A Frost‑Bitten Journey to Grandmother
Three winters ago, amid the sharp bite of Moscow’s cold, I set out for my grandmother’s house in the tiny settlement of Severnoe Butovo. The road stretched through endless fields and scattered farms before arriving at a modest home hemmed in by a dense stand of lime trees. The locals refer to that stand simply as Lipy.
The Legend of the Lime Grove
Around twenty years prior, a tragedy unfolded among those trees. A young woman returning from work was brutally assaulted and left to die on a low mound within the grove. Her body was buried there, and ever since the villagers avoid Lipy after dusk. They speak of mournful female wails drifting through the branches and of a vague silhouette that flickers between the trunks. One night a passerby stumbled over the same mound; he woke in a hospital with severe injuries but could not recall how he fell.
Meeting a Friend
I called my longtime friend, Alex, and we arranged to meet at five o’clock. After spending an hour in the village, the sun had already slipped below the horizon when we headed toward the grove to return to my house. Lipy has three exits: one leads toward the local shop, the other two open onto residential lanes. We said goodbye; I took the short path, while Alex chose the longer route through the heart of the grove.
The Ghostly Visit
Back inside my warm kitchen, I turned on the television. A sudden knock at the door startled me. Opening it, I found Alex standing there, pale as a sheet, his breath ragged with terror. He whispered that while crossing the mound where the girl was killed, he saw a dark shadow that solidified into a young woman—about twenty years old—who screamed:
“Don’t touch me! What do you want from me?!”
She seized him with a leather satchel, swung it at his face, and then vanished. When the panic subsided, Alex discovered the same empty satchel clutched in his hand. I, too, saw it—a plain brown leather bag lying on the ground.
The Final Knock
At 23:05 another insistent knock echoed through the house. Peering through the peephole, I saw the same ghostly girl hovering in the doorway. We both pressed our backs against the door, too frightened to open it. After a few tense moments she faded into the night, leaving only the echo of her presence.
How to Soothe the Spirit
The next morning we visited the village priest. He instructed us to return the satchel to the mound at nightfall and fill it with items that women cherish, hoping to appease the tormented soul. We gathered cosmetics, a small hand mirror, costume jewelry, and other trinkets from my grandmother’s drawer.
At exactly six o’clock we placed the bag on the mound and hurried back. As we fled, a faint sobbing drifted through the trees, followed by a barely audible whisper:
“Thank you…”
We didn’t look back; we ran straight to the house, hearts pounding.
Conclusion
Since that night neither Alex nor I have set foot in Lipy, except in the most urgent of emergencies. The memory of that cold, whispered gratitude haunts us, a reminder that some places are best left undisturbed.
If you ever find yourself near Severnoe Butovo, remember the cursed lime grove and be prepared for the past to reach out from the darkness.
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