Olya and Stas are college students who share a messy past. Once upon a time, right before New Year's Eve, they managed to have an absolute blowout of a fight, completely ruining the holidays for both themselves and their families. Years passed, they crossed paths again, and realized they couldn't live without each other. Now, they are planning a romantic New Year’s Eve for just the two of them. Everything would be picture-perfect, if not for… a highly bizarre gift Stas bought for his little sister. Could this innocent-looking "little present" be hiding something devious enough to sabotage the lovers' night all over again? This is a humorous holiday rom-com with a touch of sizzling romance—and a magical reality check. But hey, laughter extends your lifespan, doesn't it? "Who has dared to indulge in this fiendish jest? Here, seize him and strip off his mask, that we may know whom to hang from the battlement walls!..." — Edgar Allan Poe

This story could have unfolded on the eve of absolutely any holiday. For instance, on the eve of Labor Day, which conveniently shares a date with May Eve—a night when mischievous spirits love to run amok. It could have just as easily happened on the eve of International Women's Day, when men across the nation collectively shudder, anticipating a chaotic haunting by the rampaging ghost of Clara Zetkin, the patron saint of militant feminism, and her inner circle. Honestly, who’s counting? Half the holidays on the calendar seem to align with some supernatural frenzy. So, without splitting hairs over dates, let's agree that this particular incident took place on New Year’s Eve—at least according to Olya and Stas, our main characters. Mischievous spirits don't take weekends off, and they absolutely love playing pranks on ordinary people... It all began, as these things usually do, long before that fateful night. Specifically, in a high school drama club where fifteen-year-old Olya and Stas were busy nurturing their inner acting talents... Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where are you dragging me, gentlemen in uniform?! There are no inappropriate violations here! Everything is strictly PG and age-appropriate! This is just the backstory, I swear by Santa’s beard! Whew... Thank you, officers, I shall proceed... Olya and Stas hadn't gotten along for nearly a year, mostly because neither could accept the idea that one was a boundless prodigy while the other wasn't even fit for a pathetic, nameless extra role with a single line. One December, they were cast in a New Year's play for first-graders and had an absolute meltdown of a fight. Olya was saddled with the role of the Swamp Hag, while Stas was cast as the Forest Goblin. The drama director possessed a highly twisted sense of humor and simply wanted to discipline the two dramatic divas. Both "stars" considered the casting an insult to their dignity and stormed out of the club, trading bitter insults. They refused to wish a Happy New Year to each other, the director, or their fellow young actors. Both spent the nation's favorite holiday broadcasting their absolute misery to their respective families: Stas snapped at his mother, while Olya locked herself in the bathroom and wept inconsolably, refusing to emerge even for the midnight countdown. The drama over who gets to play in the sandbox doesn't change with age—and when you are fifteen, that toddler mindset of "mine, mine, mine!" flares up even harder than it does at age three. But they don't say it's a small world for nothing, and Perm is a modest city—just a million residents with a minor change. Five years flew by, and... Alright, the gentlemen in uniform have finally cleared the perimeter. The author is officially cleared of all charges, seeing as the protagonists have successfully reached the age of twenty... Let's take a closer look at them, shall we? Who do we have tearing up the dance floor surrounded by her girlfriends? A cute button nose, striking green eyes, and an ash-blonde braid as thick as a man's wrist—it's a biological miracle her neck can even support its weight! A short skirt, beautifully sculpted legs... Yep, that's Olya. And who is staring at her, completely unblinking, ignoring his smartphone where Dragon Knight 2 is currently open? Stas, in the flesh—rocking faded denim and a classic taper haircut with bleached highlights. Stas rips off his glasses—always getting in the way at the worst possible moment, you traitors!