The Sorcerer's Daughter

By Vera Kryzhanovskaia and By the Spi... John W. Earl of Rochester

It all started in Gorky, in an old mansion, secluded on a small island with dense vegetation, known at that time as the "devil's nest", where countless inexplicable phenomena took place. All the heirs of that desolate property for decades suffered many misfortunes. In that infamous place Ludmila Turaeva was born, beautiful and enigmatic as a you

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Spiritist Institute
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088215937

Book preview

MEDIUMISTIC NOVEL

The Sorcerer's Daughter

DICTATED BY THE SPIRIT

JOHN WILMONT

EARL OF ROCHESTER

VERA KRYZHANOVSKAIA

Translation to English:

Roxana Arellano

Lima, Peru, October 2022

Original Title in Portuguese:

A Filha do Feticeiro

© VERA KRYZHANOVSKAIA

Translated into English from the 1st Portuguese edition, March 2003

Translation of Dimitry Suhogusoff

Revision:

Miriam Cañari Chura

World Spiritist Institute

Houston, Texas, USA      

E–mail: [e-mail]

About the Medium

Vera Ivanovna Kryzhanovskaia, (Warsaw, July 14, 1861 - Tallinn, December 29, 1924), was a Russian psychographer medium. Between 1885 and 1917 she psychographed a hundred novels and short stories signed by the spirit of Rochester, believed by some to be John Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester. Among the best known are The Pharaoh Mernephtah and The Iron Chancellor.

In addition to historical novels, in parallel the medium psychographed works with occult-cosmological themes. E. V. Kharitonov, in his research essay, considered her the first woman representative of science fiction literature. During the fashion for occultism and esotericism, with the recent scientific discoveries and psychic experiences of European spiritualist circles, she attracted readers from the Russian Silver Age high society and the middle class in newspapers and press. Although he began along spiritualist lines, organizing séances in St. Petersburg, he later gravitated toward theosophical doctrines.

Her father died when Vera was just ten years old, which left the family in a difficult situation. In 1872 Vera was taken in by an educational charity for noble girls in St. Petersburg as a scholar, St. Catherine's School. However, the young girl's frail health and financial difficulties prevented her from completing the course. In 1877 she was discharged and completed her education at home.

During this period, the spirit of the English poet JW Rochester (1647-1680), taking advantage of the young woman's mediumistic gifts, materialized, and proposed that she dedicate herself body and soul to the service of the Good and write under his direction. After this contact with the person who became her spiritual guide, Vera was cured of chronic tuberculosis, a serious illness at the time, without medical interference.

At the age of 18, he began to work in psychography. In 1880, on a trip to France, he successfully participated in a mediumistic séance. At that time, his contemporaries were surprised by his productivity, despite his poor health. His séances were attended at that time by famous European mediums, as well as by Prince Nicholas, the future Tsar Nicholas II of Russia.

In 1886, in Paris, her first work was made public, the historical novel Episode of the life of Tiberius, published in French, (as well as her first works), in which the tendency for mystical themes was already noticeable. It is believed that the medium was influenced by the Spiritist Doctrine of Allan Kardec, the Theosophy of Helena Blavatsky, and the Occultism of Papus.

During this period of temporary residence in Paris, Vera psychographed a series of historical novels, such as The Pharaoh Mernephtah, The Abbey of the Benedictines, The Romance of a Queen, The Iron Chancellor of Ancient Egypt, Herculaneum, The Sign of Victory, The Night of Saint Bartholomew, among others, which attracted public attention not only for the captivating themes, but also for the exciting plots. For the novel The Iron Chancellor of Ancient Egypt, the French Academy of Sciences awarded him the title of Officer of the French Academy, and in 1907, the Russian Academy of Sciences awarded him the Honorable Mention for the novel Czech Luminaries.

About the Spiritual Author

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester was born on April 1 or 10, 1647 (there is no record of the exact date). The son of Henry Wilmot and Anne (widow of Sir. Francis Henry Lee), Rochester resembled his father in physique and temperament, domineering and proud. Henry Wilmot had received the title of Earl because of his efforts to raise money in Germany to help King Charles I regain the throne after he was forced to leave England.

