DMITRI OSIPOVITCH VAXIN, the architect, returned from town to his holiday cottage greatly impressed by the spiritualistic seance at which he had been present.  As he undressed and got into his solitary bed (Madame Vaxin had gone to an all-night service) he could not help remembering all he had seen and heard.  It had not, properly speaking, been a seance at all, but the whole evening had been spent in terrifying conversation.  A young lady had begun it by talking, apropos of nothing, about thought-reading.  From thought-reading they had passed imperceptibly to spirits, and from spirits to ghosts, from ghosts to people buried alive. . . .  A gentleman had read a horrible story of a corpse turning round in the coffin.  Vaxin himself had asked for a saucer and shown the young ladies how to converse with spirits.  He had called up among others the spirit of his deceased uncle, Klavdy Mironitch, and had mentally asked him: 

“Has not the time come for me to transfer the ownership of our house to my wife?”

To which his uncle’s spirit had replied: 

“All things are good in their season.”

“There is a great deal in nature that is mysterious and . . . terrible . . .” thought Vaxin, as he got into bed.  “It’s not the dead but the unknown that’s so horrible.”

It struck one o’clock.  Vaxin turned over on the other side and peeped out from beneath the bedclothes at the blue light of the lamp burning before the holy ikon.  The flame flickered and cast a faint light on the ikon-stand and the big portrait of Uncle Klavdy that hung facing his bed.

“And what if the ghost of Uncle Klavdy should appear this minute?” flashed through Vaxin’s mind.  “But, of course, that’s impossible.”

Ghosts are, we all know, a superstition, the offspring of undeveloped intelligence, but Vaxin, nevertheless, pulled the bed-clothes over his head, and shut his eyes very tight.  The corpse that turned round in its coffin came back to his mind, and the figures of his deceased mother-in-law, of a colleague who had hanged himself, and of a girl who had drowned herself, rose before his imagination. . . .  Vaxin began trying to dispel these gloomy ideas, but the more he tried to drive them away the more haunting the figures and fearful fancies became.  He began to feel frightened.

“Hang it all!” he thought.  “Here I am afraid in the dark like a child!  Idiotic!”

Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . he heard the clock in the next room.  The church-bell chimed the hour in the churchyard close by.  The bell tolled slowly, depressingly, mournfully. . . .  A cold chill ran down Vaxin’s neck and spine.  He fancied he heard someone breathing heavily over his head, as though Uncle Klavdy had stepped out of his frame and was bending over his nephew. . . .  Vaxin felt unbearably frightened.  He clenched his teeth and held his breath in terror.

At last, when a cockchafer flew in at the open window and began buzzing over his bed, he could bear it no longer and gave a violent tug at the bellrope.