The young man was shivering on the platform, hunching his shoulders against the freezing wind. His thin jacket offered pathetic protection, and to make matters worse, a nasty, stubborn drizzle was beginning to fall. He watched train after train pass by. The client was nearly three hours late, but the rookie realtor held his ground, waiting. He needed this win. None of the senior agents would touch this case; the mansion had been rotting on the market for years, which was exactly why they had dumped it on the newcomer. They had even congratulated him on his "initiation"—hazing him with this garbage property that no one had ever managed to sell. And now, he was stuck in the rain, praying that this mysterious Lidia would actually show up. A few passengers finally climbed off the latest train, and he instantly picked out his client, despite having never seen her before. The last one to hop onto the platform was a slender blonde in a battered jacket, faded jeans, and "breathable" sneakers. A small backpack dangled from her shoulders. “In the rain, breathable sneakers just start drinking it in,” Dmitry recalled the old joke grimly. He stepped forward, extending his hand: “Dmitry, the realtor. You must be Lidia?” She met his advance with a handshake that was unexpectedly firm for such a fragile-looking girl, and asked: “Is the house really that cheap?” “The absolute cheapest out there!” Dmitry pressed a hand over his throat, thought better of it, and moved it lower, settling it over his stomach. “And it comes with an orchard, a pond, and a garage! The last owner built the garage himself...” “May I see the documents?” “Right here!” The realtor eagerly produced a folder. The last owner had practically thrown the papers at the agency, begging them to sell the place for any pocket change whatsoever. “But let’s step under the awning before everything gets soaked. Look, it’s not perfect—it’s an old house, and it’s going to need a lot of work. But for this price? You couldn't buy a garden shed for that kind of money!” Lidia scanned the documents, trying to catch the catch and comparing it to what she had researched online. After a pause, she clarified: “How far is it from the station?” “Not bad at all. About a forty-minute walk,” Dmitry said, gesturing toward the dense wall of trees looming just beyond the fence—it looked less like a park and more like an untamed forest. “But my car is right here. We’ll be there in five minutes, and you can see for yourself.” Lidia climbed into the back seat and curled inward, clutching her backpack with both hands. She knew she didn't have much of a choice. She had to buy the house because the bank had already foreclosed on her family flat, offering her a patronizing compromise: buy some cheap ruin, vacate her late father’s apartment, and they’d clear the debt. “We are deeply sorry, of course...” the loan manager had offered a polite, synthetic smile. “But nobody forced your father to take out that many loans, Miss.” But look at the bright side: there was a decent job vacancy nearby, she had managed to transfer to distance learning at her university, and the house was suspiciously cheap. It didn't matter as long as she had a roof over her head and some semblance of heating. She’d figure the rest out. Civilization vanished the moment they crossed the edge of the village. The car bounced along a dirt road, cutting through a dark, wet forest. A heavy sense of doom and isolation hung in the air, and not even the lampposts—which were surprisingly frequent—could dispel it. The road was clearly well-lit at night, but it didn't save the situation. Lidia was so lost in thought that she didn't notice the car stop before a pair of towering, slightly lopsided gates. Beyond the fence lay an orchard so violently overgrown it looked like a real forest. Peeking through the trees was the sharp pitch of a roof: the house was a two-story silhouette, just as dark and uninviting as the grounds surrounding it. “There are fruit trees out there,” Dmitry said, waving a hand toward the house, adding with a sudden surge of enthusiasm, “Let’s look at the garden first!” The realtor placed his hand on the gate, and it obediently slid open with absolute, eerie silence. “See!” Dmitry grinned, relieved. “The hinges are in perfect order!” The garden was a complete wilderness. Sharp, thorny weeds had burst through the stone walkway leading to the house. Here and there, half-buried dirt trails branched off, flanked by long mounds of earth that looked terrifyingly like graves. Before Lidia could spiral