I Don't Want A Conspiracy!
New Chapter 3 of the mystical short story “Either My Son Or Nobody”
THE SUN was setting, as if bestowing gifts of rays on everything around.
In late spring, there are periods when the last rays of the passing day remain for those who take the time to see them.
However, the beautiful, warm evening did not impress the woman sitting on the threshold of her house.
Children, chickens, and piglets ran around her — just a pastoral dream. But she paid no attention to anyone. Hatred was the only thing she felt now, a bitter, gnawing presence that had settled deep within her. The hatred had grown from years of toil, unacknowledged sacrifices, and dreams deferred.
She was in her early thirties, yet the weight of her life had etched deep lines on her face, each telling a story of toil and sacrifice. Her hair, once vibrant and full of life, was now tied back in a weary bun, strands escaping to frame her face. This gave her a disheveled appearance that mirrored her inner turmoil.
Raised in a peasant family, she was always accustomed to hard work. Marrying a wealthy farmer promised a different life, but instead of relief, she was trapped in a relentless cycle of labor.
While her husband employed others to tend to the fields, she was left to manage the household alone, her days filled with the unending tasks of cooking, cleaning, and preserving the harvest. Her hands, calloused and rough, were a testament to her dedication, yet they constantly reminded her of her unfulfilled dreams.
The house around her reflected her diligence—shelves stocked with jars of preserved fruits and vegetables, herbs hanging from the rafters, and the rich aroma of smoked meats wafting through the air. It was a sanctuary of abundance, yet it felt like a prison to her. Each can of food, each meticulously prepared meal, was a silent echo of the sacrifices she had made and the dreams she had deferred.
She had given birth to seven children, each a tiny miracle. They were growing, strong, and capable. Her eldest son stood out, a beacon of hope and pride in her otherwise heavy reality. Nearing eighteen, he was a tall, handsome young man whose slender frame seemed to sway with the poplar trees in the evening breeze.
He had inherited his mother’s physical and emotional strength, yet there was a lightness to him that she envied—a carefree spirit that danced with possibilities. His dark hair fell just above his brow, framing a face that radiated youthful exuberance and ambition. To her, he was not just her son; he was the embodiment of her dreams, a knight destined for greatness, a general who would command respect and admiration.
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She was not a dreamer. She had too much work to find time to dream. In her society, by its standards, she was already the best. To have a son who rose to the military and became a general would have elevated her to an unattainable height in her society. It would have been the triumph of her existence!
And then an unexpected turn of fate happened. As he navigated the complexities of adolescence, he had become enamored with a girl from school, the daughter of a military officer. She was beautiful and confident, a stark contrast to the humble roots of his upbringing. The woman had watched their friendship blossom with a mix of pride and envy, envisioning a future where her son would rise above their circumstances, a future that included military accolades and societal respect.
Of course, officers' children are spoiled. They can't do anything. But she didn't want her son to choose a peasant woman. He would become a general — and who else should her handsome boy become?
Her son and the girl had been inseparable. The woman had watched their friendship blossom with a mix of pride and envy, envisioning a future where her son would rise above their circumstances, a future that included military accolades and societal respect.
While preparing for the school graduation party, she had to stay in the city several times, but the girl's mother invited her to spend the night at their house. The woman was a good, kind woman, and they had an excellent relationship overall.
You should have seen this young, splendid couple at the prom! She had splurged to buy him a suit that made him look like the prince she always imagined him to be. Next to him stood the delicate girl in a flowing pink dress, and for a moment, all seemed right in her world. But dreams are fragile, and that night was the last glimmer of hope before everything began to unravel.
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But as the sun set on his youthful dreams, the woman’s heart sank into despair. The girl’s ambitions pulled her away, leaving her son adrift and with unmet expectations. The laughter that once filled their home faded, replaced by the hollow sounds of despair, as her son fell into a downward spiral, seeking solace in the company of a divorced woman from a neighboring farm. Together, they drank away the dreams she had nurtured for him. The woman watched helplessly as he spiraled downward, each stumbling a dagger to her heart.
