Transcription
Albina Nuri, ambulance. Home, - Demyan asked hopefully, when Elizaveta Maksimovna opened the door and, not without effort, climbed into the seat. Tired from the shift, and her legs hurt, varicose veins. The ambulance was parked in the courtyard, in a small square surrounded by five-story buildings. The last call turned out to be simple. A banal rise in blood pressure in an old woman. The doctor gave an injection, wrote recommendations on a piece of paper. Next, the old woman would have to see her local therapist. There are two of them in the brigade: the driver Demyan and the doctor Elizaveta Maksimovna. There are brigades of three people, but this is not their case. A provincial town, a small hospital, exactly the conditions under which you wouldn't wish anyone to be sick and seek medical help. But, as you know, your desire in this case is not asked. Demyan and Elizaveta Maksimovna tried to do their job conscientiously, even with chronic fatigue and low wages. The hardest part was when they had to transport a patient, to deliver them to the hospital. In these cases, they had to rely on the help of relatives or neighbors. The service instructions stated that the driver must remain in his place and guard the specialized vehicle's equipment, and the doctor must ensure medical evacuation and monitor the patient's condition during transportation. But now, fortunately, no one had to be transported. Half an hour until the end of the shift, and Demyan hoped to return to the station soon. However, in vain, as it turned out, he was counting on it. Elizaveta Maksimovna had barely settled next to him on the seat when a message about a new call arrived on her tablet. They were given tablets a couple of years ago in addition to radio communication. It was convenient. The doctor cast a brief, apologetic glance at the driver, as if she were to blame that they couldn't go home. "Oh, where are we going?" - Demyan sighed. "Vasilievsky Lane, house 28." The driver frowned. "That's in the industrial area, right?" That's what one of the four districts of the city was called, considered the most disadvantaged. "That's not our territory, is it?" - Demyan remarked. "Why all of a sudden?" "They reorganized everything recently. There was a new distribution order the other day," the doctor said. "Ah, yes, you just got back from vacation yesterday." So, we have new settlements. Apparently, this is exactly it. Demyan popped a piece of gum into his mouth and started the engine. If necessary, then necessary. Vasilievsky, so Vasilievsky. "Novozhilova Daria Ivanovna, 35 years old," the doctor continued reading. Neighbors called. Scanty information. "They're stupid, they can't report anything properly," Demyan dropped indifferently. "Maybe they're drunk, Daria and the neighbors, as long as we don't have to drive." They continued to exchange short, choppy phrases. They had no strength left to move their tongues. It's no joke, a whole day on their feet. Shifts are 24 hours. By law, they are now entitled to three days off, but all employees, as a rule, took extra shifts. The reasons are simple, and there are only two of them. Staff shortage - that's one. Staff shortage of money - that's two. Elizaveta Maksimovna, for example, has a mortgage. And Demyan, in addition to loans, also has to pay alimony to his ex-wife. In every family, old and new, he had a child growing up, so both of them were hustling, working extra jobs. He in a taxi. She went on a new duty every other day. As the medics joked, if you work a standard schedule, you have nothing to eat, and if you take extra shifts, you have no time. But everyone had long gotten used to it, and Demyan and Elizaveta Maksimovna too. Such is life, why complain. The car drove slowly through the streets that were reluctantly waking up. Cars were leaving the courtyards. Pedestrians trudged along the sidewalks. Some dragged children by the hand. The sun was still warming with half its strength, but the air was already hot. The forecast promised up to +3 today. The heat of the past few weeks had dried out the city. The trees looked withered and sick. The streets were gray with dust. The faces of passersby were displeased, gloomy. "They promise rain on Friday," Demyan said weakly. The doctor did not answer, and he saw that the woman's eyes were closed, she was dozing, like a warhorse that can fall asleep standing up, as long as no one disturbs it. Alright, let her sleep. It's about 15 minutes to drive. The streets are almost empty. Meanwhile, Elizaveta Maksimovna was not just dozing, she was sleeping, and soundly at that, she was even having a dream. A terrible nightmare. It was as if she was living again in a tiny room in a semi-basement, where she, her husband Lyonya, and their daughter lived until they managed to get a mortgage and move. Only in reality, from the window, they could constantly see the legs of passersby walking