Once, in our village, there lived a man named Karpo.
Hard-working but stingy — he had a lock and key for everything.
Especially for his barn — where grain was stored, lard hung from the rafters, and a jar of moonshine gleamed — he allowed no one to enter.
But people whispered that something rustled in that barn at night.
They said Karpo once sold not only a bull at the fair, but also his own soul — so his wealth would never run dry.
Otherwise, who could have grown so rich so quickly just from potatoes?
One autumn night, when the moon was red,
Karpo heard something grunting in the barn.
He took a lantern, stepped outside barefoot, opened the door —
and there… stood his own shadow.
It didn’t move, didn’t breathe — only its eyes gleamed, as if wet.
And it spoke in a thin voice:
— Karpo… you promised to feed me while you lived…
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They say he dropped the lantern and ran so fast he woke the chickens.
In the morning, the barn was found open, the lard still hanging there, and Karpo himself — in the garden.
Alive, but his hair had turned white overnight.
And ever since, each evening before locking the door, he would place a piece of bread on the threshold and whisper:
— Here, eat… just don’t come in…
After his death, the barn was taken apart —
and under the floorboards, they found a footprint.
Bare, small — like a child’s.
