It’s Friday the 13th, and I wanted to do something special for you guys, as a thank you for my first 100 subscribers on YouTube. If you aren’t a subscriber and would like to listen rather than read, head over to youtube.com/c/mrreality
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The 17th May 2002 marked the beginning of the worst events of our lives. It was a normal Friday. My husband and I were both about to leave for work and Olga was home after finishing school, ready to start her summer break. I would normally walk her over to my mother’s house in the next apartment block, but this morning Olga pleaded to walk there herself.
“I’m ten already. I can go myself” she begged.
I thought about it hard. It was broad daylight and my mother’s place was only a two minute walk. My husband Igor persuaded me to let her go as she was a young woman after all and she could look after herself. After much deliberation, I relented and she went out with her favourite green bag and blue umbrella.
As soon as I got to work, I received a call on my phone from my mother, asking me when I would bring Olga. My heart sank and begged my mother to stop joking. My mother paused, sounding confused by my comment. I then explained to her that we let Olga walk to her house and she should have been there by now.
Olga never made it to her, but to be sure, my mother checked the door and went down to the lobby. There was no sign of Olga. I called Igor, letting him know, and he told me he’d meet me back at the apartment. The whole time there, I hoped that Olga had ambitiously asked to walk herself to mom’s place so that she could skip to the mall and meet up with some friends or go to the library.
But after hours of tirelessly searching for her, our dear Olga was gone. We reported it to the police. Olga’s remains with the umbrella and bag were found 5 months later. She was found wedged behind pipes in our block’s attic.
Unseen, a drug addict waiting in the lobby of our block had forced her back up to the top floor, and robbed her of her earrings, and because she tried to escape, cracked her over the head with a metal bar. We buried her on 2 October 2002.
On 7 May 2003, Igor and I, erected a small metal fence around her grave and started painting it. For reference, in Eastern Europe, we go to great lengths to decorate and polish our loved ones’ graves. The next day, we came back to finish painting, and it seemed like someone had been there as a wreath had been moved. This would mark the beginning of a new torment that would last nine long years.
The same month we found a note signed with two letters – D.A. – standing for Dobry Angel or Kind Angel laying by her grave. These sick anonymous notes were addressed to my daughter, calling her ‘Little Lady’. He congratulated her on all the public holidays. He remembered about 1 September each year (the first day of the school year in Russia) and the last school bell in May.
He counted carefully which school grade she was about to enter, as if she was still alive. For example ‘happy last month of your 6th year at school’. We shivered with fear each time we went to the grave, not knowing what to expect. Sometimes, we arrived at the grave to find soft toys – stolen from other plots, and on January 1st he would always put New Year decorations on the grave.
In one note, he threatened us: ‘If you don’t erect a great monument which she deserves, we will dig her body out.’
Fearing that some psychopaths would steal our daughter’s resting body, we saved what money we could and erected a headstone in June 2003. When we came back to it a month later, that sick bastard penned messages on it before taking an axe to it.
I reported it to the police, who were appalled but said there was little they could do. They told us, if you find him, do what you want to this barbarian, we won’t object.
The strain of these events drove my husband and I apart, and we separated. I wanted to move to a new flat and try to rebuild my life. But Igor refused to leave our flat where he sat for hours on end in Olga’s room. I just could not live in the block where my daughter was murdered. And Igor did not want to sell the flat, he would go into Olga’s room and stare at her things.
After some months, I left and went to live with my mother. Fourteen months later, Igor and I got back together. We missed each other dearly, but both missed our daughter even more. Igor agreed to move to a new apartment with me and we now have another child together, a son named Alexei.
Alexei’s arrival has restored my faith in life, but through all this time, the unknown visitor kept coming to the grave, leaving notes, or bending metal holy crosses and leaving them atop the grave.
Then one day on the 4th of October 2012, we received a knock on our door. It was the police. A male and female officer, who were following up on our reports to them 9 years ago. They had information about our Olga and insisted we sit down. The male officer informed us that they had taken a man into custody last year after questioning him about other similar reports of graves being disturbed.
His name is Anatoly Moskvin. The police believed that Moskvin may have been involved after finding recordings of copious notes which documented his events such as those we had reported in May 2003, the first time I sensed it had been disturbed.
The officer then told us the most horrifying news Igor and I have ever heard in our lives. He asked our permission to open our daughter’s coffin because 29 mummified corpses of girls from different graveyards had been found at the arrested Moskvin’s flat.
On the 5th October 2012, I would open her grave with the police to find an amazingly well-preserved coffin. But at the top of the coffin was a hole. Police opened it and found her remains had vanished. Her coffin was empty. Moskvin had dug down, cut the hole in the coffin, and pulled Olga’s body out. After realising Olga wasn’t there, I almost collapsed. I felt sick.
You can’t begin to imagine it, that somebody would touch the grave of your child, the most holy place in this world for you. We had been visiting the grave of our child for nine years and we had no idea it was empty. My girl had been murdered, if anyone deserved to rest in peace, she did, but instead her grave had been robbed.
The following weeks were absolute hell, hoping that they found her daughter in that beast’s apartment. Then one day, the police visited us to tell us they had found our Olga. They invited us to come see her at the morgue, but warned us that the sight is very grotesque. But we saw our daughter, or at least what this sick freak had turned her into. Her face looked like a wax version of her, like a replica. It was surreal, but we were assured this was our daughter.
I also saw the pictures of some of the other girls. Some were dressed to be like princesses, others had their face covered with masks or stockings, and wearing snow suits, but all of them were child-sized. I still find it hard to grasp the scale of his sickening work. I had her for ten years, he had her for nine. He was living with my mummified daughter in his bedroom.
Anatoly Moskvin is “well-known in academic circles” having studied Celtic culture at a leading Russian university, and is the author of many books and academic works.
He is an expert “Necropolist”, or cemetary expert and consulted the police with their investigations into the desecrations. The detectives grew suspicious of Moskvin due to his interest in the investigations and his knowledge of some of the disturbed graves, knowledge that wasn’t shared with him by detectives.
He was sentenced to a psychiatric clinic for treatment without a term. Meaning, he could never leave until he is cured. The only way for him to get out of the clinic is through another court action. When asked why he took the bodies of all these girls, Moskvin answered: The girls speak to me. I wanted to be an expert in making mummies. I wanted to communicate with these girls. I wanted science to make them live again.
This poor excuse of a man got off lightly. I strongly believe he knew exactly what he was doing. If I had met him in Olga’s grave, I would have killed him with my own hands.
It’s been 5 years since then. We reburied Olga in an unmarked grave where, finally, we hope she can rest in peace. I keep a picture of my daughter in the kitchen, and talk to her when I cook. If Olga was alive today, she would be 26 but to me, she will always be a child.
But each day, when I am in the kitchen, I am reminded by the horrific events that this sick fuck has put our family through for over 9 years. Just outside our kitchen window, I can see the yellow-coloured psychiatric hospital where Anatoly Moskvin is incarcerated.