, hanging out… it made us feel warm inside. Nothing special.” Maybe it could’ve turned into something more—if there had been time.
“Anyone up for some fun when we get back?” I asked, trying to break their moment—and distract myself from the trees outside.
“No way, I’m crashing into bed the second I get home. Don’t even know how I’ll manage to do my homework,” Zhenya admitted honestly.
“But it’s still vacation!” Marina stretched out the word like it was something sacred, finally letting go of her “boyfriend.”
“There’s nothing fun at home, just the computer,” Pavlik added. “And I’m too tired to even press the buttons.”
“Seriously? Is this what all our breaks are gonna be like now?”
“There aren’t that many left.”
“Exactly, Zhenya! We have to do something unforgettable.”
They started arguing about what that “something” could be. That’s when my friend tugged my sleeve.
“Danya, I saw them.”
“Saw who?”
“The kids who built that hut.”
Then he told me about the time he’d spotted a strange little house near the forest. Strangely enough, the memory had stuck with him, even though the rest of us had forgotten. But now, everyone fell silent and started to remember. We never forgot his words again. He saw the children.
“All these years later, and they’re still playing out there?”
“Maybe they’re not the ones who built it. Just some kids who found the hut and made it theirs,” Pavlik said, blushing—not because he was shy around girls, but because he hated being the center of attention.
“What’s so special about that hut…? Let’s go check it out,” Marina said.
“What haven’t we seen in huts before?” I asked, not yet knowing what we could see there.
“We haven’t seen where those kids come from—there’s only forest around.”
I remembered Pavlik’s conversation with my mom, and my own thoughts back then. I really wanted to find out where those kids were coming from—and at the same time, a chill ran down my spine.
“They probably get off at the nearest station and walk along the tracks so they don’t get lost,” Zhenya said, trying to sound clever.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Marina declared.
“What about our parents?” I said, blurting out the first excuse that came to mind.
“Let’s say we walked around a bit before coming home.” Marina waved her hand at me and jumped to her feet. She headed for the door, and we got up from our seats one by one and followed her. Zhenya had stopped worrying, Pavlik was trembling slightly with anticipation, and I… I just walked behind them, imagining another funny story we’d soon get tangled up in — we used to get into those a lot back then.
The train had stopped very far away. We walked in single file for about half an hour, trying not to lose sight of the tracks. Bushes kept whipping us, and a couple of times some bugs flew out of the forest (Marina screamed loudly, and Zhenya chased them off). A few more trains passed us. The first time we dove into the bushes — we thought someone would see us and punish us — but no one cared: people were heading off on their own business and didn’t even look our way. We were already starting to doubt — was that place even real? Or had we just imagined the gray spot?
Then Zhenya bumped right into the same rusty sign. I grabbed him and helped him back up — we all looked at the first real sign that this place actually existed.
“They usually paint signs for the train drivers on those,” Zhenya started theorizing again, but Pavlik corrected him.
“No, that’s a rectangular plate, it’s too wide to be a signal. They usually write the names of towns and villages on signs like that.”
“No one needs a sign like this anymore, that’s why it’s worn off. Why are you staring at it!” This time, for some reason, Marinka grabbed Pavlik’s hand and dragged him forward, and the rest of us trudged along behind them.
A small bump had popped up on Zhenya’s forehead. He touched it, winced from the pain a bit, then smiled at me and shrugged.
We walked about five more minutes before we saw the building in the distance. It turned out not to be gray at all, but brown — almost rusty. As we got closer, we realized it wasn’t a hut at all, but a stop!
Not a big station — just one of those stops where no more than five people ever gathered. Kind of like a bus stop, but with a small platform so you could step onto the train.
Part of the roof had a hole in it — moss was hanging down. The wooden bench held up better than the metal roof and walls: some parts had been eaten away by bugs, but overall you could still sit on it. Bits of cobweb hung beneath it, tangled with dust. This was definitely not what we were expecting to see, and we all sighed in disappointment.
“Damn, is this what we walked so far for?” Even Pavlik wasn’t happy anymore that he’d remembered this place.
“Well, if we go further, we’ll end up at another station — might be a shorter walk.” I tried to cheer them up.
“No, that’ll take even longer. It’s easier to just go back the way we came.”
“Through the bushes again?”
