A Terrible Night

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Ivan Petrovich Panikhidin turned pale, dimmed the lamp, and began in an agitated voice:

“Dark, impenetrable gloom hung over the earth when I, on Christmas Eve of 1883, was returning home from a now-deceased friend, where we had all stayed late at a spiritualist séance. The alleys I passed through were, for some reason, unlit, and I had to make my way almost by touch. I lived in Moscow, near the Church of the Dormition at Mogiltsy, in the house of the official Trupov, that is to say, in one of the most desolate parts of the Arbat. My thoughts as I walked were heavy, oppressive…

‘Your life is drawing to its sunset… Repent…’

Such was the phrase spoken to me at the séance by Spinoza, whose spirit we had managed to summon. I asked that it be repeated, and the little saucer not only repeated it but added: ‘Tonight.’ I do not believe in spiritualism, but the thought of death, even a hint of it, casts me into gloom. Death, gentlemen, is inevitable, commonplace; and yet the thought of it is repugnant to human nature… And now, when impenetrable cold darkness enveloped me, rain whirled madly before my eyes, and above my head the wind moaned plaintively; when I saw not a single living soul around me, heard not a single human sound, my heart was filled with an indefinite and inexpressible fear. I, a man free of superstition, hurried along, afraid to look back or to the sides. It seemed to me that if I turned around, I would surely see death in the form of a phantom.”

Panikhidin sighed abruptly, drank some water, and continued:

“This vague but understandable fear did not leave me even when, having climbed to the fourth floor of Trupov’s house, I unlocked my door and entered my room. My modest dwelling was dark. In the stove the wind wept and, as though begging to be let into the warmth, knocked against the vent door.

‘If one believes Spinoza,’ I smiled, ‘then to this weeping I must die tonight. How eerie!’

I struck a match… A furious gust of wind swept over the roof of the house. The quiet weeping turned into an angry roar. Somewhere below, a half-torn shutter banged, and the little door of my vent squealed plaintively for help…

‘Hard it is for the homeless on such a night,’ I thought.

But it was not the time for such reflections. As the sulfur on my match flared with a blue flame and I cast my eyes about the room, an unexpected and terrible sight presented itself to me… How I regret that the gust of wind did not reach my match! Then perhaps I would have seen nothing, and my hair would not have stood on end. I cried out, took a step toward the door, and, filled with horror, despair, and astonishment, shut my eyes…

In the middle of the room stood a coffin.

The blue flame burned only briefly, but I managed to make out its contours… I saw pink, glittering fabric, saw a golden braid cross upon the lid. There are things, gentlemen, that imprint themselves upon your memory even if you see them only for a single instant. So it was with that coffin. I saw it for only a second, yet I remember it in every detail. It was a coffin for a person of medium height and, judging by its pink color, for a young girl. The expensive fabric, the little feet, the bronze handles — all spoke of wealth.

I rushed headlong out of my room and, without reasoning or thinking, but only feeling inexpressible fear, fled down the stairs. The corridor and staircase were dark, my feet tangled in the hem of my coat, and it is astonishing that I did not fall and break my neck. Reaching the street, I leaned against a wet lamppost and began to calm myself. My heart pounded terribly, my breath caught…

One of the listeners turned up the lamp and moved closer to the storyteller, and he continued:

“I would not have been surprised to find a fire in my room, a thief, a rabid dog… I would not have been surprised if the ceiling had collapsed, the floor caved in, the walls fallen… All that is natural and understandable. But how could a coffin have gotten into my room? Where did it come from? An expensive woman’s coffin, clearly made for a young aristocrat — how could it appear in the miserable room of a petty official? Was it empty, or did it contain a corpse? And who was she, this wealthy woman who had untimely ended her life, paying me such a strange and terrible visit? A tormenting mystery!

‘If it is not a miracle, then it is a crime,’ flashed through my mind.

I was lost in conjecture. The door had been locked during my absence, and the place where I kept the key was known only to my closest friends. It was hardly my friends who had placed a coffin in my room. One might suppose that the coffin had been brought by undertakers by mistake. They might have erred, mistaken the floor or the door, and carried the coffin into the wrong room. But who does not know that our undertakers will not leave a room before receiving payment, or at least a tip?

‘The spirits predicted my death,’ I thought. ‘Was it not they who thoughtfully supplied me with a coffin as well?’

I, gentlemen, do not and did not believe in spiritualism, but such a coincidence could cast even a philosopher into a mystical mood.

‘All this is nonsense, and I am cowardly as a schoolboy,’ I decided. ‘It was an optical illusion — nothing more! Walking home, I was in such a gloomy state that it is no wonder my strained nerves saw a coffin… Of course, an optical illusion! What else?’

Rain lashed my face, the wind angrily tugged at my coat and hat… I was chilled and soaked through. I needed to go somewhere — but where? To return to my room would mean risking seeing the coffin again, and that sight was beyond my strength. Alone, without seeing a single living soul or hearing a single human sound, face to face with a coffin that perhaps held a dead body, I might lose my reason. Yet remaining outside in the pouring rain and cold was impossible.

I resolved to go spend the night at my friend Upokoyev’s, who later, as you know, shot himself. He lived in furnished rooms belonging to the merchant Cherepov, in Dead Lane.

