The Tale Of Groza

My first memory is of my grandad spitting at the TV. I must have been about four. He used to do that regularly, usually when the programme was about something that he didn’t like. I would sit next to his bed in my favourite straw chair with a peony flower cushion that my grandma made especially for me. His wrath was extraordinary and unlike anything I have seen. His jaw would begin to shake, and he looked like a priest in a trance, about to expel the devil out of a possessed soul. His neck and body would arch backwards slightly, and he would shoot the saliva out of his mouth as far as 8ft, like a Spitting cobra. He never missed. 

’I knew that Canadian fuck could never run that fast! You see, they found out he was injecting marihuana in his veins. There is no one better than Lewis!

My grandma sat in her sofa chair on the other side of the room and had little opinion. After the grandad’s outburst, she would put her embroidery kit aside and grab a cloth to clean our Yugoslavian 80s TV.

‘You see, Len, these hippies are hard to spot. They are druggies and thieves. They thought they could stop the war in Vietman, but they couldn’t.’

He talked to me while secretly pouring some beer from his bottle into my empty milk cup. He made sure grandma never saw. He could never pronounce the name Vietnam correctly, but it made no difference to me. I listened to his stories and watched him in awe, speaking and holding a cheap cigarette with partially missing fingers, blown away by a faulty rifle during WWII. I didn’t understand what he was saying to me, but I adored him. He spoke to me like an adult and let me try everything that kids were not allowed to do under any circumstances. He never poured more than an ounce of beer into my cup, but I believe this early exposure made me acquire a taste for it later in life. I never shot up marijuana in my veins; I smoked it, though.

I was born in Croatia (former Yugoslavia), in a village called Suza (Tear), which is part of Osijek-Baranja County, in the far north-east region of Slavonia. It had a population of around 800 when I was growing up, but this number declined over the years as younger generations moved out to bigger cities and abroad to find a better life. Even though Suza is in Croatia, it was, and still is, a Hungarian village. It remained so since the end of the Habsburg rule. My grandparents and my mum were born and raised in the village. My grandma told me that her family was once very wealthy and was one of the first families to begin the industrial development of the Austro-Hungarian empire, supplying pig iron. They eventually shut down their factories due to competitors undercutting their prices. I also heard from my mum that my great-grandfather gambled away the remainder of their wealth. They were left with nothing and eventually settled in Suza to attempt farming and land management.

My father’s family was German. They were a part of an ethnic German-speaking group called Danube Swabians who settled in different places in Eastern Europe, mainly around the river Danube, where the name originates. His ancestors lived in the village of Suza for two centuries until the local authorities forced them to move from their homes after WWII. The same happened to many German families; the locals blamed them for the suffering imposed by Nazi Germany. Some families were sent back to Germany, and some to work in camps in the Soviet Union. My father’s family found refuge in Graz, Austria. A few years later, his father died of a mysterious infection, and his mother died of kidney failure shortly after. The plight of the refugees did not evoke any compassion from the locals; life was cruel for everyone in those days. My father briefly stayed in an orphanage somewhere near Graz and then was cared for by a foster family whom he never talked about. Austria never felt like his home. When he turned eighteen, he went on a 224-mile pilgrimage from Graz to Suza. Why he did it remains a mystery. Maybe he was on a mission to claim back his ethnic heritage, or perhaps he just wanted to find and see if the house of his ancestors still existed. It was gone.

Instead, there were colourful vineyards and vine cellars. Mr. Farkas, a known wine producer in Suza, took in my father. He gave him a job as a vineyard assistant, and soon enough, he was his assistant winemaker. He treated him as his son. When my parents got married, my father moved into my mother’s family house, but he continued to work and remained loyal to Mr. Farkas for decades. This type of loyalty is rare nowadays. Today, people moan about doing any work that’s ‘not in their contract.’

I was an only child and was doted on by my parents and grandparents. Our family home was warm and humble; we never had a lot of money but were spiritually rich. My early childhood was bliss. I grew up in a cosy, three-bedroom bungalow with a beautiful garden, a small vineyard, and a 30-square-foot chicken coop at the back. We had about a dozen chickens, and I spent my days chasing, setting up traps, and inflicting trauma on them.