past the house, shuffling, hurrying, rushing, trudging along. And now, in her dream, instead of the city street outside, a river flowed. Black, swift, icy. The doctor shivered, looking at the water, and was terribly afraid that the thin glass would not hold, the river would break through, water would flood the room, and then they would drown. "Don't be afraid, Liza, what's the point now. We can't get out anyway," said Lyonya, sitting on the sofa, and raised his head. The husband had no eyes. Someone had torn them out, and Lyonya was looking at Elizaveta Maksimovna with bloody holes. She screamed wildly and woke up, covered in sweat. "Slept a little!" - Demyan chuckled good-naturedly. "Oh, what a dream," she replied. "You should have woken me up." "And I was just about to. We've arrived. We're driving through the industrial area. Vasilievsky Lane soon." The industrial district looked bleak. Most of the enterprises were not working; on both sides of the street were two-story barracks, plus kiosks sticking out haphazardly here and there, 24-hour stores, hairdressers with fancy names like Elegi or Vivian. The ambulance drove past a school and a kindergarten and dived into a narrow lane. "Vasilievsky," Demyan announced. He had to slow down. The car was almost crawling. Houses stood close together on the right and left. There weren't numbers everywhere, but here's number two, then four, and on the other side, immediately seven. Number thirteen, eighteen. It feels like no one lives here. "How did you figure that out?" "There are fences," she said distractedly. To be honest, Elizaveta Maksimovna didn't really look closely, she still hadn't recovered from her dream. Her husband's face and the black water outside the window were before her inner eye. The fences were leaning, about to fall. And look, the windows in that house are broken. "In the courtyards, I see, there are dumps, garbage. If people live here, then not everywhere," the driver continued to reason, turning the steering wheel. The lane ended. In front of them was a vacant lot overgrown with grass. Further on, half-ruined structures were visible. Demyan braked sharply, and the doctor was thrown forward, and then backward. "Careful!" - she grumbled. "Where is the twenty-eighth?" - the driver asked indignantly. "There's the twenty-fourth, and on the odd side, it's the nineteenth at all." They looked at each other. A false alarm, perhaps? Jokers. Then followed some unprintable words. It seemed Demyan was right. There were definitely no residential buildings ahead. "Is this the lane, are you sure?" "Am I blind or something?" The words about blindness again brought to mind her husband's eyeless face. And Elizaveta Maksimovna was overcome by a bad premonition. "Let's get out of here," she said. The driver looked at her in surprise. Usually, in such cases, Elizaveta Maksimovna insisted on being absolutely sure of the stated address: "There was no patient in need of help." She herself felt a moment of weakness. Of course, you can't just leave. You have to contact the dispatcher. The doctor tried to bring the tablet to life, fiddled with her finger, but the screen remained dark, like the water in her dream. "Stop it. What's wrong with you, for God's sake," she told herself. "Maybe the battery died," Demyan suggested. "No, I checked, it was fully charged." "It must have broken," the woman sighed. "I'll try the radio." However, nothing worked again. The black box in her hand was silent, it wouldn't turn on, it didn't want to work. "And the mobile phone doesn't have reception," Demyan stated. "A dead zone, apparently. Alright, that's it, let's go. The shift is over anyway." "I can't turn around here, I'll have to drive further," said the driver, driving onto the vacant lot and looking for a place to turn around. "Let's just not puncture a tire, not get stuck," it occurred to both of them. It's unknown what's lying in the grass. The lane they had come from was left behind. And it turned out that the vacant lot was quite extensive, surrounded by trees. Here and there, the ruins of houses stuck out. "And look, what's that!" - exclaimed the doctor. Demyan stopped the car and looked where she was pointing. Near one of the houses, a police car was parked. "What is it doing here?" - Elizaveta Maksimovna asked foolishly. "There's no one inside, it seems," Demyan stretched his neck, peering. "We should probably go and look," the doctor said uncertainly. Neither of them wanted to do it, but, apparently, they would have to. The doctor and the driver got out of the car. It was cold outside. Where did the recent heat go? Could the weather really change, contrary to the forecast? "It's been here for a while," Demyan said, for some reason in a whisper, and he was right. The car wheels had sunk into the ground, the sides of the car were rusted, the windows were intact, and indeed, there was no one inside. "They came