Telemystery

- Turn off the tape recorder! - Grandpa shouts from the next room.

That means his TV is broken again. And my tape recorder is to blame, of course. I try to tell him that the little "Izh" has nothing to do with it. But it doesn't help!

- La-la-la, - my grandfather imitates the tape recorder. - And then the TVs break. Damn it!

- They broke before, without a tape recorder. There's a whole pile of them in the corner gathering dust! - I snapped back.

Behind the curtain in the closet there is a pyramid of old TVs.

And how many of them lie disassembled in boxes and cupboards. Not an apartment, but a museum of spare parts! But there's no point in arguing with my grandfather. I turn off the music and go for a walk.

When I come back, there's smoke in the house. It smells of soldering iron and hydrochloric acid.

There was almost nothing left of the "Horizon" TV.

Grandpa scratches the back of his head:

- Looks like we'll have to buy a new one.

- Have you ruined this TV, too? - Grandma Dusya throws up her hands. - Again?

But there's no way out, Grandpa can't do without the TV. Whether he has to or not, he watches it from evening till morning. He even sleeps with the TV on, and when you turn it off, he wakes up and starts grumbling: "It's like living in a coffin. "Too quiet.

Once we are sitting with my grandmother and watching a TV series, and my grandfather, it should be noted, except for soccer and Field of Dreams, does not watch anything else.

So he starts picking on it: he doesn't like the color or the sound. He starts pushing all the buttons at once, and it's over, the picture's gone.

What else could we do to improve the situation - we moved the TV from place to place, pounded on it with our fists, all to no avail!

The main thing is that when Grandpa is not home, the picture is perfect. When he comes home, you can't see anything. There are streaks, interference, crackling on the screen.

- Grandpa, - I said, - maybe you have a negative biofield. For example, I can't wear an electronic watch, it shows the wrong time on my hand, it runs backwards or forwards. And when you are around, the TVs go crazy.

- No! - He shouts. - It's the tape recorder's fault!

He has found a scapegoat.

I put the tape recorder’s in the closet. I don't listen to it for a day, the second day, the third day - the television still doesn't work, so much so that it turns itself off.

- Did you get it? - I'm jubilant.

- Yuck! - Grandpa spits. - Grandma, get me the screwdriver!

- Ooo, Satan, - scolds Grandma from the kitchen. - It's useless, stay out of it.

The TV sets in Grandpa's house stopped breaking only after his death.

Lacquered shoes

Grandpa Sasha died in winter, in the bitter February frost. The gravediggers at the cemetery had to light fires for two nights and dig out the frozen ground inch by inch.

As soon as we received the telegram, my father and I left for Tagil. On the way, we could not shake off the thought that my grandfather was alive and that we had been summoned only to say goodbye to him.

- Thank God, you've come! - Grandma cried as she opened the door. - He's waiting for you, my dear, he doesn't sleep a wink.

So Dad and I were right!

Grandpa was lying in the room. In a suit. In a coffin. Not alive. His eyelids were half closed. But as soon as we entered, the dead man's eyelids spontaneously closed.

My grandmother looked at us and said: "I told you so".

My father stood next to the coffin and remained suppresed silent. Then, for some reason, he took out of his jacket pocket a newspaper with my first article in it and began to read it aloud. It was a funny article about how my friends and I used to go caroling on Christmas Eve, not without adventures, of course.

In my opinion, it didn't fit in with the oppressive atmosphere of the house, but the relatives and neighbors were amused by our adventures. Suddenly they all moved their chairs, started talking, started discussing my lively syllable. My grandmother even cried and said, "Wow, our name is in the newspaper! I wish Grandpa had lived to see this moment..."

On the day of the funeral, there were many people. Everyone moved sadly along the narrow coffin covered in green cloth, saying goodbye to the deceased. It was my turn.

- Touch his shoes, - someone behind me whispered.

- Why?

- So he won't come to you in your dreams.

- No way! - I snorted and shoved my hands deeper into my pockets.

Why should my grandfather come to me in my dreams? And even if he did, what of it?

I lived peacefully for a week after the funeral. Then the nightmare began.

At night my grandfather would appear in my dreams, emaciated and terribly thin. He was begging: "Take me away from here!"

Day by day he became more insistent and demanding. His black lacquered shoes followed me relentlessly. They were sticking out of the ground from where the dead man's muffled voice was coming: "I'm cold! Get me out!"

I tried to bury the shoes again, or at least cover them with earth, but they kept coming out.

