> "Ghoul — a bloodsucker, a deceitful corpse that wanders by night, draining the lifeblood of men and beasts, especially fond of children. In its hunger, it tears open graves and gnaws on bones. It needs hooves to break through coffins, and strong claws to rend flesh. Wicked souls, after death, roam as ghouls, and to quiet them, one must unearth the grave and drive an aspen stake through the corpse, separating the head from the body. 'Ghoul' may describe a wicked, malevolent, and unruly person."

‎‎‎— The Great Explanatory Dictionary of the Serbo-Croatian Language. O. Cvitanović, 1934.

The wind of March battered the shutters as though it sought to rend them from their hinges. Never before had the slanted wooden house on the outskirts of the village of Drakulich hosted such a gathering. The women behind the wall attempted to soothe Jasna, whose wails, weary and disconsolate, erupted at the most inopportune moments. Three men sat around a cracked wooden table on benches. The old crone, Zoritsa, muttered hoarsely to herself, shaking her gray head with a large lump on the crown, yet she poured the guests a second helping of bitter herbal tea. It seemed that was all they needed. Groaning, they grimaced and winced but drank as if the tea were part of some ritual.

"Do not stir, I say! The earth there is foul, it births only wickedness, vermin, and wormwood! There is naught for you to do there!" Zoritsa snarled with grim threat, casting a baleful gaze at each guest in turn, yet met only with cold, steely stares, as hard as nail heads. "You shall not return, mark my words!"

"To hell with it! I’ll go, with you or alone!" Kazimir declared, stamping his boot on the wooden floor so that his stump awkwardly swayed and nearly knocked a cup off the table. "How shall I return home, how look my wife in the eye? That’s my son, after all!"

"You’ll have more! Jasna is a strong woman, I know, for I delivered her myself," Zoritsa cut him off, her gray eyes piercing the cripple. "Get hold of yourself—are you a soldier or a rag? Else, you’ll perish for a trifle, and the child will be lost!"

"There’s naught to discuss!" growled Goran, usually silent, into his beard. "An innocent soul is perishing, and the old crone cares no more for the living than the dead, after five years among graves!"

"O, speak not of graves, vagabond! We have both seen them, but from different sides of the shovel. While you cowered in cellars and catacombs, I buried my dead with mine own hands. And believe me, I know better than you what dreams visit them and whom they pray to with eyes lifted to sorrow. And when something foul stirs in a grave—I scent it."

"Let us be constructive, I beg you," interrupted the elderly medic Tadeusz, recently arrived from Banja Luka, raising his hands in a gesture of conciliation. His calm, reasonable tone dissolved some of the tension that had thickened the air. Straightening to his modest height, the little man seemed to take up more space than his frail frame and trembling falsetto should allow. "I understand your panic, Jokic," Kazimir snapped to attention at the sound of his surname. "I too would assume nothing good in light of recent events if I were in your place, but let us not yield to fear and rush into reckless ventures. I, for one, do not believe, even for a jot, in the speculations of our esteemed hostess…"

Tadeusz was immediately met with a gaze from Zoritsa that seemed capable of making a bird fall from the sky or a woman miscarry.

"...Of course, I value you as a specialist, Zoritsa, but what you speak of is nothing but mythology. People are treated with penicillin, they launch rockets into the stratosphere, and here you are telling us tales of some abomination. It’s laughable, really!" Having finished, Tadeusz sank back onto the bench and sipped the hot drink, grimacing slightly—whether from the bitterness or because he burned his lips—"But your tea is excellent! Purely beneficial!"

"Mythology, you say?" Zoritsa rasped, her voice rising with anger. With her disheveled gray hair, she resembled a wrathful harpy. "Would you like to hear a true story? In detail? Do you know what lies beyond the grove, in the ravine? Shall I remind you?"

"Tadeusz, please, I..." he began, rising slightly, but was pinned back down by a long, bony finger that dug painfully into his shoulder.

