BESERK! Read online

  If this was not enough, Zhukovsky had also falsified Gevorg’s medical report. He had doctored the report from simple viral infection to testicular cancer. And the unsuspecting Gevorg had accepted it as a cruel twist of fate, throwing his life to drugs.

  With Gevorg taken care of he had turned his attention to Viktor. First, he hired hoodlums to beat up his uncle, when it failed; he sent Liana to ensnare Viktor. Liana was his business partner of the stripper-bar-club below.

  As he lay in thought, Liana beside him stirred and moved closer. Sleepily, she nuzzled against Zhukovsky’s chest. Absent-mindedly he ran his fingers through her lustrous blond hair.

  His touch instantly awakened Liana. “What is the matter Zhuko, Baby?”

  “Nothing…nothing Li.”He muttered continuing with his train of thoughts.

  “Aw shit!” She whispered sleepily. “Thinking of that bastard…Viktor?”

  He looked at her coldly. “Till I don’t get revenge I won’t rest! Viktor duped my father and screwed our livelihood! He is the cause of my father’s death! I will get him I swear! That’s why I sent you after him; you grab him by his wiener and squeeze it hard! I will squeeze his neck harder! What will hurt more!”

  Liana stayed quiet after this outburst, it was best to do so. He was in one of his dark pensive moods. Little did she know his thoughts were not against Viktor but her. He plotted to murder Viktor, accuse Liana and her roughneck brother. Besides getting revenge he also would get her share of the club when she was convicted.

  At that very moment Liana had similar dark thoughts too. She was plotting to murder Viktor with her hoodlum brother’s help. Then implicate Zhukovsky, after his arrest the stripper-bar-club would be hers. Without another word she arose and began to fix a drink for him.

  x x x

  Viktor poured himself another stiff peg, downed it and got ready to leave. As he stood up he swayed slightly. If he did not do it now he would probably never be able to. With unsteady yet determined steps he walked past his wife and son.

  As he reached the door he heard his wife call him, it sounded desperate. He quickly slammed the door and hurried out. There was no telling what his aunt’s spirit would do to stop him.

  He hurried down the ill-lit passageway beginning to feel light-headed. It could not be the alcohol; he was strong as an ox. Besides he had learnt to manage his alcohol too well. He had been drinking from the age of twelve. A village brew made from soured grapes also called vod’ka—a crude firewater. The only thing he could think of was his aunt’s spirit. Only she was capable of such mischief.

  He reached half-way down the passage and his sights began to blur, his hands trembled. A kind of a chill enveloped him. Gripping the wooden banister, he steadied himself. He looked around and shouted. “Stay away from me vy—you Bitch!”

  He stopped and listened. Trying to hear rattling, footsteps maybe even a giggle. Everything remained silent except his ragged breathing. “Just don’t try to stop me Bitch! Ya—I will not obey you any longer!” He waved his fist in the air.

  Again he stopped and listened. When he heard nothing, he began at a slower pace.

  By the time he reached the stairs, he was feeling woozy. He knew it was a mistake taking in so much whisky.

  Just as he raised his foot to climb down the stairs, he heard a soft rustle behind him. It instantly alarmed him. The Bitch! Before he could turn he was assailed by a recognizable scent. Within an instant, he experienced a familiar but strong shove at the center of his back.

  With a muffled scream he rolled down the long flight of steps. It continued till his head crashed into the marble floor at the base of the stairs.

  He lay there in shock, excruciating pain bursting from his head and neck. From within the numbing pain he heard a giggle from above. With an effort he opened his eyes. He found his sight blurred with blood… his senses numbed in terrible pain and shock. He just managed to catch sight of a blurred disembodied figure high up. He tried to speak but found it difficult. “See you in hell, Bitch!” He mouthed.

  “Seeeee yooo in Hellll…!” A disembodied voice, floated from above, answering back.

  He lay there numbed in pain, blood gushing from his forehead. Immobility began to grow in his limbs and body. He was unable to speak or call for help.

  He lay there on the cold marble in a helpless state. The pool of blood around him was beginning to dry. Slowly, darkness settled over his eyes and the pain dulled away. His eyes remained open but unseeing, within minutes he was dead.