The village of Suza isn’t a typical set of houses clustered around a centre; it is more of a long stretch of an unmaintained road. It appears large because it’s connected to a neighbouring village, Zmajevac, where my mum worked as a primary school teacher, and I went to school. Having my mum as a class teacher wasn’t a privilege, and I soon discovered there were no such things as free rides. I would always get double the homework because the expectation was to excel academically as a teacher’s daughter. I hated it.

My grandparents and mum spoke to me in Hungarian, while my father spoke to me only in German. Although school lessons were in Croatian, we also learned German as a second language. I only appreciated being trilingual much later in life.

Unlike today, teachers had power and authority back then and didn’t put up with any hogwash from kids. They also had all the support from school and parents, so if any student got grounded in school, they would shit themselves because that meant another punishment at home. Misbehaving was not an option. I had a German language teacher who was an alcoholic and would come to classes in two different shoes: one black and the other grey. She was also well known for corporal punishment and had a long cane ready for use on the palms of the students’ hands each time we got The Lorelei by Heinrich Heine wrong. On some days, she was severely intoxicated in class, and she sat in her chair giggling while we worked on our written assignments, trying to figure out different endings to the adjectives and which gender marker to use.

My grandma was a devout Catholic and was a slave to the moral law. She regularly attended the local church for various sacraments and endless masses, and of course, she dragged me to each of them with her. She often kept vigils for the sick and occasionally dragged me to attend wakes with her as well. I didn’t mind going to those because it meant I could see a dead body. It made me feel grown up, but I never understood what being dead truly meant.

The most dreaded day of the week was a Sunday because she would wake me up early to attend Sunday Mass. She always taught me that Sunday is the most important day of the week as it signifies Resurrection and the possibility of living forever. I never understood why someone would want to live forever; being a child already took forever, but I followed her without objection.

She never knew how difficult it was for me to wake up in the morning. Despite being sent to bed early every night, I always read books in my room under the bedsheets with a flashlight until the early morning hours. I was immersed in Asterix, Masters of The Universe, The Adventures of Tintin, and all the stories by the Brothers Grimm. Upon arrival at church, my grandma would greet everyone and kiss the priest’s hand before and after mass. I never did it because he scared the shit out of me. He had yellow teeth, yellow fingertips, and nails. He was a heavy smoker. He was also an excessive drinker and was in and out of rehab continuously. Sobriety was hard because he was invited to every special occasion in the village, which was also always followed by copious amounts of celebratory booze.

Every time there was christening, birth, death, wedding, divorce, start of a new job, receiving of inheritance, painting a house, buying a new tractor, anniversary, or graduation, he was there tasting homemade wine, beer, and brandy. He got so drunk at one of the weddings that his head fell forward into a bowl of goulash soup in front of him. It was a while before anyone noticed, and he began drowning in it. Fortunately, the chief of police resuscitated him in time. Even though his breathing stabilised, he was still unconscious. Everyone gathered around and watched his red, goulash-covered face being taken away to the local medical centre. He slept there for a few hours and returned to the party fresh-faced, wearing a different, newly ironed vestment. Mr Farkas insisted he must try his new collection of superior-quality dry wines. The priest began indulging in his ‘hair of the dog’ special; his skin flushed, and soon enough, he was unsteady on his feet again.

The priest owned a 1979 Lada Riva, which seemed to be indestructible. He drove into many ditches and field tracks with it, but the car remained fixable, reliable, and durable. No one knew if he even had a driving license, but he was a priest above all, and no one dared to ask.

He once delivered a eulogy in Osijek, and after a few hours of wine tasting, he got back into his car to drive to another funeral in Suza. He was late and was probably driving at three times the speed limit when he missed a ’sharp curve ahead’ sign. He continued straight on and drove directly into the graveyard. He crashed into the double tombstone of some couple who had been resting in peace for almost a century. Everyone thought he had driven himself to his funeral that day, but he survived. It, indeed, was a resurrection. The Lada survived, too, but the couple’s tombstone was demolished.

