#domowoj

The fire slept, smouldering embers dozing in their nest of ashes. The wooden rafters groaned and settled into the night, beginning the  long wait for dawn. 

Everyone, everything, dreamt.

In the heavy, pressing dark something stirred. Stone rasped against stone in the graveyard of the hearth and soon, from the tangible black, two amber eyes burned. From the now revealed hole below the hearthstone, a grumbling old man heaved himself out. A grumbling old man of 2 feet tall. His downy, white beard tumbled from a black hood and worn, lined, working hands rested on his hips as he threw his discerning gaze round the room.

At the sight his withered face either sprang into a satisfied grin or crashed into an imposing frown (no easy feat for a being so small).  If the former, he’d walk to the thick slice of bread smothered in butter, to the neatly sliced apple, to the modest table scraps left for him, and devour them with joy behind his sparking eyes. He would hum to himself in low, soft tones and help in return, in anyway he could. 

If the latter… 

or Domowy Part 2

Part 1

If the later, a thundering expression would billow across his small face, shadows would grow darker and the house eerily cold. He’d grasp plates and cups in his broad fingers and dash them across the floor, clay exploding across stone. He’d belt wizened fists across walls, doors, tables and chairs. He’d wake every last soul and forbid them the luxury of a night’s sleep.

His white, furry eyebrows would crush down in a glare at the filth in his abode. Milk would sour, meat turn rancid. Such disrespect, such insult would not be tolerated here.

If those warnings were not heeded far more dire deeds were done. This small creature would quieten down. He would shuffle down halls and steal up stairs, softly push open doors and find one of the house sleeping.

He would pull himself up trailing white sheets in the blue midnight murk and climb onto the sleepers chest, suffocating them in the dead of night, in the false safety of their bed.