—and marches directly toward her. Her ash-blonde hair catches the vibrant reflections of the club's neon strobe lights. Their eyes lock, and... the youth and the maiden don't recall the Goblin or the Swamp Hag. Instead, they remember their singular, fleeting, stolen kiss behind the curtains of the school theater, at the absolute dawn of their failed acting careers. From his end, it had been a swift peck on the cheek; from hers—a resounding slap to his face in return. A beautiful, high-velocity slap that had initiated the historic rift between the Goblin and the Hag. They left the college party together, but not before trading a round of razor-sharp barbs regarding their respective universities—a prestigious state university student doesn't exactly fraternize with a tech-institute nerd. But why is Olya flushing such a deep crimson, and why has Stas completely stepped away from the internet—a behavioral anomaly he hadn't displayed in months? Throughout that autumn night, they walked for miles, entirely oblivious to the biting, freezing drizzle, chatting about baseline nonsense like gossip regarding former classmates. They finally parted ways at dawn, only to start texting each other twenty minutes later. "How on earth did I never notice how amazing his smile is?" Olya mused. "I'm such an idiot!" "How on earth did I never notice her gorgeous curves?!" Stas thought. "I'm such a fool!" Look, I cannot issue a definitive judgment regarding Olya's cognitive capacity, Stas, but you are an absolute fool. At age fifteen, you couldn't have processed anything of the sort on Olya's frame. Back then, she lacked both an expensive push-up bra and the specific biological assets required to fill out said bra to begin with... From that point on, everything developed exactly as it should. All week, our protagonists kept the spark alive through constant DMs. On Saturday, they went on a real date, ruining their behavior with fast food, locking lips in the back row of a dark movie theater—what, did you think the back row had lost its charm? No way, don't hold your breath!—and sharing an hour-and-a-half-long farewell outside the entrance to Olya’s apartment building. This platonic idyll held its position until early December, when peer pressure from Olya’s circle—“So, have you guys crossed the line yet?”—and Stas’s friends—“Man, have you closed the deal yet?”—coupled with natural youthful curiosity, a thorough research of forums on the web, and, above all, the sudden realization of “what if this is forever-love?!” all came together to issue a definitive command: IT IS TIME. They desperately craved a private space for just the two of them. As we all know, desires don't always align with availability. Such was the dilemma for these two. And while Stas possessed a baseline level of experience, Olya couldn't claim the same. Borrowing a girlfriend's vacant apartment in a rush felt incredibly cheap—absolutely not. At Olya’s place, her elderly grandmother maintained a permanent anchor, having not left the house in a year. At Stas’s home, his chronically sniffly five-year-old sister represented a constant surveillance hazard—talk about a sixteen-year age gap!—frequently flanked by their mother whenever the kid’s health crashed. Where exactly were they supposed to indulge in their romance? After all, they were hunting for what an old classic film labeled "a great and pure love". Let us hit pause on our narrative for a brief moment and peek into the sensual dreams of our protagonists. Where shall we begin? Well, ladies first. We wouldn't want to break with tradition... She is entirely alone in the dark, her whole being suspended in the anticipation of something sweet yet terrifying. The thin white silk of her nightgown, the heavy black silk of the sheets, the sharp chill of a passing draft. Somewhere nearby, on the nightstand, candles should be waiting. If she simply extends her hand and finds the strength to strike a match, the entire scene will change: the shadows will dissolve, the chill will dissipate, and... the sweet, terrifying anticipation will vanish with them. Yet, she reaches out into the void, her fingers navigating the dark only to collide with a warm, masculine hand. She pulls back, but it only delays the inevitable. She cannot see his face, but his heavy, ragged breath ghosts against her bare skin. The stranger mindfully pulls the comforter away from her trembling frame, lifting her effortlessly into his embrace. Her heart is pounding so ferociously, so loudly, that the sound seems to fill the entire universe. His palms slide hot across the white silk, mapping the curves of her waist and hips. Olya loses herself in a swirl of desires—does she want him to violently tear this ridiculous nightgown away, or simply vanish into thin air? But he isn't going anywhere; he didn't steal into her room just to retreat... A feather-light touch of his lips against her sensitive neck, a delicate sweep of his fingers up the hem where the nightgown ends. Those breathless micro-touches are more than enough to ignite a dormant fire in her flesh. Olya gasps, frantically trying to pull the silk down, but her modesty conflicts directly with her nocturnal