Echoes of the Forest

by sillyswamper

Summary:

Abbacchio’s forced to make a pilgrimage to the heart of the Russian countryside. To his surprise, he can bear Bucciarati's presence — but only after supernatural forces get involved.

Chapter 1: The hut

Notes:

TW: Abbacchio doesn't like Jesus

Another year, another offer Abbacchio could not refuse.

He hadn’t accompanied his mother and her friend in their pilgrimages for three years now, choosing to go fishing and camping with his father instead. But he’d had enough of shitting in the forest for his entire lifetime. Enough was enough, and with his mother refusing to leave him home alone for over a week, despite him being an adult about to start his first year of police academy, he had to sacrifice his sanity for convenience. No more ticks and mosquitoes, no more “baths” in lakes, no more “be quiet, you’ll scare the pike”.

 

“Or,” Mista tried to come up with an escape plan, “find a job and move out.”

“Easy for you to say.” Abbacchio shook his head in disapproval and kicked a stone on his way. “They won’t let me move out.”

“How can they not let you? Just take your shit and leave.”

 

Easier said than done. Especially for Mista, who got all the support he needed. 

Abbacchio’s parents wouldn’t give him a dime had he simply moved out. Nor would they ever approve of him staying on his own; not as long as he hadn’t “healed”, whatever that meant. He was nearly certain it was a synonym for “stop wearing makeup, ditch the black clothes, cut your hair short, and, for the love of God, never bleach it again”. 

“You’ll be healed once I say you’re healed,” his mother’s voice rang in his head as he pretended to listen to Mista’s clever "solutions",  none of which had any potential to work out.

 

“She’s still not over that ‘healing’ shit?” Mista’s question got him out of the trance.

Had Abbacchio been thinking out loud? 

“Nope,” he responded resignedly. “Pretty sure she thinks those ‘trips’ could heal me. You know, healing power of Jesus, or something.”

Mista nodded with uncertainty. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“She said it’s a surprise. Last year they went to France, so I’m hoping for somewhere nice.” 

“Is he going, too?”

Abbacchio sighed. “You know it.”

 

The “ he” in question, Abbacchio’s least favourite companion, the son Abbacchio’s mother wished she had. The only child of her best friend, a golden boy, call him what you will. The person who accompanied them on all the pilgrimages, year after year. The kid who still appeared in Abbacchio’s nightmares, even though he had ended the impressive streak of ten holiday trips together three years before. 

Bucciarati.

Fucking Bucciarati; if the prayers to Jesus and Virgin Mary weren’t enough, if visiting every church on their way was not enough—certainly, a few nights in the same room with Bucciarati were enough to make Abbacchio lose his sanity.

Year after year, he tried to find something—anything—to show his mother that Bucciarati wasn't really a sweet, kind boy whom she adored more than she could ever adore her own son. All in vain.

Perhaps because Bucciarati really was that kid. He had better grades than Abbacchio; he dressed more appropriately; he had no mental struggles, as they were all fixed by God; and, most importantly, he only had one friend.

He didn’t have any “Mistas” around to “teach him violence and misbehaviour." No, Bucciarati had one dearest friend whom Abbacchio came to despise over the years, perhaps more than he ever despised Bucciarati himself.

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

That’s right. The man, the legend, the actual divine being. The Jesus, one and only.

Bucciarati prayed multiple times a day, went to church regularly, painted images of all the saints Abbacchio had no idea existed—all because he “wanted to talk to his best friend more often”. And given his obsession with all things sacred, Abbacchio doubted he had “real” friends. He’d mentioned a few “colleagues” from the youth group at the local church, but Abbacchio highly doubted any of them were close to Bucciarati—true, one had to be a freak to join church youth groups, but Bucciarati was a special kind of unbefriendable. Lost case, one may say.

 

“Well, then you’re fucked.” Mista summed up with a shrug. “But look at the bright side.”

“Like what?”

“Like, maybe at least you’ll go somewhere nice, huh?”

Somewhere nice. Abbacchio’s last ray of hope.

***

“Un-fucking-believeable.”

“Leone! Watch your mouth!” Abbacchio’s mother wasted no time in pulling his collar down so far she almost strained his neck. “Be grateful you get to experience real life away from the city.”