The last incident involving the priest before he was sent away to rehab for a longer, much-needed treatment involved him and the railway controller, whose only job was to open and close the wishbone crossing gate when the trains were passing through Suza. There was no train station.

The priest had a female pet goat, who he used to milk twice daily. He was very fond of her and often took her with him for walks. The railway controller had a small maintenance shed at the trackside where he spent most of his time, especially during long winter months and adverse weather. Inside the shed was a dated signal board and various inputs and indicators, most of which were out of order. He often had to lower and lift the gates manually. He worked long hours, and eventually, when his wife kicked him out due to his alcoholism, he brought a bed, a heater, and a small fridge to keep in the shed and moved in.

One day, he invited the priest to the shed to try a new type of blackcurrant and strawberry wine, and the priest gladly accepted the invitation. The priest had already attended another ceremony that day and arrived already plastered, accompanied by his goat. As he arrived, the crossing gates were shut as a cargo train passed. The road seemed busier than usual. He secured his goat using a special ‘figure 8 knot’, which he learned how to do in his younger days when he used to rock climb. This way, the goat would be secure.

The priest and the controller possibly drank so much alcohol together that it caused them both temporary loss of hearing. Or perhaps the obsolete train tracking system failed to provide the correct timing and location of the next train coming. No one will ever know for sure. The controller suddenly heard the ear-splitting sound of another train hooting continuously and approaching the crossing. He sobered up instantly. He peeked outside the shed and saw a train coming, now less than 200 yards away. There was also a vehicle approaching from the road. There was no time to go outside and lower the gates manually. He grabbed and strenuously pulled a handle on the control panel and looked out again. It worked. He was relieved to see the gates begin to lower exactly a second before the train passed the crossing.

For a moment, he thought he saw something stuck on one of the gate bars, but it must have been a piece of tumbleweed bush. Tumbleweed bushes were very common because of the surrounding barren agricultural fields where strong winds detach dry bushes and roll them around like in the Sonoran Desert. The brakes of a car approaching made a horrible squealing noise. The controller ran outside to see that the car screeched to a halt inches from the gate. If he had waited another moment, a catastrophic accident would have occurred. The priest ran outside, too, praying and blessing the people in the car. Everyone was safe, and the controller opened the gate to let the car through.

Suddenly, the kids sitting in the car’s backseat looked at the gate and began screaming their lungs out. The car driver started screaming, too. A yelp of shock escaped the priest as he looked up. His beloved goat was tied to the gate and hung fifteen feet off the ground by the neck. Upon earlier arrival, the priest must have found the nearest solid object to secure the goat, and he left her there to go and enjoy his drinks. He never even noticed that she was tied to the gate bar. The goat had already been hung after the previous train had passed, so any resuscitation attempt would have been hopeless. The whole scene felt like a Western movie but without the magic touch of Ennio Morricone’s music. There were only crickets chirping in the cornfield. A gust of wind blew into the fields, making the goats’ hooves rattle against the gate. She had gone to Heaven.

We never saw the tobacco-stained priest again. There was gossip that he would be moved to another parish when he was out of rehab. A handsome young priest had arrived in the rectory by the end of the week. He was the talk of the village. Our parish grew significantly following his arrival. There was a sudden increase in church attendance, especially by women. My mum suddenly became religious, too.

My first neighbour on the left was Mr. Kussmann. He had two sons, separated by a twenty-year age gap. His older son moved to Austria for work, married an Austrian girl, and settled in Linz. His younger son was my age and was my first and only true childhood friend. His name was Ivan, but everyone called him Terrible, like the infamous prince of Moscow, Ivan the Terrible. I’m not exactly sure where his nickname came from because there was nothing ‘terrible’ about him; he was humble and meek. He was only possessed by Satan when he hung out with me. I believe the nickname originated from a fight he got into when he was little. Some kids from the street tormented him with derogatory comments about his auntie, and he hit them to defend her honour. No one expected a skinny boy like him to be a good fighter. Perhaps the lower muscle mass on his body enabled him to strike faster, or his rage caused an uncontrollable adrenaline rush that turned him into a raging beast. He was very protective of his aunt. She and his brother were the only positive role models in his life. His parents mistreated him and beat him up quite regularly.