When his father died, Rochester was 11 years old and inherited the title of Earl, little inheritance, and honors.

Young J.W. Rochester grew up in Ditchley among drunkenness, theatrical intrigues, artificial friendships with professional poets, lust, brothels in Whetstone Park and the friendship of the king, whom he despised.

He had a vast culture, for the time: he mastered Latin and Greek, knew the classics, French and Italian, was the author of satirical poetry, highly appreciated in his time.

In 1661, at the age of 14, he left Wadham College, Oxford, with the degree of Master of Arts. He then left for the continent (France and Italy) and became an interesting figure: tall, slim, attractive, intelligent, charming, brilliant, subtle, educated, and modest, ideal characteristics to conquer the frivolous society of his time.

When he was not yet 20 years old, in January 1667, he married Elizabeth Mallet. Ten months later, drinking began to affect his character. He had four sons with Elizabeth and a daughter, in 1677, with the actress Elizabeth Barry.

Living the most different experiences, from fighting the Dutch navy on the high seas to being involved in crimes of death, Rochester's life followed paths of madness, sexual abuse, alcoholics, and charlatanism, in a period in which he acted as a physician.

When Rochester was 30 years old, he writes to a former fellow adventurer that he was nearly blind, lame, and with little chance of ever seeing London again.

Quickly recovering, Rochester returns to London. Shortly thereafter, in agony, he set out on his last adventure: he called the curate Gilbert Burnet and dictated his recollections to him. In his last reflections, Rochester acknowledged having lived a wicked life, the end of which came slowly and painfully to him because of the venereal diseases that dominated him.

Earl of Rochester died on July 26, 1680. In the state of spirit, Rochester received the mission to work for the propagation of Spiritualism. After 200 years, through the medium Vera Kryzhanovskaia, the automatism that characterized her made her hand trace words with dizzying speed and total unconsciousness of ideas. The narratives that were dictated to her denote a wide knowledge of ancestral life and customs and provide in their details such a local stamp and historical truth that the reader finds it hard not to recognize their authenticity. Rochester proves to dictate his historical-literary production, testifying that life unfolds to infinity in his indelible marks of spiritual memory, towards the light and the way of God. It seems impossible for a historian, however erudite, to study, simultaneously and in depth, times and environments as different as the Assyrian, Egyptian, Greek and Roman civilizations; as well as customs as dissimilar as those of the France of Louis XI to those of the Renaissance.

The subject matter of Rochester's work begins in Pharaonic Egypt, passes through Greco-Roman antiquity and the Middle Ages, and continues into the 19th century. In his novels, reality navigates in a fantastic current, in which the imaginary surpasses the limits of verisimilitude, making natural phenomena that oral tradition has taken care to perpetuate as supernatural.

Rochester's referential is full of content about customs, laws, ancestral mysteries and unfathomable facts of History, under a novelistic layer, where social and psychological aspects pass through the sensitive filter of his great imagination. Rochester's genre classification is hampered by his expansion into several categories: gothic horror with romance, family sagas, adventure and forays into the fantastic.

The number of editions of Rochester's works, spread over countless countries, is so large that it is not possible to have an idea of their magnitude, especially considering that, according to researchers, many of these works are unknown to the general public.

Several lovers of Rochester's novels carried out (and perhaps do carry out) searches in libraries in various countries, especially in Russia, to locate still unknown works. This can be seen in the prefaces transcribed in several works. Many of these works are finally available in Spanish thanks to the World Spiritist Institute.

Another Unmistakable Text by Rochester

World Spiritist Institute is pleased to offer to the public one more novel by the spirit John Wilmot Rochester. This time, we present The Wizard’s Daughter, a work whose historical value dates back to the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries, period in which the text was psychographed by Russian medium Wera Kryzhanovskaia.

Beforehand, we warn our readers that this is not a strictly an Spiritist novel, in the classic sense of the word, with teachings of the term about the basic postulates of Spiritism as codified by Allan Kardec. It is, rather, a mediumistic novel, whose plot is full of suspense, presence of occult forces, supernatural, besides the final battle between good and evil for the salvation of a lost soul. All of this with Rochester's engaging text, that holds our attention from the first to the last line, letting your imagination from the first line to the last, letting flow his imaginative and talented mind, capable of dealing with the things of Heaven and Hell with the same magnanimity as an absolutist sovereign in ancient times.

