Ghosts of War

Trigger Warning: PTSD, hallucinations

Leningrad, 1946

He woke up in the darkness.

The room breathed with heaviness, the scent of old wood and smoldering candles. Somewhere in the corner, on an oak table, a kerosene lamp crackled, casting long, eerie shadows on the wall. The worn-out furniture—a heavy buffet with carved legs, a peeling dresser, a sofa upholstered in dark green fabric—stood motionless, like silent witnesses to his endless nightmares.

He stirred, and the sheet rustled, whispering something ominous. It felt as if the room was waiting. For what? For him to fully wake up? To realize where he was? But was it worth it?

A faint moonlight seeped through the thick curtains, barely enough to make out the shapes of objects. Everything seemed familiar, lived-in, yet at the same time—foreign, as if he had once again found himself not in his bed, but in a dugout, on cold clay soil, among bullets and smoke.

And then…

A dull thud.

A sound that froze the blood in his veins.

Another one.

The air thickened, grew heavier.

A blow.

A crash.

Something exploded, shattered into pieces. Somewhere nearby, in the next room, beyond the wall—or no, farther away—but so clearly, as if it was right beneath his feet. The ground trembled, his whole body tensed, his heart pounded in his chest.

— Chyort… — the whisper broke from his dry lips.

He propped himself up on his elbows, but the room swayed, the floor tilted, as if he were back in the trenches, with artillery bursting nearby.

And then—

— Kravtsov! Get to cover, now!

A voice. Whose? He couldn't tell.

— Move it, for God's sake! They’re surrounding us!

He bolted upright from the bed. Another explosion. Screeching, grinding. He almost fell, grabbed onto the bedpost, but the ringing in his ears was deafening.

Names tore from his throat, frantic, feverish:

— Morozov! Lebedev! Where are you? Chyort, answer me!

His legs trembled, his mind clung to reality, but reality was melting, warping into something distorted, painful, as if he had fallen into another world in a single heartbeat. He dropped to the floor, gasping, instinctively crawling toward the corner of the room.

The oak wardrobe, dark, massive, with tarnished brass handles, loomed before him like a towering shadow. The floorboards creaked, but he didn't hear them. There was only the wailing in his head.

Another hit.

And another.

His heart pounded wildly, out of rhythm.

He dove under the bed, pressing himself against the cool parquet. His chest heaved, cold sweat dripped down his temples. The smell—a mixture of old dust, wax, and something metallic.

And then—silence.

Sudden. Absolute.

As if someone had taken a blade and cut away all the noise, all the chaos, leaving only one thing: his own breathing.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blinked again and again, but the sound didn’t return. Only deafening quiet.

Two minutes passed. Maybe three.

He exhaled, barely audibly, with effort.

Slowly, like a wounded animal, he crawled out from under the bed. Dust clung to his palms. He clenched them into fists, feeling the sticky sweat on his skin.

He took a step toward the window.

Carefully, as if afraid that the world outside would be different, that the battlefield would still be burning.

He pulled the curtain aside.

And saw…

Fireworks.

Lights burst through the sky over the neighboring courtyards, sparkling, scattering in golden and crimson flares. Children laughed. Somewhere below, a dog yelped, startled by the sudden noise.

He stared for a long time.

His hand slowly pressed against his chest, right over his heart. Through the fabric of his nightshirt, he could feel its wild, erratic beating.

He was not at the front.

He was home.

His lips curled into a crooked smile.

“Yes… home…”

Only this home was empty.

And inside him—emptiness.

He took a deep breath and, swaying slightly, walked toward the nightstand. Opened the top drawer, which groaned in protest, as if resisting. Felt for a small glass bottle.

Sleeping pills.

He shook them in his palm.

That was enough for tonight.

Enough of these “adventures.”

Carefully, he unscrewed the lid, spilled a couple of tablets onto his hand.

Swallowed them in one gulp, washing them down with a sip of water from a faceted glass.

A clink of glass against wood.

Outside the window, another explosion rang out.

But this time, he didn’t flinch.

Let the war sleep.

At least for one night.

***

Morning was gray.

So gray that it seemed as if the city had dissolved into this colorless haze, drowned in ashen twilight, sluggish air, the sticky breath of a weary sun.

He woke up late. He had no idea how long he had slept. The sleeping pills had done their job: his consciousness had been wrung out like a dirty rag, leaving behind nothing but emptiness.

He dressed slowly, almost thoughtlessly: an old jacket, dark trousers, boots—not new, but sturdy. He didn’t look in the mirror. There was no need. He already knew what he would see: the face of a tired man who had long since stopped caring.

It was time to go to the store.

The city lived its own life.

People hurried somewhere, cars honked, children called out to each other in the courtyards. He walked along the sidewalk with his head lowered, paying no attention to the passersby.

Once, in a past life, he could have spoken to someone, exchanged a word, smirked at a joke.

Now, he remained silent.

The store greeted him with cool air.

Shelves stood in neat rows, filled with boxes, jars, bottles, all lined with tidy price tags. Everything was here—within reach. He could take what he wanted and pay.

So simple.

At the front, he had dreamed of places like this, of shelves stacked with food. There, in the damp earth, he would have given anything for a piece of stale bread.

Now, he could have anything.

And he wanted nothing.

He picked up a couple of loaves, some milk, a piece of meat, a few vegetables. Placing them in the basket, he moved toward the checkout.

Ahead of him stood a woman, middle-aged, with a child. They were chatting cheerfully.

Her eyes were kind.

She smiled at her son.

How strange, he thought.

Some people still knew how to smile.

"That’ll be three hundred forty-seven rubles," the cashier said.

He nodded and handed over his card.

She took it, looked at it… and suddenly smiled.