“Whose idea was it to come here, huh?”
Marinka pouted in annoyance. She didn’t want to admit her idea had flopped. Then Zhenya looked up at the sky and said it was probably past noon already, and we should head back or we’d get home really late. None of us had cell phones back then, so there was no way to check the time or call anyone.
After a few minutes of arguing, the group decided to head back the same way. Pavlik had already jumped down to the ground when someone suddenly called out to us:
“There you are, you arrived a little later than we expected.”
I turned around and saw a girl about seven years old. She was wearing a pink polka-dotted dress, her light hair braided into two pigtails, and slightly scuffed brown shoes on her feet. Behind her stood a boy of about three, wearing only green shorts and completely barefoot. Quite an unusual outfit for late April — at least April that year, because it had been a cold one.
“Who are you? What’s your name?” Pavlik, being a very polite boy, normally didn’t talk to strangers — but that rule never applied to children.
“I’m Masha, and this is my brother Petya. Mom asked us to meet her distant relatives who were supposed to arrive. Maybe you’ve never seen us, but my brother and I have looked through the photo album so many times — we recognized you from the pictures.”
Probably the best option would’ve been to turn around and leave, to tell the girl she’d confused us with someone else. But Marinka believed we had to live through some kind of adventure, and — I’ll admit — all of us were curious to find out where these children had come from.
“Where do you live?” Zhenya asked. Masha immediately took his hand and pulled him along like a little brother.
“Not far from here. I’ll show you.”
We walked along a very narrow and winding path, which in places was heavily overgrown with weeds. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to find our way back — it would be nearly impossible to spot this road among all the greenery! Masha said she’d lead us back and that she and Petya knew the way well.
Eventually, we came to something between a town and a village: there were a few apartment buildings, even a sort of square, a cobbled road — and nearby, some small houses with sheds and gardens attached, where something was already growing.
But the people’s clothes finally convinced me this was a village: my grandparents had closets full of those same sundresses and jackets. The people paid no attention to us at all. They were bustling around, hurrying back and forth with food and little flags in their hands. A couple of stocky men had climbed up streetlamps and were hanging garlands, while several girls were painting some kind of slogan on a banner, but I couldn’t make out what it said.
One middle-aged man accidentally bumped into Petya. He looked at us, took off his hat, apologized, put it back on, and kept walking.
Even then, I felt like something was off about that man. As if he was glowing with a faint ghostly shimmer — I blamed it on the sunlight at the time. When I looked at Zhenya, I saw that he seemed worried too. But Marina and Pavlik were too caught up in the commotion to notice anything strange.
Masha led us to a three-story building and took us into a hallway. I remember it like it was yesterday: all the doors were wide open, people were running in and out of them like in a Scooby-Doo cartoon, and the last door led to a kitchen — shared by the whole building.
“What do you mean, shared?” Marinka asked in disgust.
“Yeah, shared. I guess you’re not used to that in your big city, but this is a dormitory, so the kitchen and the bathroom are for everyone.”
Meanwhile, Petya climbed up on a chair and reached for a big berry pie — but just then, a plump woman burst into the kitchen and grabbed the boy. Once she stepped in, there was hardly any space left in the room.
“No, no, it’s too early — we’ll cut the pie when we get back from the parade.” She wagged her finger at the boy, and I realized she must be his mom.
“I brought our relatives!” Masha announced.
“Wonderful, dear.” Finally, she let go of the boy and turned to look at us. “Tamara, Anton, Valera, Sasha — I’m so glad your dad let you come! I see you got into a fight again — oh, boys... Well, never mind, I’ll put some ice on that bump and it’ll be as good as new.”
She led Zhenya upstairs, and we stayed in the kitchen with Masha, Petya, and an old man who was rummaging among the spices for his stash of tobacco.
“What’s the holiday for?” Pavlik asked.
“Our town got a bit of funding for a parade, so we’re having one today,” Masha said, grabbing one of her braids.
“A parade to celebrate what, exactly?”
“To celebrate that everything’s going great! If the swans in the blue box aren’t dancing, then things are just perfect!” shouted the mother of our new friend. Zhenya was standing next to her, holding his bump. His face had gone pale.
“You okay?” I asked, and everyone looked at him.