Therefore, World Spiritist Institute may even disagree with some of the concepts expressed by Rochester in this work, but considers of fundamental importance to make his contribution to history by publishing the novel as it was psychographed in the original Russian, rescuing a work lost in the time of one of the most widely read spiritual authors in the world. Hence our effort to bring the book to the reading public, regardless of whether or not it is a markedly spiritualist work, but certainly mediumistic work.

For the work to be accomplished in an irretrievable way, we work, we again had recourse to the professional work of Dimitry Suhogogry, an exceptional specialist in the difficult Russian language and, above all, a profound connoisseur of the Rochester texts. In The Sorcerer’s Daughter, once again, the work is intact, as in the original Russian, thanks to Dimitry's mining work, always searching for the best word in Portuguese to define the feeling and the emotion transmitted by the spiritual author.

This union of energies in each area resulted in one more finished work. We hope that readers will appreciate the Rochesterian style and text, and can draw their own conclusions about the story of Ludmila, the real daughter of the sorcerer Krassinsky.

The Editors

Part 1

"La religion dit: croyez et vous comprendrez. La science vient vous dire: comprenez et vous croirez.

¹"

J. de Maistre

— And so, Ivan Andréevitch, you definitely decided to leave us, didn't you? This makes me disappointed, because I thought I would have had you with us for at least another month.

Yes, Filipp Nikolayevich, I just came here to convince you to leave this disgusting and frightening place.

— Ivan Andréevitch was a respected old man’s sea. His handsome, energetic face framed with his whitish beard; has big gray eyes and the folds of his mouth lurked an expression of bitterness, a sign that his life was not yet free of struggles and disappointments.

- Oh, godfather, stay, I beg you! See how here is so pleasant, what a wonderful view and fresh air we have! - A young woman intervened, sitting nearby.

Putting away the plate of strawberries, she snuggled up to him and intimately made him turn to look at the pictorial panorama.

Leafy green trees pointed roof of a building could be glimpsed. A dark forest girdled almost the entire the horizon, except on one side where a village with a blue dome of its church.

This conversation took place on a large terrace, decorated with flowers and plants. A staircase took you to the garden, from where a slope led to the lake. A table of rich crystal and silver, adorned with a large vase of flowers, there was sat the host, his wife, his daughter Nádya, his godfather and an old and venerated father. In the garden, at the foot of the stairs, a boy of about thirteen and a seven-year-old girl were playing with rings and sticks.

The host, Filipp Nikoláevitch Zamyátin, was the director of an important bank in Kiev. Still even though he was in his late fifties, he was a man full of strength. His wife, Zoya Yosifovna, daughter of an enormous sugar producer, had given him a beautiful estate. In this way, the hospitable home of the affable Filipp Nikolayevich, known for his honesty and good hospitality, was gladly frequented the best of society. A property, under the name of Gorki, where the Zamyátin were, had been inherited by Filipp Nikoláevitch. The house which had been empty for many years, now was completely renovated, and a little more than two weeks before, the family had moved in accompany of domestic workers.

- And am I not right, godfather? Doesn’t this view deserve your presence? And what about your superstitious conceptions. Strange, I must say - In this enlightened century? So, tell me, why should one place be more unfortunate than another?- Nádya teased, staring at the admiral with a mischievous smile.

— Nádya is right. You mustn't give credence to these fairy tales spread by idle women, Ivan Andréevitch - supported the father.

— I understand how bitter you still feel about Marússya's tragic end - he continued. - But, instead of attributing it to some occult force, it would be more logical to explain that Marússya was the victim of two very strong spiritual jolts, caused by the death of her fiancé and the amazement of seeing him alive. Moreover, the sudden death of that idiot Krassinsky would have been reflected in her sensitive nature.

— If you saw what I saw and knew all the strange circumstances that accompanied Marussya's dead, you would change your point of view. That the place is funereal and that that house on the island has witnessed many things even suspected by modern scientists, can all be confirmed by Father Thimon.

