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Pale as Snow, Red as Blood
by Naching T. Kassa 

Boris Dargunov trudged through the snow, his rifle slung low and his spirits even lower. The day had been a disaster.

The Nazis had taken the small forest that morning and Boris had lost several good friends before being ordered to retreat. He’d been the last one off the battlefield and had been forced to lead his pursuers a merry chase before losing them among the many trees. Sometimes, when he paused, he could still hear their distant cries.

Twilight made an unwelcome appearance when Boris stepped into the clearing. It tumbled toward darkness quicker than he could blink, and if he hadn’t seen the candle flare to life, he might have wandered in the gloom for hours.

He stumbled toward the distant glow.

Moments later, he found himself before a small house. He drew to a halt before it, scarcely able to believe his eyes. The walls and doors of the house appeared to be constructed of gingerbread, the window sashes of candy and the windows of sugared glass. A candle in a small lantern illuminated the scene. When he blinked, the house vanished.

The door opened and a woman stepped out. She was old, older than his grandmother who had died in the siege of Stalingrad, but something about her reminded him of his dear departed. Perhaps it was her eyes—so lively and kind—or maybe it was her smile which displayed an array of pearl-white teeth.

“Good evening, comrade,” she said.

“Good evening, babushka,” he replied, though he didn’t know why.

“Would you come in? The night is cold and sometimes, it bares its teeth.”

He nodded and followed her inside.

She took the rifle from his hands and set it beside the door before motioning him toward a table nearby. On it sat a pot of soup which smelled of potatoes and wild onion. She bade him sit and then served him.

A pang of hunger sliced its way through his belly and it grumbled sullenly as the woman brought bread to the table. Boris couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Perhaps it had been yesterday, or the day before. Part of him wanted to devour the meal and the woman’s as well. But the other part, the part his grandmother had cultivated for so long, cautioned him to wait until the old woman had taken her seat and picked up her spoon. Only then did he take up his own and sample the soup.

The bread and soup were the best he’d ever tasted. When he had finished, he rose and took the dishes to the basin. Then waited for the woman to finish before taking hers to the basin as well.

The old woman withdrew a pouch of tobacco and a pipe from her apron. “Do you smoke?” she asked.

Boris had smoked his last cigarette three days before, and though the need slashed through him like a knife, he shook his head. The pouch didn’t appear to have much in it.

The old woman lit her pipe and then paused as though listening. “They are coming,” the old woman said. “Their footsteps are heavy in the snow.”

Though he strained his ears, Boris heard only the silence of the winter night. He rose to his feet anyway and collected his rifle from beside the door.

“I will not let them hurt you, babushka,” he said, setting his hand upon the doorknob.

Before he could turn the knob, a hand fell upon his arm. He turned to see the old woman at his side.

“Have some more soup,” she said. “And feel free to smoke my pipe.” She patted him on the arm and the years melted away. Within seconds a new form stood before him, a new woman. She stood tall, her skin as pale as snow, her skin as red as blood. Antlers, six in all, jutted out from her white-blonde hair.

She smiled and hurried through the door.

The new moon lay dark and dormant in the sky, and it was the muzzle flash that Boris depended on. In the steady strobe, he saw her perfect beauty as she rushed from man to man, tearing and ripping with her claws. Blood stained the snow and screams of terror and agony rang out in the night.

Boris turned away and hurried back to the table.

He poured another bowl of soup.

.

Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Naching T. Kassa:

Arterial Bloom

Lush. Brutal.

Beautiful. Visceral.

Crystal Lake Publishing proudly presents Arterial Bloom, an artful juxtaposition of the magnificence and macabre that exist within mankind. Each tale in this collection is resplendent with beauty, teeth, and heart.

Edited by the Bram Stoker Award-winning writer Mercedes M. Yardley, Arterial Bloom is a literary experience featuring sixteen stories from some of the most compelling dark authors writing today.

With a foreword by HWA Lifetime Achievement Award Recipient Linda D. Addison, you are invited to step inside and let the grim flowers wind themselves comfortably around your bones.

Available on Amazon!