It got to the point where I was afraid to go to sleep. Just the thought of black shoes sent shivers down my spine. And in spring, when I dreamt of my grandfather again - wet, in dirty clothes, I couldn't stand it, I called my grandmother Dusya in Tagil and said:

- Do something! Otherwise he won't leave me alone.

Somehow the relatives managed to get permission for a reburial.

The grave was dug up. The coffin was removed. It was completely flooded with meltwater.

Then grandfather's ashes were buried in a dry place. That same night, Grandpa Sasha came to me in a dream, cheerful and wearing a new pink shirt, thanked me and repeated over and over that everything was all right for him now.

The nightmares about the black shoes stopped.

Come to me...

I met Max at my cousin's birthday party.

The house was full of people, everyone was having fun, dancing and joking.

I could not have fun with the guests - the younger brother of the birthday girl had too much champagne and I stayed with him all night. I sat next to him, made him lotions and gave him coffee. Already in the hallway, as the guests were leaving, Max smiled sadly at me:

- I wish someone would sit with me like this when I'm not feeling well.

That was in the winter. And in the summer, Max was murdered. Some bastards stabbed him with a knife in the doorway of the house. For what, why, who knows?

A month later I saw Max in a dream. He asked me to visit him.

- But I don't know where you're buried," I said.

Max said nothing.

On Elijah's Day, as usual, we went to the cemetery with relatives. I was walking along the graves and suddenly I slowed down, for some reason I turned into an alley, and after a few steps I saw a marble monument with a sign: Maxim Sumarokov.

The shock made me freeze, and I clearly heard a familiar soft voice behind me:

- So you've come. Sit with me for a while.

A year later I tried again to find Max's grave, but I couldn't.

The Black Man

The legend of the Black Man is centuries old. The poet Sergey Yesenin even wrote a prophetic poem in which a Black Man came to his house and stayed by his bed for a long time.

Stolen novel; please report.

It is not difficult to guess who the poet meant. The Black Man is death.

My Aunt Nina told me that she once woke up at night and saw a dark male silhouette in the doorway. She was frightened and squeezed her eyes shut (she was alone in the apartment).

With heavy footsteps, someone approached the headboard of her bed and leaned down so low that my aunt's face was covered with icy breath.

She remembered:

- I can't feel my legs and hands because of the fear. I knew that if I opened my eyes now, I would die.

After standing there for a while, the stranger left the room. The front door slammed.

But even then my aunt did not dare to open her eyes. So she lay awake until dawn. In the morning she found out that her neighbor behind the wall had died during the night. A young, healthy man, he just fell asleep and didn't wake up. His rendezvous with the Black Man had been fatal for him.

I also had an encounter with the black man.

I was half asleep, half awake. Just like Aunt Nina, I felt someone's presence near me. Although it was night and my eyes were closed, I could clearly see the silhouette of a man in the darkness. The man's face was strangely disfigured, with scabs, as if he had been burned. I had a thought that I could look at him through closed eyelids, but if I looked at him with my eyes open, I'd probably die of disgust.

As if reading my mind, the visitor demanded that I open my eyes immediately.

I replied that I couldn't and asked him to leave me alone. But he bent lower and lower, breathing arctic air into my face. But I knew that as long as my eyes were closed I was protected, the black man could not harm me. And he realized that, too, and went away.

Night of Ivan Kupala

During my school years I spent almost every summer in Nizhny Tagil.

Not far from the city, in the village of Chernoistochinsk, my father's brother, Uncle Grisha, had a summer house, or dacha. My cousin Lenka and I spent our vacations there.

We had many friends in the village, and on the night of Ivan Kupala - Midsummer's Eve - we had a party with the boys - we told funny stories, laughed, joked, and gradually the conversation led to witches, ghosts, and other evil things.

Twilight had crept over the village. It was time for Lenka and me to walk back to the dacha, past the river and the peat bogs. Scary! Everyone knows that on the night of Ivan Kupala drowned people come out of the water.

- Guys, - we ask, - please take us home. We're afraid to go alone.

But they flatly refused. They themselves were whiter than a sheet from fear. They had told us too many horror stories, and now they shuddered at every sound.

Finally, Lesha Ryabinin, nicknamed Hybrid, made up his mind and started the motorcycle: "Let's go!"

But he was shaking like a sheep's tail. And he had a reason - the other day Lesha's buddy Dyukha drowned in the local pond, he fell out of the boat drunk. When they pulled the dead man out of the water, Lenka and I were just passing by and saw it all.

