— Your entire maternal lineage is cursed,” the healer whispered softly, gazing at Veronika. “Your great-grandmother brought misfortune upon you: she destroyed an innocent person, and herself lost both her children and her husband. Your mother, who died because of her curse, cursed your ancestors. Don’t waste time—your husband is already on the edge. Evil forces are holding him…”
The morning in the village was quiet and calm, only the clucking of chickens and the mooing of cows disturbed the silence. Matrena woke up, stretched, and instinctively ran her hand over the other side of the bed—the sheet was cold. Ivan wasn’t there. Her heart tightened with worry.
She quickly got dressed, put on a headscarf, and went out to the yard. She needed to milk the cow, but her thoughts kept circling around her husband. Recently, he often disappeared. They went to bed together, but she woke up alone. Where did he go at night?
Matrena entered the barn, greeted the cow, sat on the bench, and began milking. The streams of milk splashed into the bucket, but her mind was filled with anxious thoughts.
“Could it be that Ivan has found someone else? Why is he sneaking around every night? This is the second time this week!”
When the cow was milked, Matrena carried the milk home and headed for the hayloft—she needed to give the cow fresh hay. But there, she saw… Ivan. He was peacefully asleep, holding Dasha—the young neighbor who lived without a husband.
Fury overtook Matrena. She grabbed the pitchfork leaning against the wall and screamed so loudly that the window panes shook:
“Ah, you spoiled slut! What have you done, you shameless one!”
Dasha jumped, as if scalded by boiling water, and rushed out of the hayloft. Ivan only started rubbing his eyes—still not understanding what was happening. Standing in front of him was Matrena, like a storm cloud, with a pitchfork in her hands.
“What are you doing here? With her?!” she hissed, ready to attack both of them.
At first, Ivan lied, saying that he just decided to rest, but under his wife’s pressure, he gave in:
“I love Dasha, Matrena. I’m leaving for her. I’ll take her from the village. I’m sorry, I don’t want to be with you anymore. I don’t love you.”
Matrena’s heart shattered.
“What about the children? Six of them we have! What are you going to tell them?”
Ivan looked away.
“You’re no longer needed. Neither you nor they.”
Matrena couldn’t let him go. Her heart wouldn’t allow it. How could she be alone? Six children, the household, the house they built together. How could she abandon all of this? After all, they once dreamed of a life full of warmth and prosperity. Where were those dreams now?
Ivan started packing. Matrena threw herself at his feet, clinging to them, crying, begging him to stay.
“Ivan, wake up! Where are you going? What will we do without you?” she cried, choking on her tears.
The children, hearing the screams, peeked out from behind the stove, not understanding what had happened.
But Ivan was unyielding. He pushed his wife aside and left. There was no pain in his eyes—only determination.
“Don’t cling to me. It’s decided,” he said, and headed to the cart.
Matrena froze, watching him harness the horse, load his things, and leave the yard. Every movement felt like a blow. And beside him—Dasha. The same one who used to help with the household and now was taking her husband. Tears streamed down Matrena’s face. She collapsed to her knees and wept bitterly, feeling her entire world collapse.
“A curse on you, you vile one! May you never know happiness!” she whispered, watching the cart disappear into the distance.
Dasha’s parents took Matrena’s side. Her father, Pyotr Stepanovich, slammed his fist on the table angrily:
“I have no daughter anymore! I don’t want to know her. If that slut returns, I won’t let her even cross the threshold!”
Matrena was supported by everyone: neighbors, relatives, friends. But the support only made the pain worse. The older children—Fedka and Anyuta—understood the scale of the tragedy, walked around with grim faces, and tried to help their mother. The younger ones, Mitya and Nastya, cried and tugged at Matrena’s skirt:
“Where is daddy? When will he come back?”
Matrena stroked their heads, holding back her tears:
“He’ll come, my dear ones. He’ll definitely come.”
She waited for three days. Three days she believed Ivan would come to his senses, realize what a foolish mistake he had made, and return. But he never appeared.
Then, humiliated and broken by pain, Matrena decided to take the final step. She threw on her headscarf and went to the fortune teller—baba Ulyana.
“Please help, Ulyana. How can I get my husband back? Or should I let the homewrecker get what she deserves?” she whispered, hurrying along the rough road.
The fortune teller lived on the outskirts, in a dilapidated hut overgrown with weeds. The air smelled of herbs and something ancient, almost forgotten. Matrena stepped inside carefully, trying not to let the floorboards creak.
In the darkness of the room, at a table covered with black cloth, sat Baba Ulyana—tall, thin, with piercing eyes.
“I know why you’re here,” she rasped without even looking at Matrena. “You want to get Ivan back?”