"No, you listen to me! With the February cold, they came, all in black, with boots and automatics. They dragged everyone they found in the houses out onto the street. I was there. I saw the devil with my own eyes—then he bore the name of Filipovic," Zoritsa's voice became monotonous and low, as if this speech had long been rehearsed. "They threw children into the air and caught them on bayonets. They violated women, slicing open their bellies in the act. They bathed them in the blood of their own infants. ‘I take all your sins upon myself!’ cried the devil. ‘You shall be sinless!’ I swear it was Satan himself in human form."

"I was in that war, old woman, I know..." Kazimir began to interrupt, but the hostess hissed fiercely:

"You know nothing! While you, with your rifle, fought among comrades, we died defenseless!"

This hoarse cry seemed to drain Zoritsa of all her strength. Exhausted, she continued her tale as if she were delivering lines on a theater stage:

"The children screamed, cried, and the Ustashe went from one to another, slitting their throats, smashing their fragile skulls against trees. Babies—they simply twisted off their heads and kicked them toward the grieving mothers. Men, protectors, pillars of hope—you left to obey orders. There was no one to defend us. Only children, women, and the elderly... The devil made us kneel, ordered us to accept his faith. We kissed his castrated cross, and then..."

Zoritsa untied the shawl around her thin, elderly neck, revealing a deep scar with swollen edges—a mark of the blade.

"Death itself did not wish to take me—knew, perhaps, that there would be no one left to bury the rest. That devil in the garb of a chaplain did not even hide his true nature—he said, 'We need not your bodies, but your souls!' He devoured them, digested, spat them out, and left them there, with the corpses."

"Zoritsa, with all due respect, we know what happened here. This changes nothing..." Tadeusz tried to interject.

"It changes everything," she whispered dryly, like air escaping a punctured tire. "The executioners defiled this place, sullied it, let the devil trample upon our soil. Day after day, for three years, I went to that cursed plot and dug, dug, dug... Until my hands bled, from dawn till dusk. And every morning, I saw unearthed heads and hands here and there—eyeless, fingerless. Gnawed, wet, still covered in saliva and pus."

"Animals..." the medic suggested, but the old woman cast a withering glare from her faded eyes, silencing him.

"No beast would venture into such a place, accursed and doomed. The soil is red with blood, the sky black with smoke," Zoritsa chanted, almost in a trance, "It was no beast—cemetery filth crawled from the ground like poisonous mushrooms, from unblessed and unlamented souls. The unchristened infants became hungry ravens. The women, whose children were cut from their wombs, turned into bog spirits. The restless dead tear at the earth with broken nails, searching for their kin. Ghouls crunch bones, devouring unholy flesh. And men have no place there—only ghouls belong."

Her words affected each in different ways. The medic, openly bored, waited for the old woman to finish her tirade. Goran crossed himself fervently and whispered something unintelligible. Kazimir sprang up, nearly overturning the bench, and spat out angrily:

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"I care not! While we sit here spinning tales, my Srecko..." he trailed off, fearing to voice what struggled to escape his lips. "I’m going out. Are you with me?"

"The boy may need medical help," said the medic, setting aside his mug. "You did call me here for that, didn’t you? I’m ready."

"And you?" Kazimir turned to the bearded man.

"A man of God cannot refuse to help his neighbor," Goran remarked philosophically. His name was apt—for as he rose from the bench, the kitchen, festooned with dried herbs, seemed to grow a mountain in its midst.

As the three men reached the entryway, a horrific screech sounded behind them. It was a clucking, hoarse, muffled sound—the scream of a person whose throat is being slit—it chilled to the bone, seized the heart with icy fingers, and churned the guts.

"You will not return!" Zoritsa hissed weakly, utterly spent. "No one returns! Mark my words, no man returns from there!"

Without a word, the three left the house.

Drakulich presented a dismal scene. What had happened here left a deep mark on every stone, on every threshold. The road, lightly dusted with remnants of snow, seemed virgin and untouched—few passed through the village, believing it to be nothing more than a collection of abandoned houses and looters.

