The One Who Came After Me

"I wish you'd never been born," Mariia said to her eight-year-old daughter. "Ungrateful pig," she thought, and left the apology for morning. Polissia, autumn of 1949. Solomiia had knocked over a cup, and by the kerosene lamp they were wiping milk off the family photograph. After those words the child barely held back her tears, put down the rag and went to bed. Mariia went on scrubbing the cracked glass angrily for another hour.

Setting the frame on the shelf, she noticed a drop of milk in its crack - and wiped that away too. Around two, Mariia was woken by a splashing in a cup. She got up and thought: her daughter must have risen for a drink of water, she could apologize now. In the strip of moonlight the kitchen looked completely empty. The water jug stood stoppered on the shelf. Mariia lit the lamp and carried it to the child's room. At the door, cold clenched her gums.

It smelled of a damp cellar, exactly as she remembered from childhood, when she had helped her grandmother carry down the preserves. The blanket was folded. On the pillow a black stain showed, pressed into the hollow left by a child's head. In the hallway Mariia lowered the lamp a little and saw the gleam of dirty child's footprints leading behind the wardrobe. But beside them went bare prints the length of her forearm. Everything inside her turned cold.

Black slime pooled in the prints of the enormous toes and spilled over their edges. She grabbed the bolt of the entry hall to call the neighbors for help. Behind the wardrobe, Solomiia coughed. Twice, with a short whistle. Mariia shoved the wardrobe aside with her shoulder. Behind it was a small door. Scratched into the wood: "QUIET".

Fighting horror in every cell of her body, she opened the little door and crawled through, bent double. Beyond the door it was spacious, and stairs began, on which her soles made no sound at all. Mariia turned the wheel of the lamp's regulator. There was more light, but it only helped her notice that her fingers cast no shadow on the brick. The fortieth step of a cellar that did not exist in the house.

From a seam between the bricks a thin root protruded; it caught in her hair and suddenly pulled a strand toward the wall. Mariia jerked her head, tearing out a few hairs. The root slowly drew them into the crack. - I wish you'd never been born! - it came from the walls in her own voice, even with that short intake of breath before "you'd".

Somewhere below a spoon clinked. The stairs led to a dining hall. Mariia set the lamp on the bench by the exit. There was another lamp, hanging over the table under the yellow glass of a chandelier. Children in snow-white shirts were eating with spoons far too big for them. It seemed that after each of their swallows, wood scraped under the table. The tablecloth hid their legs.

Beyond the big window stood the gates of her grandfather's homestead, torn down twenty years ago. Beyond them there was no yard, no ground, only perfectly black darkness. - Where is the girl in the striped shirt!? The boy smiled, and a little milk porridge fell from his mouth. Then he turned his head sharply and pointed at a low door. - She's not here, she's already eaten.

The boy fell from the bench. The scraping grew louder. Mariia crouched and lifted the edge of the tablecloth: maybe the children were shifting the bench, maybe her daughter was hiding under there somewhere. The light reached the far legs of the table. Between them was bare floor. Not a single child's foot. And overhead the spoons went on knocking against the bowls. And in the emptiness right before her face, wood slowly scraped against wood. Mariia let go of the tablecloth.

She had to find Solomiia. Above the low door a clock ticked unevenly, in a rhythm far too familiar. Mariia pressed her fingers to her neck. The ticking matched her pulse; when her heart skipped a beat, the clock waited too. She ducked under the lintel and entered a room like a barracks, but with children's beds. The boy slipped in after her. Candles under glass covers lit the beds and the little boards above them: "Get out of here". "It's easier for me without you".

- What's your name, child? The boy pointed at the board above his headboard. On the wall behind him hung a drawing of Mariia's kitchen. Even the crack in the glass of the photograph was in its place. Mariia walked between the beds. The wall repeated her sentence. She clamped her hand over her mouth. The voice finished speaking through her palm. By the far bed a kerosene lamp burned. Solomiia sat beneath a board: "I wish you'd never been born".

A tall, narrow figure was tucking the blanket under her left heel. The right one Solomiia always stuck out. Long fingers left black marks on the snow-white sheet. - You stole my child, you monster! - Children who are nobody's aren't stolen. They are taken, - and having finished, he smiled with his hideous face and stepped back from the bed. Mariia came closer and held out her arms. Her daughter recoiled.

The passage between the beds narrowed. Wooden frames pressed against Mariia's knee, and the ceiling sank so low it touched her hair. Mariia froze. Slowly she lowered her arms. The beds moved apart. The ceiling rose. On her knee the stocking stuck to the scraped skin. Understanding came to her: this place would not let her come any closer than Solomiia allowed.

- I said it out of anger. Forgive me! - What difference does that make to a child? - I love her. Give her back! - she roared. Beneath the clean collar of the hideous figure, long folds stirred. Each of his necks swallowed separately. - This is no prison, and I hold no one. All this while, Solomiia had been watching her mother's hands. - He asked if they'd been glad of me at home today. I said I didn't know. Probably not. He called me to a place where they would be glad.

It's good here, Mama. He takes care of us, he plays with us. Never mind that he's scary. He's kind. Mariia held out her hand. - Solomiia, will you come with me? - No, no, I don't want to! You're always shouting! Always shouting! You'll shout again! Mariia had already opened her mouth to promise "never", and Solomiia was watching her lips.

- I probably will, someday. But I will never again say I don't want you. I had no right. And I should have apologized at once, not waited for morning. Mariia sat down on the bed beside her and laid her hands on her knees, palms up. The board beneath her slowly rose and molded itself around the scraped knee, leaving no chance to move her leg. Solomiia went out and sat down at the table in the dining hall.

The mother waited, and only when the wood released her knee did Mariia follow her into the dining hall. On the nearest bowl the milk skin rose and fell. She held out her hand to her daughter again. Solomiia laid her palm in her mother's. All the spoons froze at once above the bowls. Not one child turned its head. Mariia swallowed. The sound carried through the whole dining hall. - Just don't pull, Mama. I'll walk myself.

They stood up. The tall figure took the lamp from beside the daughter's bed and followed. At the stairs Mariia looked back, and the lamplight fell on the drawing. On the paper, a hand was wiping up milk. The drawn Solomiia was leaving the kitchen. The rag in Mariia's hand was moving. Out of the darkness, voices spoke: - Disappear! - It would be better without you! More, more, the voices would not stop: - I can't take you anymore!

The voices were Mariia's, but she did not remember ever saying such things. She could not draw a full breath. Solomiia stopped. Mariia unclenched her fingers and waited until her daughter took hold of them again herself. They stepped onto the stairs. High above, beyond the open little door, morning was turning gray. - So you did come, - it sounded from below.

Mariia turned, gripping her daughter's hand. Beyond the dining hall a door opened. A yellow lamp lit a single bed. A child threw back the blanket and sat up beneath a board. Then a second door clicked. Then a third. In the light, doors went on clicking. Mariia waited for the last click, but each one was answered by the next. In the rooms, children were sitting up beneath the boards.

Solomiia did not let go of her mother's hand. Mariia set the lamp on a step. Her other hand remained free. In every lit doorway an empty child's palm reached out. - My mommy never came for me. Will you take me?