into panic, she spotted a cluster of wild, neglected potato tops. The burials were ancient, long since reclaimed by the garden, and the potatoes had simply gone feral. A yellow apple with a bright crimson blush snapped from a branch and thudded onto the path. Reasoning that the five-second rule applied here, Lidia picked it up and took a bite. Dmitry, who had been watching her face like a hawk, instantly seized the moment: “See how good the apples are here?! And not a single worm!” “Yes, very sweet,” Lidia agreed. “And there’s cherry, plum, raspberry, and some sort of blue berry... I don't know what they are, but the birds love them, so they’re definitely non-toxic! Plus, the entire fence is lined with thick hawthorn. Nobody is sneaking onto your property!” Crunching on the apple, Lidia kept walking, her mind already shifting to landscaping plans—assuming, of course, the bank didn't find a loophole to rip this house away from her too. “If they try to take it, let them deal with what's inside,” Dmitry muttered under his breath, realizing Lidia had likely spoken her anxieties aloud and he had answered too honestly. “Shall we look at the house?” Lidia asked, deciding that the house’s grim reputation was to her advantage. “A bank has zero interest in reclaiming real estate that’s impossible to sell. I don't care about the rumors.” Right before the porch steps, their path was barred by a vast and deep puddle, so large that a pair of ducks were currently paddling across it with lazy, content quacks. “Look at that, the property even comes with its own wildlife! Some local... flora!” Dmitry stammered inappropriately, his eyes darting warily toward the dark front door. “Fauna. Flora means plants,” Lidia corrected gently, sidestepping the muddy expanse and ascending the steps. The realtor remained glued to the spot, but felt compelled to call out: “It’s not locked! The locals... they won't dare trespass here.” “And you don't care about outsiders,” Lidia finished for him. “So, what’s wrong with this place? Did a serial killer live here or something?” “Legend says there’s a monster living inside that killed all the previous owners. Only the last guy managed to run away.” “Good for him. Debt collectors didn't manage to kill me, so I’ll take my chances,” Lidia said. She threw a cold, unimpressed look at the realtor—so big, yet so superstitious—and pushed the door open. Dmitry didn't answer. He silently pulled out a pack of cigarettes he kept for difficult clients and clumsily lit one... This place is going to require endless cleaning, Lidia realized, stepping into the foyer. Heavy dust lay over everything, but the furniture remained in place: sofas, armchairs under linen covers, and a large fireplace. Colossal wardrobes made of dark wood lined the hall—she peeked inside one; it was so cavernous it felt less like a piece of furniture and more like a room you could live in! Even the electricity worked: flicking the switch, she saw a dim glow of light bulbs, and the tap sputtered rusty sludge before running perfectly clear and transparent. The house was meeting its new mistress fully armed. Lidia decided against going up to the second floor, logically reasoning that if the floorboards down here were dry, the ceilings weren't leaking. She could head back outside and find out why the house was actually so cheap—without the stupid ghost stories. Outside, Dmitry had just finished his cigarette, listening intently for a terrified scream. Instead, Lidia stepped out, evaluating the exterior with the critical eye of an owner. From the outside, the mansion looked significantly worse than inside. It looked slightly lopsided, darkened as if waterlogged from dampness... it left a suffocating aura of misery and despair, as though every previous owner had left a curse behind, weaving a shadow of death into the house. “Don't worry,” Lidia whispered mentally to the old mansion. “I’m going to try to live here. But you need to understand... I have zero money for repairs right now. Let’s try to get along.” High above her, on the second floor, a window sash creaked open with a sharp groan, slammed violently against the wall, bounced, and clicked firmly shut. “The antique furniture is included in the closing costs!” the realtor called out, trying to save the impression. “It’s practically new! Everything stays! It’s included in the price!” “Dmitry, why are they selling it so cheap? For real?” Lidia asked. “Are there problems with the documents?” The realtor didn't hesitate long. He let out a sigh, waved his hand dismissively, and