Mr Kussmann was recognised as an excellent brewer. He supplied all the towns in the area with his exquisite beverages. He was confident and well-respected in the community. No one knew what an evil, nasty, and cold-hearted abuser he was behind closed doors. Terrible never talked about it, but I heard the belting, screaming, and crying through my window almost every night. His mother usually stuck to shouting and used corporal punishment as a last resort. Maybe this upbringing made him resilient in the face of adversity later in life.

I knew Terrible was gay since we were little. His brother used to visit from Austria with his wife, who was the hottest-looking woman the village had ever seen. She wasn’t beautiful in a classical sense, but her dress style made her stand out. She wore tight and light-coloured see-through dresses with black thongs underneath, which were even tighter. No one in the village had thongs in those days. She had a great body and a fantastic round ass; she was a true man-eater. Everyone stared at her ass. Mr Kussmann gazed at her ass. My dad and I gazed at her ass. Everyone but Terrible.

The most popular and only restaurant in Suza was Piros Csizma (Red Boots). Terrible’s brother sometimes took us there for a treat, and he and his wife played pool. She bent down and twisted from every angle, sticking her ass out to get the ball in, and everyone stared. The waiter and all the guests in the restaurant stared. Terrible played with his swirly straw and sipped his juice.

His brother often asked him what present he wanted from Austria. He wanted a Barbie, but he constantly lied and asked for something more boyish, such as a football, a toy gun, or a racing car. Since I wanted a Barbie too, I asked my parents if they could give money to his brother so he could bring one from Austria for me. I begged hard, and they agreed. Not only did I get a Barbie during the next visit, I also got a Ken doll, a little house, a pink toy car, and clothes and shoes for dressing up. His brother told my parents that Barbie was on sale, so he bought extra items with leftover money. We knew that was a lie. He purchased the extra stuff with his own money so Terrible and I could play together. He knew.

Terrible and I were over the moon; no one in the village had Barbie dolls. He would come to my house and have Barbie tea parties; Terrible would play with my mum’s makeup kit, and I would pretend Barbie and Ken kissed. Even though the dolls had no genitalia, I rubbed their pelvic region together and pretended they fucked. I guess I just copied what I saw dogs do when they dry-hump each other.

Terrible, and I had once sneaked into one of our neighbour’s wine cellars after school. We must have been about eight. We wandered around, licked the taps of the barrels, and began stumbling around, pretending we were drunk. Terrible found a pack of cigarettes behind one of the barrels; they looked like they had been there for some time. Inside of the pack was a lighter.

‘Should we smoke one?’ he asked as he was already taking one out and preparing to light it.

‘No, my grandma said cigarettes make your ears grow large, and you will look like an elephant.’

‘No, it’s cool. I already smoked at my auntie’s house, and look, my ears are fine.’

Terrible often sought refuge at his aunt’s house, especially when the beatings grew more frequent. She lived two streets down from us. Her husband was a lorry driver and he was away from home most of the time. She seemed happy and fulfilled as a housewife, but appearances can be deceptive. She also seemed lonesome at times. They didn’t have children, so Terrible was like a son to her.

She was undoubtedly the most sophisticated woman in the whole of Slavonia, a woman who wouldn’t leave the house to post a letter without having her full makeup and hair done. She was voluptuous and flirty but never vulgar, always full of style. She wore polka-dot dresses, which were tight on the waist, and she always walked gracefully on killer high heels without missing a step. I often wondered if she had slept in them, too. Her hair was immaculate, and she had perfect waves and curls. Terrible and I used to watch her style her fringe by rolling her hair in her fingers and securing it with bobby pins. She then used a hair spray the size of a baseball bat to set everything. Her makeup stood out: her porcelain skin, blood-red lipstick, and black eyeliner with a flick on the sides. This detail gave her olive-green eyes a captivating cat look. She was our style inspiration and the reason why I fell in love with pin-up later in life.