Oh, Father, please tell us what you know about that house! Who built it and what happened there? I am curious to visit it, and as soon as the boat is repaired, I will go there with Mikhail Dmítrievitch, because the mysteries it holds, with its small pointed towers like those of Sleeping Beauty's castle, arouse my curiosity.

— Nádya dragged her chair close to the father and asked him to share the information about the haunted house.

- Well, I'll be happy to tell you what I know. I must say that my account will unfortunately confirm Your Excellency's righteous repulsion - and the priest looked at the admiral - for this entire locality.

He took his time and looked at the islet, standing out like a bouquet in the mirror of the lake.

— I didn't personally know the builder of that castle on the island. My predecessor, Father Porfirio, told me that the owner of Gorki had started the construction when he returned from a long trip abroad. He had brought with him an architect - an Italian, they said. The workers also said that he was a sorcerer, because he was always accompanied by a black dog with human eyes, feared by all. Moreover, there were rumors that the Italian had a fat eye and if that dark man with short stature passed by someone and looked at him with his shrewd and cruel eyes, some misfortune was inevitable: their children would get sick, the cattle would die or something would catch fire. The simple sight of the Italian made people scatter far away. The bad reputation of the property began when construction was finished and the owner stopped blessing the house. Then the Italian's death was rumored, and his body was buried on the island. This was followed by gossip about strange occurrences on the island: tree fires at night, hallucinating howls from dogs. In short: pampering took over the village. Strange things were happening to the owner himself; he was losing weight, avoiding people, and half a year later he was found dead in his bed.

He settled there then, along with his wife and a boy of thirteen to fourteen, their son. A little while before this I was assigned here as the titular priest and several times, I was in the house of Pável Pávloviteh Izótov. At first, he was a cheerful and communicative person; he would visit the neighboring farmers, welcome home and hunt; then, for no apparent reason, he stopped leaving the house. It was said that he spent days and nights reading his father's books and documents, and when his wife suddenly died of a heart attack, he moved to the island. Months later he traveled abroad with his son Nikolai, and since that moment anyone have seen him again.

More than fifteen years passed without any of the owners showing up in Górki. The house, covered with boards, was guarded by the old butler Fomá and his wife. No other foot had ever set foot on the island. Before traveling, Pável Pávloviteh had issued express orders not to touch anything in the castle...

— It was a cold December and the night was especially stormy. The wind howled and howled in the countryside, whipping the snow against the windows; it was freezing below twenty degrees. At that time, I was living in the old church building - now non-existent - and had just buried my wife. The bitterness of the loss corroded my soul and, to chase away the nostalgia, I worked until late at night. It was after midnight when I heard the tinkling of the bells of a donkey next to the house.

- Oh, my God! - I thought, someone is coming to take me for last rites. There followed a knock on the vestibule door and I soon heard the couple of servants grumbling that they had been disturbed at that hour. I went out and ordered them to open the door, when I see before me a coachman covered in snow.

- What happened to him on the trip, I can't understand - began the coachman to explain. - He's alive or dead - I don't know. With this bad weather, you can't see a thing. I decided to stop by, Father, to seek help.

I illuminated the interior of the coach and saw, leaning back on the cushions, a faded young man with narrowed eyes who, if he was still alive, was obviously very ill. The boss was apparently rich, judging by the pelt, the luxurious trunk, and two duffle bags. In any case, it was clearly unfeasible to carry him for two kilometers in that blizzard. I ordered him to carry it to the deceased's room, disused by the sad

memories. The stranger was laid down and I gave him first aid. He opened his eyes, but was so weak that he could hardly speak. At his instruction, I took a bottle from his bag, gave him a few drops, and he fell asleep. His face, although it looked exhausted and sickly, looked familiar, but I could not remember where I had seen it. The next day, the sick man recovered sufficiently to explain himself, and I was surprised to learn that he was Nikolai Pávlovitch Izótov - the present owner of Gorki, whose father had died four years before.