"Oh! You’re a veteran?"

His jaw tightened.

"Yes," he muttered, keeping his eyes down.

"My God, what an honor to meet someone like you! You… you’re a hero!"

Hero.

The word scraped against his nerves like a dull knife against skin.

The cashier beamed.

"You defended our country! That’s so important!"

Her voice rang like a bell.

Someone in line chimed in:

"Oh yes, a real man! Thank you for your service!"

"A veteran? What a privilege!"

"We’re so grateful!"

He stood in silence.

Something inside him twisted, clenched, turned inside out.

Grateful?

For what?

For the fact that he was alive? That his friends were rotting in damp soil while he stood here, in a store, buying bread and milk?

For the fact that he hadn’t died?

I should have died instead, flashed through his mind.

He gave a curt nod, mumbled "thanks," and quickly grabbed his bag.

Was he running?

Almost.

He stepped out of the store and inhaled the cold air.

Something pressed down on his chest, as if the weight of the entire city, the whole world, had fallen onto his shoulders.

He slowly made his way home.

One step.

Another.

He didn’t want to go home.

But there was nowhere else to go.

His home stood where he had left it. No one was waiting. No one was calling.

He unlocked the door, entered, set the groceries on the table.

Sat down on the old sofa, lowered his head.

And spoke—to himself, to the silence, to those who were no longer there.

"You know, guys…" His voice trembled. "They call me a hero."

He smirked.

"A hero… Damn, if only you could hear that."

His hands clenched into fists.

"And where are you? Where are the ones I’d rather hand over this 'gratitude' to?"

The room, as always, remained silent.

Somewhere outside, children were laughing.

He raised his gaze to the ceiling.

"I left young. And I came back…" He let out a hoarse laugh. "What did I come back as?"

An old man?

A ghost?

An emptiness?

"Mom died," he continued, speaking to no one. "She never got to see me again. But I came back. Alone."

He looked down at his hands.

Old, worn, covered in scars.

The hands of a man who had held a weapon for longer than anything else.

"If they announced mobilization tomorrow…" He sighed. "I’d go."

He knew it.

He would go.

Not because he wanted to.

But because he didn’t know what else to do in peacetime.

Everything he had known, everything that had made sense—war had taken it all.

His friends.

His youth.

His life.

He bowed his head, pressing his fingers to his temples.

The silence squeezed his skull, as if someone’s massive hands were crushing it.

"You shouldn’t be alive," a voice whispered in his mind.

His teeth clenched.

"Shut up."

But the voice didn’t stop.

"You should’ve died there."

He stood up.

Night was falling again.

Soon, the dreams would come.

And with them—they.

***

At night, he saw him again.

A man of about thirty, with sharp facial features, thick eyebrows, and eyes full of heavy, petrified anger.

"Is it nice to sleep in a soft bed while I rot underground?"

The voice scraped like an old blade against glass.

The hero didn’t answer. He just watched.

"Is it nice to know that you get to go on living? Eating bread? Breathing?"

"You…" He wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat.

The man stepped closer.

"Why are you alive?"

A draft swept through the room, the shadows on the walls stretching, writhing like black snakes.

"If it weren’t for you…" The voice grew lower, heavier. "I would have come home. My wife… my daughter…"

For a moment, behind the dead man, silhouettes appeared—a woman in a dark headscarf, a small girl clutching at her skirt.

"They waited for me. Waited. But I didn’t come back. A coffin did."

The hero swallowed.

"I…"

"What?" Another step forward. "Do you want to say it was war? That you’re not to blame?"

"It was war," he forced out.

"Does that make it easier for you?"

Silence.

"It’s not easier for me," he finally said.

The man smirked.

"Good."

The dead man’s hands twitched, and in the next second, they closed around his throat.

The hero tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. His chest tightened, his heart pounded, his body jerked in a desperate attempt to break free.

"It shouldn’t be easier for you."

Dark spots swam before his eyes.

"You should have died, not me."

And just as the last drops of air left his lungs—

He woke up.

The room was dark, heavy. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest. He sat up with a jolt, clutching the sheets.

Another dream.

One of many.

He covered his face with his hands.

They came every night. New faces. New accusations.

And then one day—

She came.

A woman with sorrowful eyes. The one he had killed, not with his own hands, but still—killed. The widow of the thirty-year-old dead man.

Where had he seen her face before?

He didn’t know.

But his imagination painted it too vividly.

"Why are you alive?" she asked, staring straight into his soul.

He didn’t answer.

What could you say to those whose lives you had taken, even if not directly?

The next day, he went to the store again.

He walked with his head down, hands in his pockets, eyes half-closed. He didn’t want gratitude, didn’t want admiration.

At the register, he pulled out cash—no cards, no signs that he was a veteran.

Handed over the bills, waited for the receipt.

But then—

"What, not proud of your title as a murderer anymore?"

That voice.

He looked up.

Behind the register stood her.

The same woman.

The one who haunted his dreams.

The one whose husband he had killed.

The world swayed.

No. No, no, no.

He clutched his head.

"You know you were supposed to die."

She smiled.

But it was the smile of the dead.

A crash.

A scream.

The store vanished.

He was there again, on the battlefield.

Blood, dirt, smoke.

Bodies.

He screamed.

Covered his face, curling up like a wounded animal.

And then—

A sharp jolt.

He opened his eyes.

Darkness.

Silence.

He was home.

Another dream.

But beneath him… something warm. Something wet.

He shuddered.

Realized he was trembling.

He—

He, who had seen death, blood, hell itself—hell that could scare children.

He had wet himself.

Like a child.

Slowly, he ran a hand over his face.

Laughter.

Raspy, empty, mad.

He was broken.

And nothing, nothing in this world could fix him.