Her bedroom was the most enchanting place in the house. She had an exquisite dressing table, which was hand-painted with watercolours. It had drawings of colourful exotic birds and flowers on it. She had body powder puffs and fancy-looking perfumes that sprayed luxuriously delicate and intoxicating mists. By the windows stood a four-panel Chinese Coromandel screen. She was probably the only person in Croatia who had furniture and antiques from the Far East. Next to the dressing table was an enormous salon-style standing hair dryer, which she often used. She sat on a chair with her hair rollers on and smoked cigarettes with an extended filter while drying her hair. She looked otherworldly.

She used to tell Terrible and me that people will always stare at you, so at least give them something to stare at. Her eccentricity made her disliked by the local community, but she was never bothered by the village gossip.

Terrible and I lit our cigarettes, puffed, and giggled uncontrollably. We felt so grand. We put the cigarettes back where we found them and ran home. I kept waking up that night and going to the bathroom to check my ears. The morning after, I was relieved they were the same size.

Terrible and I got into all sorts of scrapes together, but our charm and innocent-looking faces often allowed us to get away with murder. We were the daredevil duo who only got caught occasionally. We always walked home from school together hungry. Our school meals were inadequate and consisted of a slice of bread with jam or pâté which was probably made of pig’s ears and assholes. The school budget was supposedly very tight. However, the school’s finance manager had just bought himself a brand-new Trabant 1.1.

Most of the households in Suza had fruit trees outside their houses. The beginning of autumn was our favourite time of the year because most of our favourite fruits were ready to be picked. There was a house at the end of our street with the juiciest plums, but the woman who lived there was always on the lookout and ready to chase thieves away with her chestnut stick. Terrible and I took our chances one day and began picking the plums, stuffing them in our backpacks and t-shirts.

Halfway through our theft, Terrible shouted, ‘Ouch!’

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked while stuffing plums in my bag and mouth.

‘I think a bee stung me,’ he answered, scratching his head.

Just as he uttered those words, I could see a piece of stone coming right at his temple, hitting him vigorously, producing a clear ‘bang’ sound.

‘It’s not a bee; someone’s throwing rocks at us! Quickly, run!’

Just as we began to run, the woman who lived in the house emerged from the bushes shouting, ‘Now I know who’s been stealing my plums; I know who you are, you little shits, I will tell your parents!’

We ran away as quickly as a flash. I felt a stone hit my calf as I ran, but we escaped without being hit again. We hid in the cornfield at the end of our street and quickly ate almost all the plums we had gathered. I don’t know why we ate them all; we could have just thrown them in the cornfield. In that moment of panic, our fight or flight response told us this was the best way to eliminate the evidence. Later that evening, my grandma received a phone call. She didn’t take her eyes off me as she spoke to the person on the other end of the line, and when the conversation was concluded, she came up to me and said one thing only, ‘You’re coming to church with me tomorrow morning. We will end this delinquent behaviour before it’s too late.’

I had a bellyache throughout that night because of the number of plums I had eaten with Terrible, and I was also anxious about what type of punishment I would be receiving the next day. We got up early, and I could barely walk to the church because of the pain and gurgling in my belly. Upon arrival at church, my grandma told me to sit in the front pew while she talked to the priest. I sat there for a few minutes trying to listen to what she and the priest were whispering about while I was trying to stop my colon muscles from contracting and moving anything inside towards the rectum.

‘This all happened because my mulish son-in-law still refuses to baptise her. He says she should have the freedom to choose her own belief, well this wouldn’t have happened if she was committed to our Saviour.’

My grandma continued to talk, but the rest was incoherent because of my growling gut.

I could do nothing to muffle the sounds, which were now beginning to echo through the church hall. The priest looked at me and pointed with his finger to the confessional chamber that stood in the corner. It was an unspoken signal to follow him there. I obeyed. I had never been to a confessional before and had no idea what would happen to me there, but at this point, I was so focused on not shitting myself that I didn’t even care. We entered the confessional, and I was relieved there was no gallows or guillotine inside. The priest sat behind a black lace curtain and incoherently sang words of praise and blessings. He then said that the Almighty will absolve me from all my sins. He then stopped and said I may begin my confession.

‘I will, but I need a toilet first,’ I cried while sweat dripped down my forehead.

