Night Tales/Free Short Stories — Belarusian @ Weblate

69	Strings	68%	Browse Translate
11,944	Words	1%
66,855	Characters	1%

Strings Words Characters
69 11,944 66,855	All strings	Browse Translate Zen
47 142 757	Translated strings	Browse Translate Zen
22 11,802 66,098	Unfinished strings	Browse Translate Zen
22 11,802 66,098	Untranslated strings	Browse Translate Zen

Component	Translated	Unfinished	Unfinished words	Unfinished characters	Untranslated	Checks	Suggestions	Comments
Free Daily Stories		0	0	0	0	0	0	0

Main	0%	36	74	452	36	0	0	0

Pro Chat Stories	0%	166	2,680	16,884	166	0	0	0

Pro Stories	0%	68	1,790	10,089	68	0	0	0

Project website	pressf.gg
Translation process	Translations can be made directly. Translation suggestions can be made. Any authenticated user can contribute. The translation uses monolingual files. The translation base language is editable.
Source code repository	`git@github.com:Astler/localizations.git`
Repository branch	night_tales
Last remote commit	Upd `f434faa` Astler authored 03/28/2026
Last commit in Weblate	Translated using Weblate (English) `a934fea` admin authored 05/22/2026
Weblate repository	`https://weblate.pressf.gg/git/night-tales/main/`
File mask	`night_tales/*/free_short_stories/strings.xml`
Monolingual base language file	`night_tales/en/free_short_stories/strings.xml`
Translation file	Download `night_tales/be/free_short_stories/strings.xml`
Last change	April 8, 2026, 12:23 p.m.
Last change made by	admin
Language	Belarusian
Language code	be
Text direction	Left to right
Case sensitivity	Case-sensitive
Number of speakers	2,991,098
Number of plurals	3
Plural type	One/few/many
Plurals	One	1, 21, 31, 41, 51, 61, 71, 81, 91, 101, …
Few	2, 3, 4, 22, 23, 24, 32, 33, 34, 42, …
Many	0, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, …
Plural formula	`n%10==1 && n%100!=11 ? 0 : n%10>=2 && n%10<=4 && (n%100<10 \|\| n%100>=20) ? 1 : 2`

	Strings percent	Hosted strings	Words percent	Hosted words	Characters percent	Hosted characters
Total		69		11,944		66,855
Translated	68%	47	1%	142	1%	757
Needs editing	0%	0	0%	0	0%	0
Read-only	0%	0	0%	0	0%	0
Failing checks	0%	0	0%	0	0%	0
Strings with suggestions	0%	0	0%	0	0%	0
Untranslated strings	31%	22	98%	11,802	98%	66,098

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English

Day 1
I’ve always dragged junk out of abandoned buildings, but this thing was different. In the basement of the old ""Bright Shore"" psychiatric asylum, I found a heavy, floor-standing mirror. It was covered in a century's worth of dust, the silvering tainted with black spots, but I just couldn't take my eyes off it. I felt drawn to it like a magnet. I barely managed to drag it to my car.
Day 10
I put the mirror in my bedroom. At first, everything was normal. But now, when I walk past it, it feels like my reflection lags a fraction of a second behind. And last night, I stood in front of it and clearly saw tall, blurred shadows shifting in the darkness of the room behind my back. The weirdest part is—I can't bring myself to cover it with a sheet or throw it out. I want to look at it.
Day 40
I'm sick. The doctors are baffled. Something is constantly pulsing and itching under the skin on my neck; my lymph nodes have swollen to the size of walnuts. Breathing is hard, like a concrete slab is crushing my chest. The pills aren't helping.
I barely sleep. I sit in front of the mirror for hours. My actual body looks emaciated, but in the reflection... in the reflection, my ribcage looks unnaturally wide. Like it's bloated from the inside.
Day 90
It's not an infection. My body is breaking apart.
My bones crack every night. The space between my ribs is stretching, my skin is pulled taut to the breaking point, turning a bruised, bluish-purple and breaking out in weeping sores. My jaw spasms uncontrollably—sometimes it hinges open so wide the corners of my mouth tear. It’s as if my body is preparing to regurgitate something massive.
But I stopped going to the doctors. I just lie on the floor in front of the mirror. The shadows inside it aren't hiding behind my back anymore. They are looking right at me.
Day 130
I can barely move. Every breath brings absolute agony. My ribs have spread so far apart I look like a freak show exhibit. Thick, sticky mucus constantly leaks from my nose and eyes. I feel no hunger, no thirst. I am just a shell. An incubator.
I stare into the cloudy glass. I don't see my face in there anymore. In the center of my chest, right beneath the thin, translucent skin of my reflection, two pairs of bright, unblinking eyes are glowing. They are waiting.
Day 131
(The entry cuts off, the handwriting turning into bloody smears)
It started. A wet crunch. My sternum snapped in half. The pain is blinding. I fell to the floor... can't breathe...
Hot blood is pouring down my chin. I feel a heavy weight on my chest. Something wet and slimy is pulling itself out of my shattered ribs with a sickening squelch.
I can't lift my head, but I don't need to. I can see everything in the mirror.
It's sitting on top of my organs. Wiping the mucus off its long, clawed limbs. And with an unblinking gaze, it is mesmerized, admiring its new reflection.