His wish was to leave immediately for the house. I considered, however, not to settle in a house long uninhabited; I suggested to him that I go there first, in order to arrange for the wood stoves to be lit and put in order, and, with the help of the old butler, two or three rooms. I was also willing to send cook Marfa, my maid's sister, as I knew that Fomá's wife was ill.

Nikolai Pávlovitch thanked me, agreed with my considerations, and I left. The old butler was anxious to see the young master he had carried on his lap, and began to act. In addition to Marfa, we took a couple of servants and began the arrangements to put the house in order.

The stoves were lit, the dust was removed, protective covers were removed from the furniture and paintings, carpets were laid out, and a few hours later three rooms were ready. For Nikolai Pávlovitch, we prepared his dead mother's room, and went out into the garden. Fomá assured us that everything had been left the same since his mistress's death, for Pável Pávlovitch himself had locked the rooms, and from then on no one had entered them, the master having moved to the island that very night of the funeral. When I returned with the news that everything was ready, Nikolai Pávlovitch thanked me warmly and asked me to accompany him there without delay.

— At the sight of the lighted house, the young man was overcome with pleasure and even excitement; while he was still weak, Foma and I had to support him by the arms.

— And you are still preparing my mother's room for me! - he said, moved.

— But as soon as we entered the dormitory, Nikolai Pávlovitch stood paralyzed and stared at the picture of Our Lady hanging in front of which Marfa had lit the lamp. We thought that he was going to resign himself, but his mouth twitched and his eyes reflected wild terror.

- Out! Out! - he shouted, in a voice that didn't sound like his. And, foaming at the mouth, Nikolai Pávlovitch collapsed in our arms. In the meantime, the icon's massive frame plummeted from the wall, and the lamp went out, crackling. We were stunned and paralyzed with terror. Nikolai Pávlovitch was laid down on his bed, and the icon was taken to a distant room

When we returned to the sick man, he had come to his senses. Rising up on the pillows, he cast a harried glance at the empty corner, where there was only a spider's web, and, calling to me with a gesture, whispered in an almost inaudible voice

— I order carry... everyone.... to the guest wing.... Better yet, take everything to the church.... I'm donating...

With difficulty, mastering the terror that had assailed me with these words, I could not contain myself and observed:

— Serious must be the sins on your conscience, if only a mere sight of the Heavenly Protector suggests dread to you.

I will never forget that expression of suffering and despair that settled on his face.

- I can't... I suffocate when I see her - she stammered. I deeply sympathized with this man, alone and sick and apparently unhappy. I promised to fulfill his wish and take the icons with me. As we parted, he took my hand, pressed it convulsively and babbled in a broken voice:

- If I call on you, Father Tímon, will you come to my deathbed to support me in the difficult hour and perhaps try to save me?

Though trembling inside, I promised to fulfill his request and went out to gather the icons and take them away. In the vestibule, the servants, gathered around me, announced in unison that I would not stay in that house in the service of the cursed one. I rebuked them and explained that it was inhumane to abandon a sick person, perhaps with lost mind. Finally, they promised to stay. I returned to Nikolai Pávlovitch and commented on the employees' concerns. He was dismayed and, without objecting, held out to me a wad of money to distribute among them, which I did, and then returned home.

For three weeks nothing was heard about Nikolai Pávlovitch - continued Father Timon.

- One afternoon, on my way back from a nearby mass, I see a sleigh standing in front of the gate; the driver announces that he has a letter from Gorki. It was from Nikolai Pávlovitch, reminding me of the promise and begging me to go to him, for he felt that death was imminent and wanted to talk. Very reluctantly, I decided to go, in the hope of bringing the unfortunate man back to God. Not wanting to go alone, I called the deacon. We set off. On the way, I noticed, annoyed and even alarmed, that we were not going in the direction of the landlord's house. In the hallway, we were met by Marfa and Fomá, who explained that two weeks earlier the landlord had moved into the cursed house on the island, where the goat practiced his antics. At night, strange noises were heard, the doors would bang open by themselves, the lights would go out for no apparent reason, and beside the master's bed, the clinking of crockery, laughter and wild singing could be heard. Fomá claimed that a black man tried to choke him right after one of those messes, when he started reciting. - And Christ shall rise again.