’You should begin with ‘Bless me, Father, for I have...’ the priest calmly continued.

‘I will, but you don’t understand...!!’ I sobbed as I interrupted him due to an incredibly loud borborygmus, followed by a deafening fart and uncontrollable diarrhoea right down my pants. It took me a few moments to realise that I had just violently shat myself in church.

The priest went quiet and then rapidly stormed out of the confessional. The chamber must have smelled like the ninth circle of Dante’s Inferno.

My grandma walked with me home in silence. It was hard for me to walk with all the shit still in my pants, but I somehow managed. I wanted to curl up and disappear; I tried not to drown in shame. My grandma never took me to church again.

*

A house next to Mr. Kussmann belonged to his cousin, a tractor mechanic. Even though they were cousins, they hadn’t spoken in over twenty years - something to do with unequal plot division. The house on our right belonged to Mr. Göring. His surname was spelt exactly like the infamous Reich Marshall, Hermann Göring. Because of his unfortunate surname, he told everyone to call him by his first name, Zoltan. Kids still called him Göring behind his back and did a Nazi salute when he wasn’t looking. He had regular fights with his wife, and he often kicked her out of the house because of her infidelities, but he always took her back in. They had no children, only an unneutered cat that was always pregnant.

The next house belonged to Mr. Kovacs. He was rarely seen due to spending long hours working in the fields. A house next to his belonged to a shepherd who recently moved into our street. No one knew his real name, but he was a spitting image of Boris Yeltsin, and that was what we called him.

The house at the end of our street belonged to Viagra; he was a couple of years older than Terrible and me. He lived there with his younger brother Emil and his dad, who worked in Germany as a porn star in the 1970s. Viagra’s real name was Luka, but he got his nickname because of his dad’s employment background and because he looked exactly like him. Only the three of them lived there. No one knew where the mother was.

Viagra and his brother were undoubtedly the most badly behaved-children in our village. They weren’t just naughty; they were malicious. At no time were Terrible and I ever allowed to play with them. This was often difficult as they lived on our street and were impossible to avoid during the long summer holidays. Their dad was not around much because he owned an illegitimate manufacturing firm outside the village that produced fake brandy and vodka. He had bought the factory with his porn star money, and he spent most of his time working there. They produced similar shit to that sold during Prohibition in America in the 1920s, and many people in the county suffered severe poisoning as a result of the tainted alcohol he sold them.

He also owned an illegal bar called Abys, not far from the rail tracks at the end of the village. Customers of that bar regularly suffered seizures, temporary blindness, hypothermia, and concussion, but they always came back for more. It didn’t matter to them that they drank antifreeze; they got the best bang for their buck, and that’s all that mattered. The railway controller was one of their VIP customers.

One evening, Terrible came to fetch me to go outside as Viagra was going to tell scary stories in the cornfields to all the kids from the street. I instantly had bad vibes about it, but my love for stories prevailed. The sun set below the horizon, and the moon shone in the sooty black sky. About five of us sat in the cornfields at the end of our street. The soil was still tepid beneath us from a hot summer’s day. Crickets chirped and flies annoyingly buzzed around us. Viagra sat in the middle, holding a torch underneath his chin, which made him look incredibly creepy. He waited for everyone to settle and began telling the tale.

’It all began with a drizzle, slowly progressing into a torrential downpour, followed by a roaring thunderstorm. It was a full pink April moon in 1945. Dusk settled in the village and the surrounding fields and hills. Everyone was finished with their day and was back in their cosy homes, having dinner and preparing for bedtime. Golden cornfields became dark and grey, and their elongated shadows started to emerge. On the top of the hill behind the village, the windmill wheel continued to turn, with the wind lashing through it, making it creak like an old wooden door. The miller looked at it as he peeked through the window and thought - ‘All this power and energy and nothing to grind.’ The Germans had raided the village twice already, and what they didn’t manage to take, Partisans did. There was nothing left.