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English

I fucking hated that bus with all my heart. The ride was so bumpy it beat the shit out of my ass, dust blowing through the windows, the heat sticky and suffocating. I sat there, staring through the grimy glass, not believing I actually made this trip.
Why the fuck did I agree to this? I hadn't visited my grandparents in ten years, and honestly, I was living a perfectly quiet life. But then, fuck me, their neighbor called:
"You should come. The old folks are completely frail now."
Something tweaked inside me. Fine, I thought, it’s a sin to ignore them completely.
The road stretched out like a rubber band. First asphalt, then gravel, and then began this fucking dirt road where the bus hopped on every bump like a dead grasshopper. Outside the window were fields, lopsided houses, broken fences, rotting sheds. The whole place looked like the world had died here a long time ago, and the people just didn't get the memo.
I remembered how different it was in childhood. Waking up in the morning, Grandma waking me up with fresh pastries. Grandpa—big, strong, carrying an axe, going to chop wood. We’d pick apples in the garden together. It felt like heaven on earth back then.
And then I grew up. The city, parties, college, girls, hangovers. I just kind of forgot about them. Sometimes I’d call just to check the box, but mostly I’d just put it off: "I'll do it later."
And then—the neighbor's call.
And now—I’m here.
The bus dropped me off at a crossroads. I had to walk the rest of the way.
I walked down the familiar road—and I was fucking stunned. Everything was overgrown, grass knee-high, the trees crooked and black. The air smelled of rot, like there was a dead carcass lying around somewhere. The road seemed the same, but it felt like I had wandered into another dimension.
And there it was. The house.
I was genuinely appalled. In my childhood, it looked like a sturdy cabin: bright walls, clean windows, a fence, a swing. Now—it was a ruin. The walls were blackened, the roof caved in, the windows empty like dead eyes. The fence had rotted and collapsed.
I stood there thinking: maybe I should turn the fuck back? But my legs carried me to the door on their own.
I knocked.
And instantly—smack, the door opened. No creak, no latch. Like they were, no shit, standing right behind the door waiting for me.
"Grandson," Grandma said.
I froze. Her voice... holy fuck, it was weird. Dry, wheezy, like someone who smoked three packs a day their whole life and was now speaking through sawdust.
"Come in."
Two silhouettes stood in the dark.
I recognized them. Or I wanted to recognize them.
Grandma and Grandpa. But they looked, fuck, completely different from my memories.
They were smiling.
I stepped inside.
And the smell hit me immediately.
It felt like there was a week-old corpse hidden under the floorboards. Damp rot, old age, and some other sickly-sweet putrid stench. I almost threw up, but pretended everything was fine.
"Well, sit down, grandson," Grandma said, slapping the table.
The table was set. It looked homey enough: plates, bread, a big pot of borscht. But everything looked... off. The bread was stale, like it had been sitting there for a week. The borscht in the pot was thick, brown, not red. Steam was rising from it, but the smell wasn't food—it was something sour, rotten.
Grandpa sat across from me. I barely recognized him. His face was yellow, like a wax doll, his eyes glassy. And his teeth... they were too long, like he didn't have teeth in his mouth, but shards of bone. He was smiling, unblinking.
"Been a while," I muttered, just to say something.
"A long while," he replied, and the sound of his voice gave me goosebumps. Deep, hollow, like he was speaking not from his throat, but from a deep pit.
I took a spoonful of the borscht. Scooped it up.
And almost dropped the spoon. Floating in the plate was something that looked like a finger. Pale, with a fingernail. I blinked—and it was gone. Just potatoes and meat.
"Why aren't you eating?" Grandma asked, tilting her head.
And right then, her neck cracked so loudly it sounded like her bones were dry and brittle. I actually flinched.
"It's delicious," she added, smiling.