Matrena nodded, struggling to hold back her tears.
“Help me, grandmother. I don’t know how to live anymore… the children are without a father, I’m alone…”
The fortune teller sighed heavily, pulled out a tattered book from under the table, and began running her finger over the yellowed pages, mumbling something indistinct under her breath. Then she slowly raised her head and looked at Matrena intensely—with a long, penetrating gaze, as if she was not studying her face, but her soul.
“You can get him back,” she finally said in her hoarse voice, “but it won’t be cheap.”
“I’ll do anything,” Matrena replied in despair.
Ulyana barely smiled.
“We’ll see…”
“I’ll do everything you say,” Matrena whispered, struggling to hold back her sobs. “I’ll give everything! Just bring Ivan back to me… the children are without a father, and I’m alone, without support.”
The fortune teller was silent, studying her carefully. Then, like an old crow, she lowered her head and spoke:
“You understand what you’re getting into? We’ll have to turn to the Dark Forces. This is no joke. They always take their price. And sometimes it’s higher than expected.”
Matrena swallowed hard—her mouth was dry.
“I’m ready,” she said quietly. “I’ll do anything. What will they take?”
Ulyana smiled again.
“They’ll decide that. Maybe your life, maybe the souls of your children. Who knows?”
Matrena shuddered, but quickly gathered her thoughts.
“I agree,” she said firmly. “But there’s one more thing… I need Dasha to disappear. She’s been living in this world long enough.”
Ulyana raised an eyebrow slightly.
“And why such cruelty, Matrena?”
“She seduced my husband!” Matrena hissed. “As long as he’s alive and she’s alive—there will be no peace for me.”
“Jealousy is a heavy sin,” the witch remarked, “but I won’t judge you.”
Seeing the hesitation in her voice, Matrena made up her mind:
“Take my cow! She’s good, she gives a lot of milk! I’ll sell her—or just take her. I don’t mind!”
Ulyana thought for a second, then nodded:
“Fine. But remember: you must do everything to the last detail. If you try to deceive me, it will be on you. The Dark Forces can’t stand betrayal.”
“I’ll do it right,” Matrena promised.
Ulyana stood up, approached an old chest in the corner of the hut, opened it, and pulled out a bundle of dry herbs, black feathers, and a small bone amulet.
“Meet me tonight, at the crossroads of three roads, when the moon is full,” she said, handing Matrena the bundle of herbs. “Bring a black rooster. And don’t tell anyone. Keep silent like a fish under the ice.”
Matrena took the herbs and the amulet. A chill ran down her spine.
“I’ll keep silent,” she promised.
The fortune teller waved her hand, and Matrena left.
A few hours later, wrapped in her headscarf, she walked down the dark road, holding the black rooster to her chest. The moon shone brightly, and everything around was quiet. Ulyana was already waiting for her at the crossroads—standing by an old oak tree, surrounded by strange white symbols drawn directly on the ground.
“You’ve come,” the witch sneered. “So, you’re really ready.”
Matrena nodded. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it was going to jump out of her chest.
“Then let’s begin,” Ulyana said, raising her arms and starting to chant in an incomprehensible language.
A gust of wind ripped leaves from the trees, howling through the branches. The sky darkened, and it felt like the air itself had filled with thick, suffocating darkness. Matrena closed her eyes in fear. She didn’t know what was going to happen next, but she understood one thing: she had crossed the line. There was no turning back now.
The night had just begun… and no one knew how it would end for those Matrena wanted to return… and destroy.
Ivan returned after three months. Matrena barely recognized him—he was thin, haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. She expected joy, but instead, an overwhelming unease settled inside her—deep and inexplicable. The children rejoiced, hugging their father, but Ivan just stared ahead silently, not even attempting to hug them back.
That night, Matrena had a nightmare. She dreamt of that very crossroads. The wind was tearing at her hair, whistling in her ears. In the distance, there was a tall figure—its face was hidden, but the piercing gaze could be felt. The figure extended its hand, and in its palm was a small black stone.
“Take it,” came the hoarse voice. “This is the price. For what you’ve returned.”
Matrena woke up in a cold sweat, her heart racing. She couldn’t fall asleep for a long time, fear gripping every fiber of her body.
During the day, she pretended everything was fine—cooking borscht, putting the children to bed, smiling at her colleagues. But inside, everything was burning. She felt it—something was wrong. Trouble was looming nearby.
Two weeks later, Dasha died. She simply didn’t wake up. After Ivan’s return, she had been living at her parents’ house—her father, though furious, forgave his wayward daughter. The whole village buzzed, but Matrena said nothing. Her second wish had come true. And that meant the moment of reckoning was approaching.
