The Spirit's Curiosity

The village was warm and inviting, nestled in a picturesque valley where laughter and kindness filled the air like the perfume of summer wildflowers. My great-grandmother’s house stood at its heart, a sturdy home with red-tiled roofs and sun-warmed wooden beams. It was a place of love, steeped in generations of family memories. No dark rumors or tragic tales clung to the house, only the quiet wisdom of years and the warmth of shared meals.

That summer, my mother, just eighteen, arrived with her own mother to spend the season in the comfort of their ancestral home. Days were filled with work and joy�"baking, tending to the garden, and catching up on village gossip. But the nights were oppressively hot, the thick walls trapping the day’s heat within. Seeking relief, my mother and grandmother decided to sleep in the attic, where the open windows let in a cool breeze and the sweet scent of fresh hay from the fields.

The attic, though rarely used, had its own charm. Bales of hay lay neatly stacked, their fragrance mingling with the faint aroma of dried herbs that hung from the rafters. My mother and grandmother spread their blankets on the soft hay, laughing softly as they arranged their impromptu bed. The room was still and quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant rustle of the wind. They fell asleep easily, lulled by the peace of the night.

Sometime deep in the night, my mother woke to a sound. At first, it was faint�"a soft rustling that could have been the breeze stirring the hay. She blinked, her senses sharpening as the sound came again. This time, it was unmistakable: footsteps.

The steps were light, deliberate, and muffled by the hay, as though someone�"or something�"was moving carefully across the floor. Her heart quickened as she strained to listen, her body stiff with the instinct to remain still. Could it be a stray cat? Or perhaps a small animal from the fields? No, the steps were too heavy for that, yet too light to be human.

The sound grew closer, weaving around her. She squeezed her eyes shut, feigning sleep, her breath shallow and quick. Whatever it was, it seemed to pause near her for a moment before moving again, its steps unnervingly deliberate.

And then, it came very close.

She felt it before she saw it�"a weight on her chest, light yet undeniable. It pressed down just below her throat, directly over her heart. For a fleeting moment, she thought it might be the paw of a cat, but the sensation was all wrong.

The weight wasn’t a paw.

Small, furred fingers splayed across her skin, warm and alive. The touch was deliberate, almost curious, as though testing the rhythm of her heartbeat. She lay frozen, terror building in her chest, as the unseen presence lingered. The texture of the fingers was unnerving�"soft and downy, like the fine fur of an animal, yet undeniably human in their shape.

The weight shifted slightly, and the fingers curled, pressing gently against her skin.

It was too much to bear.

With a gasp, my mother bolted upright, her hands flying to her chest. The attic was silent. The warmth vanished. The hay lay undisturbed, and the faint glow of the lantern revealed nothing but shadows.

But she wasn’t alone.

She could feel it�"the heavy, oppressive sensation of being watched. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she scanned the room, her wide eyes darting to every corner, every shadow. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

She shook her mother awake, her voice trembling as she whispered what had happened. Her mother, alarmed but calm, listened carefully. After a moment’s thought, she gave a small, knowing smile.

“It’s nothing to fear,” she said softly, placing a reassuring hand on my mother’s shoulder. “It’s the Domowik.”

The Domowik�"the guardian spirit of the house. A figure of folklore, known to protect the home and its inhabitants but not without its quirks. Domowiks could be playful, even mischievous, if they felt neglected or disrespected. They were said to roam the house at night, ensuring all was well, though they rarely revealed themselves.

Her mother spoke soothingly. “It must have been curious about you, that’s all. Perhaps it didn’t recognize you yet. Don’t worry. It won’t harm you.”

But my mother was unconvinced. The memory of those small, furred fingers lingered, their warmth still ghosting against her skin. She spent the rest of the night downstairs in the parlor, unwilling to return to the attic.

Though she never saw it again, my mother never forgot that night. In the years that followed, she came to accept her mother’s explanation. The Domowik, she decided, had simply been curious, drawn to her unfamiliar presence in its domain.

The attic remained a place of quiet mystery, its hay left untouched during future visits. My mother never slept there again, though she would occasionally leave offerings for the spirit�"a small loaf of bread or a bowl of milk, just as tradition dictated.

The house remained warm and welcoming, its heart guarded by the unseen presence that roamed its corners. And though my mother grew older and moved away, she always carried with her the memory of that night�"the night the Domowik introduced itself with a touch that was both terrifying and oddly tender.

Reviews

[Throwing Romeo]

The sympathetic freeze response
was masterfully folded in to the
warmth of every beating heart.

Smoothly drawing in all the necessary
senses to inhabit her skin as the narrator
barely exists. Thank you for sharing


R.

[Yana Larson]

What a beautiful words. Thank you wery much )))

[emmajoygreen]

I read twice.. fine words laid carefully but as if spoken.. in other words, smoothly, naturally. Your description of history, home and atmosphere makes comfort and sense to the tale. Then arrives an inquisitive being that appears to have the run of the house.. kindly so but, could there be more? Even now wondering if the Domowik but return.. in another post? Knock, knock.. please, add more!

[Yana Larson]

Thank you for your kind feedback. The story is small, because in fact it is a real story that happened to my mother. But I'll ask her. Perhaps there were some other stories related to this house spirit. If you liked it, I'll find out more about it. I'll try my best 🤗

[emmajoygreen]

Oh yes, please. The feel of a house that appears more benevolent than evil can be there as sentry for much of the time. If you can find out more, would be intriguing to know if - perhaps, there is a well somewhere near. Take care of yourself, stay happy.

[Yana Larson]

Stay happy too! It's important