The smile was unnatural: way too wide, like her skin was about to tear.
I forced myself to eat a few spoonfuls. The taste was vile. Like iron and rotten meat mixed together. But I sat there and ate, because I realized: if I said I didn't want it right now, they would stop smiling. And I really, really fucking didn't want to see them without their smiles.
They stayed completely silent the whole time, just watching me. I could hear the spoon trembling in my hand.
When I finished, Grandma said:
"Time for bed. We'll show you to your room."
My blood ran cold.
My room. That room. The nursery.
We went upstairs. The hallway was dark, smelling of dampness and mildew. The floorboards creaked underfoot, but the sound was alien, too loud, like there was a massive void beneath us.
My room was almost exactly how I remembered it. Toys on the shelf, the wardrobe, the bed. But the walls had darkened, like they were smeared with soot. And the air was heavy, like in a basement.
"Sleep, grandson," Grandma said. "Lots of chores tomorrow."
They closed the door.
I lay down, but I couldn't sleep. My heart was pounding in my chest; I caught every single sound. And then I heard it.
Footsteps. Slow, shuffling. And something scratching against the floor. With claws. Then breathing. Heavy, wheezing, right outside the door.
I got up, cracked the door open—and almost pissed myself.
Grandma was standing in the hallway. But it wasn't Grandma.
Tall, elongated, her grayish-yellow skin stretched tight over her bones like a rag on a stick. Her face was cracked, her eyes were black holes. A smile with no lips, just a mouth.
"Sleep, grandson," she hissed. "Tomorrow we go to the garden. The harvest is good."
I slammed the door and jammed a chair under the handle. I sat on the bed and listened to her pacing outside the door, shuffling her feet. I never went to sleep.
I don't fucking know how I made it to morning. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Something kept shuffling outside the door all night long. Sometimes I heard whispers. Not words—just a scratching sound, like mice clawing inside a skull.
When dawn broke, the door suddenly opened on its own. Grandma was standing there, smiling.
"Grandson, let's go to the garden. The harvest is good."
I wanted to say, "Fuck right off," but my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. My legs followed them on their own. We went out into the yard. And I lost my fucking mind.
Where the garden used to be—green, fragrant, full of apple and pear trees—there was now a dead forest. Black, twisted trees, roots bursting from the ground, the earth all churned up. The air was thick, putrid. Not a single bird, not a single cricket—dead silence.
They led me to a pit. The dirt was fresh, loose, clearly dug recently.
"Grandpa was working here," Grandma said. "A rich harvest."
I looked inside. And I was more horrified than I had ever been in my life.
There were hands in the pit. Real ones. Human. Pale, some already rotting. Wearing rings on their fingers—gold, silver. White bones poked through the dirt. There were so many of them. So fucking many.
"Who are they?" I choked out.
Grandpa stepped closer, placed his hand on my shoulder. Cold as a gravestone.
"Our guests," he said.
"They all stay."
And he looked at me.
"You will stay, too."
I jerked, tried to break free, but he held me like a vice. His face was close. I saw that it wasn't a face anymore. The skin was sliding off like a wet rag, and underneath was something black and glistening.
I screamed. I violently yanked myself free and bolted.
I ran through that dead garden, roots grabbing at my feet, branches tearing at my face. I could hear their voices behind me. But they weren't human voices anymore.
The words stretched, hissed, trailing after me like a sticky spiderweb:
"Graaaaandsoooon... waaaait... we were waiting..."
I burst out onto the road, almost tripping. By some miracle, a car was driving by. I threw myself in front of it, waving my arms. The driver slammed the brakes. I dove inside, slammed the door, and screamed:
"Get the fuck out of here, go!"
The driver looked at me like I was a psycho. But he drove.
I looked back. And I saw it.
