The first faint sound pierced through the heavy veil of deep, unbroken sleep, sharp as a rusted nail driven into decayed wood. It was subtle, barely distinct from the usual creaks of the floor or the mournful wind whistling through the stove pipe. Still, a mother’s heart—unceasing and steadfast—responded immediately, tightening within her chest.
Arina didn’t dare open her eyes; instead, she focused all her attention on that fragile noise, her body feeling soft and unwieldy after a night burdened by oppressive dreams. Though it seemed she’d only just drifted into sleep, outside the frost-covered window, the sky had transitioned from black to a profound, rich blue, reminiscent of ripe blackberries. “Dawn is near,” a weary thought crossed her mind. “Soon…”
The mysterious sound appeared again—this time clearer. It was not a cry but a fragile, broken sigh that struggled to pierce through the cacophony of snores filling the small hut: her husband lying still and heavy like a massive boulder beside her, and her mother-in-law resting on the warm stove bench. Tikhon’s breathing rumbled thickly, a rolling thunderstorm before rain, filling the room completely. Meanwhile, the elderly woman grunted softly, like a dozing small dog.
Reluctant to rise, Arina hesitated. The mere thought of lighting a splinter and climbing up to the loft weighing on her pregnant, sluggish body made her recoil. She dreaded disturbing the mother-in-law, who would surely complain throughout the day about aches and lost sleep, her eyes casting silent blame toward Arina.
“Dreamed it,” Arina whispered to herself, pressing her cheek to the cool pillow. “It will fade. It always does.”
Yet the call came again, faint but unmistakable: “Ma-am… ma… u-u-u…” Her heart stopped, knowing that small voice charged with pain and yearning—it was her younger daughter, Alenka, summoning her alone. The moment had come; Arina could no longer stay put. Gently, like a fat cat in winter, she slipped from beneath the rough blanket, careful not to jostle her sleeping husband. Pregnancy, almost constant now, clumsily hindered her movements, and in an awkward lurch, her stiff braid caught Tikhon’s face, causing him to twitch and awaken, eyes wild with nightmare.
“No! I drank nothing, I struck no one! Please don’t push me!” he groaned groggily.
“It’s me, love. The child is crying. Sleep now,” Arina soothed softly, pulling the blanket back over him. Tikhon muttered, settled on his side, and soon was snoring as if never roused.
Past Shadows and a Family Transformed
A fleeting shadow of bitter irony touched Arina’s face. Only two years earlier, Tikhon’s drunken returns unleashed hell in their home. Without warning, he would beat her under the cynical guise of “loosening bones,” while children’s frightened cries spurred his rage. The elder boys shielded their mother, and the powerless mother-in-law would wail atop the stove as if mourning the dead. Their household lived in constant dread of his violent outbursts.
“Endure, little dove! Where else can you go? May his cursed hands wither—he is just like his scoundrel father!” the old woman grieved, tending to Arina’s bruises with thick honey and rags. “May his afterlife know emptiness!”
Then came an almost mystical turning point. After a night of torment, when all were exhausted and asleep, Tikhon suddenly thundered off the bed, like a fallen beam crashing down. In the dim glow of the splinter, his terrified, incoherent cries filled the room:
- “Get off me! Ow! It hurts! Take them away!”
- He crawled backward, swatting at invisible enemies.
- “They’ve thrown me! Who was that?!”
With tiny feet!
Snarling, he glared at the loft where frightened children’s faces peered down. The mother-in-law grimly muttered, suggesting maybe devils trampled him for his sins.
Twice more mysterious forces cast him to the floor whenever he lifted his hand against Arina, leaving marks of trampling wounds on his back. The last time, he froze mid-swing, fear glimmering in his eyes before collapse. That night, he finally slept in quiet peace.
Since then, more than a year has passed in calm. Tikhon appeared changed, and Arina’s face blossomed with serenity.
Local women whispered of a domovoy—the household spirit—who had disciplined the master and advised gratitude for his unseen protection.
In gratitude, Arina would leave fresh milk and bread by the stove, softly murmuring thanks to the kindly grandfather domovoy.
The Night Visitor and a Healing Miracle
Approaching the loft, Arina paused, reluctant to disturb the sleeping mother-in-law. Dragging a stool, she climbed quietly, seeking the awake child in the dark.
“Who’s awake?” she whispered.
“Mama… it’s me,” Alenka’s faint voice answered. “I feel terrible…”
Touching her daughter’s forehead, Arina recoiled in shock.
“You’re burning hot like glowing coal!”
Alenka complained of chills, aching throat, strained breathing, and twisted bones. Arina soothed her with honey and tucked in an extra sheepskin before returning to bed, though sleep eluded her.
The following day, Alenka’s condition worsened. Bedridden on her mother’s bed, neither home remedies nor raspberry jam relieved her. The distant hospital was unreachable on foot, and Tikhon feared transporting her in the cart would worsen her chills.
