In the sprawling, frozen landscapes of Soviet Russia during the 1960s and 70s, a chilling urban legend gripped the hearts of the people—a story of a car, sleek and black, that spelled death for anyone who dared to cross its path. They called it The Black Volga.
I arrived in Moscow during the harsh bite of winter, the city buried under layers of ice and history. The modern skyline glimmered coldly, but below the surface, in the old neighborhoods and forgotten alleys, the memories of the past lingered like restless spirits. It was here that the story of the Black Volga was whispered most fervently, passed from one generation to the next like a warning.
I met with an old woman named Irina Petrovna, a retired schoolteacher who had lived through the worst of the terror. Sitting in her modest apartment, sipping thick, bitter tea, she shared the memories she had tried so hard to forget.
"It was always late at night," she began, her voice trembling with age and memory. "You would hear the growl of the engine first, deep and unnatural. And then it would appear—a black Volga, polished like a mirror, moving far too smoothly over the cobblestone streets. There were no license plates. No driver you could see."
Irina leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. "Children who saw the car would disappear. Sometimes an adult, too, if they were foolish enough to approach it. The next day, they would be gone, as if they never existed. Some said it was the work of the KGB, others claimed darker forces—devils, vampires, even Satan himself."
The Black Volga, a ZIL-111 model or sometimes the later GAZ-21 depending on the version of the story, was the ultimate symbol of unattainable power. Ordinary citizens feared even looking at such a car during Soviet times; it belonged to the elite, the untouchables. But this particular Volga was different. It hunted, prowling the streets for victims.
Irina told me about her friend, Nadya, who vanished one winter evening.
"We were walking home from the school," she said. "Laughing, carefree. Then we heard it—the deep rumble of an engine. Nadya turned her head, curious. I grabbed her hand and told her not to look, not to stop. But she... she didn't listen."
Irina's voice broke, and she wiped a tear from her wrinkled cheek.
"The car pulled up beside her. The back door opened—no one inside, but the door swung open like a gaping mouth. Nadya stepped closer, like she was in a trance. I screamed. She looked at me one last time—her eyes were wide, terrified—and then... she was gone. The door slammed shut. The Volga sped away. We never saw her again. Her parents... the police... everyone acted like she had simply run away. But I knew."
I felt the weight of her grief settle around us like a heavy fog. There was a silence, thick and uncomfortable, before Irina finally spoke again.
"They say if you see the Black Volga, you must not look at it directly. You must not acknowledge it. Walk away. Pretend you see nothing. Because if it marks you, you are already lost."
Late that night, restless and half-believing the tales, I decided to walk the quiet streets of old Moscow myself. The snow muffled every sound, turning the city into a ghost town. Only the soft crunch of my boots and the distant toll of a church bell accompanied me.
Then I heard it.
A low growl, unnatural, too deep to belong to any ordinary car.
I froze.
At the end of the street, where the lamps flickered weakly, I saw it—sleek, shining, blacker than the night itself. The Black Volga.
The car idled, breathing like some great beast. The windows were dark, impenetrable. I could feel its attention, like an invisible hand reaching out to grasp me.
I remembered Irina's words: Don't look at it. Don't engage. Walk away.
I forced myself to turn, to walk back the way I had come, though every instinct screamed at me to run. As I moved, the engine revved once, angrily. The sound echoed off the stone walls, magnified into a roar.
But I didn't look back.
By the time I reached the main road, surrounded by the safety of neon lights and laughing pedestrians, the Volga was gone. As if it had never been there.
Yet even now, writing this, I feel its presence lingering just beyond the edge of my mind. Watching. Waiting.
The Black Volga is more than just an urban legend. It is a reminder of the fear that comes with unseen power—and the helplessness of those who live in its shadow.
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To be continued...
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