Ivan didn’t even go to the funeral. He sat at home, staring blankly. Matrena tried to talk to him, but he seemed not to hear.
“Ivan, why are you suffering like this?” she sobbed. “She really deserved to go! God punished her for what she did to the children. Ivan, what’s happening to you?”
He stayed silent. And the longer he stayed silent, the more terrifying it became for Matrena…
Ivan stayed silent. And the longer he stayed silent, the stronger the feeling of fear grew inside Matrena—a fear so deep it was felt in her chest as a coldness.
The reckoning turned out to be truly terrible. Six months after Dasha’s death, Matrena’s oldest son Fedka died—he went hunting and never returned home. A year later, Ivan’s body was found in the river. They said he jumped into the water himself—drunk, having lost all connection with reality.
Matrena lived a long life. Fate had treated her harshly—she buried all of her sons, each of them leaving this world in the most random, absurd way. Only one daughter remained alive. Until the end of her days, Matrena was convinced she had done the right thing. She convinced herself that the death of her husband and children was not the work of the curse or the ritual of Ulyana. It was just a coincidence. Tragic and cruel, but still a coincidence.
Veronika hurried to work—she had overslept and was now late for her classes. As luck would have it, a gypsy woman followed her—a dry, wrinkled old woman with a piercing gaze. She walked behind her, grabbing Veronika by the arm and speaking in a hushed voice:
“My dear, I see sadness in your eyes and a dark shadow in your heart. Widowhood is written in your fate, a curse follows you along the female line. It was the same with your mother, the same with your grandmother…”
Veronika just snorted:
“Complete nonsense! My father died in an accident, it was an unfortunate incident. What do curses have to do with it? I don’t want any of your fortune-telling—go work somewhere else!”
The gypsy woman shook her head:
“You’ll remember my words, girl. You can’t escape your fate. When you lose everything, then you’ll understand…”
But Veronika didn’t believe any of it. She lived for today, making plans, dreaming of a family. She had her beloved Viktor by her side, who seemed to be the one who would become her husband. No curse scared her. She thought they were all made-up stories, a way for people to earn money on others’ naivety.
She and Vitya met at a mutual friend’s birthday. He immediately appealed to her—kind, reliable, with golden hands. He worked as a builder, and she was a primary school teacher. They were different, but it was their difference that made their union harmonious.
Six months later, they got married. They bought a modest house outside the city, got a dog, and planted an apple orchard. Veronika loved the evenings on the porch, watching Viktor work in the garden. It seemed to her—this was true happiness.
Two years later, she lived with the confidence that there was someone next to her who would protect her from all misfortune. But everything changed when Viktor was invited on a business trip:
“Nikusha, I think I’ll agree,” he said. “Will you manage without me? I’ll earn enough for a couple of years—we’ll live without worries.”
She didn’t want to part with him, but he convinced her. At the station, she hugged him tightly, asking him to take care of himself. He smiled, kissed her on the forehead, and promised to return in a couple of months.
But he never returned. A week later, she got a call from the police. Viktor had died—during construction, a structure collapsed on him.
Everything collapsed in an instant. The ground disappeared from beneath her feet. She couldn’t believe it. Was he really gone?
The funeral marked the beginning of a new life—a life without him. Veronika became almost stone-like. She moved mechanically, went to work, smiled at her colleagues, and in the evenings locked herself at home and cried, begging her beloved to take her with him. Her friends worried about her, taking turns staying with her to keep her from being alone.
Every day, the words of the gypsy woman became more frequent in her mind:
“Widowhood is upon you, girl. The curse of the female line follows you…”
Over time, Veronika began to fear leaving the house. It seemed to her that everyone around her pitied her, whispered behind her back. Every gust of wind, every shadow triggered anxiety. She shut herself off from people, spending her days in solitude.
One day, while walking in the park, she saw the gypsy again. She was sitting on a bench, laying out cards. Veronika wanted to walk past, but her feet stopped on their own.
“Hello… Do you remember me?”
The old woman slowly looked up.
“Hello, girl,” she replied softly.
Veronika didn’t know what to say. Her thoughts were tangled, and emotions flooded over her. The gypsy understood without words.
“I’m not to blame for your sorrow,” she said. “I just saw what was already written. I wanted you to be prepared. To know that life isn’t always fair. To learn to appreciate every moment with the one you love.”
“And what now?” Veronika asked, holding back tears. “What should I do?”
“You need to find someone who can help. If you don’t remove the curse, you won’t be happy. You will bury everyone you give birth to. Only a true witch can handle this.”
Veronika nodded, turned, and walked away. Again, she listened to prophecies. Again, she almost believed it. It was just a coincidence—the death of her husband, meeting the gypsy. A fateful, but still a coincidence.