Not even in his wildest dreams had Abbacchio considered “away from the city” and “a Russian countryside"—scratch that, “a Russian village stuck in the 16th century"—to be synonymous.

“What a beautiful place!” Bucciarati was already ten steps ahead of everyone, inhaling the smell of whatever crap the farmers were dumping on the fields.

Abbacchio made sure his eyeroll would be visible to Bucciarati, and Bucciarati alone. What he got in return was a spiteful glance—a good enough reward for his efforts. 

Abbacchio quickly remembered all the reasons why he had stopped going on the trips. Spending hours in a car (yes, a car) with Bucciarati was horrible enough—from him praying out loud half the time to his ambiguous comments about the "new trends", the phrase he used to indirectly describe Abbacchio's attire. He didn't know how he would survive a week long "holiday" with Bucciarati in the same room. Perhaps not at all—the option of running away on foot seemed tolerable by comparison.

There was one more issue with Bucciarati that Abbacchio hadn’t taken into consideration ever before, nor did he wish for the thought to ever cross his mind. 

Bucciarati’s looks changed. To put it mildly.

Truth be told, he was never ugly—not to Abbacchio, at least—but his personality combined with the ratty nose and chubby cheeks weren’t doing him much justice. 

Now, well past puberty, Bucciarati was almost, and Abbacchio didn’t say it lightly (he’d never say it out loud, anyway), handsome. 

He wasn’t attractive, certainly not with his heinous personality and fake laugh, but when it came to his looks, and his looks alone, he changed for the better. Even his high-bridged nose, the attribute that Abbacchio used to consider the ugliest of all, began to fit his sharpened features far too well. It almost made Abbacchio angry to witness the ugly duckling turn into a swan right before his eyes with no prior notice. 

“The house is so lovely!” 

Bucciarati’s annoying tone brought Abbacchio’s thoughts back to reality. The statement turned out to be ridiculously misleading—there was nothing lovely about the crumbling shack he had mistakenly called a house.

Their living space looked like something out of an open-air museum. A lonesome hut placed in the middle of a meadow, all wooden, fenced in with a few oak logs stuck in the ground. A picture of sorrow and despair right in the middle of nowhere.

The inside was somehow even worse. A tiled cooker, certainly older than Abbacchio and Bucciarati combined, stood in the corner of the kitchen. No real stove in sight; the iron plates on a furnace were the only heating surfaces in the house. And, to top it off, no heating other than the cooker. Whether it was able to heat the water for bathing, Abbacchio could not tell.

The bedrooms weren’t as bad. Abbacchio already knew he’d be sharing his room with Bucciarati; that came without saying. What he didn’t anticipate, however, were the images of the Virgin Mary and Jesus hung right above his bed. If those weren’t bad enough, Bucciarati decided to place one more painting, his own work of art, on his bedside table, right in front of Abbacchio’s bed. 

***

The first night in the hut was quite traumatising for Abbacchio.

Firstly, he thought he was about to freeze to death after taking a shower in barely warm water—the best they could get out of the old boiler. Secondly, Bucciarati’s painting of Mary placed conveniently next to him was penetrating his soul with its gaze. He dragged himself off the bed and turned the image around, letting Mary observe the wooden wall instead. 

When he woke up, she was back to staring at him, her unnaturally blue irises reflecting the sunbeams that were the main culprits of Abbacchio’s early awakening.

Bucciarati was gone already, off to his usual duties after his morning prayers. What these were, Abbacchio couldn’t care less. All that mattered was the peace of mind Bucciarati’s absence gave him.

He got up with a grunt, intending to go straight to the bathroom. Sadly, the only way to his destination led through the kitchen, where he was stopped abruptly by his mother cooking something that looked and smelt horrendous, offering him a plate of the delicacy. 

“What the hell is this?” Abbacchio tried to hold back the gag reflex, unbothered by his mother’s deadly stare.

“Bruno brought a book full of traditional Russian recipes,” she said, as she poured another bowl of the unholy mixture, “and went to the store to get the ingredients.” She sat down in front of Abbacchio and tasted her creation as he watched her with a mortified expression.

“What a great boy,” Abbacchio mouthed as his mother spoke the words aloud. 

