For nearly a week, people have been forwarding to friends and subscribers a flood of screenshots. In these images, unknown individuals allegedly offer to stage an explosion in a Russian city, to contaminate water supplies, or to push a subway rider onto the tracks for a payment of 200,000 to 500,000 rubles. Dozens, then hundreds of such messages circulate. Social media buzzes, while platforms like VK show relative calm. Odnoklassniki, however, features pages where housewives, respected elder citizens, and cautious neighbors share the same screenshots with warnings like “Be careful” or “Girls, we are hunting.” Some even suggest the attackers could be among the community. The message is chilling: someone might be willing to sacrifice others for money, or even place someone on the metro rails for a similar sum. It is, plainly, unsettling. Living through it feels frightening.
Can this handwriting be recognized? In 2022, a parallel wave of horror stories circulated about calls to children from Ukraine, with scammers allegedly urging Russian kids to turn on the gas in their apartments. The scare achieved a momentary impact, but the fear faded when no real actions followed. The lingering effect was a cloud of unease rather than lasting safety.
What is happening here is urban folklore. It stands as a quintessential example of the genre.
Within the philological curriculum, the discipline of Russian oral folk art examines such material closely. The study is not about memorizing poems, but about reading dozens of books on poetics, myth-making, and the works of scholars like Potebnya and Propp. The field often includes tales of difficulty in mastering the material, with some students failing the required evaluation on their first try.
Thus, in the context of the Faculty of Philology, researchers explore how urban folklore, including horror stories, emerges and spreads. This aligns with observations following the Crocus City Hall incident, when fear was amplified as people shared stories, clarified their fears, and externalized anxieties, releasing them in the process.
Reflecting on the 1990s, one recalls fears of bandits and drug users, and later fears about HIV. Urban legends about addicts leaving syringes in doorways spread through many cities, creating anxiety about hepatitis and other infections. The discourse moved toward widespread awareness and public health campaigns; concerts and televised fundraisers supported AIDS research, and the term AIDS became a common reference point in everyday conversation. Folklore at the time sometimes included tales of knives hidden in bus seats or weapons placed in ordinary objects, designed to terrify and to prevent children from engaging with their surroundings. The mood then was a mix of vigilance and imaginative dread.
Even stories about bombs in boxes were circulated for cautionary purposes, teaching children to avoid interfering with suspicious items. In those years, many wondered why, with so many alarming rumors, actual disasters were not more frequent in their own cities. The explanations varied, but the core sentiment was clear: fear spurred by rumor can shape daily life and how people relate to their surroundings.
These were deep anxieties, but they were rooted in a recognizably human response. People sought to sublimate fear by creating narratives that made danger feel knowable and manageable. In contrast, the current wave of horror stories appears more externally driven, and its effect is to amplify dread rather than dispel it. Earlier generations tended to protect themselves by avoiding risk; today, some listeners imagine pervasive threats in everyone around them, a consequence of pervasive rumors amplified by social networks.
When the idea that Ukrainians are recruiting locals to commit terrorist acts spreads, it can provoke a retreat into silence and suspicion. The resulting environment becomes one where fear dominates perception, and peaceful everyday life is disrupted by constant, unsettling news cycles. This is not simply a chain of rumors; it is a social phenomenon that reshapes how neighborhoods feel and how residents interact with one another. The current climate invites a reflexive, anxious response: every passerby is suspect, every shared post is a possible cue, and the mind fills in gaps with worst-case scenarios.
In this landscape, the spread of rumors often outpaces any real events. A few reposts may swell into a broader narrative, convincing more people of their truth. Someone may add a personal touch to the tale, asserting they also received such a message, which strengthens the impression of authenticity. Yet the underlying reality remains uncertain, while the fear becomes contagious, sometimes more potent than the facts themselves.
Ordinary life can feel unsettled when neighbors, coworkers, and strangers around the hallways or in the building start speculating about who would accept a large sum to harm others. The social fabric frays as people imagine divisions among residents, calculating who might be compromised or willing to participate. A single rumor can cascade into a broader sense that danger lurks everywhere, eroding trust and calm.
Reports from various communities illustrate how urban folklore travels. One city notes posts suggesting that Ukrainian operatives planted mock devices near schools, prompting parental concerns and school chat warnings. Historical echoes surface: during times of siege or crisis, fears of contagion or sabotage surface in one form or another. Yet it remains essential to distinguish myth from reality and to approach spreading information with care. The danger lies not only in the content of the rumors but in the social dynamics they provoke: fear becomes a substitute for vigilance, and vigilance without evidence can drift into paranoia.
Today’s children may dream differently, fixated on the image of a coveted smartphone rather than a ceramic trinket with a grim message. The modern horror narrative thrives on accessible, shareable media, turning everyday devices into vectors for anxiety. This modern folklore, unlike earlier iterations, can intensify fear by presenting threats as imminent and personal, a perception that can disrupt daily life far more than the threat itself would.
The current phenomenon diverges from past cycles by its outward inspiration and its tendency to magnify fear. A person who once believed that threats could be kept at bay by cautious behavior might now fear that danger lurks in every corridor, every neighbor, every casual encounter. The outcome is a society that feels more tense and less capable of maintaining peace amid constant, alarming messages.
It should be noted that these observations are shared within academic and cultural discussions and are not presented as a definitive statement about events. They reflect a broader understanding of how urban folklore evolves in response to social media dynamics and collective psychology, illustrating the power of rumor to shape perceptions and priorities around safety.