confessed: “No... it’s the house itself. There is... something inside. Even the squatters won't go near it! A thief broke the lock last winter and was never seen again! The current owner told me to sell it for literally any money...” He paused, offering her a key. “Time to sign? For a price like this, you couldn't even buy a beat-up used car, and here you get a whole mansion! Besides, if I’ve misread the situation, you can always feed the monster your debt collectors.” Lidia took another look at the house. “But...” Dmitry typed a quick message on his phone. A second later, it buzzed with an incoming call, and a harsh male voice barked a brief, angry command through the speaker, though Lidia only caught a single word: “Flexibility.” “The owner wants me to pass along that there are zero back-taxes or outstanding debts, but he’s facing a tight deadline and needs the house off his books immediately. He’s offering a three-year payment plan! This is officially the price of a bunk bed in a shared dorm room!” “Fine. If it's a payment plan, I agree.” Dmitry practically sprinted to the car, throwing the passenger door open with a dramatic bow. “Then let’s hit the office. Time to sign!” A house. Her very own house... something the bank couldn't touch. Lidia crossed the threshold later that evening, took a few steps, and looked back. Sharp prints of her sneakers were pressed cleanly into the thick layer of dust on the floor. They were the only tracks in the entire room. But she had just been in here this afternoon to look at the house. That’s strange, could the floor really settle that much dust in a matter of hours? She shrugged, ripped the linen cover off an antique armchair, and sat down, dangling her legs—the vintage furniture was several sizes too large for her frame. A car horn echoed from the driveway. Dmitry got out, hoisting a heavy bag from the trunk. “The former owner sent a care package!” Dmitry called out, the bag emitting a heavy glass clink as he set it down. “Dinner’s inside, plus something to keep you warm. Oh, and there’s an electric heater built into the fireplace. He just requested that if you find any old family documents or photographs, don't burn them. Just give him a call.” Lidia offered her thanks, hauling the immensely heavy bag into the house—the previous owner had clearly spared no expense out of the sheer joy of escaping. Dmitry offered a parting nod, his head tilting in a formal farewell... when high above them, the second-floor window sash groaned open again. The realtor didn't wait for a third sign; he dove behind the steering wheel and floored the accelerator. Hell no, life was worth more than a commission! “No, look at her. We have a new mistress. Complete poverty... Where have the glorious days gone, when estates like ours were passed down through proud bloodlines, filled with massive families and legions of servants? Well, let’s see... Clean up the place a bit... after all, a mortal girl is a fragile thing.” A sudden draft swept through the corridors of the mansion. Instantly, the thick layers of dust coating the covers and furniture vanished into nothingness. The kitchen and the fireplaces purged themselves, leaving the surfaces immaculate. “I wonder who handled the cleaning while I was gone? But thank you!” Lidia called out to the empty air, turning on the refrigerator and unpacking the gifts: a prime cut of beef, fresh vegetables, a carton of milk, coffee, and even a bottle of wine. The dishes inside the oak cabinet gleamed with pristine clarity, as if freshly polished, and a full set of silver utensils was waiting neatly in the drawer. “Perfect,” she smiled. “Well, house, we’ll celebrate the housewarming tonight. But right now, I need to walk back to the station. I have to find out about a job and call Svetka to haul the rest of my things down here. Don't get lonely without me! And if anyone rings the bell... well, who else would visit besides debt collectors?” As she reached the forest, a sudden, ice-cold sensation pricked the back of her neck—like an intense glare boring into her spine. Lidia whirled around, but the path behind her was entirely vacant. There was only the old house, its second-floor window sash creaking with that same watchful, mournful cadence. Deciding that her remaining money was going strictly toward hiring a local repairman, she turned on her phone's navigation app and stepped onto the dirt path through the dark woods, missing a muscular young man who had just pulled up to the house by a fraction of a second... “Not a bad little