  Chapter 3: Hell Hole in Kravchuk Dacha

  About a week later…

  13 Thursday, October.

  “Are you sure you want to do it?” The youth asked his friend Vasily, solemnly.

  Vasily pawed the ground lightly with his shoe and looked up. High on the hill was the Byzantine styled St. Vladimir Cathedral, damaged during the World War II.

  He did not want to do it but could not back off. He looked beyond the youth’s shoulder. Some distance away he could see his group of friends. The guys were dressed in jazzy colored American exercise suits and sports shoes.The girls in tight blouses and miniskirts, dark eyeliner and deep colored lipstick. They were looking expectantly in the duo’s direction. Some showed a hint of amusement, others concern.

  Vasily’s eyes sought one of the girls in the group, the one with scarlet lipstick, her skirt shorter and tighter than the rest. Her expression showed open derision, ready to scorn if he refused. He could never live with that sort of humiliation.

  “Do you want to do the dare?” His concerned friend asked him again.

  Vasily’s mind shifted from the girl and went back to the dare.

  The dare was simple…

  A week earlier, an elderly man, Viktor Kravchuk, had fallen down the stairs and died of a broken neck. All that remained of the tragedy was the chalked outline of the corpse on the floor. The white outline drawn by the police investigation team around the corpse to mark its position. The group had visited the site a few days after the accident.

  His dare was to place a red rose anywhere within the corpse’s outline. Later on his ‘challenger’ friends would ascertain if he had completed the dare. If successful they would give him 5000 karbovanets commonly called kupons or coupons. It was a temporary currency of Ukraine, approximately 20$.

  If not he would have to pay up. But he was not doing it for the treat; he was doing it to impress the lady friend in scarlet lipstick. And he knew he had to do it or be shamefaced before her.

  But the dare was not as simple as it sounded. The place, Kravchuk Dacha, where this dare had to be played out was a building fraught with stories of eerie and spook. It was rumored that old Viktor dabbled with the art of calling the spirits and it killed him.

  He tried not to remember the magazine’s photographs. It showed the old man’s twisted body with his glassy eyes wide open. He shuddered with the recollection.

  Once more he looked at his friends. “Yeah I’ll do it bro…its cool!” He told his concerned friend.

  Waving to his friends he turned to his destination with trepidation. Once more his sight searched the skies only to catch sight of Nagormaya Square dominated by Bondarenko’s sixty five foot statue of Lenin.

  A warm breeze blew bringing with it the fragrance of native Crimean pines. It should have really been a chilly winter wind. But for the ninety miles long Crimean Mountains, it stretched along the coastline providing shelter from the north winds. So Sevastopol enjoyed a Mediterranean climate. Reluctantly, he began walking towards his destination.

  Kravchuk Dacha was situated in a quiet part of the port-city. An area adorned with trees of cedars, cypresses and sequoias. So secluded was the location that traffic was seldom seen on the road adjoining it. It was once a dacha. It meant a country place or a mansion with a garden, in Russian. But the Kravchuk Dacha was no longer so, it had been converted into a three storey building.

  Though now it was in a state of neglect, it still reflected its ye
ars’ old grandeur. Over the decades privileged Russians like tsars and aristocrats visited the dacha for relaxation.

  Vasily and his group of ‘challenger’ friends had seen it inside out. Something about the building always spooked him and his friends. Their inherent fear for the building had begun years ago. During their school days they would go to meet Gevorg, in that particular building. He was the one of the privileged children who could afford toys, so most of the children would visit him.

  None of them would venture in alone; they always went in a group. If any reached early they waited for another to arrive before entering. It had then become a ritual to wait for each other.

  As he neared the building he slowed his steps. The old memories came back to haunt him. He wished he had not accepted the dare. But it was too late to back away now.

  He reached the gate and boldly walked in. Nobody would stop him; as usual the Turkish watchman Mustafa, was not at his post. The old man would be gossiping with the men from the garage on the ground floor.

