Kirill Leonidov - The Reflection. A Collection of Novels

Translator Artyom Belyy

Cover designer Platon Saradaev

Editor Larisa Mitrokhina

© Kirill Leonidov, 2018

© Artyom Belyy, translation, 2018

© Platon Saradaev, cover design, 2018

ISBN 978-5-4493-2344-6

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

My name is George. And I have something to tell you. I didn’t do it earlier because I deemed it to be too personal. But with time I understood that this could potentially be important for the others to understand the world we live in. It is as if nobody asks for help, but many need it, stuck in an eternal maze with no way out.

I wasn’t so old back then… when I set out to do something quite peculiar. My days were an obstacle race, my every though occupied by the need to stay on my feet, to not fall down. You “run” so fast that you stop feeling anything, you lose all empathy. Your thoughts and emotion dull under the stress of pursuing some imagined finishing line called “Success”. Win the race and a great deal of fame and recognition is sure to come, sometimes even with some big numbers on your bank account. But if you can’t pull it off… Then the finishing line becomes your personal apocalypse, where the sun goes down, never to be seen again.

But when the race is over and the dust settles down, you find yourself emotionally broken and empty. Having a significant other often does not change a thing, does not fill the void. Your beloved one had his or her own race to run and is still recovering.

Tired and sleepy, you hear the sounds of music fade; see TV actors’ shapes dim and the scars of political battles heal. Finally, the TV just becomes an ambient light, the computer is on standby, the weary hands can no longer hold the phone – your consciousness starts fading and the body prepares for the brave new day of the same old race.

But I am naturally curious, you see. This curiousness, must be imprinted on the cortex, burned and soldered in. I always want to learn something new, some mysterious thing that is beyond the grasp of our chaotic reality. Is there anything as tempting, as an attempt to widen your mind’s horizons? A “salesperson” in daily life (I sell electronics, which is harder than it sounds. Selling something in our demanding, irritable, greedy and paranoid society is quite a feat), at evenings I turn into an inquisitive primeval creature with a lust for knowledge and information. That is it. At day, I am a specialized robot, and at night – a cute little animal in perpetual search of an unheard of fruit of wisdom.

I learned about EVP [Electronic Voice Phenomenon] from the Internet, like many others. And decided to do a couple of experiments. Why? Out of the curiosity, of course. I didn’t have any ulterior motive, I swear. My friends called it nonsense. They still do. And you probably will. But you’re mistaken. Its way, way more complicated than that. Way too damn complicated. But, let’s start at the beginning.

You got to have the right equipment to experiment with the EVP. Not unlike a fisherman, you pick the right “hooks and nets” to catch the elusive voices. I picked up the most reasonable gear I could get. All you need is a computer, a soundboard with a special function, a sound editor program, a microphone and an amp.

Days, and sometimes even nights passed by. All my hard work was for naught. The “fishing” was unsuccessful – even the sound editor couldn’t make the noises clearer. On the Internet people say that it works… Not for me though. Only one time I heard something weird. “Is that him?” Or so my brain heard. I asked my wife, if she’d like to partake in my experiments. Her answer was… unusual, so to speak,

– “Honey, let’s do it in the bed, please? I am ready to risk there. It’s safer and more fun.”

– “Are you afraid?” said I.

– “I’m just saying we could be doing something ‘more useful’ more often.”

The embarrassment in my eyes made her chuckle,

– “I’m just kidding. But I am afraid, though.”

– “Of what?” I asked.

– “Well… I dunno. What if the some kind of demons will curse us and destroy our lives.”

– “Like, if we open a door… a portal and couldn’t close it, and no one could. You have to be morally prepared to these kinds of accidents. And I am not.”

– “We could try summoning your mom, for instance…”

– “Are you crazy?”

– “Why so?”

The wife let out a sigh,

– “She didn’t think of me much when she was alive. I advised her to divorce my father. He hated her. And then she started hating me for bringing this up. But she didn’t fall out of love with him. I can’t even imagine the things she’d say now.”

This conversation made me inclined to stop the “studies”, but one night, already feeling drowsy, I heard strange clicking sounds coming out of the next room. I can’t stand the other room’s noises, ever since the childhood. Especially if they come out of the farthest one. I remember waiting for my parents to come home from work, waiting painfully long till midnight or two o’clock. One time I tried, as I usually did, to take my mind off the bad thoughts, but couldn’t do it – the noises kept distracting me. Then somebody started walking “round the flat… It was impossible to ignore – the sound was getting louder and clearer. It was obvious that I was not alone. I snapped. Took a deep lungful of air and flew towards the unknown, ready to kick, punch and bite the uninvited guests, just to end this once and for all. I rushed in the farthest room, swung the door open and started rattling my parents’ wardrobe, screaming like a mad maniac.

Ever since that day I never had a big flat, even when I could afford it. And never lived by myself. And hated “Home Alone”. Could it be a childhood trauma?

And now again… Even though, the wife and the dog a here. The latter, as well as the former, doesn’t hear a thing. They both sleep tight and snugly. The dog doesn’t hear it, but I do.

I get up and go to the next room. My steps are almost as firm as that of the grownup. Almost. Funny to see me so afraid and ashamed. I didn’t find it amusing though. I come in through the open door and see a figure in the centre of the room. Upon flicking on the light, to my utter surprise, I see a child of ten-twelve years old. He, as I used to, stands in the middle of the room crying. He’s wet with tears, the water is dripping from him, his face is pale and freckled. The hair is as light as the bundle of flax. I was paralyzed by dread, can’t say a word, can’t make a sound. And I wake up.

The wife and the dog are asleep. By the God, it was only a dream. I stop shivering, but the anxiety doesn’t leave me. I venture forth into the darkness of the real next room. Obviously, I do not find anybody there. For no particular reason I turn on the PC and start recording.

I ask, “Who’s there?”

The EVP enthusiasts usually don’t ask such questions. What does the “who” and “there” even mean in such context?

But I got a definite answer. It was quiet but discernible. I didn’t even need to edit these three words: “Simon is here”.

Baffled, I blurted out,

– “Why?”

The answer was delayed by a minute or so,

– “Dark… Take a hand. Pier heard.”

– “What pier, Simon?”

– “Pier heard.”

– “Screamed and heard?”

– “Yes… Not leave.”

– “I won’t leave. What is happening?”

– “Alone. Always alone.”

– “You are not alone now, Simon. My name is George. Can I help you?”