For two restless nights, fever plagued Alenka with harsh breathing, making it seem as if no air could reach her lungs. Beside her, Arina whispered prayers and folk charms, helplessly wiping her daughter’s feverish brow.
As Alenka slipped toward oblivion, a soft, persistent tickling stirred the soles of her feet.
Gaining strange strength, she lifted her heavy head and saw at her feet a small, squat man, scarcely taller than a cat. His wild beard tinged like ripe rye and his shaggy form appeared to be woven from moss and ancient wood. Cloaked in a red homespun shirt, his stern but kind black eyes glimmered beneath bushy brows. Yet Alenka felt no fear.
“What’s this, little one? Feeling weak, are you? Decided to get sick?” he grumbled, voice like wood creaking.
Unable to reply, Alenka silently watched as the figure grew peevish.
“Enough now. Strike’s over. You’ll rise tomorrow—no more fading away.”
Leaving a soft object by her feet, he vanished like smoke drifting from a tobacco pouch. Instantly, Alenka sank into deep, restorative slumber.
A Doll Returned and a Lifelong Companion
Morning brought complete recovery—her chest breathed freely and her throat felt well. Remembering the nighttime visitor, Alenka found beneath her blanket a warm, cloth doll: plain and homemade, but precious beyond words.
“Mama! The domovoy healed me!” she exclaimed running to the stove where Arina busied herself.
Tikhon, roused by the mention of “domovoy,” stared in disbelief. At first, Arina thought it fever-induced fantasy, but when Alenka showed the doll, she turned pale and slumped beside her stunned husband.
“Where… where did this come from?!”
“He left it for me,” Alenka insisted solemnly.
Arina recognized the doll immediately: her own creation from childhood named Palanechka. Crafted for luck and health, she had long searched in vain when she moved to her in-laws. The cherished doll seemed vanished as though swallowed by the earth.
Arina whispered in awe, “The grandfather domovoy must have kept it until now, returning it when your health mattered most. Guard her like your own eye.”
Alenka treasured Palanechka, faceless but clad in a faded blue kerchief and red pinafore, arms stuffed soft with rag.
“And remember to leave him milk,” Arina advised tenderly. “Say thank you to grandfather domovoy for restoring your health.”
- Palanechka became Alenka’s most trusted confidante for eight years;
- She traveled with her, shared her deepest secrets, boldest dreams, and harshest sorrows;
- At night, Alenka often felt a gentle brush smoothing her hair from an unseen friend.
From Village Girl to Witness of an Era
At sixteen, answering new life’s call, Alenka moved to the city of Perm and found work as a maid in a professor’s household. Life among polished floors and silverware brought routine but no Palanechka—a crisis struck when the doll vanished amidst packing for summer.
Soon after, Alenka fell ill with typhus, hospitalized and near death. She clung to life over two precarious weeks; then recovery came. The following months offered calm before the upheaval of revolution.
The October uprising turned everything upside down. While the professor’s family fled in chaos, Alenka stayed, soon following a young Red Army soldier. Throughout the civil war, she recollected her febrile battle with typhus, grateful to have endured it before a sweeping epidemic claimed many lives.
Her long life paralleled a transforming era—from stove-loft village girl to a witness of revolution and modernization. She survived the USSR’s entire leadership, saw humans fly to space, the atom split, and even the election of Russia’s first president.
Working into her eighties as a modest institute employee, she raised four children, beheld eight grandchildren, and welcomed many great-grandchildren.
Legacy, Stories, and the Spirit’s Presence
Passing in 2001 at ninety-nine, Alenka retained striking clarity until the end. Her cherished tale shared with grandchildren always featured Palanechka and the fair, stern grandfather domovoy. Steadfast, she harbored hope of the talisman’s return.
“A house with a domovoy always smells of freshly baked pies, warm and inviting,” she would say. “It’s the kind of home you long to return to.”
The children believed firmly the spirit dwelled in their grandmother’s apartment; a special peacefulness lingered there.
When her grown granddaughter lamented troubles in a new home, the elderly woman replied with wisdom:
“Try calling him. In our village, we dragged an old boot on a string under the full moon, inviting the domovoy to live with us, promising peace and good fare. The key: don’t look back until inside. Try with a slipper if you can.”
“What if something else comes?” the granddaughter worried.
Alenka smiled, “I respect science but believe in this. It’s in my mother’s milk. Do as you feel best.”
Though to the granddaughters, the stories seemed like fairy tales, after Alenka’s peaceful passing, her face serene and gently smiling, they discovered in her hand the familiar rag doll—Palanechka, faceless but whole, returned at life’s last moment.
In the stillness of the room, it seemed the air filled with scents of fresh bread, baked milk, and warm stove resin—as if a kindly unseen presence had come to escort her on her final journey.
In this tale of pain, resilience, and hope, the domovoy serves as a guardian whose strange interventions bring healing, protection, and warmth to a family through generations.