“Tastes great,” she summed up, and left to call Bucciarati and his mother for the meal. 

Abbacchio attempted to sneak out to the bathroom during breakfast, hoping to miss out on the pleasure of tasting his mother’s concoction—unsuccessfully. He nibbled at a piece of cabbage, or rather whatever was left of the poor vegetable after someone decided to pickle it, rendering the food inedible. Or, at least, inedible to him. 

His mother, on the other hand, praised the dish and thanked Bucciarati for the recipe, echoing Bucciarati’s mother, who asked for seconds. Ironically, Bucciarati himself seemed rather grossed out by the monstrosity in his bowl, but, like a good boy he was, he finished every last bite. 

Normally, they’d visit the Catholic church after breakfast, stay for a “quick” (one excruciating hour-long) Mass, and leave for the day. Sometimes Bucciarati came back for the evening Mass, too, but that wasn’t of any interest to Abbacchio. He was just glad to stay alone for an hour.

Only this time they were in Russia, of all places. And, apparently, the churches there were different, too. 

Not only was the Mass longer; the place was different as well. The paintings, all eerily similar to the Mary Bucciarati painted, covered entire walls; the view was breathtaking, Abbacchio had to admit, despite his earlier reluctance. Although nowhere near as full of gilded ornamentation as the ones he’d seen in books, it had its charm. Small, cosy and full of elderly people—just the way he’d imagine an old Orthodox church in the middle of a desolate Russian village would look.

He soon got bored of looking at all the saints decorating the area. Back in the day, when they were kids, Abbacchio used to pinch Bucciarati in church, disrupting his ridiculously excessive concentration. He liked to watch him get annoyed—the shade of his face turning bright red and the intent to kill in his eyes.

Now he considered himself too old to play tricks on Bucciarati, leaving him with nothing but his own thoughts to pass the time. 

He contemplated all aspects of the uncomfortable position he found himself in. On the one hand, at least six more nights with Bucciarati, possibly cold and with Mary's eyes on his back. On the other hand, no pike, no baths in the lake, and a chance to enrage Bucciarati just to keep himself entertained. And about ten more hours spent in that church with nothing but Russian prayers in the background. A dream holiday indeed.

Notes:

I'm not reading this more than once if it's bad it's bad yall

Chapter 2: The forest

“Have you eaten anything?” 

Bucciarati and Mary were staring at Abbacchio, disrupting the little peace he had.

Abbacchio looked at them from over the book he was reading. Bucciarati was spread sluggishly on his bed, with his head supported only by the arm laid flat on the mattress. His usually perfectly groomed bob dishevelled messily over his forearm, electrified by the fabric of the sheets. The afternoon sun shone on the black strands, causing the white particles in the air to settle onto their length. 

Abbacchio could only imagine how divine it felt to roast in the sun. Despite his hostile feelings towards Bucciarati, he found himself increasingly inclined to sit on his bed when he wasn't watching, just to catch a glimpse of the sunshine before all the warmth inevitably disappeared and left him freezing again. No one had told him that he should have packed autumn clothes for the summer holidays. 

"No," muttered Abbacchio. Not only was he cold, he was starving. Starvation seemed better than touching the cabbage ever again, after all.

“There’s a pastry shop nearby,” Bucciarati replied, struggling to sit up.

“So?” Abbacchio played disinterest.

“We could grab some food.”

“Don’t you like your Russian cuisine?”

Silence. Abbacchio heard the fly buzzing at the open window.

“I want to try regional desserts.”

Sure. Bucciarati had barely touched the sad excuse for a dinner. He must’ve been starving, too, if he'd been desperate enough to ask for Abbacchio's companion.

Although his common sense was against going out with Bucciarati, his stomach had been fighting for its life since breakfast. He had no choice but to give in.

“Just don’t tell them,” Bucciarati whispered on the way out. “I told our moms we’re going to visit the monastery."

***

Unsurprisingly, “nearby” for Bucciarati meant half an hour's walk. He said he’d discovered a shorter route on the map, but once they entered the forest, Abbacchio knew there was no shortcut to begin with—Bucciarati saw the mulch as one enormous pavement, as if fallen trees and random ponds weren’t a natural part of the ecosystem that they couldn’t simply fly past. 