They were standing by the house. Grandma and Grandpa. Far away, tiny figures. But I could see them waving at me.
And smiling.
I returned home to the city. For the first couple of days, I tried to convince myself that this whole nightmare was just a bad dream. Exhaustion, nerves, a fucked-up imagination. But as soon as I went to sleep—it started all over again.
Day 1.
I woke up in a cold sweat. The dream went like this: I’m lying in bed, and they are standing in the corner of my room. Both of them. Smiling.
I opened my eyes—empty. But there was dirt on the windowsill. Real dirt, in clumps. Like someone wearing boots had been standing there.
Day 3.
The smell. The exact same one as in their house. Damp rot. The neighbors are already complaining.
Found dead sparrows in the stairwell. About five of them. I threw them away.
The next morning, they were lying there again. The exact same ones.
Day 5.
Heard whispering under my door at night. Not words—some serpentine hissing that scratches at your brain. I didn't open it.
In the morning, there was a footprint on my doormat. A small, dirty foot. Like a child's.
Day 7.
The bathroom mirror cracked. On its own.
In the reflection, I saw them.
They were standing right behind me.
I spun around—empty.
Day 9.
Phone calls. "Unknown" caller ID.
I pick up—silence. Then breathing. Heavy, rotten.
And a whisper: "Grandson..."
I throw the phone, but it rings again and again.
Day 12.
Found a photograph in my mailbox.
It's me, sleeping.
And in the corner of the photo, they are standing there. Smiling.
Day 14.
The neighbor downstairs asked me: "Why do you sing at night? In an old person's voice, so drawn out..."
I froze. I live alone.
Day 18.
Woke up—all the furniture in my room is turned to face the bed.
The desk, the chairs, the wardrobe, the TV. Everything is looking at me.
Like they were sitting here, waiting for me while I slept.
Day 20.
I drove back to their house.
The garden is gone.
Just empty dirt and a massive, fresh pit.
At the bottom of the pit lay my jacket. The exact one I was wearing when I ran away.
Day 22.
They come during the day now. I hear someone walking in the kitchen. I go in—empty. But things are moving. A chair ends up in a different corner, a mug on the floor.
Scratches on the wall.
One word: "Soon."
Day 25.
I woke up to someone whispering in my ear.
Grandma.
She said: "We are already inside."
Day 27.
(The handwriting is shaking, letters are crooked, ink is smeared.)
They are behind me. I don't want to turn around.
If I look—I won't be able to look away.
I can hear them breathing.
I know they are smiling.
Neighbor's Interrogation Transcript, October 12
"He was... strange lately. Eyes bloodshot red, like he hadn't slept in weeks. Always talking to himself.
At night, we could hear he had guests over. Whispering, laughing... but the voices were elderly, so wheezy, nasty. I thought he brought his grandparents to live with him.
And then that singing... Lord, it was terrifying. Long, drawn-out, like at a funeral. I couldn't take it anymore, I called the police."
Apartment Inspection Report
No signs of forced entry. The lock is intact.
Inside, the furniture is arranged anomalously: all chairs and the table are turned to face the bed.
Deep scratches on the walls; in some places, words are legible: "grandson," "waiting."
A strong, putrid odor is present. The source was not found.
On the kitchen table—a photograph: the victim (hereafter—Subject K.) is sleeping in bed. In the corner of the frame, two figures of elderly people are visible. Their faces are blurred, identification impossible.
Confiscated Diary (Fragments)
Day 25. — "Grandma whispered right into my ear: 'We are already inside.'"
Day 27. — "They are behind me. I don't want to turn around. I can hear them breathing. I know they are smiling."
Subsequent entries are illegible. The ink is smeared, the letters transition into strange symbols bearing no relation to any known languages.
Conclusion
The body of Subject K. was not found.
No signs of struggle, break-in, or violence in the apartment.
Official version: voluntary departure. Case closed.
Addendum (Handwritten note on the case copy)
"I saw them. In the mirror. They were smiling.
They aren't just in that house anymore.
They are waiting."

