Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore #1) - K.A. Merikan Page 0,31

chickens gone, so he spent his morning chasing them, but when two were still missing at midday, he decided to give up on the search. The knowledge that someone had snuck into his yard, opened the henhouse, and damaged the fence just to spite him was a burning wound deep in his gut.

He had first understood that he was different when he’d accidentally touched another boy when skinny-dipping in the summer. It had been their secret, even though none of them had yet understood why physical affection between men was something forbidden. But that guy had moved to greener pastures and left Emil alone with his longing.

At that point, Emil knew not to be too open about his interest in other boys, but he’d started listening to the wrong kind of music, grew out his hair, and when a group of skinheads had turned him into a bloody pulp after a party in a nearby town, he truly understood the price of being seen as different. He’d grown harder skin and made himself believe he didn’t care, but now acid seeped in through the cracks in his exterior.

Radek was right. Emil didn’t fit in with the population of Dybukowo, and everyone could sense it. They didn’t want him here, and with his one friend so far away, the familiar ground crumbled under his feet. It no longer brought comfort but was a weight tied to his ankles and dragged him to the bottom of the river. He didn’t know how to shed it, and there was no one to ask for help.

Nature provided some solace at least, and once he was done with his chores, his feet took him down a path through the forest, then over the fields and meadows, wandering without a purpose. The wind was the only one he could share his secrets with anyway.

To think that Bieszczady were a goal destination for so many city people—the dream retirement spot for those who’d fallen in love with the mountains during their two-week vacation. They couldn’t understand that the open space might not offer the freedom they sought and become a trap. But maybe this land treated outsiders differently than it did its own?

The sun was descending toward the church by the time Emil decided to head there.

Its form was simple, like that of the large wooden homes typical of the region, with the roof sloping steeply from the top. The cone-shaped bell tower at the back was reminiscent of Eastern Orthodox churches. When he was a little boy, Grandfather had taken him there for lunch every day, so there were some fond memories of the place mixed with all those that felt bitter. Not that it mattered anymore.

All Emil wanted was to go where he could be around people, yet not have his peace disturbed. Somewhere he wouldn’t feel so alone. He wasn’t yet ready to face the broken fence, and needed peace if he was to come up with a way to make money and escape the hold Dybukowo had on him.

An elderly neighbor left the church grounds with his grandchildren, but took their hands and sped up as soon as he spotted Emil. As hurtful as that was, it meant Emil might get the peace he wished for. Dinnertime was approaching fast, so the handful of truly devoted worshipers who treated the church as their private gossip club would surely be at home.

But mealtimes didn’t matter to Emil, since he had no one to eat with anyway. He put on a brave face most days, but the truth was, he fondly remembered the days when he still had Grandpa to take care of him. Each day, they would enter the church grounds through the cast iron gate and pass the church on the way to the parsonage. Mrs. Luty had been as grumpy as she was now, but back then she always had sweets for him, and even a kind word from time to time. They would all sit around the large oak table, surrounded by pictures of saints, and chat about their day. Like a family. Too bad Mrs. Luty had cut ties with Emil as soon as Grandpa died.

Emil was relieved to find the church empty.

The perfect silence of the tall walls covered in wooden panels freed up space in Emil’s brain. He swallowed and walked toward the altar where a baroque painting of the crucifixion was embedded in a frame of white stone. Emil found it poetic that an artwork depicting the