In her son, she saw a reflection of her hopes and a haunting reminder of the life she had envisioned—a life that now seemed irrevocably lost. The bitterness that had begun as a tiny seed of resentment had blossomed into a consuming force, overshadowing her love for him.
Now, as the sun dipped below the horizon and its rays hit her straight in the eyes as if trying to attract her attention, she suddenly remembered the conversation she had heard at the market this morning.
Walking through the village market, she noticed groups huddled on corners, their voices hushed yet tinged with urgency.
“Did you hear about the peasant who ventured too close to the Old Believers? They say she vanished without a trace near their cursed home,” one whispered, glancing nervously over his shoulder. The woman quickened her pace, thinking those were just the same old chatter. But the unease lingered in her mind like a storm cloud on the horizon, a dark omen she wished to ignore.
As she thought herself foolish for fretting over idle gossip, another voice echoed into her consciousness: “Beware their rituals. The Old Believers don’t welcome outsiders. They guard their secrets fiercely. Some say they can see into your soul.”
She shook her head, trying to silence the chatter in her mind. Yet a shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the tales of spectral figures seen dancing under the pale moonlight near their dwelling.
She had already forgotten these stupid stories when she approached her house. You can always hear horror stories at the market! They scare people by making up fairy tales. But this time, she couldn't shake the feeling that those warnings were meant for her.
As the sun sank lower, casting elongated shadows that danced across the dirt path leading to her doorstep, the woman’s heart conflicted between the fading warmth of the day and the encroaching chill of her bleak thoughts.
The bustling sounds of children’s laughter and the clucking of chickens faded into a distant hum as a heavy cloud of despair settled over her. She sat there, surrounded by the pastoral dream, her spirit drowning beneath waves of resentment and bitterness—an abandoned ship lost amidst an unforgiving sea.
The beauty of the evening did little to reduce the gnawing pain within her heart. The twilight sky, a canvas splashed with strokes of pink and gold, felt more like a mocking display of the joy she could no longer access.
With each passing moment, her visions of her son and the girl surged like phantom whispers, sending icy chills down her spine. Just two years ago, the boy she had nurtured and cherished had glided through life with unclouded dreams, but now those dreams lay shattered, the shards reflecting nothing but darkness.
She raised her head and saw her son stumbling toward the gate, filthy and disheveled, a shadow of the boy she had once cherished. The sight of him sent a wave of anguish crashing over her — a mix of love, disappointment, and an overwhelming sense of loss. She felt the hatred surge again, not for the choices he had made, but for that girl who ruined her dreams and had turned them into dust in her hands.
The poor woman could no longer bear this pain, jumped up, ran into the street, rushed towards the church — and suddenly stopped.
Her heavy heart led her feet instinctively toward the edge of the village, where tales of the Old Believers whispered in hushed tones among fearful neighbors. She had always distanced herself from that enigmatic house hidden amidst an overgrown garden, its gates a drawbridge to a world shrouded in mystery.
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The Old Believers were not liked in the area. They were known as strange, reclusive souls—keepers of secrets woven tightly with the threads of ancient folklore and forbidden knowledge. But if left alone, they did not bother anyone, so everyone just tried to stay away from the places they lived.
Yet tonight, she felt an irresistible pull towards the foreboding abode as if the very air around her willed her to venture forth.
She slowly resisted as if someone were pulling her on a rope. At the edge of the village, right at the turn to the main road, there was a house that everyone tried to avoid. They said an Old Believer lived in it. The house was almost invisible inside the garden because the entire area was planted with tall trees. But its gates were large and beautiful; from them, a carefully and lovingly made path led inside the property.
So, an unknown force dragged the poor peasant woman to this house. The gates were open and closed automatically when she went inside.
With each step, the path twisted like a serpent, leading her into darkness. Tall trees arch overhead to shield her from the world's prying eyes. Grand yet foreboding gates creaked open as if recognizing her desperation. With her heart pounding like a war drum, she crossed the threshold, stepping into the shadows of legend.
