The road up to the village wasn’t marked. Just tire grooves in the mud and a weathered sign half-covered in moss. The driver let me out where the trees cleared. He said if I followed the utility poles, I’d find the house.
He also said, “If she offers tea, don’t drink it.”
I didn’t ask why.
The air was thin, and the wind came sharp through the trees. I could see the peaks further up…white lines above the dark pine. I’d never been this far east. My classmates joked that the mountains were still pagan, that the clinics here used salt and blood instead of thermometers. I thought it was a joke.
The house was small, barely clinging to the edge of a field. The front door was scratched like a dog had tried to get out. I knocked. A bird startled from the gutter and flew off without a sound.
She opened the door after a pause. Erzsébet. She was shorter than I expected. Older, too. Her face had no expression I could name. She smelled faintly of soil.
“You’re the student,” she said.
I nodded. “From Semmelweis.”
“Come in.”
She didn’t ask my name.
The inside smelled like antiseptic and mushrooms. There was a curtain instead of a door leading into the back. I could hear something dripping behind it.
She sat across from me, her hands on her knees. She didn’t blink much.
“They told me you helped with the burn victims in Vásárhely,” I said.
She didn’t respond.
“I’m studying midwifery,” I added, like it mattered.
She said, “Show me your hand.”
I held out my right hand. She took it gently, turned it palm up, traced the lines. Then she looked up at me.
“Six fingers,” she said.
I blinked. “What?”
“You had one removed. I can feel the root.”
I didn’t say anything.
She stood and pulled aside the curtain. “Come.”
The back room was dim. There was a cot, a metal basin, a table with gauze and a cracked ultrasound machine. A stack of folders sat on the chair.
“Put your hand on the table,” she said.
I hesitated. “What kind of test is this?”
She picked up a hammer. Not surgical...just old, wooden-handled, slightly rusted at the head.
“A real one.”
I put my hand on the table.
The first strike was light. A tap. The second wasn’t.
Pain surged through my arm like liquid fire. I gritted my teeth. I didn’t move. I saw flashes behind my eyes.
Then I saw something else.
I saw the city. The hospital. I saw faces lit in green by screens. I saw women strapped to beds. White coats with scissors. A man in a glass office, turning off cameras. I saw a girl I knew from class...her mouth open, her eyes rolled back, a form unsigned beside her name.
When I opened my eyes, I was on the cot. Erzsébet stood nearby, wiping the hammer with alcohol.
I looked at my hand. All five fingers. No blood.
“You saw it?” she asked.
I nodded.
She handed me a small jar. It was sealed tight, and something dark moved inside when I turned it.
“When?” I asked.
“Sunday,” she said. “After the first liturgy.”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You’re not.”
She walked me to the door.
“Will it hurt them?” I asked.
She shrugged. “That’s not the point.”
Outside, the sky had gone slate gray. But I felt warm. Like something old was waking in my chest.
I put the jar in my coat pocket. The path down was slick with leaves. The wind whistled behind me like a voice that hadn’t spoken in a long time.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social. His favorite revenge story is a tie between Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street and Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. His favorite historical feud/disagreement: Jesus’ arguments with the Pharisees were pretty good.
