Toska

by A. R. Kingston

  I always hated the first week of December, because it happens to be the week we died. It was a frigid Friday night of December second if I really care to be precise, and today just happens to be my deathiversary. That’s right, today is the anniversary of my death, and simultaneously the day I woke up. Hey, one has to celebrate something when they are dead, and the day of your death becomes almost like your second birthday.

  Annoyingly enough, my ghost buddies and I are not the only ones to remember my death day. The locals like to do a small ceremony for me so I know I’m not forgotten. They come to my grave and put out food, drinks, and decorations. I know they mean well, but all they do is remind me of a life I could have had, precisely why I can’t be here. The thought of spending another deathiversary being reminded of my solitude just didn’t sit well with me. It would have been different had Victor been there, but he’s not, so I run to the one place no one cares about Katya, the murder victim.

  In the city I’m just a specter, one amongst hundreds, I disappear into the shadows and no one notices me, no one cares. And so, I find myself at this makeshift platform, hovering above the snow, waiting for the train to arrive, it’s running late. There is no station here, the train just stops by a concrete block which has been poured some time ago to let people on and off, and the people are packed tightly around me trying to keep warm. I hang back and watch them, couples, and women with children, they all make my heart ache.

  To my relief the horn of the train sounds in the distance, it’s low, forlorn cry vibrates the air around me snapping me out of my trance. In the distance, pale-yellow headlamps grow brighter as the train rolls to a screeching halt next to the crowd. I wait for the people to shuffle off and the others to climb on while sidestepping around them, I’m not really a fan of having people walk through me. It doesn’t hurt much when it does happen, but at the same time, I don’t find it enjoyable, it gives me a sensation of being tickled relentlessly. Only in death does one come to figure out what steam feels like when you pass a hand through it.

  When I’m the only one left, I float onto the small walkway leading into the cabin, but I don’t go in yet. Instead, I sit myself down on the rusty steps and stare out into the distance. As the train jerks from its spot, I watch the countryside start to move slowly away from me. There really isn’t much to look at other than trees until you get closer to the city, and so I sit and watch the striped birches roll by, their bare fingers reaching down for the snow heaps below.

  I sit there for some time before the forest fades away and a vast open field comes into view instead. The sky is a pale blue; there is a blanket of snow on the ground, a scattering of birch trees clumped together in herds like zebras, and an old church on the horizon. It’s dark blue onion cupolas rising to the heavens, begging for God to absolve all the sinners that are kneeling beneath their sanctuary.

  Instinctively, I reach for the small gold crucifix around my neck, gripping it tightly in the palm of my hand. Closing my eyes, I want to cry, but that is the one thing I cannot do as a ghost. I want so desperately to rip the cross off and throw it out, but I can’t, it’s now a permanent part of me. Not that I haven’t tried, I tried on many occasions, but the damned thing always comes back. I hate it, I hate it so much, but mostly I just hate myself for being foolishly sucked into a religion and getting spoon-fed lies.

  You must find it ironic to know a ghost detests religion so much, but what do you expect from me? How can anyone expect me to believe in a God after everything I have been through? In life I was a devout Christian; I went to church regularly, I prayed often, and I prided myself on being a genuinely good person. Sure, I was not free of sin, no one is, but I did not deserve this; not my death, not Victor’s death, and not this current state of mine. What kind of God allows for this to happen to his devoted followers? I’ll tell you what kind, not one I ever want to worship again, and truth be told; I doubt he’s even real.

  Now, this cross around my neck is just a bleak reminder of everything I use to be, everything I have hoped to accomplish, and a life I can never have. But as much as I detest it, I also love it at the same time. Even if I could get rid of it, I would quickly regret it because it also reminds me of him, my dearest Victor.

  My papa gave me this cross in church the same day Victor, and I met for the first time. I was only three at the time, and Victor was five. We were so innocent back then. Father Sokolov had just blessed the cross for me, and I was stepping off the stairs to put it on. Victor approached me, smiling the bright smile I have quickly grown to love over the years, his green eyes glistening in the candlelight. He told me it was a beautiful cross and suited me well, even offered to help me put it on. I knew there, and then, Victor was going to be my one and only; we have been inseparable since that day, at least until we were snuffed out from this world.

  Clutching the cross around my neck, I made a vow, to Victor; I would find him, no matter how long it takes. Getting up off my seat I wander through the open door into the half-empty cabin. Glancing around I spot my favorite location to hitch a ride, a small space just behind the single chair at the end of the train. Walking to the area, I slide my way in behind a man sleeping in the seat; a newspaper lays open in his lap as he snores.

  Peeking over his shoulder I scan the headlines, most of it is of no relevance to me. Some foreign politician is visiting us in the spring. A fire took out a blockhouse some kilometers outside the city, miraculously no one died. The weather for the week calls for snow with more snow on top, typical Russian winter. Then there is the headline which catches my eyes, tucked between the weather and the hockey scores it reads:

  Escort Killer Strikes Again

  Another body found outside the metro station.

