The door to our house was kicked in by my mother-in-law, who changed the locks while we were on our work rotation.
“You’re not going to believe this, honey,” Natalia said, grabbing the suitcase and glancing out the window. “I just saw your mom pull the curtains in our bedroom. I swear, she just darted by!”
“It can’t be,” Oleg slowed his steps, squinting at the setting sun. “We would’ve known if she decided to come over. And she doesn’t have a key.”
They stopped at the gate of their modest wooden house. Six months of working up North had made this moment—finally stepping through the door, throwing their suitcases in the hallway, and collapsing on the couch—feel like a long-awaited dream.
But something wasn’t right. There were boards scattered on the ground that weren’t there before. The curtains had been changed.
Oleg pushed open the gate, but it creaked loudly—a strange, unfamiliar noise. The hinges had always been silent before.
“Mom?” he called out, still unable to believe what was happening. “Are you here?”
A familiar figure appeared in the second-floor window. Svetlana Petrovna, a sixty-two-year-old woman with a hairstyle as if molded from wax, furrowed her brow as she looked down at them.
“Get out!” she suddenly shouted, her voice unusually high-pitched. “This is my house! Mine! No one invited you!”
Natalia dropped her purse. Oleg stood frozen, his mouth slightly open.
“Mom… What?…” He took a few steps toward the house. “What’s going on?”
“You weren’t here, so you’re gone for good!” She slammed her palm on the windowsill. “I live here now. Svetlana Viktorovna! Remember the name!”
Oleg stared at her, stunned. The woman at the window—his mother—looked both familiar and completely foreign. There was something unsettlingly unfamiliar about her gaze.
Natalia tried inserting the key into the lock, but it wouldn’t fit.
“Oleg… they changed the locks,” she whispered, her voice filled with genuine fear.
“Gali-na!” Oleg called out to the neighbor, who had been watching from her garden. “Do you know what’s going on here?”
The elderly woman in a faded bathrobe approached the fence, lowering her voice.
“I didn’t want to get involved… But your mother’s acting strange. She arrived about a month after you left. With some people. There was a loud bang when they kicked in the door. Then they changed the locks.”
“What?” Oleg paled. “Why didn’t you call us? Why didn’t you call the police?”
Gali-na shrugged.
“She’s still your mother. She said you asked her to look after the house. I thought it was a family matter. I don’t meddle in other people’s affairs.”
“Get out!” Svetlana Petrovna screamed again from the window. “I’ve repainted everything! It’s all different now! Black and white! Understand? The right way!”
Oleg slowly sank onto the porch steps, running his fingers through his hair.
“Natalia,” he whispered, “call an ambulance. Something’s wrong with Mom.”
Natalia reached for her phone when she heard the creaking of floorboards on the porch.
Svetlana Petrovna appeared at the door, like a ghost from the past, in a faded blue dress with a small print.
The dress hung off her frame, emphasizing her sharp collarbones and a disturbing fragility.
“Mom…” Oleg stepped closer, pressing his hand against the glass. “It’s me. Oleg. Don’t you recognize me? We just went on a work rotation, like we said.”
Her eyes reflected nothing but coldness. Her gaze slid over him like a display window—lingering, but not engaging, not allowing anything inside. The corners of her lips trembled into a semblance of a smile.
“I see who you are,” she said with unnerving clarity. “But you’re wrong about me.”
Svetlana Petrovna was no longer who she used to be. She had become Svetlana Viktorovna. She was the one now in control. The one who made the decisions. The one who brought order.
Natalia embraced her husband’s shoulders, gazing fearfully at his mother. Svetlana Petrovna suddenly smiled—a strange, doll-like smile that only made everything more terrifying.
“Do you want to come in?” she asked in a completely different tone. “I can let you in. If you’re guests. If you’re not claiming my house.”
Svetlana Petrovna unlocked the door with an almost feverish enthusiasm. The keys clinked in her trembling hands, and Natalia couldn’t help but think that she was opening not a door, but a vault.
“I did everything right,” she muttered as the lock clicked. “I protected everything. I saved it all.”
Oleg looked at his wife, his eyes silent with a question. Natalia nodded faintly. She had already called the ambulance, stepping aside to speak quietly to the dispatcher. The crew would arrive soon.