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If you think your life is a total mess, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. After hearing my story, you’ll realize that’s far from the truth.
Let’s start from the beginning.
Hi everyone, my name is Oleg, and I’m 25 years old. I’m from a small town. After graduating from high school there, I left to make my mark in the capital. A year ago, I graduated from college and got a job as an IT specialist at a prestigious firm. But my story begins in early childhood, and you might ask yourself, ‘Why talk about this now? Why didn’t you say anything before?’
Well, this story needs to be heard because I won’t be around much longer.
Every person has their own unique trait. Some read quickly, others can multiply incredible numbers in their heads, some run fast, and I have an excellent sense of smell. But one smell wouldn’t leave me alone, because I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.
It first happened to me when I was 13. I had a beloved dog that started giving off an unpleasant smell, which grew stronger every day, and I couldn’t figure out what it was, since no one around me could smell it. I was sent to my grandmother’s for the holidays, and I stopped thinking about it until I smelled it again a month later. Coming from my grandmother. At that moment, my mom delivered the sad news that my beloved pet had been hit by a car and killed…
Over the next month, the smell from my grandmother didn’t stop; it only grew stronger, and I began to sense a bitterness in it. I only breathed a sigh of relief when my parents took me home. But the sense of calm didn’t last long. After I left, there was an electrical short circuit at my grandmother’s house, and a fire broke out from which she couldn’t escape…
After the funeral, I wanted to find an explanation for these deaths. A smell—an incident, a smell—an incident… I became so absorbed in these thoughts that I spent entire days searching for information online. But I didn’t have much success, so I went to a forum where I talked about the smells.
Many people laughed at my story, and only a couple of people said that it was a gift to sense the smell of death.
There were about 10 other instances where I sensed that bitter smell from people, and all of them ended in tragedy.
After moving to the capital, that “scent” followed me everywhere—on the bus, in stores, at work. There was no explanation for it, except that tragedies always followed, so there was only one option left—to learn to live with it. I tried not to make friends or get into relationships so as not to get attached. So for my birthday, I gave myself a gift—I bought a trip to the islands.
D-Day. The airport. Nothing out of the ordinary. The rush, boarding announcements, lost luggage, and crowds of people. Everything happens quickly. And now our airbus is preparing for takeoff. 319 happy people looking forward to their vacation. And I’m the only one who realizes—something’s wrong. The smell. It’s everywhere. It’s coming from everything on board, including me…

