The Baba Yaga Mask by Kris Spisak

Author:Kris Spisak [Spisak, Kris]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781954332317
Publisher: Wyatt-MacKenzie Publishing
Published: 2022-04-05T00:00:00+00:00

24

Larissa

While Stefa sat by her side, Larissa’s hands grappled at her purse by her feet, digging through crayons and hand-wipes, her wallet, her passport, dental floss, a stain stick, a toy car, a doll’s brush, and a mini notebook, pen clipped to its spiral rings. She wished she had a swiss army knife to defend herself against the impossibility of the situation. But that would have been confiscated at the airport.

“How long until we eat?”

“An hour, maybe two.”

Larissa flipped open her notebook, turning to the sticky tab marked Warsaw. She had the numbers for airport security, the airline contact, the official at customs, the Warsaw police officer who she’d talked to when she’d tried to file the missing person case, the other officer they redirected her to, who had told her it was too soon for anything official.

The carved wooden cuckoo clock ticked on Stefa’s wall, its pendulum lethargic compared to Larissa’s pulse. Her grandmother had been missing almost twenty-four hours now.

“How do I get to the police station?” She stood, sliding her purse onto her shoulder, looking around the room to see if she needed to bring anything else. Creepy plastic dolls. Wooden nesting dolls. Half-full bottle of medivka. No.

Larissa traced the line of her lips. The medivka must have washed the color away. She fumbled in her purse again, finding her beeswax-based gloss.

“Call them.”

“I already have.”

“There is nothing else to do.”

“They can’t hang up on me if I’m there.”

Larissa stepped outside to wait for the taxi after Stefa called one for her. Maybe she should have waited inside. That would have been more polite. She was actually kind of rude—kind of Ira-like—to rush out barely saying goodbye. And now she just stood on the sidewalk outside Stefa’s apartment door.

The cement there was cracked. A weed struggled to grow through, fighting against footfalls and the lack of fresh air. A car rushed by, creating a wind. She brushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear and pulled out her notebook again.

Baba Vira had been seen getting off the plane.

A witness saw her meet an older dark-haired woman at the baggage claim.

She’d sent flowers and a mask to Stefa, no note attached.

Where on earth was she? It was like a game from their childhood, the frantic searching behind curtains and under beds, around closet doors and in the crevices underneath the stairs.

Her taxi pulled up in front of her, and she stepped inside, whispering the Polish word for police station that Stefa had just practiced with her. She flipped a page of her notebook and showed him the address.

After the driver with long fuzzy sideburns nodded and turned back to the road, she returned to her notes. The faux leather seat she leaned into smelled of garlic. Her nose crinkled, and she leaned toward the cracked open window, closing her eyes, saying a prayer, slowing her breath.

When the taxi swerved to the side of the road, Larissa grimaced at the driver before noticing the blue letters of “POLICJA” hanging across the arched entryway of the building next to them.

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