“We’ll come in as guests, Mom,” Oleg said carefully. “We just want to see how you… settled in.”
The door creaked open with a prolonged sound, and the smell hit them—paint, candle wax, and something sour, unpleasant.
Svetlana Petrovna stepped inside first, gesturing for them to follow her.
“Welcome to the abode of truth!” she announced dramatically.
Natalia stepped over the threshold, frozen, unable to trust her own eyes. The hallway, once covered in light floral wallpaper, was now drenched in darkness.
Everything around them—the walls, ceiling, even the smallest baseboards—was coated in black paint. Even their antique mirror with a carved wooden frame had vanished under an impenetrable layer of dark covering.
“Mom…” Oleg managed to whisper, freezing behind Natalia. “What have you done?”
“This is a space of purification,” Svetlana Petrovna explained in a businesslike tone, as though giving a tour. “Here, all past connections are washed away. The dark corridor leads to the light.”
She quickly passed through the hallway, almost running, and flung open the door to the living room. The contrast was overwhelming.
While the hallway drowned in blackness, the living room blazed white. White walls, white ceiling, even their old brown couch had been roughly painted white, with peeling spots exposing its original color.
“This is Svetlana Viktorovna’s domain,” she proudly declared. “Cleanliness. Order. Clarity.”
Strange inscriptions were visible on the walls of the living room, neatly written in her handwriting: “Point of support. Power of light. Right choice.” On the central wall, a large inscription stood out: “HOUSE OF SVETLANA VIKTOROVNA.”
“My God, what happened to our things?” Natalia whispered, looking around the room.
It resembled a shipwreck—only the heavy furniture had survived, too heavy even for Svetlana Petrovna’s relentless determination.
“Everything’s sorted by categories,” she motioned towards the kitchen, proud like the curator of an exhibition. “Trash is separated from gold. Shells from essence.”
Oleg moved forward like a somnambulist, pulling Natalia into the epicenter of destruction.
The kitchen, once Natalia’s shining pride, had turned into a laboratory of madness. Cardboard boxes with clear labels “Svetlana P.” and “Svetlana V.” were piled like shaky bastions along the walls.
The dishes were arranged in absurd installations—cups above plates, ladles crossed like pikes. The refrigerator gaped empty—perfectly cleaned inside, with its cord coiled like a snake’s ring.
“I’m taking inventory,” Svetlana’s voice sounded suddenly from behind, startling them both.
She stood in the doorway, observing their reaction with clinical interest. “Every day. Things listen when you talk to them.”
“And our bedroom?” Oleg quietly asked. “Can we look?”
Svetlana Petrovna’s face changed.
“Not there,” she snapped. “That’s my room now. There… special things.”
“Listen, Mom,” Oleg stepped toward her, extending his hand. “I don’t know what’s happening with you, but understand this—this is our home. We live here. We just went on a work rotation.”
Svetlana Petrovna recoiled, as if from an invisible blow.
“No!” Her voice rose. “You left the house! Betrayed it! But I saved it. I’ve protected it from dark forces!”
“What dark forces are you talking about?” Oleg lowered his tone, trying to calm his mother.
“They come when it gets dark,” Svetlana Petrovna whispered confidentially, glancing around. “They knock. They threaten to take the house. But I won’t let them. I know what’s right.”
Natalia met her husband’s gaze, and he gave a subtle nod. They both understood: this was not just a tantrum or an outburst. It was much more serious.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Natalia peeked out—it was the ambulance.
“Who’s there?” Svetlana Petrovna’s face twisted, her eyes wide with fear. “Them? They’ve come for me again?”
“No, Mom, it’s…” Oleg began, but it was too late.
“I won’t let them in!” she screamed. “This is my house! I did everything right!”
Svetlana Petrovna rushed through the rooms like a cornered animal—locking doors, pulling down the curtains, whispering something about protective lines on thresholds and shadows outside the windows.
Oleg tried to calm her, but she looked at him like a stranger, calling him a “messenger” or a “tester.”
“I won’t open,” she insisted, pressing her back to the front door. “They want to take the house. Svetlana Viktorovna won’t allow it.”
Natalia stood by the window, discreetly communicating with the ambulance team. The doctors advised not to provoke the conflict, to distract the woman, and subtly let the medics in. Natalia nodded, holding the phone tightly.