Such indeed was the case—the Serb men, returning from war to their homes, were not greeted by kin, but by the raspy old crone, who led them to the ravine. From the precipice, the bottom could be seen well, with the earth uneven, as if upturned by a monstrous worm, where their daughters, sons, wives, sisters, fathers, and mothers lay, hastily buried. At first, the stench struck the nostrils, turning stomachs inside out, and the soldiers, leaning against trees, retched painfully through tears. They cursed bitterly, wept, and flung themselves to the ground. Someone, in a fit of rage, even struck Zoritsa with the butt of a rifle, causing a lump to swell on her crown, which remained—an old body deemed it fit to stay as it was. Other partisans suggested she leave the dead village, move to the city, even kindly offered to take her in. But Zoritsa firmly refused to leave her post, answering:

“If I depart, Drakulich shall die. If I remain—the people shall come.”

And so, year after year, the old woman led the men returning from the front to the ravine, that they might, through tears, vomit, and cries, purge themselves of the war and let it seep into the already cursed earth. And the people, cleansed and enlightened, could move forward. Some would help her bury the dead before departing. Others stayed with the mad old woman to tend to the household, some could not abandon their native home, and some simply had nowhere else to go. Thus, fulfilling Zoritsa's strange prophecy, Drakulich began a new life.

Yet behind the tarpaulin-draped ruins and patched fences, the remnants of the strangled war hid from inattentive eyes. Here stood a birch with a brown stain ingrained in its bark—the executioners smashed infants’ heads against it. There, a heap of ashes with a chimney sticking out—the elders refused to come outside, and so they were sent off with a fiery rooster. Worst of all was a small patch of land where withered feather grass poked through the snow. Nothing betrayed this innocent-looking field as a cursed place, but passing by, the locals, who had resettled Drakulich anew, would cross themselves and quicken their pace. Here, the Ustashe tormented and violated maidens before slicing open their bellies with heated blades.

Even Tadeusz grimaced as he looked upon the field through the gap between the black, rotting-log cabins.

“A terrible war, indeed,” he remarked, immediately realizing the banality of his words, “And you, Goran…”

“I was with the Chetniks,” Goran replied curtly, “Unaware of Mihailović’s plans for Yugoslavia at the time.”

“Oh!” the medic marveled at the bearded man’s honesty, “I think it would be better not to…”

“Then don’t speak of it, doctor,” Goran cut him off.

On the porch appeared the one-armed figure, clutching some burden to his chest.

“Did everyone bring lanterns?” Kazimir asked, his eyes wildly darting about. The medic and the bearded man raised their old oil lamps, fixed to iron rings.

“Zoritsa had them,” Goran explained. Behind him, two spears were strapped to his belt.

“Good. We’re short on weapons,” the one-armed partisan displayed his load—a single firearm, with two cartridges. “And an axe, well-sharpened yesterday. This one’s for you.”

Goran accepted the tool with respect, weighed it in his hand, made a light swing, nodded in satisfaction, and then enviously whistled, eyeing the sawed-off shotgun in Kazimir’s hand.

“A trophy?”

“A ‘Sauer.’ Took it off a Fritz. The barrel was already sawn off. Useless for hunting, but for our task… As for you, Tadeusz, you’ll have to carry the lantern—unfortunately, I’ve nowhere else to put it.”

“To the graveyard?” Goran simply asked, nodding his bearded chin somewhere beyond the narrow strip of forest.

“The women have already searched the village,” Kazimir lamented, “If those foolish wailers hadn’t heeded the old woman, they might have found Srecko before sundown. Now we’ll have to stumble about in the dark.”

“Light always accompanies a man of God,” Goran observed.

The trio set off towards the ravine. They walked in silence at first, as if performing some sacred rite. The dreary sight of their own village nailed their tongues to their throats, no less effectively than the Croatian executioners.

Drakulich remained half-dead—empty huts gaped with black window holes, the village silently watched the three men, as if seeing them off to the gallows. The local dogs did not bark—they hadn’t settled in yet, the gossips didn’t grumble at tipsy husbands. Only a mournful whimpering sounded from somewhere near the field.