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The man known as the Hermit returned to New York a changed man. His former restlessness had vanished; his gaze had grown heavy and penetrating, as if he were seeing not the walls of skyscrapers but endless red deserts. He said he had spent years in Australia’s ‘Places of Power,’ in such remote corners where the Earth itself remembers the whispers of stars millions of years old.
He brought back not souvenirs, but knowledge. At first, it was just an exotic hobby. At parties, sipping beer, the Hermit would tell of ancient dreams, of creatures that slumbered underground before the arrival of humans, of the rhythms of the Universe that could be sensed and harnessed. His stories were as captivating as they were implausible. But there was a strange, compelling logic to them, drawing in those who were bored with reality.
He wasn’t creating a cult. He was offering “The Path.” A small, elegant system of meditations, breathing exercises, and symbols. He called it “personal evolution” and “expanding the boundaries of perception.” He dispensed knowledge in small doses, as if it were an expensive and rare drug.
His sister’s friend was the first to embark on the path, out of curiosity. An acquaintance of his—a colleague from his old job—did so because he was seeking enlightenment. An old friend joined simply for the company, just for fun. Step by step, week by week, they carried out the Hermit’s strange but, at first glance, harmless instructions. They drew certain symbols with chalk or charcoal in their apartments, whispered phrases in a forgotten language, and at dawn carried with them pieces of stone that the Teacher had given them. Their world did not collapse. On the contrary, many felt an inexplicable surge of strength, clarity of mind, and almost good luck in their affairs. This was the most convincing proof. The Path was working. The final step was described as the key to the Gates, to the true Self. The ritual had to take place in complete isolation. They had to choose a small room and draw the curtains tightly so there was no light. On the floor and ceiling, they had to draw two circles with absolute precision, filled with the very symbols they had been studying all this time. The circles had to be mirror images of each other. Then came the reading of the text. A short but guttural text, consisting of sounds that cut through the ears and constricted the throat.
My sister’s friend did this in her studio. She read the last word. A light flashed—a light that hadn’t been there. Blindingly green, pulsating, distorting space. Air burst from her lungs in a whistling scream that clearly did not belong to her. And when everything fell silent, the room was empty. Only on the floor did a strange smell of ozone and hot sand smolder, melting into the parquet. A colleague from her old job disappeared into his office after the ritual. An old friend in his parents’ guest room. Like ghosts, they dissolved into the glow and the alien scream. The police threw up their hands: no signs of a struggle, no motives, no bodies. People were simply ceasing to exist in New York, one after another. Only when his own sister disappeared did one of his friends, who had just begun “The Path,” burst into the Hermit’s apartment. He found him sitting by the window, gazing at the city at night. His face was a mask of boundless weariness and a peace that the living do not possess.
“Where are they?” the friend rasped. “What have you done? Where’s your sister?”
The Hermit turned. There was neither malice nor triumph in his eyes. Only deep, universal sorrow.
“In the Refuge,” the Hermit said quietly. “Where my journey began. Deep underground, in one of those places not marked on any map. There is a cage there. As ancient as life itself on this planet. And inside it… It.”
The Hermit described the creature.
“Neither humanoid, nor lizard, nor insect. Something whose form defied known geometry, whose body was woven from the shadow of chitin and the light of stars that do not exist in our skies. An Ancient Keeper, a Parasite God, who fell asleep in the Australian wilderness long before the dinosaurs appeared.” His cult, a small, dying handful of people, kept him asleep, and when he awoke, they fed him. They caught me when I was foolish and hungry for secrets,” the Hermit continued. “They took my soul. They sealed it inside an unusual stone. And they offered a deal. Freedom in exchange for food. For a certain number of souls brought to the Gates. I didn’t kill them, you understand? I simply… guided them. The ritual isn’t a gateway to enlightenment. It’s a teleport. An instant transfer from point A, say, to point B, into a stone cage to Him.
He spoke evenly, without emotion.
“And it… devours them?
- Yes. It’s not from our reality. It doesn’t need flesh. It needs life force, the very essence. The flash of light that the Adepts see is the moment of transition. And that scream. That’s His hunger.
- How many? — whispered my friend, feeling the floor slip away beneath his feet. - How many in total?
- My sister was the thirty-ninth, — replied the Hermit, staring into the void. — I’m the only one left. The fortieth soul and the senior priests will shatter the stone. I’ll be whole again. I’ll be able to feel. I’ll finally be able to truly die.
He looked at his former friend, and there was such an abyss of despair in his gaze that it became clear: he himself had long since been a dead man, a walking trap. Longing and hope.
“You’ve already taken the third step,” the Hermit stated, not asked. “The symbols are already burning in your memory. You won’t be able to forget them. Sooner or later, out of curiosity or because you feel their call, you’ll draw the circles.” You will read the words. And we will both be free.
And he turned back to the window, to the carefree lights of the mad, ignorant city, which was nothing more to him than a cattle yard, and his friends, relatives, and acquaintances—nothing more than a ticket for his soul back to him.