  Some things just never change, the victims and killers face change, but the dangers of the city remain the same. Scanning through the story, I gather another woman for hire was found outside a remote metro station, drained of blood. The killer is believed to be into the occult, most likely a satanist. I shake my head bemused; it’s amazing the crazy stories people come up with when they are faced with the lack of facts.

  Turning back from the paper, I glance out the fogged-up window, nothing but rolling hills and trees on the horizon. Pressing my back against the wall, I slide down to the floor and settle in for a long ride; there is still another hour left before we get to the city. Left alone with my thoughts, my mind goes directly to Victor, wondering where he is now and what he is doing. Lost in the confines of my mind, my head sways with the train as it chugs along the tracks, inching closer to the capital.

  2

  His Dirge

  A

  s the train draws closer to the city, I begin to feel a small inkling of something amiss. An ominous feeling overtakes me; it seems like a serpent has wrapped itself around my chest and started squeezing. The closer we get to my destination the more uncomfortable I get, a light tickle starts up in my chest, almost like a cough, but not quite. By the time the train pulls into the station a cold flame is burning deep inside of me, making me shiver from its icy flames. Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling I have, I wrap my arms around my shoulders and wait for the rest of the passengers to deboard.

  Getting off the train on the outskirts of the city, I float along with the crowd. Unnoticed by the inhabitants, I follow the flow through the tunnel leading outside. The sun has just started to set, casting an orange glaze over the hazy skyline littered with tall buildings. The air is pungent and musky; the city smells of grime and diesel fuel. The gray clouds gathering above me unleash their load, and small white specks begin to fall down on the ground.

  I drift down the narrow walkway to the small glass and metal booth propped on the corner of the intersection. The bus station reeks of urine and alcohol; this one has not been maintained in decades, I suppose there is no point. This rusting metal booth is just a brief stopping point in life for most people as they shuffle about their day. Unless it happens to be in the center of the city where the to
urist may see it, the city does not bother to upkeep anything that has started to fall apart.

  It’s beautiful, this old metal booth in its dilapidated state. There is an elegance in decay and abandonment which living people don’t see for the most part. One does not really come to appreciate the beauty of death until they have crossed the threshold of our worlds. Most people don’t stop to appreciate life until it’s gone, so I don’t blame them for not noticing the allure which is the end. Everything must eventually come to an end, that is a solemn fact, so for me seeing something rejoin the earth holds a certain appeal. At least the metal gets to rust, just like my body had a chance to decay, while souls such as I are forced to endure between worlds for an undisclosed amount of time.

  As I admire this deteriorating spot, an old diesel bus finally approaches the station beside me. Its white paint has turned charcoal from driving on the roads for so long. The advertising on the side has mostly peeled off, all that remains is a few letters and part of a phone number. It pulls up into the alcove, stopping with a loud hiss, the three sets of doors open with a pained groan. Going for the door on the end I allow the people to get off. When there is no one left I drift on as the doors struggle to shut behind me. It’s late; the bus is likely making one of its final runs, so not many people are on, most of the seats remain empty.

  I sit next to a frail babushka, with her head covered in a colorful scarf much like the one I use to have. The old woman settles in, bundling up in her wool coat, she places a bag of produce on the floor by her feet. Reaching into the pocket of her coat she pulls out a handkerchief, coughing up a bit of blood on to its starchy white surface. I feel pity for her; she doesn’t have long left in this world, she’ll be dead by the end of the week.

  Just another thing you get to experience as a ghost, the lovely scent of death that sticks to a person before they are about to die, almost like the body starts to rot before the spirit knows it has to let go. It was the most unnerving thing I experienced, well, after I realized I was a ghost. At first, I didn’t like being able to smell death; I did not want to know when someone was about to die. Now it doesn’t bother me as much, not sure if I got used to it or if I simply came to terms with the cold fact that everyone must die at some point, young or old. Even babies have the scent; it’s a harsh reality the living are spared from, for us ghosts, it’s as routine as the change in seasons.

  In any case, it’s not a pleasant smell, and it just gets more pungent the closer a person gets to meeting their maker. Makes me wonder how bad I smelled to the lonely Dedinovo spirits on the fateful night, as Victor and I passed away. If any of them did smell me they sure did not tell me, it’s not something we spirits talk about. We find it easier to come to terms with our predicament without lamenting about insignificant details of one’s past.

  There is a small comfort I can take from all this. For the most part, these people get to die a peaceful death, and their spirit will go on to the afterlife like it is supposed to. They will rejoin their loved ones, and they will hopefully live happily in the next world. A world blocked off to us floaters. As long as one dies a death free from strong ties to this life, they will get to know peace. It’s people like me, those who are chained to this realm by the bonds of our own creation who must look on and suffer knowing when someone is about to die.

  With a heavy sigh, I tilt my head back and turn it to look out the large window. The lit-up buildings flicker in the distance as the bus passes them by. Melted snow which has landed on the window glistens with the headlights of passing cars. There is something different about the city tonight; it looks more threating than before. Maybe it’s just the disturbing emotions brewing inside me, given that today is my deathiversary, but it seems like a dismal cloud has shrouded the city.