  Vasily walked slowly from the gate to the building’s entrance. He tried to block the thoughts and images flooding in his brain. Once inside the building he stopped to renew his courage. The interior felt cold as if stepping into an air-condition room. It was also in a state of semi-gloom, a few bulbs lit the long corridor.

  He looked up at the long flight of stairs, its rich cedar wood still stood out even though years of use had worn it down. He stepped closer and looked tentatively upwards. The stairs continued upwards, zigzagging high up to the third floor. It appeared like a pathway to hell, only this went upwards. Luckily he had to climb only up to the second floor.

  He looked about before he could ascend it. No one stalking, no shadows…nothing, he was alone. He felt silly; it was nothing just a quick burst to the second floor was required. Taking a deep breath he prepared himself. As he touched the banister it felt cold, ignoring it he began upstairs in a rush. His footsteps pounding on the wooden stairs were loud enough to awake the dead. He reached the first floor landing and stopped.

  Once more he looked around; his wild intrusion had not awoken anyone. From now he would move slowly to the site. He did not want to desecrate the dead.

  Slowly, he began to make his way towards the next flight of stairs. Now he was aware of the growing cold. Aware of the absence of the natural light, the only light available was the dim electric bulbs high in the ceiling. But he put all thoughts behind and continued.

  Before he could realize he saw it…at least the foot…of the outline. Yet he bravely walked on till the entire outline was before him. The chalk powder used on the outline appeared fresh but discolored. Somebody had put a few metal oil lamps near it. All were unlit.

  Something seemed strange about them. These appeared to be artifacts, real ancient ones. Judging by their peculiar shape they seemed to be of Austrian or Yugoslavian origin, something to do with Eastern European gypsy culture. An even similar but strange oviform metallic pot stood some distance away. Etched on it were queer figures, somewhat similar to those on tarot cards.

  The sight of these queer things unnerved him. It was like stepping into a mausoleum. He tried not to think of anything as he prepared to place the rose on the outline. As he bent down a monstrous shadow fell across him. He froze on the spot.

  “Kharasho’… Kharasho’—good,” a voice boomed. “I am glad you have come to pay your respects. But trust me he is not dead…his spirit still lives here…”

  The words unfroze him; he dropped the rose and looked up. The sight frosted his blood.

  Towering above him was a huge, tall gowned figure. Its face was illuminated with an unholy glow. In the light of the glow, he saw the figure had a large white face with a scraggly bush of dark fur encircling it.

  It was the ugliest thing he had ever witnessed in his life. He fled.

  Olga stood in bewilderment as she watched the youth fleeing. “Listen…son wait a moment!” she called after him. Why did he run away? She wondered. She meant him no harm.

  “Son…” she called again.

  When he ignored her call she continued down the stairs, balancing the lighted candle and her long gown. She had come down to perform a ritual, a ritual meant to lock her husband’s soul on the earth. It became habitual for her to do so every evening. And was to be performed at the place the deceased had last used. What better place than where her husband breathed his last! So she chose the spot.

  Gathering up her gown, she squatted besides the lamps. Beginning to light them with the special candle she held. The lamps were of ancient origin, suppose to awaken the spirit. Once done, she began to mutter incantations meant to invoke the spirit.

  The last rite was the most important one. She reached for the oviform metallic pot and dipped her hand in the whitish powder inside it. She sprinkled it all along the outline. It was a concoction of special ground herbs. This was the final trap for the dead person’s spirit.

  An old friend, Anna had taught her the ritual. Also teaching her the incantations and lending her the lamps and the concoction.

  Her friend had assured Olga that this was the only way she could get back her dead husband. First, trap his soul…then get him back bodily!

  As she stood up the oviform pot beside her tipped over. She watched aghast as the concoction scattered wildly on the outline. It infuriated her, how could she be so careless! It never dawned to her how a vessel simply tipping over could scatter so much powder!

  Chapter 4: Hell Hole in Kravchuk Dacha

  16 Sunday, October.

  Gevorg feigned to be sick and asleep. He patiently waited for his mother to go to the market. As soon as he heard the door slam shut, he was up. Grabbing his cell phone, he dialed a number. “Hey Karim!” he yelled, “Get here man as soon as possible I need a drink and smoke real bad!”