“Daaaaaaughters! Where are you? Milica, Agneshka, your father has returned!”

Kazimir winced painfully—Mishko’s wailing always unsettled him. Drakulich was foreign to him—he settled here only after the war, finding there was nowhere else to return. Mishko, however, was born here, married, and had two daughters. When he, a heroic partisan, was one of the first to return home, his mind wavered. Entering his empty hovel, seeing the mutilated bodies of his wife and daughters in the graveyard, he fell to the ground, convulsed, whimpered, and thus became a madman. Now he roams the village, digging at the field with his hands, calling endlessly for his “daughters.”

“A hard fate,” the medic dared to break the silence when Mishko’s sour howls nearly faded away behind them, “To return a victor, and yet… for what did he fight?”

“We fought for faith and homeland, doctor,” Goran interrupted.

Chastened, the medic turned to Kazimir.

“Have children disappeared here before?”

“Two girls last year, in the spring. Two more the year before, also in March. I moved here with Jasna in forty-seven, and she was already carrying Srecko in her belly. I strictly forbade him to go near the ravine, but…”

“And no one searched?”

“No. They believed the old witch’s tales—that people had no business on the graveyard.”

“But why there?” Tadeusz asked in confusion, “What would a child find there, really?”

“Children do not vanish on their own,” answered the cripple, “Someone’s been digging in the ravine, unearthing bodies. Only Zoritsa dares to go there. Every spring, that’s where the children are found.”

“Perhaps they were dragged there,” the medic suggested reasonably, “Wild dogs?”

“It’s not dogs, it’s something else. A year ago, I woke up in the night to a terrible squeal. My boar was thrashing about in the pen, going mad—I barely managed to calm it. It was all bitten up, chunks of flesh torn out. I had to slaughter it. And beneath the pen, I found a tunnel, wide enough for a person. Dug out overnight.”

“Oh, come now…” the old man smiled, “That’s, you know, a fabrication.”

“Such a wise word you said, doctor. And the fact that Jasna, after tasting that meat, later miscarried—that’s also your… fab-ri-ca-tion?” Kazimir enunciated the syllables.

“And when my wife, may she rest in peace, gave her soul to God,” Goran joined in, “I went to her grave to pray, and her body was unearthed, her face gnawed, greedily so, with intestines strewn about. Something diabolical dwells there. Not lives, but exists.”

“Quiet!” Kazimir suddenly commanded—the trio had approached the bushy edge of the small forest preceding the descent into the ravine. Despite the cold, sweat ran down his back. He himself didn’t know what he feared more—not finding his son at all, or finding him, but too late. “We’re close, I can feel it.”

“And you, Jokic, seriously believe that an unclean force inhabits the graveyard?” Tadeusz asked in a hushed falsetto. Clearly uneasy, he tried to maintain his composure by engaging in a familiar process—conversation.

“Let it be so. I just want to find Srecko,” Kazimir lied, pushing through the underbrush protruding from the thawing snow. In truth, his knees trembled at the thought of encountering something inhuman, and to calm himself, he spoke of worldly matters, “I’ve seen worse. The massacre in Drakulich is only a part of what happened here. Did you, Tadeusz, ever visit Jasenovac?”

“I did not,” the medic swallowed hard, “I’ve heard in broad strokes.”

“Lucky man. But I was there. Do you think after all that, I’d be scared of legends?” The cripple was more persuading himself than answering the question.

“Legends,” Tadeusz smiled, “On such foul soil, they’re right at home.”

"Legends do not skulk beneath windows in the dead of night, doctor. They do not exhume corpses from the earth, gnawing at bones. Nor do they snatch children in broad daylight," replied Kazimir. In his mind’s eye, a band of ghouls and devils, clad inexplicably in military garb, danced in a macabre circle around Srečko’s lifeless body, their hooves striking the ground in a frenzied rhythm. Shaking his head to dispel the image, he gripped his sawn-off shotgun tighter.