“Mom,” Oleg lowered himself next to her, whispering, “they’re doctors. They’re not here to take, they’re here to help.”
You’ve been feeling something wrong inside, haven’t you? — he touched his temple with his finger. — Images, voices, changing faces… I understand.
Svetlana Petrovna looked at her son with a long, probing gaze. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—a brief recognition, a flash of realization.
“Olezhek?” she whispered in a completely different, almost childlike voice. “Is it really you? You came back?”
“Yes, Mom,” Oleg gently took her hand. “It’s me. We’re back from the rotation. Just like we promised.”
Her face suddenly contorted, as though from sharp pain.
“My mind shattered,” she forced out, each word seeming like an admission of guilt. “I wake up surrounded by other people’s things, with other people’s thoughts… It feels like someone else occupies my body while I sleep. Then they return—but not fully. Do you understand?”
Oleg nodded, squeezing her hand.
“I understand, Mom. We’ll sort this out. But we need to let the doctors in, okay? They’ll help you.”
Svetlana Petrovna straightened suddenly, her gaze returning to detachment.
“No!” She snapped, and it was no longer the mother Oleg knew. “They’re spies. They’ve come to take Svetlana Viktorovna forever.”
Natalia signaled her husband—medics were ready to enter through the back door, which they had managed to open quietly. Oleg gave a barely noticeable nod, never breaking contact with his mother.
He changed tactics, his voice taking on that special tone one uses with frightened children or wild animals—gentle but firm.
“You know, Svetlana Viktorovna,” he said, acknowledging her new identity, “we brought that jasmine tea you’ve been hunting for since last spring from the North.”
Big leaves, first harvest. Maybe we’ll warm up the kettle while we resolve the world’s issues?
The woman’s face cleared.
“Yes,” she said with unexpected joy. “Svetlana Viktorovna loves tea. Only in a white cup. No black ones.”
“Of course,” Oleg helped her up, gently guiding her to the kitchen. “Natalia was just about to set the kettle.”
Natalia moved ahead, smiling softly. Behind her, two figures in white coats silently appeared in the hallway.
Everything happened quickly and without the drama Oleg feared. The doctors acted professionally—a couple of calm words, a shot, and Svetlana Petrovna, almost asleep, quietly sat on a kitchen chair, staring at her son, confused.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said, and there was real remorse in her voice. “I was just afraid of being alone. Then Svetlana Viktorovna came and said she knew what was right.”
“Don’t be afraid,” Oleg whispered, stroking her dry fingers. “We’ll get to the end together.”
When the ambulance disappeared into the evening twilight, they were left alone amidst the ruins of what was once their home.
The black hallway swallowed the last rays of the day. In the kitchen, among boxes with strange labels, they sat in numbness, their shoulders brushing, as if survivors of a catastrophe.
“The doctor’s verdict?” Natalia broke the silence.
“Dissociative disorder, schizoaffective episode,” Oleg muttered, as though repeating unfamiliar words of a spell. “They say it’s been building for years under the guise of oddities, and then the dam broke.”
“Was our disappearance the trigger?”
Oleg ran his palms over his face, as if wiping away an invisible web.
“Maybe… God, how could I have missed it? She was always special, but this…”
“In half-tones, you can’t see the illness until the thunder strikes,” Natalia embraced him.
Deep into the night, they remained there—between diagnoses and plans, between guilt and forgiveness. Their measured life, built brick by brick, shattered in a single day.
But in Natalia’s heart, amidst the wreckage, something new slowly grew—a deep, painful empathy.
Later, Svetlana was transferred to a regular ward.
“I’ll visit you every day,” Oleg said tenderly, sitting at the edge of his mother’s bed and gently touching her hand.
“And Svetlana Viktorovna?” she whispered, anxiously gazing at his face. “She… she’s still with me?”
“No, Mom,” Oleg squeezed her hand. “She’s gone. And she won’t come back, I promise.”
As they returned home, where Natalia managed the repairs, Oleg thought he never imagined life could change so drastically.
What mental illness could make it feel as though a stranger had entered your mother’s body? What does it mean for compassion to be so bitter? And how complicated love can be.
Natalia met him at the gate—wearing a work apron, a brush in her hand, tired but determined.
Oleg hugged his wife, and they stood together by the gates of their broken home, which was just beginning to heal. Just like they were.