The Nephew of Uncle Vanya

5July2025

Today I finally found the words to put down what has been haunting me for weeks. Im Harry Morgan, ten, living on the edge of the small Yorkshire village of Willowbrook. The crumbling cottage of Uncle Victor has always been the villages eyesore. It sits on the far side of the lane, halfhidden by overgrown brambles and a wild maple that seems to have claimed the whole plot. Nobody dares to go near it, and thats easy enough: Victor lives on the outskirts, literally on the edge of the parish. He is a solitary man, barely a word from him.

He looks the part, toostooped, unkempt, in a stained checkered shirt and camouflage trousers patched in places. His hair is a mess of silver, his cheeks windblown and gaunt. Strangely enough, Uncle Victor never touched a drop of alcohol.

Tenyearold me used to be terrified of him. Mother would sigh and say, He used to be a good man, a real handofgold. All the girls in the village were jealous of his wife, thinking theyd never find a husband like that. Father would add, He went on a hunting trip six years ago and never came back to his senses. Mother would argue, When his son died, he lost his mind.

Mother is close with Aunt Lily, Victors former wife. Whenever she visits, she sighs, Oh, dear, I feel sorry for him, but I cant live like this. Not only did little Tom die, but Victor stabbed me in the back! She never said exactly what Victor had done. Even my mother, my closest confidante, doesnt know. Aunt Lily herself bore the loss of her only threeyearold son, and for Victor it was a crushing blow.

Rumours floated around: some said Victor had started drinking, others that the death of the child had driven him mad. There were whispers that a strange creature had been seen near his cottagea gaunt, hunched figure with ashen skin and long, thin arms.

Tell me, what did he do? I asked once.

No choice, dear, Lily would sigh, refusing to say more.

***

This summer has been hot and dry. Tom, Andy and I finally felt brave enough to ride our bikes down to the river without an adult. We spent whole days on the banks, swimming, fishing, and sometimes catching enough carp to dry in the sun. In the evenings we gnawed on the dried fish instead of peanuts, which meant Id gulp down several mugs of water before bed.

The shortcut to the river runs past Victors property, a weedchoked lot with a wild maple towering above the sagging, mossgreen roof of his cottage. Its windows are boarded, but a ridiculous satellite dish perched on the roof hints that someone might still be living there.

We all knew the gossip about Victor, so we tried not to look back as we sped past his land.

***

Harry, have you heard what theyre saying about Uncle Victor? Tom asked, deftly reeling in his line.

Loads of stories, all different, I replied, swiping a bite of baconandegg sandwich from my pack.

Ever heard of the grey man? Andy chimed, tossing a plump carp into the bucket.

Sure enoughold folk say youll see grey or green little people if you listen too long, Tom laughed.

The day was unusually splendid, and we were so engrossed in fishing that the sun slipped toward dusk without us noticing. The river mirrored the pinkorange clouds, crickets began their chorus, and frogs croaked their nightly songs.

Time to head home, matesMum will be worrying, I said, glancing at the darkening sky.

We were packing up when the sun finally vanished behind the horizon and a warm twilight settled over the fields. As we hurried back, a sudden snap made my bike chain jump off.

Harry, Andy, wait! Tom shouted, leaping off his bike. He crouched, trying to snap the chain back into place.

A rustle came from the nearby bushes, and branches cracked.

Did you hear that? Andy whispered, eyes wide.

Something big, I muttered, a shiver running down my spine. Tom, lets get out of here.

The rustling grew louder, nearer. Tom and I fumbled with the chain, our hands trembling. Just as we managed to pull it taut, a gaunt figure emerged from the undergrowth.

It was a thin, ashencoloured being, vaguely human, with a small bald head, about the height of a tenyearold, and arms that stretched far beyond its shoulders. Its fingers were long, clawlike, and its eyes were huge, pitchblack pools. It let out a crackling sound, baring tiny, sharp teeth. Instead of a nose, two round breathing holes dotted its face.

Mum, whats that?! Tom cried, scrambling onto his bike and pedalling away, leaving the bucket of fish behind.

I turned for a split second and saw the creature clumsily topple toward the bucket, peer inside, and snatch a fish with its hookshaped hands. At that moment Uncle Victors voice drifted out from the cottage, the creature turned obediently toward him, let out a guttural humanlike sound, and shuffled back toward the house.

***

Before we scattered to our homes, we swore we would never again ride past Victors cottage. Of course, each of us got a good scolding for being late returning home.

Inside, the kitchen smelled of freshly fried pancakes. Mother hummed softly to herself. I crept to the door, listening. She didnt seem too angry; the promise of warm pancakes was enough to calm my nerves.

The front door slammed openDad, the nightshift security guard at the local farm, was back.

Hey, Lily, is Harry still asleep? he called, his voice a mix of fatigue and relief.

Yes, Mick, whats up? You look frightened. Mother replied, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

We found little Sam Merzliks body by the river. Something tore him apart, some sort of beast.

Oh, God! Mother gasped.

The police are here, interviewing witnesses. A group of anglers were out overnight, heard screams, saw a flash of something that looked like a person but wasntskin grey, tiny, like a child.

My heart hammered. That was exactly what we had seen yesterday near Victors cottage! I thought for a moment and decided I had to tell them everything.

I stepped out of the bedroom and blurted, Mum, Dad! We saw that thing by Uncle Victors house yesterday. It wasnt a manit was terrifying.

***

The rest unfolded in a blur. Dad called the parents of Andy and Tom, who in turn rang the other villagers. Within minutes a crowd gathered outside Victors cottage, the parish council ordering an immediate investigation. We all rushed to the scene, driven by a mix of fear and morbid curiosity.

As the adults approached, eerie, inhuman shrieks echoed from Victors plot, followed by the guttural cries of hunters, then Uncle Victors own desperate scream.

No one noticed us boys as we slipped through the gathering crowd and edged closer to the bloodstained puddle on the ground. It was a shallow pool of ordinary human blood, and Uncle Victor, eyes wet with tears, knelt over it.

My son my boy! Why would you do this? he wailed.

Hes Sam, you fool! Dad of mine said, his voice hoarse.

Victor tried to explain, his words stumbling: I found the child while out hunting. I heard crying from a burrow, thought a child was lost My own boy, Tom, had just died I went in, saw a small lad, just like Tom. He was trembling, hungry, clutching at me He could talk, but only babbled. He loved sweets, movies, scifi, cartoons He was a teenager, just like your Harry.

Aunt Lily arrived, eyes wide, Victor, thats a monster! Why didnt you leave it there? Perhaps its kin would have found it?

Victor sneered, Look! We humans are the monsters now, not them! Weve felled the woods, polluted the rivers, choked the seas. Theres nowhere left for them to hide. What have we done to deserve this?

The strange creature lay there, its long arms splayed, black eyes staring up at the sky.

Let me give it a proper burial, if youre not monsters yourselves, Victor begged, wiping tears from his cheek.

A sudden pang of pity rose in mefor Victor, for his son, for Sam, for the creature that had been torn apart. I wondered whether anyone was truly at fault. Regrettably, I had told the adults everything.

***

The authorities soon banned any further mention of the monster. Police swept the area, soldiers in uniform patrolled the village, ordering silence under threat of legal action. No one ever saw where they took the creatures body. Victor, griefstricken, died within a year of the incident, his cottage collapsing into a thicket of brambles.

Now, as I sit by the kitchen window watching the rain drizzle over the fields, I still hear the echo of that grey, gaunt figure in my mind. Perhaps some things are better left untold, but I cannot forget how the villages fear turned into a tragedy that swallowed us all.

Harry.