Before that, men in boats had been circling the dam for two days, searching the bottom with hooks. Soon the Hybrid's hook hit something soft, the water boiled, and Dyukha flew to the surface like a torpedo. He clung to the side of the boat with a stiff, elbow-bent hand and wouldn't let go. The Hybrid decided that the dead Dyukha was going to climb into his boat and was so frightened that he jumped ashore in one incredible leap. He didn't understand how - the shore was about ten feet away.

But now Lesha volunteered to drive us home.

The clock strikes midnight. The motorcycle speeds through the deserted streets of the village. It was pitch black: you couldn't see your hand in front of your face, but Hybrid doesn't turn on his headlights, he's too scared.

Suddenly, a bird in the swamp cried out in an evil voice. It's horrible!

Lesha dropped us off at the dacha gate, stepped on the accelerator and drove back, leaving Lenka and me alone. It's a long way home, but we can't feel our legs - our knees buckle with fear.

- We are such fools, - Lenka sobbed. - Why did we remember those dead people?

- Yeah, - I whimper. - Let's close our eyes and go.

We reached the house by feel, climbed the stairs and locked the door behind us. We turned on the lights and drew the curtains. Just as we were catching our breath, we heard someone walking in the attic, from where the floorboards had creaked and plaster had fallen from the stove. What if that someone is now entering the hatch? Our hatch is unlocked! We huddled together, neither alive nor dead.

- Turn off the light, - Lenka whimpers.

- No, I'm afraid! - I whimpered back.

But despite my fear, I rushed to the light switch and ran back quickly. I curled up into a ball under the blanket and tap-danced with my teeth. I felt like someone was going to grab me!

Soon the creaking and rustling stopped.

But then a pebble hit the window right above my head, followed by a second and a third. It was as if someone was standing under the window making a sign, as if to say: "Look out the window".

At that moment, for the first time in my life, I realized what the expression "my hair stood on end" meant. It literally began to move on top of my head. Some animal instinct told me that if I or Lenka looked out of the window now, we would be dead. We'd see something that made people die of heartbreak in horror movies.

When footsteps sounded outside the window and someone drummed on the glass with his knuckles, the impressionable Lenka couldn't take it anymore and lost her senses.

Realizing that I was now alone with my nightmare, I covered my head with a pillow, plugged my ears, and with an incredible effort of will, forced myself to fall asleep.

I still don't know who or what came to our house that night.

Neighbors? But they wouldn't have kept quiet, they would have said something. Country boys trying to scare us? I don't think so. The boys themselves were as scared as we were. And they wouldn't have come that far on foot at night, and as for the motorcycle, we would have heard it anyway - not the crackling of the engine, but at least the boys' voices and laughter.

And another thing: when Lenka and I examined the area under the window in the afternoon, we found clear prints of forty-five size bare feet in the sand.

None of our acquaintances had such feet.

Shadows of Idnakar

There is a mysterious place in our city - Soldyr Mountain, where the settlement of Idnakar stood many centuries ago. Archaeologists are still debating to whom this ancient settlement belonged. And most importantly, why it suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth in the thirteenth century.

What was it? An epidemic? Pestilence? Tatar-Mongol invasion? What kind of drama had happened there?

A certain extrasenser once declared Idnakar to be a projection of Shambala and even pointed out a spot where a powerful beam of energy supposedly emanates from the ground.

The grass on this spot is indeed thicker and greener than other vegetation on the mountain. The archaeology students assured me that if you stand on the spot with your bare feet, you will feel a slight tingling sensation coming from the bowels of the earth and that you will be "charged" with energy.

My bare feet did indeed tingle, as if weak electrical discharges were passing through them, but I cannot judge the nature of this energy.

In the 50's-70's of the last century a spontaneous cemetery appeared in the oldest part of the vanished settlement. In bad weather it was difficult for the inhabitants of Soldyr village to get to the city cemetery, so they used to bury their dead on the mountain.

In the 80s the cemetery was closed. It was swallowed by weeds. The monuments are rusted, shriveled, in some places buried in the ground, and you can no longer read the dates or names.

As children, we often stumbled over someone's half-decayed bones on the Soldyr.

Despite the cemetery and the status of a nature reserve, Idnakar has always attracted citizens.

There is no better place for a picnic - a light birch grove, a wonderful view of the city.

But that was during the day. When the sun went down, the place became a bit spooky.

Those who had been in the mountain fort at night usually told all sorts of things about it. Some had heard strange sounds and voices, some had seen silhouettes of people in the dark.

