Beautiful patterns lined the door, trickled down, convexing, concaving down to her feet, caressing the smooth oak. Hands on the door, fingers blended into the door’s intricate tapestry, interlocking with the slender shade of lighter brown canvassing the door. She pressed her chest against it, inhaling the warmth. What a majestic tree it must have been, branches reaching for the velvet cloak of autumn, roots traced in cursive under the rustled leaves, standing impasse. It was always autumn in her imagination, always crimson. Leaning against the remnants of the majestic tree, she rested her head. 

Katja stood, unmoving. Slow, long drawn breaths rose from deep inside her chest, the whisper of winter breathing from inside her. Gradually, almost cautiously she lifted herself from the door, turning towards the room. Katja Zakharova felt chilly, her sleeveless tunic and ankle-length gown were bare, defenseless against the sharp and hostile weather. Winter, at first carried with it icy beauty and the ringing of church bells. Nevertheless by the second week the Buran winds left no doubt of the season’s mercilessness, slashing the people with ice and snow. The hope-ridden walls of red that surrounded her could not help, the winds were much too strong. The fireplace was out of woodstock, the roof shook, shivering. Katja sat on the wooden bench, remembering with a certain fondness the arabesque, lush armchair once hers. It had been taken away, sold, in order to keep the firewood burning. They had found her tear-stained, having cried herself to sleep. 

The fireplace was dying out, its last logs glowing ember with final, tired sparks emitting from them. Pans and jugs lay scattered across the table, left in neglect. Next to them lay a knife. Her eyes drew back to the fireplace. There was the rustic smell of wood burning, she could almost feel it on her tongue, laid scarcely on her taste buds, the ever so slight warmth. 

Katja Zhakharova fell asleep. 

At first she thought she had knocked a plate over in her stupor, no. Someone was at the door. Swathed in a reed blanket Katja approached the door, inquiring. Perhaps the door would open. It didn’t. The presence on the other side did nothing, quiet. Maybe the door wasn’t locked anymore, she thought. Fingers grasped the knob. Nothing. Locked. Katja’s brief slumber had disoriented her, she found herself agitated. Tapping with two knuckles she called, “Mama?”. No response. “Systra?“. Nothing. Shallow breathing could be heard, the slow rise and fall of each breath, but no words. There was somebody there, offering nothing but their presence. 

A disturbing presence. Katja then remembered the first rule; 

No one talked to Katja Zakharova. 

(In a quiet lagoon, devils dwell.) 

Walking away from the beautiful door, she returned to the wooden bench. The presence had not shifted, nor had it made a noise whatsoever. Sleep lulled her yet again, what a beautiful door it is. She quickly succumbed, her eyelashes too heavy. The winds raged on, extracting their debt. Katja lay solemnly, with each breath her slender body shivering ever so slightly. 

The Buran’s power was intense, aggravated, and deadly. Not many in the city dared to venture in this weather, the children had been warned, shops had been shuttered. The blizzard ensured no one could see more than their arm’s length. Shut in their stone houses they waited for it to stop. It had claimed the whole of their town and stretched across hundreds of plains, they had lived and died with it. For them, it was the edge of the world. Nothing beyond. They all waited for the Buran to 

pass. 

This second wave of unconsciousness halted quickly, someone was at the door again. Katja Zakharova was tired, very tired. In front of the very same door, she waited. Maybe this time the door would open. Maybe. Time had all but stopped, it 

was irrelevant now. 

Vacantly gazing at the tapestry she could again hear the shallow breaths on the other side. No noise, just breathing. But there had been a knock, of that she was sure. The blanket unwrapped, tracing her backs, hips, and legs as it fell to the ground. 

It seemed they had reached a stalemate. The presence knew Katja couldn’t go on, she simply couldn’t. 

One witnessing the scene would have been terrified by the eerie silence, almost like a vacuum in space. Surrounding this alien scene, the winds relentlessly howled, unhappy with this standstill. It seemed a move would have to be made. Someone would have to break. They both knew who. A dry sob. With her remaining strength, tears formed under the lining of her eyes, tracing her face as they glistened down. A hoarse sound, another sob. Katja couldn’t, she simply couldn’t. 

Frantic, wild crying broke out. Tears blurred her line of sight. She picked up the knife, screaming, drove into the door, the majestic oak door. She pulled it out, then stabbed it again, slashing into the tapestry. The music of the ungodly symphony of feverish sobs and the dull thuds of the knife was lost in the wind. The tapestry lay bloodied at her feet, the oak door cut and 

defiled. 

The knife slipped through her fingers and onto the floor. Pale and shaking, she stood motionless, unable to comprehend. 

There was nobody home, except her. 

She cried, howled, screamed, and weeped. 

For days, the presence watched her, silent. 

Days after, Katja fell asleep, dreaming of ice, wind, and the oak door. 

As she slept, 

The winds quietened. 

Glossary: 

Buran: Buran wind is a wind which blows across Iran, eastern Asia, specifically Xinjiang, Siberia, and Kazakhstan. It is a wind of cold air and can be very powerful with high speeds 

Roubles: Formal Russian currency, used in the Russian Empire, Soviet Union, and modern Russia today. One USD is roughly equivalent to 73 roubles. (Modernised ‘Ruble’) Systra: Russian word for sister