But deep inside, she knew: yes, she really did need to find a psychologist. Not to lift any curses—just to return to life.
Sessions helped. Slowly, but the pain began to fade. Veronika returned to the children, began smiling again in class. She started visiting Viktor’s grave—not to cry, but to tell him about everything: new books, work, small joys. She made new friends, took up painting, and volunteered at an animal shelter. She filled her life so much that there was no room left for pain.
Three years after Viktor’s death, Veronika met a new person. The one who helped her heal old wounds. The one who taught her to believe in love again. And who became her support in her new life.
His name was Seryozha. He was kind, attentive, with a subtle sense of humor. At first, he didn’t expect anything more than friendship. He knew Veronika still carried the pain of loss in her heart, but it didn’t scare him off. On the contrary, he surrounded her with such care and warmth that slowly the ice in her soul began to melt. They started meeting more often. Step by step, he won her trust—like a general capturing a fortress.
One day, while walking in the park, Sergey suddenly stopped, took Veronika’s hand, and, looking into her eyes, said:
“Veronika, I love you. Will you marry me?”
She was taken aback. It came so suddenly… They had only known each other for a short time.
“Seryozha… I don’t even know what to say… You’ve caught me off guard,” she honestly admitted.
“Don’t rush to answer,” he smiled. “Just think about it. But I really hope you say ‘yes’.”
That evening, over a cup of tea, Veronika gathered her courage and decided to tell him something that had been weighing on her for years.
“Seryozha… There’s something you need to know,” she began, nervously turning her mug in her hands. “A couple of years ago, I met a gypsy. She stopped me and said I was cursed—cursed to widowhood. That all the men I’d be with would die young… I want to marry you, I really do… But I’m scared.”
Sergey laughed.
“Veronika, what nonsense! You’re a reasonable, educated woman. It’s all superstitions. Gypsies say all sorts of things—to get more money. Don’t think about it.”
She sighed with relief. She really wanted him to be right.
“Do you really not believe any of it?”
“Not at all,” he confidently replied. “I believe in science. And in love. And our love is stronger than any rumors.”
They had a modest wedding. After that, Veronika became more at ease. For a while, the fear disappeared. Life regained its color, plans became real, and thoughts of the past began to fade.
But two months ago, everything changed. One Sunday morning, Sergey woke up with a severe headache and weakness. He barely made it to the bathroom and lost consciousness. A frightened Veronika called a doctor. The paramedic insisted on hospitalization—and they went to the hospital.
A day of tests, exams, diagnoses… Everything was normal. The next day, the doctor shrugged:
“Completely healthy. Probably just burnout. Take a couple of days off.”
But Sergey was only getting worse. He was losing strength, appetite, and interest in life. The doctors were clueless. And he kept talking about death. He asked to be buried next to his mother. These words cut Veronika to the heart like a knife.
“Seryozhenka, don’t give up!” she cried. “You’ll get better, I believe it!”
And he whispered, barely holding on:
“The end is near. I feel it. Not much left… Just don’t forget me, Nikusha… Come visit me… often…”
That’s when Veronika turned to a mage—not a fortune teller, but someone who, she thought, could really help. A young, serious man, without any pomp. He listened to her and immediately understood the nature of the problem.
“It’s in your lineage,” he said. “Your great-grandmother made a mistake. She meddled where she shouldn’t have. Because of her actions, an innocent girl died. Her mother cursed your lineage along the female line. Now, half of your husband is already gone to where the sun doesn’t shine. But I can help. If we hurry.”
He gave instructions. Veronika agreed.
On the night of the full moon, she performed the ritual. She recited incantations, burned herbs, and called on the ancient forces. And at one point, she felt something dark and heavy leave her. As if part of her soul separated and went away. The pain began to weaken. The fear receded. She felt it: the curse no longer held her.
The ritual finished just before dawn. Veronika was exhausted, but inside, she felt lighter. She had done it. She had withstood.
In the morning, Veronika went to the hospital. Sergey lay pale, but now he was looking at the world more clearly.
“Well, how do you feel?” she asked, cautiously taking his hand.
He smiled.
“You know, I feel much better today. It’s like a weight has lifted from my soul. I even ate some porridge at the hospital cafeteria—and it tasted good!”
Sergey’s recovery was rapid. The doctors were baffled, calling it a miracle. Two weeks later, he was discharged.
The first thing Veronika did was go to church. She had never believed in such things, considering herself an atheist. But now, standing before the icons, she prayed. She thanked. For bringing her loved one back. For giving him a second chance.
Life slowly returned to its normal course. Veronika began smiling again. And for the first time in a long time—she was no longer afraid.