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It felt like it would never end. My wife would scream frantically into the phone forever, while I listened to her in silence, cutting through the same endless highway that loomed hastily out of the night’s darkness.
When the line went dead, I tilted my head back slightly and exhaled with relief. Thank the gods—the reception in this godforsaken place is crap.
“That woman is going to squeeze every last drop out of me,” a voice in my head declared clearly and distinctly.
With thoughts like these, I sank into a pit of unpleasant memories and regrets. A bright light struck my eyes, pulling me out of my heavy musings. The glowing, flashing sign “HOTEL IGIS,” lit up in every color, stood out on the roof of the building.
“They’re waiting at home,” the voice declared loudly.
A lump rose in my throat—I didn’t want to go home. Images flashed sharply through my mind of my beloved wife starting to tear into me right from the doorstep, like monsters hiding under children’s beds.
When my painfully furrowed brow and knitted eyebrows finally relaxed, it became clear that I clearly needed to be alone for a while.
After parking and getting out of the car, I could barely make out the crooked log cabin, which spread out across the square with its two-story “wings.” Made entirely of wood, it looked as if it had stepped right out of a children’s fairy tale about Baba Yaga.
A massive sign hung proudly and confidently on this dilapidated building, illuminating everything around it except for this gloomy wooden fortress.
Upon entering, I was pleasantly surprised. The brightly lit room was decorated with rugs, paintings, and a well-stocked library, even though from the outside it had looked like a huge abandoned barracks.
Right in front of me, at the reception desk, stood a female receptionist, politely waiting for me to approach.
“Hello! We’re glad to see you at our IGIS Hotel. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to check in for three days, in a room that’s a bit more luxurious and has a double bed. Do you have one like that?” I smiled.
The receptionist looked away sheepishly and took a key out of the cabinet labeled “Room Sixteen.”
“Of course, I think this one will suit you just fine.”
The girl led me down a long corridor; the red carpet muffled our footsteps and softened her stride, making her hips move more smoothly.
Along the way, I kept glancing back; the entire corridor was lined with canvases depicting the same portrait of an officer I didn’t recognize. And the ceiling was adorned with blue velvet.
Suddenly, she stopped, opened the door marked with the number sixteen, and gestured for me to enter first.
The room was cozy, almost too much so. In my mind, I calculated the bill I’d be presented with for the snow-white bed, the panoramic view, and the other amenities.
“Miss, is that really all you wanted to offer?” I teased the receptionist playfully.
“Don’t worry, we’ve prepared the best room for you,” replied a hoarse, deep bass, and the door slammed shut, which discouraged me all the more. It seems I went too far.
Unfortunately, my sleep was restless. Waking up drenched in sweat, I could barely breathe. It was pitch black around me, and the air felt impossibly stuffy.
I wanted a cigarette. I got out of bed, grabbed a pack of cigarettes on the way, and stepped out onto the balcony. Now every breath came easier; my panic attack had finally subsided.
“The view certainly isn’t five-star,” I thought, peering into the night park.
Streetlights were on, but they didn’t really illuminate anything. The black sky merged with the park’s fir trees and enveloped them. The foliage itself swayed, whether from the wind or from barely perceptible silhouettes that steadily grew in size and just as steadily shrank. Dark clumps emitted clicking sounds, apparently imitating crickets, doing so diligently, yet at the same time falsely. Well, there I go, getting myself worked up again.
In the morning, I ran into the cleaning lady in the hallway, a gray-haired old woman who was slowly scrubbing the marble tiles.
“Hello, how are you?” I asked politely.
The old woman looked at me, baring her gums in a wide smile.
The hallway is winding,” she said, without moving a single muscle in her face, merely opening her toothless mouth.
I quickened my pace, trying not to look back. She was watching my every move. When the familiar clicks reached my ears, my legs took off running on their own.
She’s just a crazy old woman, I told myself, but the corridor, which had always run straight, suddenly began to wind, branching off and descending to an unimaginable number of floors.
When the walls and ceiling narrowed, I had to take the stairs down to other floors. Soon, the stairwells I encountered were covered in yellowish slime, and some were completely destroyed. Then I would go into the rooms and jump down through holes in the floor. Opening yet another door to a room, I found another door behind it, and behind that one, yet another....