He didn’t answer, but the woman said he must’ve gotten overwhelmed and tired from the walk. She poured him some warm tea and handed him a bun (Petya gave her a resentful look). She said Sasha — as she called him — should stay in the room and watch everything from the window. I volunteered to stay with him, mostly because Marinka hadn’t — someone had to stay with at least one familiar face.
The old man led us up to the second floor, to the room where the whole family lived. There was a red-and-white carpet on the wall, a green couch beneath it, a crib and a folding bed nearby. Soviet-era toys — which I found creepy — were scattered across the floor. Two tall wardrobes stood like sentries by the door — one for clothes, one for books. The walls were covered in faded green flower wallpaper, tomato seedlings grew on the windowsill, and next to them hung a mirror with a sticker from 1986 stuck in the corner.
I sat Zhenya down on the bed by the window and sat beside him. We could clearly hear the old man in the next room crank up a gramophone and start rocking in his chair (I’d recognize that creak anywhere).
By then, the preparations outside were finished. I looked enviously at tiny Marina and Masha, who ran up to an improvised stand and each grabbed a free pie. Pavlik was carrying Petya on his shoulders — together with the others, they took their places along the line. A few minutes later, the parade began.
I’d never seen anything so luxurious: confetti, poppers, people in bright uniforms. They strolled through the streets playing cheerful music and singing old songs. Kids kept trying to break free of their mothers’ hands to touch the golden tassels on the orchestra’s outfits. The older people sang along with familiar tunes — some even cried with joy.
“Big deal, they think this is something to celebrate? Wait till the May Day parade!” shouted the old man from the other room (amazing how well you can hear through the walls).
But soon (just a couple of minutes later), all the bright colors and music faded into the background — my mind turned back to Zhenya. Still pale.
— What’s wrong with you?
— With me? What’s wrong with this place?
His hands were shaking so badly that the cup crashed to the floor and shattered.
— Easy. You need to lie down and calm yourself. If you’re worried about getting home, we’ll make it in time.
I grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to get him to lie down, but my friend wouldn’t budge. He clutched the edges of the couch tightly and looked me straight in the eyes. That’s when I saw it in his eyes—fear. I had seen him scared before—like that time we stole cherries from grandma’s neighbor—but this… this was worse, much worse.
— Don’t you see it?
To this day, I don’t know whether it was his words that lifted some unknown spell or if I just started paying more attention, but when I looked around, I saw a completely different scene.
The wall carpet had long since faded and barely clung to the wall, the mirror was cracked, and the postage stamp had turned into a blank piece of paper. The toys, like the rest of the floor, were buried under a thick layer of dust, disturbed only by our footprints.
I didn’t quite believe what I was seeing yet, so I decided to check on the old man (good thing I didn’t look out the window—my friends used to say… but that’s not for now).
Zhenya gripped my hand tightly. When we stepped into the hallway, he pulled me toward the staircase, but the moment I turned, he suddenly went limp and obediently followed me.
In the next room, a gramophone was playing, but no one was there. The needle scraped across the broken record, looping the same horribly distorted fragment. The armchair was overgrown with moss, and the nearby glass cabinet had collapsed. Medals and orders—like the ones my grandfather had—were scattered across the floor, all rusted.
Zhenya tugged my hand again, and this time I followed.
We went downstairs and passed the kitchen. I only caught a glimpse, but saw an open oven—and a dead rat inside.
The rooms we passed blurred together: old furniture, dusty, sometimes broken, some rooms in disarray, others looking like paintings or dollhouses. But all of this flashed by in seconds, and we stepped outside.
There, with equally pale faces, Marina and Pavlik met us.
Without a word, without planning it, we all ran—toward the forest, toward the railway station. I never looked back and never saw the town again. Maybe that’s for the best.
Later I found out they all saw it too—each in their own way. I didn’t really see the abandoned houses… but I FELT it. I don’t know how—it had no color, no smell, no taste—but its gaze pressed on your shoulders like an invisible weight, just like its claws. It gripped us tightly, and when we finally reached the road, when we made it to the working station and boarded the fast train, we felt like it had let go.
We stopped feeling it—but it stayed with us.
Of course, we never told our parents. Even Pavlik—the youngest—understood how ridiculous a story about a town where people used to live and suddenly vanished would sound.