  Karim jumped up when he heard Gevorg’s voice. “Yes man!” he answered in an overjoyed tone. “I will be there as quick as possible with your stuff!”

  Putting down the cell phone he looked at his friend Nuri. “Guess who?”

  “Gevorg?” Nuri answered.

  “Yeah and he wants some stuff!”

  “Let’s go and get it then!”

  “Do you know where we have to go?”

  “We have to go to …sir…Right?” Nuri’s face was pale as he spoke. Anything to do with Gevorg had to be told to Sir immediately. Meeting Sir was an unpleasant task. They did it because they were paid well and also got free drinks and smokes.

  Karim picked up his cell phone and called on a number. After listening and answering submissively he put it down.

  “What?” his friend asked.

  “Let’s hurry,” Karim urged. Getting on their bicycles they headed to the sea-front. Soon they were on a strip of land—a tourist haven. It housed various stores like liquor, pornography and Russian artifacts also tattoo joints, body piercing joints… even a few gambling clubs.

  The duo hurried into one of the clubs, the bouncer outside looked sullenly at them. Recognizing them, he offered them a small nod. They pulled aside a heavy curtain of stringed beads and entered.

  Inside the lights were dim, clientele occupied booths, either drinking or talking to scantily dressed hookers. A Ukrainian native song played on a low volume.

  As they hurried towards the bar, a husky voice called them. “Hi cutie pigeons want the two of you to take me for a price of one?”

  They looked up to see a short muscular figure dressed in tight hot pants and a blouse with a plunging neckline. But the broad-lined face confirmed, the caller was neither a man nor a woman.

  Just then a deep voice called. “Boris stop harassing the boys!”

  The thing called Boris instantly backed off. “Yes boss…yes boss.”

  The deep voice belonged to Sir. He stood there in a black suit, ruddy and broad face with a huge auburn moustache. His long hair was tied tightly behind in a pony tail. He reminded them of those junkie rock stars, but for his
well exercised body. He beckoned them towards the bar.

  There he handed them a wallet size plastic box filled with powder. “This is high grade stuff make sure Gevorg gets all of it. Don’t you try it; this can blow your brains out!” Then he handed them a wad of 100 karbovanets. “This is for your services and drinks. Enjoy yourself boys!”

  “Thank you Sir Zhukovsky!” the boys answered in unison.

  Zhukovsky watched the boys leave the club, contented with the day’s happenings

  x x x

  Olga returned to find Gevorg completely stoned. Anger arose in her-it had to be his two good-for-nothing friends, Karim and Nuri. No matter what she did the two always sneaked in drugs for her Gevorg. She would have to do something about them. Quickly she went to call Mustafa. No visitors would be allowed to meet Gevorg from now on

  Two months later.

  5 Monday, December.

  Olga was rudely awoken to loud insistent ringing of the doorbell. She grabbed her nightgown, threw it around herself and hurried.

  It was the building watchman Mustafa. “Hurry Madame!” He urged. “Gevorg! He is lying on the pavement!”

  She cried. “Mustafa let us hurry. I hope he is not hurt!”

  A short distance from the building Gevorg lay under a tree in an inebriated state. His mobile, wristwatch, wallet, shoes even his glasses were missing.

  “O my God!” She cried in shock cupping her mouth with her palm.

  A small crowd of early morning joggers had gathered around the fallen youth. Before Mustafa could stop her, she bent down to lift her son in her arms like a baby. Then the others moved to help her. All the way she kept cooing sweetly in his ears, encouraging him.

  Everyone could see he was wasted. The once portly youth barely weighed thirty to forty kilograms. Drugs and liquor had consumed his body.

  Once in the house she wrapped him up in bedspreads and made him comfortable. It mildly revived him, pleasing her.

  “Gevorg!” she called. “Wake up! I will make you your favorite baked fish.”

  He mumbled feebly.

  “No…no son! No protesting! C’mon have a bath before our meal!”

  This time it was more of a grunt from him as he fell asleep.