- Every day he gives us money and asks us not to abandon him, but we can't stand it anymore! Oh, it's chilling! May God give him a quick death! - wished Fomá, visibly afraid.

- Is he in a bad way? - I asked.

- He gets out of bed and keeps walking, with death stamped on his face - one of the employees remarked.

I asked the deacon to wait and went into the dormitory, where Nikolai Pávlovitch was sitting in the armchair by the table in the middle of the room. His livid corpse-like face, devoid of life, sunken eyes, convinced me that I was standing before a dying man. Apparently, he was terrified of the darkness, because two candelabras with five candles each were burning on the table; a bottle of champagne appeared in a large vase with ice, and a half-glass was in his hand.

- What is this? You ask the church for help, I bring you the Eucharistic gifts to save you at the hour of death, and you drink champagne? - I scolded.

- Yes, my priest, it's to give me a little strength and courage, to suffocate the anguish that oppresses me - he replied in a low voice, scanning the room with his frightened gaze. Suddenly, he grabbed my hands and pressed them hard. - Don't leave me, Father Timon - he pleaded. - I feel the end is near, and there is no one to protect me from the terrible master I have chosen and he lowered his head, discouraged. But you are a servant of the One whose name I dare not even pronounce. It was my destiny to go to your shelter when I came here... Perhaps you are my anchor of salvation, my only defender. Pluck my soul from that one! . .

Nikolai Pávlovitch fell silent and, breathing with difficulty, continued, visibly upset:

Though trembling inside, I promised to fulfill his request and went out to gather the icons and take them away. In the vestibule, the servants, gathered around me, announced in unison that I would not stay in that house in the service of the cursed one. I rebuked them and explained that it was inhumane to abandon a sick person, perhaps with a lost mind. Finally, they promised to stay. I returned to Nikolai Pávlovitch and commented on the employees' concerns. He was dismayed and, without objecting, held out to me a wad of money to distribute among them, which I did, and then returned home.

For three weeks nothing was heard about Nikolai Pávlovitch - continued Father Tímon. - One afternoon, on my way back from a nearby mass, I see a sleigh standing in front of the gate; the driver announces that he has a letter from Gorki. It was from Nikolai Pávlovitch, reminding me of the promise and begging me to go to him, for he felt that death was imminent and wanted to talk. Very reluctantly, I decided to go, in the hope of bringing the unfortunate man back to God. Not wanting to go alone, I called the deacon. We set off. On the way, I noticed, annoyed and even alarmed, that we were not going in the direction of the landlord's house. In the hallway, we were met by Marfa and Fomá, who explained that two weeks earlier the landlord had moved into the cursed house on the island, where the goat practiced his antics. At night, strange noises were heard, the doors would bang open by themselves, the lights would go out for no apparent reason, and beside the master's bed, the clinking of crockery, laughter and wild singing could be heard. Fomá claimed that a black man tried to choke him right after one of those messes, when he started reciting. - And Christ shall rise again.

-Every day he gives us money and asks us not to abandon him, but we can't stand it anymore! Oh, it's chilling! May God give him a quick death! - wished Fomá, visibly afraid.

- Is he in a bad way? - I asked.

- He gets out of bed and keeps walking, with death stamped on his face - one of the employees remarked.

I asked the deacon to wait and went into the dormitory, where Nikolai Pávlovitch was sitting in the armchair by the table in the middle of the room. His livid corpse-like face, devoid of life, sunken eyes, convinced me that I was standing before a dying man. Apparently, he was terrified of the darkness, because two candelabras with five candles each were burning on the table; a bottle of champagne appeared in a large vase with ice, and a half-glass was in his hand.

- What is this? You ask the church for help, I bring you the Eucharistic gifts to save you at the hour of death, and you drink champagne? - I scolded.

- Yes, my priest, it's to give me a little strength and courage, to suffocate the anguish that oppresses me - he replied in a low voice, scanning the room with his frightened gaze. Suddenly, he grabbed my hands and pressed them hard. - Don't leave me, Father Tímon - he pleaded. - I feel the end is near, and there is no one to protect me from the terrible master I have chosen

- and he lowered his head, discouraged. But you are a servant of the One whose name I dare not even pronounce. It was my destiny to go to your shelter when I came here... Perhaps you are my anchor of salvation, my only defender. Pluck my soul from that one! . .