Why did he ever agree to leave the house with Bucciarati? He knew better than to trust him. But, alas, there they were, rushing through the tall grass, presumably full of tics, on their way to a destination Abbacchio wasn’t sure existed.

The air was getting cooler. Abbacchio was freezing, despite the physical effort he was putting into sweeping the bushes. Unlike him, Bucciarati had brought a whole collection of sweaters; though hideous, perhaps uglier than any fashion atrocity Abbacchio had ever witnessed, at least they kept him warm. 

“Do you even know the way?” he finally broke the silence, realising that it wouldn't be long before his fingers would fall off from the cold.

“We’re almost there,” Bucciarati pushed a few branches and let them whip Abbacchio instead.

Abbacchio grabbed the ugly sweater by the collar and dragged Bucciarati with it, forcing him to take a step back.

"How long?" he asked, clenching his fist against the fabric as if to make sure Bucciarati wouldn't run away.

"Half an hour at the most." 

"Half an hour? You said the whole way was half an hour!" He let go of the sweater only to shove Bucciarati into the nearest tree, ready to smash his nose.

"Calm down," he replied nervously, stretching out his arm to stop Abbacchio from the murder attempt he was about to perform. “I’m sure we’ll find the way.”

Abbacchio grabbed his wrist and squeezed it tightly, forcing Bucciarati’s arm to bend. “No, you idiot,” he shouted in his face, “you should already know the fucking way.”

“Stop swearing!” he yanked his forearm out of Abbacchio’s hand and pushed him back, pure fire radiating from his eyes.

Abbacchio tripped over a stray tree root; he tried to grab a branch on his way down, but it was too late—he fell into the pond behind him with a splash, landing in the thick mud and covering all his clothes in the mixture of dirt and grass.

Wet and trembling, he rose from the water with the intention of strangling Bucciarati with his bare hands. That is, until Bucciarati snorted. 

The thought of his limp body falling into the disgusting, muddy water flashed through Abbacchio’s mind. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, trying to keep the straight face from twisting into a smile. 

Damned Bucciarati, making a joke of his misery.

"I'm sorry too," he replied, stretching out his arm to help Abbacchio out of the mud. "I only told you it was half an hour because you wouldn't agree to go otherwise."

Abbacchio was about to come up with a clever comeback, but a muffled sound coming from the forest took his mind elsewhere. 

They turned their heads immediately as the sound of joyful music, followed by the cheers of a crowd, filled the once silent forest. The sounds faded out as soon as they appeared, leaving them confused—after all, a party in the forest, in the middle of nowhere, didn’t seem like a common occurrence. Even in Russia.

They waited a few seconds, flabbergasted, staring into the distance, as if the dark depths of the woods held any answers.

"Let's just go," Bucciarati gave Abbacchio a worried look. "We haven't got all day."

***

They left the Russian jungle with their hands full of pastries and managed to get back before midnight. Still, there wasn't a lot to be particularly excited about. Abbacchio was on the verge of tears upon realising no hot shower was awaiting him, and the only thing to keep him warm at night was a thin quilt covered with a scratchy blanket. Besides, the envy he felt looking at Bucciarati’s ugly sweater took his hatred for him to a whole new level. 

Washed in the lukewarm water, no longer covered in dirt, he sat on his bed and dug a disintegrating notebook out of his bag. While Bucciarati was taking a bath, probably enjoying himself in the yellowish liquid that could have been water, Abbacchio took the opportunity to write down his thoughts. 

The notebook might have been the only thing that kept him sane during the difficult times he had to endure. Besides, it was a clever idea to record his experiences, just so he could tell Mista about them later. Hell, maybe he'd send it in a letter, since a one-minute phone call cost more than his entire salary at the grocery store (he only suffered through one week, but still).

 

Dear Hi Mista,

I'm writing this because, as you may have guessed, I'm losing my mind here. The lights went out yesterday, so I'll be quick, just in case. Mother said I should be grateful there's any light at all...

 

Focus, Abbacchio, focus.

 

Today we went to the store with Bucciarati. Apparently, he knows Russian. I mean, at this point it sounds like an obsession. He put up a painting of the Virgin Mary that he made himself and, I swear to god, he talks to it. And it's painted in this Russian style, like an icon. I mean, what the fuck?