  In time, my bus huffs to a stop at Elektrozavodskiy Most. Disembarking here, I study the area closely. The lights of the city reflect on the dirt covered snow that has been gathered into piles on the side of the road. The city air is bitter, dirty, nothing like the fresh country air back in my hometown. It has always been a wonder to me how a city could grow to such a size in such a short amount of time. Although I suppose growth is essential to human progress, I still wish it didn’t happen so fast.

  Looking up at the moonless sky, I embrace the white powder coming down and going right through me. I always loved the snow, guess it’s poetic that I had to die in it. Placing my hands behind my back, I set off west, down Bolshaya Semyenovskaya Street, towards the metro station. Strolling down the lifeless street I take notice of the world around me, us ghosts can see a lot more than the living, and what I notice alarms me. On the bus, I thought that it was my imagination, but now I can see the city has been engulfed in darkness.

  This isn’t the typical blackness of night; this dark is something every child is familiar with, one we as adults learn to ignore. It is the shadows you see out of the corner of your eye, lurking under the bed and creeping around on your walls, as you are trying to sleep. These are the boogeymen who haunt our closets and the monsters which permeate our nightmares. This darkness is something far more ancient and sinister than the creations we come up with to explain it. It has no business being in the world of the living, yet here it is, consuming the sleeping city whole.

  A shudder travels down my spine as I watch the mists hiding in the shadows, stalking the living inhabitants of Moscow. Picking up my pace I hope to get away from them, but they appear to be in every corner of the city, waiting to pounce. No matter where I go, there they are, and the faster I move, the more they seem to follow me. Eventually, I have to give up trying to escape them, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk I glance behind me, the monsters have retreated back into the shadows as if they lost all interest in me.

  I find myself standing outside a restaurant selling pelmeni. Briefly, I pause to enjoy their savory aroma and get my mind off the creatures stalking the darkness around me. I can’t even begin to describe how much I miss the taste of my papa’s cooking; it had always comforted me when I needed it most. There are so many fond memories attached to the smell of pelmeni for me that I can no longer stand there, not tonight, and not with the city the way it stands now. Turning my head away from the small establishment, I run to escape the sorrow threatening to destroy me.

  I don’t stop running until I reach the mall, a strange shopping complex the modern people have come up with, but I suppose even it has its benefits. Looking into the pitch-black interior through a set of glass double doors I spotted something. For a brief moment, a pair of vermillion lanterns are staring up at me from a distance, I can feel them probing inside of me, and I concentrate on blocking them out. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they vanish into the abyss of the empty mall. The frightful encounter leaves me shaken, but undeterred. I back up slowly until I feel like I’m safely out of their grasp, then I turn and break into a light sprint heading for the safety of the underground.

  The metro isn’t much further away, so I continue to jog through the slush gathering on the sidewalk, wishing to get away from all the dark, vile things creeping around the blackness surrounding me. The entrance to the station is across the street from something called a McDonald’s, a strange foreign restaurant that sells some unusual food; hot butterbrot with a side of fried potatoes. Can’t say I like the concept of it much, but then again, I can’t exactly try it to see what it tastes like, but now is no time to think about food, so I press on without stopping. Not looking to see if a car is coming or not, I run across the street for the security of the domed lemon building.

  I find myself standing in the snow, looking at the great oak doors in front of me. There I wait for a few minutes, hoping some person will come about to move the heavy doors out of the way for me, but it’s late, and no one comes. Growing frustrated at the lack of foot traffic, I do the ghostly thing and just float through them. Inside the bright interior of the building, I wait for my body to reassemble itself. It’s a prickly feeling, much like being poked by needles, but I
endure for the sake of being out of the shadows. As soon as I am whole again, I set off for the escalator which leads down into the Russian underbelly.

  The concept of moving stairs has always fascinated me, I have never imagined there would come a day that people would not have to walk down the stairs, but could instead stand on them and ride them to their destination. Confining myself to a single step, I begin my descent down the white tunnel illuminated only by glowing orbs rising from the sides of the escalator like small trees from a child's painting.

  The people around don't see me, not that they would see me even if I was able to be seen, they are too busy with their face buried in books, newspapers and electronic devices. It’s funny; people use to make fun of me for the amount of time I spent reading, if only they could see what society has become. Amused by this wordless new civilization which is oblivious to the world around it I continue to ride the steps to the bottom.

  I have watched them build the metro stations, hoping that they would uncover Victor’s body buried somewhere in the process. Much to my dismay, no body was ever recovered. Still, it was a privilege to watch such a thing to take shape before my eyes. All the work that went into making each station unique was admirable, and from what I hear Russia has some of the most beautiful metro stations in the world.

  Many tourists come through these tunnels and passages, and I am yet to see one not stop to take a picture of the masterpiece which is the Moscow metro system. Elektrozavodskaya has always been my favorite station; it’s a strange combination between the Greco-Roman and Industrial era. The black and gray checkered floor is framed by black waves laid into white tiles to resemble the art so often found on Greek jars at your local museum. The marble walls each have a plush bench, carved of marble with a detailed carving of people working above it.