Crazed with fear, the woman suddenly found herself in a large dark room with many objects, as if the owner were a witch. A candle lit up, and it seemed to her that everything began to move
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Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and incense, weaving a tapestry of mystical aromas that clung to her as she entered a vast, dimly lit chamber. The walls whispered tales of enchantment and despair, adorned with faded tapestries that seemed to ripple with the breath of long-gone spirits.
It looked like a castle she had seen in a textbook, and she wore an incredible medieval dress. At the center of the room sat an elaborate altar draped in dark fabrics that shimmered like stars on a moonless night. Flickering candles cast flickering shadows, their light dancing upon the walls like ghosts remembering a forgotten waltz.
As the door closed behind her with an eerie finality, she felt a surge of icy air wrap around her, swirling in a ghostly embrace. Her heart raced, mixing exhilaration with fear, as she sensed something otherworldly lingering beyond the fringes of her vision. It was as though the house held its breath, bearing witness to the storm raging within her.
Raising her head, she suddenly saw some translucent creature emerge from the shadows—an ethereal presence cloaked in flowing garments that glimmered with the soft hues of twilight. The being approached her with a grace that sent shivers coursing through the woman’s veins.
It was neither fully human nor entirely spectral, manifesting the essence of warmth and despair. The voice resonating from this apparition was smooth and chilling, like ice cracking on a winter’s day. It rang out, and the whole being seemed to spray icy needles in all directions with every word:
“Did you come here to ask me to punish her? Is she to blame for your grief?” The figure’s words wrapped around her, echoing the turmoil within her heart, each syllable piercing her with a clarity she had long suppressed.
In the space in front of her, the figure of her son’s school friend appeared alive. At her sight, vast waves of anger and hatred covered the poor woman and, passing through her, spilled out of her heart onto that transparent figure of the girl.
As the woman's gaze met that of the spectral figure, an amalgamation of reverence and dread surged through her. Emotions crashed over her—fear, longing, hatred, and wild desire for retribution. It was a dark tapestry woven from the threads of her unrealized dreams and the bitterness that had taken root in her soul.
“Do you want me to kill her?” she heard an echo bouncing off all the walls and objects.
Feeling the enormous powers given to her by anger and hatred, the woman straightened up proudly, burning with a thirst for revenge:
“No, she should suffer all her life like I suffer! And she should never have a husband or a permanent good relationship with men! If not my son, then no one!”
After these words, a shining sphere appeared in the middle of the room.
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The creature separated a slight shimmering with colors ball from the sphere and handed it to the woman. “Take it,” the figure whispered, extending a shimmering, iridescent sphere that pulsed with an inner light. “Let it be your conduit. Push it towards the one who stole your son’s future. Release your anguish, and let the tides of fate overcome you.”
“Take it. Don’t be afraid. Right now, you’ll go to that girl. She’s at home. Sit on the bench and wait for her to come out. No one will see you. No one will bother you. When she comes out, push the ball toward her and say, “Here she is!” The main thing is that the ball rolls towards her! Go! Then you’ll forget everything!”
At that moment, within the embrace of shadows and flickering candlelight, the woman felt the heady thrill of her anger morphing into power. Her desires intertwined with the ethereal, twining around her heart and drawing her deeper into the enigma of vengeance. Clutching the sphere, she envisioned once more the girl—the source of her bitterness—radiating beauty yet shrouded in the elegance of guile.
As she grasped the shimmering ball tightly, anticipation and fear prickled at her skin like icy needles. The allure of revenge was intoxicating, yet so was the dark weight of the choice before her. Each heartbeat echoed like a distant drum, urging her onward, promising liberation through the whispers of darkness dancing in her mind's corners.
With one last lingering gaze at the spectral figure, she felt the invisible bonds of her sorrow unravel, replaced by the intoxicating thrill of vengeance coursing through her veins.
“How can I repay you?”
“I'll take what's owed to me myself!” the voice rang out like crystal needles, and the translucent creature disappeared with all the medieval castle, furniture, and clothes as if nothing had happened.