 

Abbacchio took a moment to think about what he wrote. Not in a “should I really say this?” way, but in a “how fucked up is this guy, really? And why doesn’t it bother me as much as it should?” way. He figured he’d gotten used to Bucciarati’s insanity over the years. There was no other explanation—at least not one he’d be willing to believe. It's not like he was becoming increasingly detached from reality himself, right?

 

I also got to eat some normal food. Either Russian cuisine tastes like ass, or my mother can’t cook a decent meal to save her life. 

 

There was no “either-or”, really—Abbacchio knew the answer. Still, he chose to give her the benefit of the doubt.

 

We went to the pastry store. The baker seemed nice, even though I didn’t understand a word she said. I’m pretty sure Bucciarati’s “charm” and residual knowledge of Russian got us a free blueberry roll. Which, oddly enough, he shared with me. 

 

It was a really tasty roll; maybe because he was starving, maybe because it was free. Free was a fair price. Bucciarati broke it in half with his sticky fingers, but it was good regardless. Abbacchio wasn’t even particularly disgusted, to think of it—

Focus, goddamit. 

 

We also saw some weird lady walking around the forest on our way back. She stared at us like a ghost, then disappeared. This whole place is just spooky. If I never go back, it means the forest took me. 

 

He took a deep breath as he wrote the last paragraph. Who on earth chooses to walk around the forest after the sunset and stare at two dudes with pastries? Maybe she was hungry, he figured. Or maybe she wanted to eat them… 

Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it.

 

Take care,

Abbacchio

 

He put the notebook down with a sigh and wrapped himself in a blanket, hoping the cocoon would keep him warm for the night. 

 

Soon he was lying flat, staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep while Bucciarati mumbled his evening prayers. He could feel the wind coming through the holes in the wooden walls and blowing into his face. 

Initially, he tried to delude himself into believing the same wind was responsible for the sounds he was hearing from the outside. But, the truth was, he was almost certain something was tapping on the window.

Trembling, either with cold or fear, he came over to Bucciarati and shook his shoulder.

“What?” he turned his sleepy face towards him, the blue moonlight reflecting off his nose. 

Abbacchio tried to hide his distress with little success. “Do you hear that?” he whispered.

“Hear what?” Bucciarati lifted himself from the pillow and listened to the sounds coming from the outside. “I suppose it’s just a branch hitting the glass. Go back to sleep.” He took a moment to contemplate. Placing his hand on Abbacchio’s thigh, he reassured him: “God’s with you, Leone. There’s nothing you should fear when…”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. 

Suddenly, the knocking turned into a loud howl, and with it, an unexpected flash of lightning filled the room, the loud thunder nearly shattering the ancient window.

Abbacchio’s pathetic wail could be heard from miles away. He jumped at Bucciarati, as if their joined forces had a better chance of winning against the wilderness on the other side of the wall.

Shaking and panting, they sat in an uncomfortable embrace for what felt like an eternity until the wind died down, leaving nothing but dead silence behind it.

Abbacchio gathered all of his courage to speak again. “It was probably just a wolf,” he stuttered. 

Bucciarati glanced at him nervously, nodding with little to no certainty, choosing not to believe what they’d just witnessed.

Slowly, still trembling, Abbacchio stood up and climbed into his own sheets with a shaky sigh.

“You should go to the monastery tomorrow,” Bucciarati finally whispered, staring at Abbacchio from under his blanket. The only features that weren’t buried underneath the quilt were his eyes, peeking out only to observe Abbacchio. “I bet it was Satan giving you a sign.”

“Why would Satan try to give me signs?” Abbacchio rolled his eyes. 

Bucciarati shrugged in his blankets. “I don’t know. Maybe you’ve been close to him lately.”

Abbacchio didn’t even hope for a logical explanation; he expected reassurance, at best. Perhaps silence would’ve sufficed. But it was Bucciarati he tried to reason with, and, in Bucciarati’s world, there was nothing but God and Satan, both fighting constantly and without respite over Abbacchio’s soul, of all the sinful souls around.

Sure, Abbacchio wasn’t the epitome of purity, but he was certain there were countless serial killers waiting in the line to be possessed. Why would Satan choose him out of all the sinful souls around?

