Vurdalak
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Just a season’s reminder of the unspeakable horror lurking outside your wooden hovel’s window, as you huddle atop a clay oven wrapped in ragged shawls and quilts for warmth. Beware, the vurdalak!
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O sorrow! I am small and weak;
The fiend will eat me whole,
Unless I eat dirt from a grave
Along with prayer I’ll speak.
A.S. Pushkin
Sweet dreams, we hope your gravedirt is most delectable.