here, abandoned their cars, and left on foot," Elizaveta Maksimovna said, puzzled. Demyan scratched his chin. "Some kind of idiocy. That's not how it happens." Elizaveta Maksimovna looked around. A little further into the vacant lot, there was another car, this time a fire truck, also empty, no doubt about it, and also seemingly having long become part of the landscape. The doctor didn't notice it right away, because the car was almost completely hidden by a sprawling lilac bush. "And also," she exclaimed. "It's getting dark." They stared at each other. The woman was right. It was about 8 AM. But if you didn't know that, you might think that the sun had set not long ago and darkness was creeping onto the vacant lot. In addition, it was cold. And it was supposed to be a hot day. And it was, the heat was already felt. Only it was outside the vacant lot. "That's enough for me," Demyan said. "Let's get out of here." The doctor fully agreed with him, and the colleagues quickly returned to their car. The sounds of the simultaneously slamming doors sounded sharp, like gunshots, and hit their ears. Demyan turned the key in the ignition. The doctor noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. But nothing happened. "What's wrong?" - Elizaveta Maksimovna asked nervously. He tried this and that, cursing through his teeth, but his actions had no effect. Demyan hit the steering wheel in frustration. "We're stuck. What the hell is this? As far as I understand, the car is broken." "Yes, yes, it's not responding to anything at all." Fear sounded in his voice. And the fact that Demyan, whom Elizaveta Maksimovna had known for many years, had seen in various situations, considered him a composed and calm, not too smart, but decisive person, was so clearly frightened, it broke something inside her. "Let's walk," she said, trying not to show that everything around was abnormal, alarming, and wrong, it started for no reason and it's unknown how it might end. They got out of the car again and headed back towards Vasilievsky Lane. Low clouds clung to the treetops. The empty houses looked gloomy, twilight thickened, and it was no longer possible to lie to oneself that what was happening, the darkness, the cold, was just a hallucination. A gust of wind blew, and the doctor felt herself shivering in her summer dress. "Here's the lane." Demyan reached it first. Elizaveta Maksimovna followed him a little slower because her legs, heavy with blood, were buzzing. "I need to deal with my varicose veins. How long can I ignore it?" "What the...?" Demyan stopped, and Elizaveta Maksimovna, not having time to brake, bumped her nose into his back. "This can't be," she said in a weak voice when she saw what the driver was looking at. The lane ended in a dead end. A house stood across it. House number 28, from where the call came. But it couldn't have been here, otherwise, how would they have gotten here at all? It wasn't even here half an hour ago. "Mommy," Demyan whispered, a forty-year-old man, twice-married father of two children. "Indeed," Elizaveta Maksimovna thought fleetingly. In the most terrible moments of life, we all remember our mothers and turn to them for help. Elizaveta Maksimovna grabbed her colleague's hand, at least he was still real. Everything around seemed like a bad dream. "The cars," Demyan said again in a whisper. "Do you understand? He's on the verge of hysteria." Elizaveta Maksimovna firmly clasped him by the shoulders and turned him to face her. "There's an explanation for everything. Demyan, do you hear me? We'll get out of here." She tried to speak firmly, but her voice trembled. However, Demyan didn't notice. His face contorted, becoming pathetic, like an offended child. Although he looked more thoughtfully now, the panic had subsided a little. "Elizaveta Maksimovna," he said. "You are a smart woman, you have an education. None of this can be, but it is for some reason. These cars, they are emergency service vehicles. Police, fire. The ambulance was missing, and now it's here too." Suddenly, when Demyan said the words about the emergency vehicles, a click seemed to sound in the doctor's head. She remembered, last year or the year before, "Remember, a car disappeared. We discussed it, how a police patrol car vanished into thin air, disappeared with its crew. They never found it. And someone said that this was the second car that disappeared. There was a fire truck too, as if someone was collecting toy cars. Do you remember?" she asked insistently, as if it were important now, at this moment. Demyan did not answer, but someone else did: "That's right, a year and 8 months, and the firefighters have been here for three years." The doctor and the driver turned their heads and saw an elderly, stout man in uniform near house number 28. A policeman. The man stood a few meters away from them, making no attempt to approach. At first, Elizaveta Maksimovna