This, along with many other questions, had to wait until the morning. For now, all he mustered was “Fine, we’ll go tomorrow.”

As much as he didn’t believe a thing Bucciarati said about any of the divine beings rubbing their hands together as they watched his deeds from up above, he was hoping for any, even the most ridiculous explanation, be it from a cranky neighbour or even Andrei Rublev* himself. And, with no neighbours around, a Russian monk was their best bet.

 

“Bucciarati?” Abbacchio’s whisper barely reached the other side of the room.

“Yeah?”

“Can I borrow a sweater?”

 

***

“Sviter.”

“Huh?”

“Sweater in Russian. It’s sviter. Keep up, Leone.”

 

Notes:

*Andrei Rublev was a Russian artist considered to be one of the greatest mediaeval Russian painters of Orthodox Christian icons and frescoes.

(Yes I copied this from Wikipedia, but if you'd like to watch a 3-hour long movie about this guy that's mostly taken out of someone's ass, it's available on youtube for free and it's three hours well-spent)

---

Hi! I changed a lot while re-reading this one so please let me know if there are any weird grammatical/phrasing mistakes. I found at least a few but you know how it is.

Thanks for reading! And thanks for the kudos/comments/subscriptions/bookmarks, I see it all and I appreciate it a lot. Especially since I'm aware weird AUs aren't the most read things out there and this one will only get weirder lmao

Also I changed the Mary because first time apparently I was referring to the wrong one, sorry for that. We're talking Jesus' mother kinda Mary.

Chapter 3: The monastery

Notes:

Hello. It's been what, 7 months?
I know this chapter is a bit rough around the edges, but it had to be there so the rest of the story makes any sense. I've tried to fix things here and there, but I've decided I'm writing it for fun and I've had enough tryharding. And this is fun! So here it is. WE ARE SO BACK!!!

Snuggled in Bucciarati’s warm sweater, Abbacchio managed to survive the night. And even if it was still ugly, and a little scratchy, and maybe smelt too much of Bucciarati, it was the first night since they arrived that he wasn’t freezing at night. And for that, he was grateful. Almost considered making amends with Bucciarati for the first time in his life. 

Almost. Because the moment he opened his heavy eyelids and dragged himself off the bed, Bucciarati welcomed him in the doorway with that typical sour expression, dressed in a new hideous sweater. This time it was green, with brown spots all over.

“You’re finally up,” he said, crossing his arms in the most defensive manner. “We have to go, remember?”

Abbacchio took a moment to recalibrate his brain. Last night, the thunder that almost cracked their window — he’d never forget, even if he wished to.

Bucciarati’s first instinct was to ask monks for help — because, without a doubt, that loud howl they heard was Satan himself. Fishing for Abbacchio’s filthy soul. 

And, apparently, Abbacchio agreed. Though he certainly did it in the moment, not thinking straight, it was too late to refuse. He could say no, sure, but that light in Bucciarati’s eyes dying out — the thing he used to cherish back in the day — was suddenly something Abbacchio didn’t want to cause. 

Scratch that. Maybe that was just what pity felt like. 

He cast a disinterested glance at Bucciarati and sighed deeply. “Nice sweater,” he said. “Planning to blend in with the trees, I assume?” He bumped into his shoulder as he stepped out of their room, trying to, rather ineptly, assert his superiority, and went to the bathroom. 

“Hey,” Bucciarati followed, banging on the door. “We need to do this before the evening.”

Abbacchio rolled his eyes. “Let me piss, will you?”

He heard nothing more than a dissatisfied grumble in response. 

***

Abbacchio suspected the whole ordeal regarding the possession of his soul was an excuse for Bucciarati to visit the monastery. Firstly, because he mentioned the place ten times in the span of the past two days. Secondly, because there was an Orthodox church near their hut, yet Bucciarati chose to travel five kilometres — without mentioning the distance to Abbacchio, of course — through the same forest they nearly got lost in the day before.

Regardless, they were already there, on their way, and he didn’t have an ounce of energy left to argue with Bucciarati. Especially that the last time he tried to oppose, it ended with him landing in a pond.

