The Hot Room

I moved from Ohio to a village called Olkhovka, tucked in the Ussuriysk district, chasing a dream of apprenticing under a master woodcarver named Pyotr. My grandmother had arranged for me to stay with him and his family in their centuries-old house, deep in the woods. I was nineteen, fresh-faced, and they welcomed me warmly, despite my black clothes and silver rings. Pyotr was a bear of a man with calloused hands and a gentle laugh. His wife, Tanya, was a small, sharp-eyed woman who always smelled of bread and smoke. They had a son, Misha, my age, who spoke little but watched everything.

The house itself was a labyrinth of carved oak and cedar, every surface etched with intricate patterns—swirls, leaves, and animals that seemed to shift in the candlelight. Behind the house, a rutted track led to the banya, a squat, windowless building of dark logs that steamed like a dragon’s breath. It was a daily ritual, as regular as the sunrise. We would strip down, sweat pouring, and sit on tiers of hot wooden shelves, beating each other with venik—bundles of birch leaves—until our skin was raw and pink. I was baffled by the intensity, but I followed along, too proud to complain.

The strangeness began on my third day. I was alone with Tanya, helping her with the laundry, when I asked about the banya. My Russian was clumsy, and I said something like, ‘The bath… it is very hot.’ Tanya looked at me, her eyes dark and serious, and whispered, ‘It must be hot, or the dead will wake.’ I laughed nervously, thinking it was a joke, but she didn’t laugh. She just turned back to the washboard.

The next evening, as we prepared for the banya, I noticed Misha hesitating at the door. His face was pale, and he clutched his venik like a talisman. Pyotr called him in, and we stripped in the warm pre-stall. Steam rose in thick clouds, and the heat wrapped around me like a damp blanket. I took my seat on the lowest shelf, breathing slowly, trying to adjust. Pyotr and Misha sat higher, their eyes closed, faces serene. I watched as the heat pulsed, the wooden walls creaking softly, and for a moment, I heard a whisper—a dry, scratching sound, like leaves being dragged across the floor. But no breeze. I shook my head.

After the banya, we would cool down by plunging into a nearby stream, the shock of cold water making my heart pound. But that night, as we walked back to the house, I saw a figure standing at the edge of the trees—a tall, gaunt woman with long black hair, wearing a white shift. She was still, too still. I blinked, and she was gone. I mentioned it to Pyotr, and he frowned, his eyes darting. ‘You saw nothing,’ he said, his voice firm. ‘Do not speak of it.’

As days turned into weeks, I began to notice patterns in the wood carvings. Certain symbols—spirals and thorny vines—appeared more often than others, always near the corners of rooms. At night, I heard rhythmic scraping from inside the walls, like something dragging a heavy weight. I tried to tell myself it was mice or the wind, but the sound was deliberate, almost methodical.

One evening, I was alone in the main room when I noticed a small door that I had never seen before, half-hidden behind a hanging tapestry. It was carved with a series of rings and a central eye. Curiosity got the better of me, and I eased it open. Inside was a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. I took a candle and descended.

The basement was cool and dry, filled with old furniture and boxes. But at the far wall, I saw a large iron stove, rusted and cold, covered in the same eye-carving. Beneath it, there was a plaque, but the writing was in Old Slavonic, too complex for me to read. I felt a draft, and the candle flickered. That’s when I heard the scratching again, right behind me. I spun around, and saw a shape in the shadows—tall, thin, and impossibly black. It had no face, but I knew it was watching me. I dropped the candle and ran.

When I reached the top, Pyotr was there, his face ashen. He grabbed my shoulders, and I blurted out what I had seen. He let out a long breath and said, ‘I was hoping you would not find it.’ He led me to the kitchen, made tea, and then told me a truth that chilled me more than any ghost.

Years ago, this land had been home to a different family—the Volkovs. They had built a banya here, but it was not a place of cleansing. It was a place of locking away. In 1952, a woman named Yulia Volkov committed a terrible crime, and her husband, unable to bear what she had done, walled her up in the furnace of that original banya, sealing it with iron. They say she never died, but became a fiery spirit that longed for warmth. When Pyotr’s grandfather built our banya, he used stones from the old one, unknowingly, and brought her with them. The daily heat was not just for health—it was to keep her satisfied, to feed her. If the fire ever went out, she would wake and hunt.

I listened, my tea going cold. I wanted to laugh, but his eyes were dead serious. ‘That’s why we never skip a day,’ he said. ‘When we are away, we let the coals smolder day and night. It is a heavy responsibility.’

I looked at the stove in the kitchen, glowing softly with a bed of embers. The truth was too monstrous to grasp, but I couldn’t deny the scratching I heard, the figure in the trees. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my narrow bed, listening to the wind in the eaves, and I heard the banya door creak open. I crept to the window. In the moonlight, I saw the banya’s door ajar, and a pale hand slipping out, followed by a long arm, and then a face—beautiful, wild, and hungry. She looked up at the house, directly at my window, and smiled.

I did not sleep at all. The next morning, I told Pyotr I had to leave—my dream, my apprenticeship, none of it mattered anymore. He understood, said nothing, but gave me a small birch-bark charm to wear ‘for protection.’ I took the first train to Vladivostok and never looked back. But even now, in my city apartment, I sometimes feel a draft, and I swear I hear the whisper of a woman in the walls, asking, ‘Why is it cold?’ And I know, one day, I might have to go back and tend the fire—or keep running forever.