visitor’s desires. The sound of delicate fabric tearing echoes soft through the dark as the silk slides down her body, pooling at his feet like the final fallen barrier. The visitor claims her lips in a fierce, demanding kiss, his fingers trailing exactly where the internal fire burns with dizzying heat. Acclimonating to the dark, she attempts to push against his chest to scan the face of her midnight bandit. For a fraction of a second, the illusion breaks: his face appears strangely familiar, yet it seems overlaid with a cinematic composite—an image harvested from a movie screen that had routinely stirred her subconscious during early morning dreams. She is ready to surrender completely; her arms lock around his neck, her bare back already registering the sub-zero thrill of the silk sheets! He hovers over her, and suddenly—his eyes ignite in the dark with a triumphant, piercing crimson glow! As his razor-sharp fangs sink deep into her throat, Olya screams his name, yet her mind spins, unable to process which name she is shouting: is it Stas, or is it Edward... Hold your horses, Olya! What is with these dramatic clichés straight out of a gothic romance novel, huh? Furthermore, your dream carries a critical logic error—actually, a couple of them. A vampire cannot possess warm masculine hands, that’s fact number one. You wouldn't be able to feel his breath—that’s fact number two. And most devastating of all: a corpse—which is the biological classification of any vampire—lacks the blood flow required for physical arousal, meaning this dream serves zero practical utility for your waking life. Besides, you have an English exam scheduled for today. Wake up, your alarm clock is screaming bloody murder... Stas was currently deadlocked at the entrance of the Dragon Sanctuary, trading blows with a dozen high-level villains simultaneously. He dispatched the entire mob effortlessly, accumulating a massive horde of bonus points required to crack the sanctuary's locking mechanism. And there... waiting behind the portal was his long-awaited prize—she, the high priestess, whom he would rightfully claim as his battlefield booty. The level was nearly completed; he didn't even need to wipe the blood from his broadsword. There she stood, welcoming him on the temple steps: porcelain skin, flowing ash-blonde hair woven into an intricate, complex braid, her stunning frame draped in a delicate golden mesh netting that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Stas approached with measured strides, tracking the defiance and rebellion flashing across her pale features. That is not the look a prisoner broadcasts to a master if they expect the victor to show any mercy. He bypassed the delicate golden netting effortlessly. His "prize" made a modest attempt to shield her chest with her hands, but naturally, he wasn't about to let her retreat. He could swear her baseline was a modest A-cup at the start of the simulation, but it had magically optimized into a full, jaw-dropping double-D... Wow! Talk about a premium bonus for clearing the level! With an unyielding, authoritative motion, Stas ripped his fur-lined cloak from his shoulders, hurling it onto the stone floor. His hands greedily cupped and kneaded the yielding, velvety flesh of this alluring, magnificent body, which no man had ever touched before. Inside the priestess’s green eyes erupted a reciprocal passion for the fierce warrior who had dared to penetrate the inner sanctum of her forbidden temple... The maiden submissively melted into his embrace, letting him take her completely from behind, her low groan of pure ecstasy blending into the roar of the inferno consuming the ruins of the ancient sanctuary... Right, Stas, you should have stuck to playing Dragon Knight; this custom script rewrite is running a severe tactical deficit. Dial back the intensity on the dragons, priestesses, and fur-lined cloaks. Watch the positioning too, before you throw a muscle group out of alignment. You’re supposed to be Olya’s first real-life partner; start processing the gravity of the moment, your emotional responsibility, and other high-minded sentiments. Granted, that’s a strictly female analytical perspective... When the news confirmed that Stas’s parents were leaving their apartment on December thirty-first to take their youngest daughter to their grandparents' place, our protagonists rejoiced. They resolved to spend a romantic New Year’s Eve together. Stas declined the family road trip; his father understood the situation instantly, though his mother held her ground for days, trying to extract the identity of the person who would be keeping her son company. After running a minor investigation, she uncovered a few reassuring facts: Stas’s mother remembered his blonde, green-eyed classmate from their old high school