In short, there was something sinister going on at night on Soldyr Mountain.

September 2001 was dry and warm. The days were beautiful, the sun was warm, but not hot. It was a real Indian summer. It was impossible to stay indoors.

To celebrate the city's birthday, the museum staff had built an ancient fortress on the top of the mountain, set up a stone hearth and wooden benches in the birch forest.

The celebration was over, but the fortress and the hearth remained. That's where my husband and I went - to light a fire, to walk through the autumn grove, to rustle the fallen leaves.

We got some firewood, sat down on a wooden bench by the hearthstone and made a fire.

It was getting dark as we talked, but we didn't want to go home - we were in no hurry.

A warm breeze blew, the lights of the city shimmered in the distance, twigs crackled in the fire.

Behind us, in the twilight, we could vaguely make out the outline of the fortress where, centuries ago, the ancient inhabitants of Idnakar had sat in a circle around the fire, probably talking about something.

Andrei stood up, took two thick fire sticks from the fire, stepped aside and struck them together. A sheaf of sparks flashed in the darkness of the night. "Come here!" he called.

I reluctantly moved away from the fire - because at a distance of five feet there was nothing to see, absolute darkness.

It was uncomfortable to stand in the night and watch the flames burn out - as if you were looking through someone else's eyes, peering out of the darkness like a thief in ambush, waiting for an opportunity to attack. I shuddered and hurried back to the fire.

The fire was dying. There wasn't much wood left, and there was no place to get it at night.

It was time to return to the city.

Suddenly there was a rustling in the bushes behind us...

Even now, as I write these words, I am shaking nervously, and that night I was completely gripped by fear. What was it? A mouse? No, not a mouse. A dog? Not a dog either.

A branch had broken, then another. Closer, closer. Someone was clearly approaching from the direction of the fortress. Judging by the footsteps, it was a man, and there seemed to be more than one.

But what are these people doing here at this late hour? They saw the fire in the hearth and decided to come over? They should have at least said something, but they just walked towards us without saying a word. That wasn't good!

A few feet from the fire, the footsteps stopped. But the next second, branches were breaking right above my ear. To the left, to the right, behind me - everywhere!

- Who's there? - my husband called into the darkness.

No one answered. The silence was dead.

At the same time, Andrei and I felt the presence of someone close to us. Maybe this someone was lurking, waiting for the fire to go out? And then what?

Here we both lost our nerve. As if on cue, we rushed to the smoldering hearth and began to grab and throw into it everything we could find - branches, dry leaves and grass. The flames had flared up, though with difficulty. For how long?

We had to get out of here right away. But how? Walking away from the fire was a bit scary.

Andrei suggested to shorten the way and go straight through the cemetery. But the thought of walking towards those who were now hiding in the bushes made me shudder.

I was on the verge of panic. There was no place to wait for help, no one knew where we were, there was no phone. My nerves were stretched to the limit with fear and monstrous tension. My body rang like a string, ready to burst. Just a little more and... I don't even know what will happen to us.

Suddenly something clicked in my head, my thoughts became clear and precise. I realized what would save us! If we left the way we came, we would be safe.

We stirred up the dying fire, took out two large charred sticks, fanned the flames on their tips, and moved toward the gate. We walked quickly, not looking back, trying not to think about anything.

It was only when we reached the paved road that we could finally catch our breath.

But it was still too early to relax. Looking ahead, the feeling that someone was following us did not leave us until we reached the town, which was almost two kilometers away.

It was late at night. We held our charred sticks in our hands, occasionally fanning the smoldering embers to keep from plunging into total darkness. Rare cars whizzed by without stopping. In the light of their headlights, we tried to make out those who followed us so persistently, but behind us there was only an empty highway with dark poplar trees along the roadside.

And yet we could swear that there were eyes staring back at us. Many eyes.

This feeling disappeared only when we crossed the bridge over the river on the border between the forest and the city. Something seemed to prevent our silent pursuers from following us, some invisible line blocking their way.

They stayed on the other side of the bridge, and we reached the bus stop in the square and collapsed on a bench in exhaustion.

Later, Andrei confessed that after reading many of Castaneda's books and hearing the legends of Idnakar, he decided that night to summon the spirits of the old settlement. Stepping back from the fire, he mentally addressed them: "If you are here, let me know!" And the spirits answered the call...

I do not know if they were ancient Udmurts, the evil dead, or some other creatures. One thing I do know - from now on nothing on earth will force me to go to Soldyr Mountain at sunset.

To be continued