Midway through, they heard muffled shuffling in the bushes. Nothing unusual — they stumbled upon a few boars before — but it seemed like something much larger. 

From beneath the green leaves came out an old lady of stout build, holding a wicker basket. She paid them no mind as they stood, flabbergasted, watching her sweep through the forest.

“Is it the same one from yesterday?” Abbacchio whispered, following her with his gaze.

Bucciarati nodded. “At least she doesn’t stare this time.”

Abbacchio swallowed, glancing back and forth between Bucciarati and the woman. She walked in an odd manner, as if flowing in the weeds, before suddenly disappearing behind tall trees. It wouldn’t be an understatement to say she dematerialised — one moment they could hear her, see her shadow, watch her walk; the next, she was gone — no sound, no sight, nothing.

There was something off about that forest. An old lady walking around with seemingly no destination, random outbursts of folk music fading as quickly as they came, the smells, even the way light flickered in between leaves and treetops. All of it awoke an eerie feeling in Abbacchio’s gut, and judging by the way Bucciarati picked up the pace the moment she disappeared, he figured he wasn’t the only one having his doubts.

***

The monastery was small, wooden, and didn't look much different from the church they’d been to. Cosy, full of paintings, with floors covered in red, decorative carpet. There wasn’t a single soul inside, but they found a monk wandering around the garden nearby. 

Though the way Bucciarati told the story was likely incompatible with Abbacchio’s recollection of the event — not like he could tell, as both Bucciarati and the monk spoke Russian — it seemed that he was doomed from the get-go. One glance from the monk was enough for Abbacchio to sense the cold judgment in his gaze. No wonder — he made sure to put on lipstick before leaving, mainly to upset Bucciarati, not to mention his earrings. One thing was certain — the old man did not appreciate his sense of style, and not even the ugly sweater from the night before could change that.

The monk examined Abbacchio. Walked around him twice, touched his hair without permission, grunted disapprovingly. Then nodded, as if he agreed with Bucciarati.

“He says you’re possessed,” Bucciarati told him, fear radiating from his stupid blue eyes.

Abbacchio could not believe his ears. “Are you two serious right now?” he asked, as if he didn’t know the answer already. “Why would I be possessed? How would that even work? I didn’t do anything, it was the—”

His explanation didn’t matter, anyway, as Bucciarati drowned him out completely with more questions directed at the monk, who dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. He took out a book — the Bible, Abbacchio guessed by the size of it — and read some words in Latin. He crossed himself in an unfamiliar way and said something in Russian.

“He told us to pray for you,” Bucciarati explained, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Let’s go to the monastery and—”

Abbacchio didn’t listen. He rolled his eyes and started going back, giving the priest a farewell in Italian. And Bucciarati followed, running after him, begging him to reconsider.

“Wait, what if this happens again?” he said as he struggled to keep up with Abbacchio’s pace. “We need to—”

“How’s this my fault?” Abbacchio finally stopped, turning to Bucciarati and spreading his hands. “I just happen to wear dark coats, how’s every misfortune or disaster always my fault?”

Bucciarati stood before him, panting, considering what to say. “I… well, I never thought about it, but you heard the—”

“I don’t even know what he said,” Abbacchio countered, turning back and walking forward. “And, truth be told, I don’t care. It’s all bullshit, anyway. I don’t know why I came here in the first—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. Before them, right in the middle of the trail, stood the old lady from before, very clearly staring at them, as if she knew what was going on.

And maybe it was because Abbacchio happened to be at his wits' end, but he decided to approach her. In Italian.

“Do you live nearby?” he asked casually, as if he didn’t just bother a random, unknown woman who looked like a spooky grandma with some mushrooms growing out of her coat. He didn’t notice that detail before, but now it sent dreadful shivers down his spine.

She examined him curiously, then nodded. Nodded. As if she understood.

Abbacchio swallowed slowly, then looked at Bucciarati. He was just as shocked as him.

“Uh— we were wondering…” He realised he really didn’t know what to ask. ‘ Do you know anything about any explosive thunderstorms going on in this area? We nearly had a heart attack yesterday’ didn’t seem appropriate for the occasion. “Are there any wolves around?”

Fucking idiot.

