The Sorcerers

**“”**

It was the year 2000. At that time, in my opinion, there was an almost uncontrollable and widespread fascination with “magic” among fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds, including our small “gang.” Having read Vereshchagin, we — like many boys and girls from our informal circle, which numbered about a hundred people at the time — dreamed of mastering etheric bodies, energy flows, and control over our peers.

As a rule, few people managed to achieve anything tangible, even tactile, let alone successes visible to the human eye. Nevertheless, we did not lose hope and delved ever deeper into the dark and captivating world of the unknown. Our explorations in bioenergetics led us naturally to another, no less magical and mysterious topic — entities from otherworldly realms.

One time, my friend Igor’s parents left for another city, leaving him to his own devices for an entire week. Naturally, such an opportunity could not be missed, so five novice “sorcerers,” armed with dumplings and coffee, moved into his two-room, though fairly spacious, apartment. The composition of the group changed occasionally depending on drink preferences, but I should note that the main participants always remained of sober mind.

In the evenings, we would simply sit around the kitchen table, drinking tea and discussing semi-esoteric topics that inevitably led to semi-esoteric practices. Meditation, attempts at astral projection, aura-vision training, gossiping about other “mages,” energy duels — this is only a partial list of what our group did after sunset. Looking back, it seems unsurprising that mysterious events began occurring around us, inexplicable now. Our belief was strong, our desire to encounter the unexplainable even stronger.

A dark apartment, filled with mystical experiences, is a frightening and dangerous place for a solitary person. But a group of young people, united by a common wavelength, finds such a place quite suitable for entertaining pursuits.

We approached all of this very seriously — it was more routine than recreation for us. So it was natural that we wanted some “fun” without straying from our intended course. Our first “lighthearted” experiment was to challenge the old legend of the “Queen of Spades.” As one of our like-minded friends, Alexey, known by the nickname “Dwarf,” explained, the Queen of Spades is a fairly weak entity, easy enough to control with some experience dealing with such things.

The lights throughout the apartment were turned off, a large mirror was placed in the middle of the corridor, and the fateful card was set up. We waited a long time, exchanging glances in the dark, giggling at our own foolishness — and, of course, nothing frightening happened. The only unusual event was that the mirror, which had been in a very stable position, suddenly crashed to the floor, miraculously unbroken. We were surprised but dismissed it.

The second experiment of the night involved a kind of “spirit listening” using an old tape recorder. It was decided to record in the pantry, near the apartment’s entrance, at the end of a long corridor that opened into the living room on the other side. This pantry had caught our attention for a reason. According to the apartment’s owner, strange sounds occasionally came from there, and when it was left open at night, one could observe unusual visual distortions in that space.

Without much thought, we left the recorder inside and sat in the kitchen, from which the slightly ajar pantry door was visible.

After ten to fifteen minutes, I indeed noticed a curious phenomenon: the door seemed to warp and bend, torturously slow, yet noticeable enough that my four friends could not miss it. “Look, look!” whispered excitedly and joyfully. The door continued its bizarre nightly dance, but we soon grew bored and examined the recording. To our disappointment, we only found the ticking of “false clocks,” a few indeterminate clicks, and our own faint voices. Despite this, the dancing door made its point, and we decided to move on to another type of practice.

— If no one wants to communicate this way, then we’ll summon an entity directly, — Dwarf declared authoritatively.

— Can you do that? What do we need to do? — I asked.

— Nothing, just intention, belief, and expectation, — he replied, and the rest of us, in high spirits and ready for new adventures, nodded affirmatively.

We rarely spoke about what happened at the end of that night. I don’t know why. We weren’t scared — no. Perhaps we simply couldn’t distinguish between the Queen of Spades, the dancing door, and phantom phenomena. Eight years later, after mentioning this story online, I suddenly realized I had encountered something truly inexplicable and terrifying. It was as if a veil had been lifted from my consciousness, one that had carefully hidden this memory from me.

The group of five, preparing to look spirits in the eye, was optimistic in its expectation — we seemed to know something would happen. Despite jokes and playful laughter, a heavy, pressing atmosphere pervaded the pitch-dark apartment.

We positioned ourselves in the living room so that the long corridor, at the end of which yawned the black, cold void of the pantry, was directly in our line of sight. As a joke, I took a spot with my hand on the light switch, ready to disperse any unclean entity.

The apartment, where we had spent a lot of time, gradually became unfamiliar. Every chair, every flower on the windowsill could, at any second, move and become a source of unforeseen threat. I tried not to think about what was behind me, focusing entirely on the corridor, where we expected our guests. We did not recite incantations, call spirits, or perform rituals. We simply stared into the darkness and waited.

The hushed stillness lasted only six to eight minutes. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something vague moving. At first, I could not make out what I was seeing — it was so dark that even the walls were invisible. Then I realized my eyes had caught movement: the darkness itself was moving. At first it swirled slowly and smoothly, then thin, whitish strands of light began weaving into it. They seemed to appear from nowhere: no moonlight reached the corridor. The strands jumped, disappeared, and reappeared, playing with my perception: “Guess if we exist?” I don’t know if anyone besides me saw this magical emergence, but what followed required no proof.

The light coalesced into a form. If you imagine a classic glowing figure, this was not it. It did not emit light but seemed to glow inwardly, leaving only delicate outlines, like a silver pencil sketch on black paper. Midway down the corridor appeared a silhouette — a small girl, roughly eight years old. She wore a summer dress, and a large bow crowned her head. She held a jump rope, which she used to skip, unnaturally fast as it seemed to me.

There was no fear. None at all. Only mild curiosity. As a rational person, I could not let my friends mislead me, so I broke the silence:

— Do you see this?

— Yes, — whispered Igor.

— Uh-huh, — echoed Dwarf.

Still unsure that I was the only one seeing the eerie girl with the jump rope, I asked again:

— What exactly do you see?

— A little girl is skipping with a jump rope, — said Dwarf.

That was enough. At this moment, I might have turned on the light and screamed while retreating from the cursed doorway, but as I said, there was no fear. I continued to watch the small ghost, which seemed incapable of harming anyone. She skipped for a long time, maybe two minutes, then vanished into the darkness.

Could we end our experiment after such a success? Of course not; we continued.

The next apparition appeared almost immediately after the phantom girl. About twenty seconds passed, and the darkness stirred again. This time, it brought with it a growing sense of danger. If the girl with the bow had posed no threat, the next guest made our palms tighten and chill. It was not composed of threads of light but of all shadows, all darkness it could absorb. Enormous. Towering to the ceiling. It paused a second in front of us, then lunged toward us. “Wing,” flashed through my mind. I felt my fellow young “sorcerers” flinch and slam the lifesaving switch.

The adventure ended.

We drank tea, enthusiastically discussing what had happened. Once. Never again did we return to this topic. We are no longer “mages.” Igor moved to a European capital, I haven’t seen Dwarf for eight years — I don’t know his fate. The other two, whose names I didn’t even mention, remain only memories to me.