yearbooks. Well, if that was the case, let it be her... "The top-shelf liquor in the cabinet is strictly off-limits!" his father decreed. "And make sure there are no long-term consequences! Get a job and buy a house first, then you can talk about giving us grandkids." No comment, Dad. Your own youthful antics back in the old days of gritty Soviet materialism involve maneuvers that should bar you from lecturing your son... On the morning of December thirty-first, Stas’s family departed for Kungur. At roughly the same time, or perhaps a touch earlier, Olya plunged into a wave of anxiety, desperately trying to do her makeup. She hated everything about her appearance: her nose felt way too upturned today, her hips looked exceptionally wide, and her thick braid felt critically thin. How was a girl supposed to live under these conditions? Her mother remained in blissful ignorance regarding Olya’s plans for the evening, but her grandmother... her grandmother caught onto something and gave a transparent warning about the reckless impulses of youth. "The phantom, my darling..." she whispered into her granddaughter’s ear as Olya leaned in for a quick farewell kiss. "Grandma, what are you talking about?" "The Phantom of New Year's Past, Oleczka. It hasn't left us..." There was no time to dissect her grandmother’s words, nor did it really matter; lately, the old woman had been getting confused quite often. Take her legendary story about her husband serving in a mustache-twirling cavalry back in the roaring twenties! The narrative was magnificent, except for the tiny detail that her grandfather had entered the world in nineteen twenty-nine, making his deployment alongside legendary warlords logistically impossible. Evidently, this phantom alert occupied the exact same archival drawer as her grandfather’s mythical wartime campaigns. At a quarter past five, our protagonists met at the rendezvous point: the plaza outside the Perm Drama Theater. Olya still couldn't shake the perceived flaws of her appearance, running through the contradictory, convoluted, and highly confusing instructions her girlfriends had given her about "the first time." Consequently, the massive rush of adrenaline gave her green eyes a brilliant sparkle and her cheeks a beautiful flush—details Stas noticed and appreciated instantly. Naturally, her imaginary flaws escaped his view entirely, a selective blindness universal to men. After walking for a bit for the sake of decorum, admiring the neon-orange glow of the snow beneath the streetlamps, and getting a bit chilly, they went up the dim stairwell to Stas’s apartment. Oddly enough, the dim staircase felt to Olya like a path carpeted with rose petals, while Stas pictured it as a corridor littered with the bodies of villains he had defeated in a digital duel to rescue the prize of his fantasies. You kids have quite an imagination! But hey, why not?.. The moment Stas helped Olya slide out of her winter coat, the landline telephone rang. It was the relatives. Having made it to the Kungur sector, they called with that unique lack of boundaries exclusive to immediate family, desperate to check in on their son’s evening. "Stashenka!" his mother chirped. "Darling! Is everything alright over there?" Had Stashenka behaved like a character from his favorite online games, he would have barked: "Affirmative, Mom. I am currently preparing to sweep the target off her feet. The transition from romance to practical execution is scheduled for ten o'clock." For glaringly obvious reasons, his response was very different: "Everything's fine, Mom. We're about to put the kettle on." "Oh!" his mother rejoiced with transparent intent. "Olenka is visiting! Let me talk to her, I wanted to ask about her recipe for cornflake pancakes." The air inside the foyer suddenly felt heavy. Inwardly cursing his failure to give the gaming response, Stas handed over the receiver. While a polite Olya adopted an exaggeratedly cheerful tone to greet his mother, breaking down the exact ingredients and baking times, Stas made frantic hand gestures, urging her to wrap it up as quickly as possible. But a sharp Olya, armed with female intuition, understood perfectly that she was talking to a potential future mother-in-law. Consequently, the pancake discussion lasted exactly as long as Stas’s mother wanted. Once the informal diplomatic summit concluded, the landline was ruthlessly unplugged from the wall. "The tree is beautiful!" Olya exclaimed, maintaining that hyper-cheerful tone—a clear sign that her nerves were miles away from calm. The pancake discussion had done its dark work. "Too early for champagne," Stas calculated wisely. "I need to calm her down with some tea." While he was in the kitchen brewing the tea, Olya looked around with curiosity. The apartment was just as small as her own