“We heard a loud howl yesterday. And we wonder what happened,” Bucciarati chimed in. Abbacchio was almost grateful to have him around.

She crossed her arms and contemplated silently, then took out some herbs from her basket. “Evil spirit. Smoke this,” she said in Russian — and Abbacchio had no idea how, but he understood. “Sit by the fire and breathe. Will help.”

Did that make any sense at all? Surely no more than what the monk said. But Abbacchio believed it. He took the bundle of aromatic green sticks from her hands and hid them in his pocket. “Thank you,” he said, nodding.

She nodded back, then went on her merry way, as if the odd encounter was no surprise at all.

Abbacchio turned to Bucciarati, still shocked. “Let’s go burn some leaves, then.”

***

They set up the fire a few feet from the forest, making sure not to burn all the trees down with the herbs. Bucciarati kept complaining, but regardless, he helped Abbacchio gather the wood.

Once the setup was finished, Abbacchio took the sticks out and, hesitantly, threw them into the fire. “D’you think she wants to get us high?” he asked, watching as Bucciarati fiddled his fingers. 

“Is this paganism?” Bucciarati asked instead. “Maybe we should pray to even it out.”

Abbacchio sighed. “I mean, you can pray if you want to.”

Grey smoke rose from the fire, and soon they were both covered in a deep, smoky smell. But Abbacchio didn’t necessarily feel any difference. “It’s a waste of time,” he finally said, rising from the oak log he was sitting on. “You done with the prayers?”

Bucciarati crossed himself and nodded, standing up after him. 

They were just about to head back home when they heard the folk music again. They looked around, confused. It was coming from the forest.

They exchanged knowing glances.

Led by the loud music, they followed the muddy trail. Somewhere behind the bushes stood a wooden hut — sturdy, but not extravagant. Then again, nothing seemed extravagant in that area.

A whole crowd of people tried to come inside, all dressed in colourful, puffy dresses and shirts.

“Seems to be a wedding,” Bucciarati said, staring at the blinking candles inside. “Though, well… It’s odd for people to still have traditional weddings.”

Through the window, they saw the bride. She was dressed in traditional attire, no white wedding gown in sight. Covered in embroidered patterns, with puffy sleeves and a long, colourful dress, she looked more like someone out of a history book. Abbacchio had never seen anything like this. “What’s not odd about this place?” he asked.

Bucciarati chuckled. “Right. Maybe that’s what we heard last night? We were freaking out for nothing.” He laughed, and Abbacchio laughed with him. Though, sure enough, weddings don’t sound like howls. Maybe those weeds did get them high, after all. “Let’s just g—”

From behind them came out an old man with a moustache styled into two elegant curls reaching his cheeks. He said something in Russian, dragging them both into the crowd.

“Shit.” Abbacchio tried to escape his grip, or at least not to lose Bucciarati behind all the colourful flowers and fancy blouses. All in vain. By the time he managed to spot him, he was already seated somewhere inside, by the long wooden table, surrounded by more men with moustaches and cheerful women. 

Abbacchio pushed his way through the crowd, finally getting to him, trying to save him, but it was already too late. A man lent him his embroidered jacket — big, black, full of beautiful ornaments. A bunch of women spoke among themselves, trying to stick a flower crown on his head. Seemingly, Bucciarati became the nail of the evening, while Abbacchio stood back, flabbergasted, trying to comprehend how and why they got mixed up in that mess.

He finally managed to take a seat next to Bucciarati as an old man was filling the glasses in front of them with, presumably, vodka. He said something, raising the glass.

“What did he say?” Abbacchio shouted to Bucciarati. Even though they were sitting right beside each other, they could not hear a thing.

“No idea. It’s not Russian.”

Fuck. Fuck. “What do you mean it’s not Russian?”

The old man started screaming something to them, pointing to the filled glasses. He seemed rather agitated and certainly drunk.

“Drink,” Abbacchio ordered, hooking his arm around Bucciarati’s. “Drink with me. Now.”

It wasn’t vodka. Something much stronger hit his throat and burnt like fire. Next to him, Bucciarati nearly choked.

God, whatever this was, Abbacchio wasn’t sure if they would come out alive.

Notes:

I legit saw that this thing had like... 5 subscribers? And I thought wow I can't let yall down.