She stood alone at the crossroads leading to the city, and only the shiny ball in her hands indicated that all this was happening in reality.
As the woman walked, the air thickened with an unnameable dread. Shadows stretched longer with each step, creeping closer as if the trees conspired to ensnare her, dragging her deeper into the darkness that enveloped her like a suffocating shroud.
Each rustle of leaves seemed to whisper her name, beckoning her to unearth buried resentments and dreams now lost in the murky depths of betrayal. A cold wind howled through the branches, carrying with it the scent of decay and the lingering pain of unfulfilled aspirations. It felt as if the earth itself mourned alongside her, each step a rhythmic echo of her inner turmoil, sadness swirling in the spaces between the breaths she dared to take.
The moon hung high in the sky, a pale sentinel watching over her descent into madness. Its silvery light filtered through the twisted branches, illuminating an otherworldly glow on the path ahead. But rather than a guiding star, it served as a mocking reminder of the innocence she wished to obliterate.
With every step closer to the girl’s home, the weight of her anger magnified. A tempest of emotions bubbling beneath the surface threatened to erupt violently.
A thick fog was creeping towards her, but she, as if spellbound, continued to walk towards the town, as if floating through it, groaning from time to time from the pricks of cold needles arriving from the fog.
Her thoughts drifted to the girl—a vision of grace and purity encapsulated in youthful elegance. The image of her laughter bubbled up, bright and clear among the shadows, starkly juxtaposed with the darkness suffocating her own heart. With her flowing hair and sweet smile, the girl had ignited a wildfire of envy and rage that now consumed the woman whole.
It was unbearable to think of that sweet girl, her face like a delicate flower untouched by the world’s cruelty, flourishing in the face of her son’s misery. How could something so innocent and untouched by malice thrive amidst the storm she felt brewing within herself?
Suddenly, the landscape shifted, a primordial shift tugging at the fabric of reality. The woman could feel the eyes of unseen spirits upon her, the lingering presence of the Old Believers casting shadows that flickered with malice and intrigue. Their whispers hummed in the air, weaving together tales of lost souls and unfinished business—a tapestry of despair entwined with her fury as if the ancient spirits urged her towards vengeance.
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After some time — she didn't know how much had passed since that meeting — her bewitched journey finished.
As she stepped into the girl’s courtyard, the atmosphere thickened, and a charged silence wrapped around her like an unwelcome embrace. The air was heavy and electric, crackling with an energy that froze her reverence for a fleeting heartbeat. She paused for a moment, caught between the pulsating desire for release and the overwhelming weight of her loathing.
She held a shining ball on a bench opposite the house's entrance. It was neither hot nor heavy; it shimmered and glowed in her hands.
The girl soon came out with a bag — probably going to the store.
With a trembling hand, the woman clutched the shimmering sphere, a tangible manifestation of her torment and desire. As she stepped forward, her heart pounding like a war drum, the line between love and vengeance blurred. Torn between childhood innocence and the elemental fury of her rage, she felt both predator and prey, lost in the labyrinth of her darkness.
And as the girl turned, the woman was ready to unleash what had become a tempest—a conflicting turmoil of hate and heartache aimed at the unsuspecting girl, the embodiment of all she had lost.
She stood up and pushed the ball towards the girl: “Here she is!”
The iridescent ball rolled almost to its victim's feet and took the form of a black cat near her.
When she saw it, the woman collapsed near the bench from excessive feelings.
She did not know what happened after that.
She came to her senses, sitting on the porch of her house. There, as before, children, chickens, and piglets were running around. The sun still dipped below the horizon, but its rays did not disturb her more.
I must be really tired today, she thought. Did I fall asleep or something? Oh, how upset I am that that girl left my son. What stupid dreams I have! Well, enough of this nonsense. Time to get to work!
And she returned to her usual activities.
I’d love to hear your thoughts about this new chapter!
What resonated with you? Have you had your own similar experiences? Feel free to reply to this post. I appreciate each response and will update the stories as you notice to answer your requests.
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