Nikolai Pávlovitch fell silent and, breathing with difficulty, continued, visibly upset:

- I just don't know, my priest, whether I will have enough strength and courage to sustain a terrible struggle against hell. My sins are terrible, and the forces of evil will not want to leave me...

With his face disfigured with fear and his eyes wild, Nikolai Pávlovitch scanned the corners of the room, terrified.

I tried by all means to appease that sick and insane mind, as I imagined, but the words were in vain and found no echo in that troubled soul.

I then decided to give him the Eucharist in an attempt to rid his spirit of the so-called evil forces, which I naively thought were figments of his imagination.

As soon as I took the sacred tools out of my bag and approached the patient, I felt an intense cold creep up my back and a foul odor invade the rooms. I could no longer move, as if I were a stone statue. Terrified, nailed to the ground, I noticed Nikolai's eyes wide open, injected with blood, and from his gaping mouth the attempt of a frozen inhuman scream.

Between Nikolai and me, phosphorescent lines of a bright red appeared on the ground, completely surrounding poor Nikolai. Like beams of fire, I could see his body being pierced by igneous arrows that sapped his vital fluid, making him shiver convulsively in the very chair I found him in when I entered. All around him, I could see dark vapors rising, simulating outlines of terrifying, dark bodies, screaming obscenities and dancing around him.

Suddenly, everything calmed down and disappeared as if nothing had happened. The catatonic state I was in dissipated, but my insides were so agitated and trembling that I could hardly change my steps.

I plucked up courage and ran to Nikolai's aid, who, as you can imagine, was dead, lying on the ground, his face still wearing that hideous mask of pure terror, his eyes bulging, and from the corner of his mouth a dark, viscous thread running down. I will never forget what I witnessed in that room, never.

All the employees and even the deacon, who heard it all without being able to do anything, later said that they made no effort to break down the doors of the room, but without success.

We buried Nikolai's body in a mood of foreboding and uneasiness that was only too easily contained, and on the unfortunate man's grave was a beautiful monument topped by a cross.

When it was already very late, we were all forced to spend the night on the island, only to be on our way home the next day.

The spirits of the employees and other people in the house remained in an uproar as if more terrible misfortunes were expected. After tea, however, we decided to try to rest and recover our lost serenity; the house became silent again.

As midnight struck, we were awakened by ominous noises, piercing screams, howling dogs, and a tremendous explosion.

The house was again in an uproar, and from every corner the servants came in, livid and groggy; then, in the dark of night, we saw a reddish flash, right where we had buried Nikolai Pávlovitch.

Even though we were terrified, we drove to the spot and stopped in amazement: the beautiful monument with the cross on top of the dead man's grave was shattered, the cross had broken into several pieces framing a figure that was difficult, at that time, to recognize.

The next day, at dawn, we returned again to the tomb to decipher the strange design we had glimpsed during the night, realizing, in the end, that the lines formed two crossed triangles. Later I learned that this sign was a cabalistic symbol.

This event made a strong impression on the surrounding residents. What Piotr Petrovitch might have thought - I don't know - but I do know that he didn't rebuild the monument and only had the fragments of the cross removed...

There was a new silence. The priest's account apparently shocked everyone. The admiral stared thoughtfully at the lake, from which a whitish fog was rising, condensing and stirring with the wind.

- Let's go inside, friends, it's getting damp," he suggested. - My rheumatism can't stand it; I don't like to stay out here, especially when there is a fog. I have the impression of seeing Maroussya's little blond head emerge from the gray haze - which reminds me of old and painful memories, and after Father Tímon's report today, this impression became even clearer.

No one objected, and everyone went into the living room. The priest soon after said goodbye and left.

- Ivan Andréevitch, tell us the true story of poor Maroussya - Zamyatina suddenly asked after minutes of silence. - My husband told me that her fiancé had drowned, but the young doctor, trying to resuscitate him, died of a heart attack. As I understand it, the double misfortune shook the poor woman