family’s. Three rooms wasn’t a bad layout, but when there are five people in the house like in Stas’s family, privacy becomes a luxury. The spatial constraint was glaringly obvious: his five-year-old sister Masha’s crib had already been moved from the parents' bedroom straight into Stas’s room. Hardly a surprise, though... Olya herself shared a single room with her grandmother. Stas reappeared, balancing two mugs of aromatic black tea. "This is where I live. Once my internship wraps up this spring, they’re giving me a room in the dorms. Then Mashka can rule this entire place like a queen, all by herself." The tantalizing prospect of having a private room where they could see each other left them both a little lightheaded. The dangerous proximity of Olya’s lips, the delicate notes of her perfume opening up in the warm room, and the soft radiance of her eyes—remember that anticipation of something sweet yet terrifying?—completely stole Stas’s breath away. The tea was forgotten on the table. He flipped the light switch, allowing the city’s festive street decorations to flood the room with cascading clusters of shimmering neon. Following a long, lingering, sweet kiss, our protagonists were ready to move to the sofa, but… Suddenly, Olya noticed a strange object in Masha’s crib, and her focus shattered. Let's be honest: the toy had nothing to do with it. Olya was simply terrified of what was supposed to come after a kiss. The stranger from her early morning dreams hadn't carried a very noticeable, unmistakable bulge in his jeans. Granted, you don't need a degree to understand what that bulge was—basic human anatomy makes it pretty clear! But she was desperately looking for any excuse to buy time and escape her fear of the unknown, and a random object fit the bill perfectly... "Oh! What’s that?!" Her hyper-cheerful tone let Stas know that this night would require an immense amount of patience. "Oh, that... it’s Mashka’s present. I forgot to give it to her today. Look at this monster!" The monster turned out to be a gray plush goat. The creature, despite its glaringly obvious Chinese origin, was dressed in traditional Slavic clothing: a tunic, striped pants, little boots, and it even had an accordion strapped to its chest. It wore flashy pirate earrings made of shiny plastic, and its left eye was covered by a jagged orange fringe. It was this particular fringe that gave the monster a sly, cunning, and highly devious look. Stas gave the toy a shake, and it instantly started screeching in a loud, annoying tenor, twitching all over as if its programming included a full simulation of Parkinson’s disease: “Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny... Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny... Look at that, look at that, a little gray goat!!!” Having bellowed the chorus of the nation’s favorite nursery rhyme exactly three times, the brute went silent. "Where did you buy this thing? Won't Masha be traumatized?" "Nah, I grabbed it from a street vendor near the train station. Mashka will love it. She’s obsessed with ugly plush toys." Leaving the toy back where it belonged, our protagonists carefully sat down on the sofa, glumly picking up their tea mugs. The intermission was over. "You look especially beautiful tonight," Stas said, his voice entirely sincere. "I did my best... for you." Their lips met in another kiss. Olya, turn off your head. Your brain is of no use to you right now. Stas, think clearly and remember the condoms in your pocket. There you go, good boy... BONG! BONG! BONG! And another sequence of eight strikes followed... The antique clock—passed down to Stas’s father from his grandfather—boomed rough through the apartment, loudly announcing that exactly one hour remained until the midnight countdown. Possibly triggered by these thunderous vibrations, the goat’s musical mechanism detonated, and the beast wailed: “Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny... Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny...” Except this time, the singer didn't stop at three repetitions. The anthem about the goat and the grandmother was bellowed exactly eleven consecutive times. It didn't bother Stas much, but Olya tensed up all over again. However, the situation was so thoroughly ridiculous that our protagonists burst into genuine laughter and returned to what they were doing. Racing heartbeats, goosebumps, the breathless anticipation of intimacy... Off with the clothes... Ah, the touches! Ah, the kisses! Ah, the deep discovery of each other's mysteries—an experience whose novelty can never be replicated, because that first time only happens once! Olya’s face is burning hot. Stas tears open the condom wrapper, and... “Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny... Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny... Look at that, look at that, A LITTLE GRAY GOAT!!! LOOK AT THAT! LOOK AT THAT!!!” Hold on a second—who on earth moved the goat from the crib onto the table, right between their tea mugs? "Stas... can you please turn that thing off?" The exact same thought had just crossed our hero’s mind. He grabbed the singer by its plastic earring and inspected it thoroughly, inwardly cursing Olya’s hypersensitivity. From the darkest, most stubborn depths of his subconscious, the word "Swamp Hag" floated to the surface. His mind didn't bother to specify who it belonged to. "I can't. It’s cheap 'made in China' crap. It’ll scream until the battery runs completely dry. I’ll hide it." And so he did. He locked the goat inside the wardrobe, having first wrapped it in a thick wool sweater. The creature accepted its solitary confinement without a peep. But the very second the guy returned to the sofa and reached for Olya’s breast, the wardrobe unleashed the un-killable anthem: “Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny... Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny...” This monument to goat-like stubbornness did not go unnoticed by its hostile audience. The furry terrorist monopolized the room’s acoustics for a solid two minutes before letting out a distorted croak and finally dying. "It’s dead!" Stas announced with absolute professional satisfaction. I wonder which one? a fleeting thought crossed Olya’s mind. The fact was, the enthusiastic bulge in Stas’s jeans had visibly deflated. Naturally, given his age, this setback was strictly temporary. Within two minutes, our resident lover-boy was back on active duty. They locked each other in an embrace, and... “Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny... Once there lived a little gray goat with his granny...” Both felt a strange sensation: the pitch of the goat’s voice had subtly altered, injecting its tone with a note of pure, unadulterated malice. The gift’s fate was sealed. It was dragged out of the wardrobe and brutally dissected with a standard butter knife. Deep within the synthetic stuffing, Stas uncovered a compact black box—the source of that screeching tenor. Without overthinking it, Stas threw the mechanism straight out the window. Hitting the metal awning of the building entrance below, the apparatus managed one final, defiant encore before going permanently silent forever. However, a neighbor’s balcony immediately picked up the performance. A raspy, heavily intoxicated male baritone roared into the night, his choice of song instantly revealing that he belonged to their parents' generation, loudly butchering the high notes as he hollered: “Hey, Captain, why’d you leave your stallion behind?!” Without a word, the lovers burst into a synchronized roar of laughter so deafening that the neighbor let out an offended grunt and ended his broadcast. "I think I just figured out which phantom my grandmother warned me about today..." "What phantom?" Stas asked, surprised, sliding his glasses back onto his nose. At the end of the day, he needed to open the champagne—the midnight countdown was about to start! Traditions had to be maintained, even if you’re caught with your pants down. Literally. "Five years ago, on New Year’s Eve, we launched a savage barrage of insults at each other and poor Maksimych. I spent the whole night crying in the bathroom..." "And me... I remember snapping at my mother back then. I never even apologized." Olya stood up from the sofa. Her body wore no golden mesh netting. She was no high priestess of the Dragon Sanctuary. Yet right now, Stas’s mind saw her as the absolute fulfillment of every desire—fragile, delicate, intensely... home. Olya locks her warm palms against his shoulders, burying her face against his chest. She doesn't need any red eyes flashing in the dark, thank you very much. This isn't a clone of a movie character; this is a living, real, beautifully close man whom she wants to belong to right here and right now. "Stas... forgive me for that childhood stupidity... Let's make a pact never to hurt each other, or the people we love..." Well, has the living, real, beautifully close man figured out his directive yet? Correct: draw her into a gentle embrace, press her tight against your chest, and say the exact words you completely and unreservedly believe in right now. The clock has already started its final chimes—hurry up! "Deal. I love you... Happy New Year, Olya!" And they would have said a whole stream of promises and vows to each other, if their conversation hadn't been completely cut off by a kiss. ...Phantom, are you still watching this place?... No? Excellent. Peeping is bad manners anyway... The incoming year, and every single day after that, belonged exclusively to these two—and to no one else. Happy Holidays, friends! The End