The miller had secretly buried a few grain bags in the fields to use during the ceaseless, cold winter months. Even though no grain was left, he maintained the mill and made the necessary repairs to ensure it continued to operate smoothly. He slept on a straw-filled palliasse that he had made himself and used old linen grain bags as cover. A blazing fire was burning in the hearth, and he decided to sit on one of the log seats surrounding it. A sudden chill seemed to grip the windmill, and no matter how close he was to the fire, he couldn’t get warm. The rain continued, and he decided to go to bed.

The miller suddenly awoke to the sound of random knocking on the door. It was just after midnight, and the knocking provoked unexplainable fear in him. No one ever visited the windmill, especially during the night. Sometimes, it could be months before he saw another human being. He got up and proceeded to walk cautiously towards the door.

‘Who is it?’ he asked once, but there was no answer.

‘Who’s knocking at this hour?’ No reply. The miller was starting to become agitated that there was still no answer.

He cautiously opened the door and peeked outside. There was no one in sight. He glanced down briefly to check if the rain and grime had damaged the door’s locking mechanism, but it all functioned well. There had been some issues with a lock for a while, and he’d meant to fix it. As he was about to close the heavy pine door, he glanced back up and saw a person with their head bowed down, wearing a hooded black cape standing right before him. A chill crept down his spine; he trembled and gasped for breath.

‘Oh, I didn’t see you there; what can I do for you?’ the miller asked, unable to move a muscle as the blood rushed from his heart into his limbs.

The person still stood there and didn’t respond. The miller sympathised and decided to show kindness. It had not stopped raining yet, and the mysterious visitor was probably only looking for a temporary shelter.

‘Please come in; you must be drenched to the skin. Come, sit by the fire; it hasn’t gone out yet, and you can warm up.’

The miller opened the door, and the person silently followed him inside.

The miller grabbed a couple of logs from the firewood pile and chucked them into the hearth. A sudden popping noise and a spark made the fire cheer and flicker. The miller was startled as he felt a cold breath on his neck. He turned around and saw the hooded man still standing by the door. He couldn’t see his face and had to rely on the fire for visibility. The Germans had taken his only oil lamp.

‘Come and sit by the fire.’ The miller continued his warm reception.

The visitor approached the log seating area and sat silently for a while. The miller couldn’t see his face clearly, but the fire became progressively larger and hotter, and the room grew brighter. Underneath the hood, a colourless face began to appear. He could also see emotionless, reptilian-like eyes, but the vision was still unclear and hazy.

They sat silently for a little longer, and the miller continued, ‘Where are you from?’

The visitor remained mute, and the miller became agitated by the lack of response. As he got up to ask him politely to leave, a sudden rush of air caused one of the logs to burn more fiercely and produce an uncanny, roaring sound. At least the miller thought it came from the log.As the room brightened, he looked at his visitor, who was still sitting, and saw a pair of legs underneath the tatty robe.

The knees were covered in long, thick hair and were bent backwards. Instead of feet, large, black, nail-like growths covered the feet. The miller looked again and suddenly turned pale out of sheer terror. His heart hammered, and he broke out in cold sweat. His blood ran bitter cold, and he shook like a leaf. They were not feet, they were hooves...′

Viagra suddenly stopped talking. Even though he was a troublesome character, his storytelling skills made him a master of suspense.

‘And?! What happened after?’ we all eagerly exclaimed.

‘We don’t exactly know what happened after, but we know that the miller’s hair turned entirely grey that night, and he became severely, mentally disturbed. He was often seen walking around the village, talking to himself. He continued to live alone. One day, he disappeared and was never seen again. For decades after, people reported seeing obscure hoof prints in their back gardens and fields outside the village. Dozens of people and children are reported missing every year in the country around April.’

‘Hold on, we’re in April now,’ Terrible suddenly realised.

There was a moment of silence and panic; my throat started to tighten, and we all began to choke up. A sudden, deafening clang sound blasted out of the cornfields. We all screamed and began running for our lives. As we ran, we could hear Viagra and his shithead brother laughing hysterically behind us. His brother held cymbals in his hand and continued to clang them together to show us it was all a prank. He must have been hiding in the cornfields near us the entire time, waiting for the right moment to hit them together and frighten us to death. It worked.

The tale of Groza gave me many sleepless nights.