This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MikeJesus on 2024-10-27 20:54:00+00:00.
Before the burnt people took over, my grandfather’s homestead was an oasis of calm.
The homestead was in the midst of the steppe but neither forest nor mountains were far. My cousin and I spent most of our childhoods there. It was a good place for young boys to grow up. Our parents worked, the city was rough and the old man could always use an extra pair of hands.
We had free reign over the property but our grandfather always warned us to not venture into the nearby forest. At night, by the light of the stove, he would tell us stories about a dark place of science which we were to avoid at all costs.
He called it the Ғылыми қондырғы.
Though tales of evil and corruption and the incomprehensible piqued our young interest, neither me nor my cousin disobeyed our grandfather’s instructions. As long as we were obedient, the old man was kind. Neither of us were interested in seeing his anger. Though the prospect of a cursed science facility provoked all sorts of alluring vapors from our imagination, we kept our selves satiated by playing with the massive turtles we’d find in the grass.
After we finished our schooling, my cousin moved out West. He always had a mind for business and thought of himself as the next great global innovator. I, on the other hand, preferred a quieter life. For a couple of years, I worked in the city doing jobs not worth mention and then, when the honking of cars and smell of smog got on my nerves, I moved back out into the homestead to help care for the old man.
As we grew older and wearier of fairy tales, my grandfather shifted his stories from the fantastical to practical warnings about drugs, guns, and affairs with married women. Yet, near the end of his life, confined to his bed with me as his sole caretaker, the old man returned to speaking of the Ғылыми қондырғы.
He pleaded with me, as if he could see the future in his fevered dreams, that both me and my cousin and anyone we cared for were to stay away from the forest. He also demanded that we never sell the property, lest it ends up in the hands of forces beyond the reach of man.
At the time, I dismissed his words as the ramblings of an unwell mind.
The funeral was a small, private affair for a quiet man who lived in solitude. There is much bureaucracy associated with properly burying the dead. It’s in the various office waiting rooms that I made peace with my grandfather’s passing. The funeral, to me, was but an end to the legal proceedings by then.
As distant as the ceremony was to me, however, during the funeral repast I found a familiar face that brought tears to my eyes. It was my cousin. He had traveled across half the globe to come pay his respects. Though he missed the burial, he stayed for the food.
When I found out he had arrived straight from the airport and was yet to arrange his accommodation, I didn’t ask. I insisted. My cousin would sleep in the guest-house at the homestead. He was, after all, going to be inheriting half of it.
My cousin was happy to accompany me out of town. He was curious about how my life had been over the past couple of years. He was also curious about the property.
My cousin had made a name for himself out West. Initially, he worked for an import/export company that he quickly rose through the ranks of and, once he had accumulated enough capital, he started to invest. He had made a name for himself in stocks and he was in the process of making an even bigger name for himself in the realm of crypto-currency. Even though most of his money was tied up in the clouds, however, my cousin was curious about other investment opportunities.
For the first week he stayed with me, my cousin didn’t mention anything about developing the land. Occasionally, he would bemoan the lack of wi-fi or hot water, but for the most part he would speak about the inherent tranquility of the homestead. He said people out West would pay good money to get away from the rumble of urban life to a place like this.
It's not until a week into staying on the property that my cousin suggested we try setting up a business.
I did not like the idea of developing the land at first — even when my cousin promised to shoulder all of the construction costs. I disliked the idea of strangers spending time at the homestead. I was resistant at first, but the man had a way with words.
He also owned half of the property.
The construction crew that worked on additional housing was beyond rowdy and tested my patience every step of the way. Yet, when they set up the water boiler in the guest house, they bought my sympathies. Daily hot showers soothed my temper and soon enough I found myself amicable to the idea of the homestead being turned into a resort.
As my cousin would say, we found much peace on the property when we were young. It would be a sin not to make some money off of sharing it.
After about a year and a half, the housing my cousin had commissioned was completed. The cottages were humble and my grandfather’s old home was transformed into a relaxing communal area. Though the lodgings were nice and my cousin offered them for a bargain, we had trouble finding customers.
My cousin had accrued a substantial amount of debt and was turning more agitated with every trip he took to the city. Apparently, along with the troubles with our new resort, his cryptocurrency portfolio had turned shaky. He floated the idea of selling the property, but he only did so once.
On his following trip to the city, he returned with Batima. Batima said she could ensure our resort would be well booked and my cousin’s financial woes would be fixed.
I have met few people with piercings throughout my life, but if they were to gather all their jewelry in a pile, they wouldn’t have even half of the metal Batima carried on her face. She dressed in garish bright colors and constantly smoked and didn’t inspire the smallest bit of confidence in me.
Batima looked well out of place at our steppe resort, yet she was well versed in the art of the internet. Though I did not know where to look whenever the two of us spoke, Batima kept to her promise. Soon enough, the resort was turning a profit.
Through social media and a couple of personal favors, Batima managed to bring our resort to the forefront of people’s search result. After but a couple of weeks, we had various influencers from around the world come through our little resort and sing praises to their audiences who in turn replicated their idol’s pilgrimage.
I would spend most of my time in my separated cottage, but whenever I walked through the lobby, Batima would be there. Sometimes, she’d be working on her laptop. Sometimes, she would be chatting with the guests and recommending hikes and other local attractions. We never spoke much.
For months, Batima remained a stranger to me. Yet, one morning, when two unexpected visitors showed up at our humble resort, I found an ally in her.
They both wore lab coats and introduced themselves as Doctor Barat and Professor Willow. Barat was local, had a messy head of black hair and seemed to be the less talkative of the two. Willow towered over his colleague and led all the negotiations. Willow, unlike Barat, was American. When the man realized I couldn’t properly understand him, he aimed all of his communication at my cousin and Batima.
My cousin made little effort to translate, but Batima was kind enough to keep me in the loop. The two men in lab coats, according to Batima, were representatives of a scientific organization that was looking for housing for their employees. They were interested in buying the property.
The offered sum spread a smile across my cousin’s face, yet Batima disagreed with it. Apparently, the place had more potential. I knew little of the financials, but I didn’t like Doctor Barat nor Professor Willow. I told my cousin I thought Batima was right and that I would not consent to a sale to the two men.
When my refusal was translated to Professor Willow, like a child, he stormed out of my cousin’s office. Doctor Barat hung around for a while longer, gently prodding at my cousin with the promise of quick cash, but when it became clear the property would not be sold, he too made his exit.
My cousin wasn’t pleased with how negotiations had panned out, but Batima soothed his woes. The resort was, after all, doing well. If he would give her time, she could bring in even more revenue with a couple renovations and investments. My cousin was reluctant yet eventually, with a fair amount of prodding from me, he acquiesced.
When the meeting was over, Batima walked me to my cottage.
‘I presume you’re familiar with the stories they tell about the nearby woods?’ she asked, as she lit up her hand-rolled cigarette.
I told her I was.
‘And I presume you don’t believe in them?’
I told her I didn’t.
‘Neither do I,’ she said. ‘But if I did, I would presume those two have business in that forest. I don’t believe in children’s fairy tales, but I also wouldn’t want to risk getting into bed with anyone from the Ғылыми қондырғы.’
It had been years since I heard the name. Each syllable of that terrible sound cracked through the cold air like invisible fireworks. I told her I agreed. I told her I agreed and thanked her for taking my side.
Though the land was not sold to the two men in lab coats, Batima kept her end of the bargain. Over the next half a year my grandfather’s homestead transformed once again. What was once a humble family reso...
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