By the time we got home, the fear had worn off. We chased it away with silly jokes—though only for a little while.
That evening, I asked my father what the phrase “if the swans don’t dance in the blue box” meant. He said he’d never heard it before but laughed heartily, reminiscing.
" Don’t worry about it, son. You probably heard it from the neighbors. There was a tradition in the USSR—to broadcast Swan Lake when something bad happened, so they wouldn’t have to say it directly. Strange times… strange times…"
If you believe my father, the swans did dance for us that day, because by the end of May, Marina and Zhenya were both hospitalized.
I really wanted to see them! My parents kept discouraging me, but eventually they agreed and took me.
We walked past the regular wards—ones I’d been in myself with a broken leg—past storage rooms, the cafeteria, and the restrooms. The staff led us deep into the hospital, to a door marked with a yellow-black sign.
— Just so you know: any contact with the patients is strictly prohibited—for your own safety. You can speak to them through the intercom, but only specially trained staff are allowed inside.
The nurse’s voice was unusually serious. I still didn’t understand what she meant. We entered the visitors’ room. In the ward behind the thick glass and lead-lined walls, the light came on.
And I saw them—lying side by side, holding hands.
Zhenya was completely bald. Marina’s hair was patchy, like a plucked doll’s. They were both pale, covered in blankets, their hands riddled with sores. His eyes were bloodshot, hers blind. Both hooked up to IVs.
Mom couldn’t take it—she left. Dad just turned away.
I approached the intercom and asked softly:
— What happened to you?
It’s silly to recount the whole conversation—they spoke faintly and in fragments. I had to ask them to repeat things. My father listened but didn’t interrupt. I think, in the end, he dismissed it all as nonsense.
According to Marina, she and Pavlik had watched the same parade, enjoying it—until the bright orchestra turned into walking corpses.
They didn’t exactly look like zombies from the movies—but judging by the description, that’s what they were: sagging skin, cracked bones, clothing fused to decaying flesh.
Worst of all—they still moved their broken mouths. Still sang.
" And they all glowed like Christmas lights," — Zhenya added.
When they saw that, they ran to the forest and met up with us. When they looked back, the streets were empty—just an old USSR flag fluttering on a rusty pole.
That day, I learned what radiation sickness was.
Pavlik and I were examined too—but no trace of it was found.
Our parents asked again where we’d gone, but didn’t believe my story.
A week later, Marina died.
Zhenya remained alone in that ward for another month.
I visited him now and then, and he told me more.
— That woman… she was listening to the radio in one of the rooms, really anxious. The announcer said the problem had been “resolved,” that everything was fine. She repeated that phrase about the swans…
He also said all those ghostly townspeople kept twitching, even while standing still. They couldn’t be still—not even for a second. As if they were desperate to get somewhere.
He asked me if I’d seen the girl Masha, the boy Petya, and dozens of other residents. He described them.
Honestly, I couldn’t remember—but I said I had.
That seemed to ease his mind.
He died at peace.
Years passed. Pavlik and I started to forget the tragedy.
Then just a week ago, the illness hit him too—suddenly. Within days, he ended up in that same hospital, in the same ward. I feel like it’s waiting for me next.
Before they took him, sensing it, Pavlik gave me his “research”—mostly internet printouts and newspaper clippings.
The last time I saw him—still mostly unscathed—he asked me to read everything and not come back. He wanted me to remember him as he was.
From those notes, I learned many disturbing things.
First—the town. In the ’90s, many residents died of the same illness.
Those who left in ’83–’84 said it all started with the parades.
They partied and danced when they should have been running for their lives—because some guy said everything was fine.
And leaving meant abandoning everything—even the clothes on their backs.
No one wanted to lose what they had.
So they stayed—stayed in that illusion.
Our Masha and her mom and brother were in the story too—the Prokofyev family.
Their relatives had moved to another city in the ’60s. They kept inviting their cousins to visit—but their father wouldn’t let them go.
He worked as a meteorologist, and that day he was muttering on the phone (the red rotary one, the only one in the whole dorm) about winds and radiation.
But Masha was still sent to meet the guests.
Right before the parades, all the animals left the town—even the wild ones from the forest, which wasn’t so thick back then.
But the main thing?
The swans didn’t dance on the blue screen.
And that meant everything was just fine.