Panikhidin wiped the cold sweat from his pale face and, sighing heavily, continued:

“I did not find my friend at home. After knocking at his door and convincing myself he was absent, I felt for the key above the lintel, unlocked the door, and entered. I threw my wet coat onto the floor and, finding the sofa in the dark, sat down to rest. It was dark… In the window vent the wind droned mournfully. In the stove a cricket monotonously whistled its unvarying song. In the Kremlin the bells rang for the Christmas matins. I hastened to strike a match. But the light did not dispel my gloomy mood — on the contrary. A terrible, inexpressible horror seized me again… I cried out, staggered, and, beside myself, ran from the room…

In my friend’s room I saw the same thing as in mine — a coffin!

His coffin was nearly twice the size of mine, and its brown upholstery gave it an especially somber appearance. How had it come here? That it was an optical illusion was now impossible to doubt… There could not be a coffin in every room! Evidently it was a disease of my nerves, a hallucination. Wherever I went now, I would see before me the dreadful dwelling of death. Thus I was losing my mind, falling ill with something like ‘coffin-mania,’ and the cause of my insanity was not hard to find: one needed only recall the séance and Spinoza’s words…

‘Am I going mad?’ I thought in horror, clutching my head. ‘My God! What am I to do?!’

My head throbbed, my legs gave way… Rain poured down in torrents, the wind pierced me through, and I had neither coat nor hat. To return for them was impossible, beyond my strength… Fear gripped me in its cold embrace. My hair stood on end, cold sweat streamed down my face, though I believed it was a hallucination.

‘What was I to do?’ Panikhidin continued. ‘I was going mad and risked catching a terrible chill. Fortunately, I remembered that not far from Dead Lane lived a good acquaintance of mine, recently graduated as a doctor, Pogostov, who had been with me at the séance that night. I hurried to him… At that time he was not yet married to a wealthy merchant’s daughter and lived on the fifth floor of the house of State Councillor Kladbishchensky.

With Pogostov my nerves were destined to endure yet another torment. Climbing to the fifth floor, I heard a terrible noise. Above, someone was running, pounding heavily with his feet and slamming doors.

‘To me!’ I heard a soul-rending cry. ‘To me! Porter!’

And a moment later a dark figure in a coat and crushed top hat came hurtling down the stairs toward me…

‘Pogostov!’ I exclaimed, recognizing my friend. ‘Is that you? What’s the matter?’

Reaching me, Pogostov stopped and convulsively seized my hand. He was pale, breathing heavily, trembling. His eyes wandered wildly, his chest heaved…

‘Is it you, Panikhidin?’ he asked in a hollow voice. ‘But is it really you? You are pale as one risen from the grave… Or are you a hallucination?.. My God… you are terrifying…’

‘But what’s wrong with you? You look dreadful!’

‘Oh, let me catch my breath… I am glad to see you, if it is truly you and not an optical illusion. That cursed séance… It so unsettled my nerves that, imagine, returning home just now, I saw in my room… a coffin!’

I could not believe my ears and asked him to repeat.

‘A coffin, a real coffin!’ said the doctor, sitting down exhausted on the step. ‘I am not a coward, but even the devil himself would be frightened to stumble upon a coffin in the dark after a séance!’

Stammering and confused, I told the doctor about the coffins I had seen…

For a minute we stared at each other, eyes bulging and mouths open in astonishment. Then, to make sure we were not hallucinating, we began to pinch one another.

‘It hurts us both,’ said the doctor. ‘So we are not asleep and do not see each other in a dream. Therefore the coffins — mine and both of yours — are not an optical illusion, but something real. What are we to do now, my dear fellow?’

After standing for a full hour on the cold staircase, lost in conjectures and assumptions, we grew terribly chilled and decided to cast aside our cowardly fear and, waking the porter, go with him into the doctor’s room. So we did. Entering, we lit a candle and indeed saw a coffin upholstered in white fabric, with golden fringe and tassels. The porter devoutly crossed himself.

‘Now we may learn,’ said the pale doctor, trembling all over, ‘whether this coffin is empty or… inhabited.’

After a long and understandable hesitation, the doctor bent down and, clenching his teeth in fear and anticipation, tore the lid off the coffin. We looked inside and…

The coffin was empty…

There was no corpse in it, but instead we found a letter of the following content:

‘Dear Pogostov! You know that my father-in-law’s affairs have fallen into dreadful decline. He is buried in debt. Tomorrow or the day after they will come to inventory his property, and that will finally ruin his family and mine, destroy our honor, which is dearer to me than anything. At yesterday’s family council we decided to hide everything valuable and precious. Since all my father-in-law’s property consists of coffins (as you know, he is a coffin-maker, the best in the city), we resolved to hide the finest ones. I turn to you as a friend — help me, save our fortune and our honor! In the hope that you will help us preserve our property, I am sending you, my dear fellow, one coffin, which I ask you to hide and keep until further notice. Without the help of acquaintances and friends we are lost. I trust you will not refuse me, especially as the coffin will remain with you no more than a week. To all whom I consider our true friends I have sent one coffin each and rely on their generosity and nobility.

Yours affectionately,

Ivan Chelyustin.’

After this I spent three months being treated for nervous disorder, while our friend, the coffin-maker’s son-in-law, saved both his honor and his property and now runs a funeral procession bureau and trades in monuments and gravestones. His business does not go well, and every evening now, entering my room, I still fear that I shall see beside my bed a white marble monument or a hearse.”