was happy. A representative of the law. Sorting out complex situations is his job. He must come up with something. He must know something. Then she thought that if his words were to be believed, and why not believe them, so much time had passed, but he was still here. "What is happening? Can you explain?" From confusion, the question sounded rather rough, as if a teacher was trying to discipline a naughty schoolboy. "Novozhilova Daria Ivanovna," the policeman said instead of an answer. "We were called to her at Vasilievsky Lane 28." "So she's here?" - Demyan asked. "She was once, several years ago. The house has long been destroyed. They demolished it. And Vasilievsky Lane is also gone. What are you bringing in? Here it is." The policeman smirked. "We're lucky, then. No one sees it. But it opened up to us. Yes, it opened up, and we got here. But there's no way back." "Nonsense," Elizaveta Maksimovna said sternly and looked at Demyan, as if wanting him to confirm her words. "Do you think we haven't tried?" the policeman said sadly. "To get out. But you will try too, of course. Who's going to stop you?" "This is Daria herself," Demyan's voice sounded. "Who is she? Is it all because of her?" "Yes. The right question," the policeman approved. "Her husband killed her. Cruelly. 38 stab wounds. He crushed her bones with a hammer. He found out she was pregnant and decided it wasn't his. He was very jealous and drank like a fish. He was wrong about the child, by the way. It was his." "And what are we to blame for?" - Elizaveta Maksimovna asked quietly. "Well, it turns out we're not to blame," the policeman shrugged. "She was screaming. The neighbors heard screams in the locked apartment, called the police, and they didn't want to go. The district is disadvantaged, if not one thing, then another. They thought the drunks were having a showdown. Then they arrived, but it was too late. And the neighbors called an ambulance, and firefighters. An old man was calling everyone already. The firefighters didn't come at all. The ambulance was already en route to the corpse. So, guys, everyone was to blame, they didn't save her. "And what are we to blame for?" the doctor stubbornly asked again. The policeman turned and entered the entrance. "We were just unlucky," he said over his shoulder. "Daria is taking revenge, luring people here. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes..." The policeman's voice faded into the darkness of the entrance. "So, we were just unlucky? Out of the blue?" - Demyan asked. "Lyonya warned me," Elizaveta Maksimovna thought, remembering the nightmare she had on the way here. Or maybe not Lyonya, but someone else. She just didn't understand. "And do they all live there now, then, in this house?" - Demyan continued to inquire. Elizaveta Maksimovna didn't answer. And what could she answer? She went to the entrance where the policeman had disappeared. Inside, it was very cold and damp, like in a basement. Elizaveta Maksimovna began to climb the stairs, noting to herself that she couldn't hear her own footsteps. It was as if she was in a special space that devoured sounds, light, and time. And time too, of course. On the landing, right on the floor, leaning against one of the doors, sat a person. A corpse, dead long ago, very long ago, only a skeleton remained. A decayed police uniform hung on the bones. Almost without surprise, Elizaveta Maksimovna thought that this was their recent interlocutor, what was left of his physical shell. And the spirit, apparently, wanders here, in the darkness of house number 28, in the vacant lot, near the abandoned car. And the others are somewhere here too. And she and Demyan will join them after some time. "I wonder, now that the ambulance brigade has also arrived, will Daria calm down? Everyone is gathered, no one else will disappear," the doctor inquired in a polite tone. Her voice sounded excessively, paradoxically, calm. And behind this icy calm, Demyan clearly heard the footsteps of approaching madness. He wanted to scream, but his throat constricted, emitting only a weak squeak. Upstairs, voices were heard, or rather, a distant echo of voices that had fallen silent forever, which were still sounding in the dead space. "Let's get acquainted," the woman said loudly from the floor above. And then footsteps were heard. "38 stab wounds. He crushed her bones with a hammer." The policeman's words resurfaced in his memory, and Demyan squeezed his eyes shut so as not to see the one who was heading towards them, and at the same time, knowing for sure that he would have to look her in the eyes, and he would have to look, apparently, until death. This story has come to an end, but here is another truly scary story for you. Click on the picture and listen. Please don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe to my channel Scary Stories by Albina Nuri. All the best. This was Albina Nuri. M.