For a long time, I patiently opened them one after another, but there’s a limit to everything. Eventually, I got fed up, turned around, but the door behind me turned out to be locked. At that moment, I was overcome by a severe panic attack; I screamed and pounded on the door, begging to be let back in. I can’t say for sure if the countless hours I’d spent in that cramped passageway had taken their toll on me, but from then on, I steered clear of such “tricks.” When the doorknob finally gave way, I found myself right in the hallway—completely dilapidated, covered in graffiti, and abandoned.
On one of the floors, I heard the sound of an elevator opening; inside, the receptionist stood smiling and waving cheerfully. Or rather, what was left of her.
As I descended the stairs, I carefully avoided the slime and the bundles of sparking wires protruding from the steps, and I managed to make it to the first floor. This flight of stairs was the last one.
I expected to see the reception area, and with it, the exit to the outside, but the place I had ended up in did not match my expectations at all.
A dimly lit bar, apparently made entirely of black wood, made it impossible to make out any clear details. Faceless mannequins sat at the tables, seemingly trying to mimic life. One of the oddities even turned its plastic head toward me, sizing me up with an invisible yet palpable gaze. Perhaps it even twisted its face into a contemptuous grimace, visible only to its own kind.
Behind the bar counter, impenetrable darkness loomed, but someone was clearly there. Even when I managed to get closer, all my eyes could make out was a bestial snarl. It didn’t say a word; a “tulip” of whiskey simply emerged from the black smog of darkness.
Sitting at the bar, I drank myself into a stupor, feeling the utter hopelessness of the situation. Soon I was drunk enough to hear the faceless creatures’ conversations.
“Idiot… got lost among three pine trees,” “What a vile one we’ve got here; I wouldn’t even feed him to the larvae,”
“Coward! Does he really think They’ll let him go?”
“HEY!!!” I shouted, spinning around sharply, clearly intending to smash a couple of plastic heads.
But there was no one at the tables. The already dim room was shrouded in a veil of thick darkness.
Returning to my original position, I looked into my glass. At the bottom of the pool of alcohol lay something resembling a maggot, only with the thin antennae of a cockroach. No sooner had I raised my gaze to the iron-grin of the so-called bartender than a guttural growl reached my ears. Without any aggression, but warning and making it clear—I wasn’t welcome here.
When I’d had a drink and gained some courage, I wanted to go up to my room on my own. Feeling a surge of irritation, I noticed that the hallway went straight ahead, just as before.
I peered into the windows, trying to find a way out onto the street, and threw whatever objects I could find at the windows in the hope of breaking the glass, but to no avail.
At the very far end of the hallway, the light went out. Darkness, like a thick fabric, closed in on me, at first silently, but soon I heard loud footsteps and jumped to my feet.
Everything around me turned black, engulfing the furniture and the light and stripping them of their substance; the pounding grew louder, and only a glimmer of light shone from the doorway of my room. With a sharp movement, I shut the door behind me and braced it with my back. When everything fell silent, I managed to regain my composure and lock the door.
Waking up in the middle of the night, I opened the door to my room and saw that there was no hallway beyond the threshold. Darkness. In which my own hand was submerged.
From the doorway, a semblance of my hand slowly stretched out—too long... Too black...
Everything it touched with its seven fingers instantly decayed, crumbled, and turned a deathly gray.
Something invisible in the darkness was wandering in search of me, and the longer it couldn’t find me, the more aggressive it became.
The front desk isn’t answering the phone; I hear only an indistinct whisper coming from the receiver after a few short rings.
I’m sure it’s not night outside the window, but day. It’s just that now there’s no sun, no streets, and no light. It seems the hotel isn’t where it was yesterday at all.
On the nightstand lies a key with the number sixteen, which I always carried in my jeans pocket. I try to remember if I even put it there. I finally manage to gather my thoughts, but someone is banging on the wall of the neighboring room, the ceiling, the floor, and it’s driving me crazy. I scream.
The gap under my door has widened. A quiet voice comes from behind me:
“We’ve prepared the best room for you.

Context

04/08/2026

admin

Extra flags updated

15 characters edited

04/08/2026

admin

String added

English

Belarusian 0 characters editedCurrent translationState: Empty

Context

04/08/2026

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22	Unfinished strings, converted files enriched with comments; suitable for offline translation	Android String Resource	CSV	JSON	JSON nested structure file	gettext PO	iOS strings	TBX	TMX	XLIFF 1.1 with gettext extensions	XLIFF 1.1	XLSX

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Night Tales

Free Short Stories

Belarusian

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