piece of real estate the girl secured, and she kept crying to the court that she was completely broke,” Aleksandr murmured, evaluating the mansion with genuine satisfaction, already mapping out the margins—replace the old wood with modern double-glazed windows, reinforce the porch, but keep the antique aesthetic... Maybe he’d buy the house himself, run a quick structural renovation, and resell it. Shaking his head resolutely, the debt collector ascended the steps. Before his hand could strike the paneling, the heavy door swung inward with absolute silence. Standing in the threshold was a teenage girl wearing a silk pajama set and a knitted beret topped with a bright pompom. “What the hell...” Aleksandr blinked. “Who are you supposed to be?” “Dud.” “Who?” the collector barked, his authority faltering. “D. U. D.,” the girl articulated, spelling out the letters slowly, her voice dropping into a flat, unnerving cadence, as if reading a serial number from an ancient registry. “Where is Lidia?” “And who are you?” Dud countered. “Bank staff. Debt collector. Do you even comprehend what that means, kid?” “Oh! They told me about you!” the girl smiled, her eyes widening with genuine, childlike glee. “They didn't lie.” “Huh?” A sudden, visceral survival instinct flared in Aleksandr’s gut. Every nerve ending screamed that he needed to be anywhere else—as far away from this porch as humanly possible. He took a step backward, but the girl matched his movement, her small feet gliding across the threshold as she spoke. “The Big Bad Wolf would still be alive if he hadn't negotiated with a little girl in the dark woods.” Slender, pale fingers clamped around the collector’s wrist with the terrifying force of an industrial press. Dud twisted his arm, and with a casual flick, she hoisted the burly man completely off his feet. She dragged him across the threshold, hauling his bulk across the floorboards like a discarded toy. “Let go... you...!” Aleksandr bucked, trying to wrench his arm out of the socket. He let out a wet, guttural scream as her fingers tightened further, systematically crushing his bones into splinters. “Idiot,” the childlike voice drifted down. “You didn't understand anything, did you?” “You crazy bitch...!” He tried to drive his boots into the floor to find leverage, but there was no support—the floor was gone. Instead, the load-bearing brick wall rushed toward his face. Before he could even snap his eyes shut, Dud dragged him straight through the solid mass. For a fraction of a second, his consciousness registered a blurred sequence of wallpaper, plaster, wooden lathing, and dry, dusty red brick. On the other side of the partition, the painful compression repeated. “The riding hood, by the way, was wolf-skin. Grey,” Dud informed the empty room, her tone conversational. “The only difference was that the little girl wore it with the fleshy side facing out.” She came to a sudden halt before the dark wardrobe in the corridor. She looked down at her writhing victim, a look of mild curiosity crossing her pale features. “What is your name, broken one?” “Aleksandr Eremenko...! My documents are in my pocket...!” “The name alone is sufficient for the menu,” the girl noted indifferently. “Surnames, corporate positions, marital status... mundane tinsel. What possible relevance do those details hold now, human?” “What are you... a cannibal?” He convulsed, screaming anew as the sudden movement shifted the splintered bone fragments inside his forearm. “No, goodness, how insulting!” The girl looked genuinely offended. “I am absolutely not a cannibal. I am a perfectly ordinary maneater. Our laws strictly forbid attacking our own species. We are highly orthodox!” “My agency will look for me! They’ll deploy a recovery squad...!” he gasped, making a final, desperate attempt to talk his way out since physical escape was impossible. “Yes, they told me...” The girl took a step backward toward the ancient wardrobe, her spine smoothly dissolving straight through the dark timber of the closed cabinet door, hauling his entire weight into the void behind her. Aleksandr only had time to squeeze his eyes shut as razor-sharp fangs sank cleanly into his carotid artery, and a thick, searing warmth began pouring down his chest... “The house breathes again. The hunger is appeased for now. Clean the floors and stoke the hearths—make it warm for the new mistress.” “Do you think more of them will come? More of these loud, heavy, delicious targets?” “Do not fret. Didn't the meat promise us himself... that he wasn't the last one?”