69 Keeney Avenue

by Coolidge Templeton

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I recognized the goatee. It was orange-red, the color of hellfire. On this occasion I noticed how similar to a devil’s beard it looked. Ivan now sported a beast’s smile, one that held no kindness or friendliness. I once again regarded his large, prominent nose. Like some savage animal, it appeared to smell blood with every sniff of its ghastly nostrils. The eyes I contemplated now were the same Pavlovich ones that I had come to know and fear these past weeks. They pierced through the protection of your body, penetrating your heart to learn your most private secrets and exploit them. The massive head sprung from ponderous, monstrously large shoulders and an equally ponderous chest. Ivan Pavlovich was colossal, an evil giant from some old German fairy tale. And he was now holding me prisoner in this tiny cell-like hallway.

  The stench of his overpowering cologne was making my stomach turn. I fought the urge to retch, looking him in the eye and meeting his challenging glare with a look of defiance. I felt like a hungry lion had captured me as its prey, and was now savoring the moment before it would devour me.

  “Let go of arm, Mr. Ivan,” I told him. I attempted to muster all the courage I could in my diminutive voice. “I am not being real estate. You are not closing on me,” I informed him.

  Ivan’s eyes were burning with cruelty. His hulking body was shaking like an earthquake in his rage. He placed a gigantic hand around my small neck; for a terrible moment I thought he would crush it like an egg. However, just as suddenly as he had become enraged, Ivan seemed to calm down. He removed his hand from my neck, using it instead to gently stroke my hair. He relaxed his grip on my arm; as I pulled it free I could see purple marks under the pale-white skin. He glanced down at his watch, quickly checking on the time. He apparently didn’t want to be late for whatever mischief he had in store for me.

  “Well, Sonia Godunov,” he said slowly and carefully. “I have been very patient in the past, but now it is time for you to deliver,” he commanded me. He put his large face close to my own, beads of sweat pouring down his face. “Where is the necklace I put around your neck for safekeeping?” he asked quietly. Almost too quietly.

  I shook my head at him. Though I was petrified, I was resolved not to play the role that he had planned for me. “I am not having it,” I told him nervously.

  Ivan slowly moved away from me. He began to silently pace back and forth, like some kind of caged animal. Then, without warning, he sprang at me. He seized my arms and shook me violently.

  “I have no more time to waste on you, peasant girl!” he exclaimed. “I’ll ask you again…where is the necklace?” he demanded. His voice was like a lion’s roar; I turned away to avoid it, completely panic-stricken. I tried to think of something to say, some way to distract him, but I was too frozen in horror to attempt any such plan. Ivan reached into my pockets, rifling through their contents. In a moment he had found the necklace that I had foolishly neglected to hide. He yanked it from my pocket, and in one swift move forced it around my neck. Before I knew what was happening, he pushed me down the dimly-lit hallway toward the entrance of the mysterious room that had belonged to his grandfather Vladimir.

  I tried to avert my eyes, but Ivan forced me to look up by yanking the hair on my forehead. A strange sight awaited me as I gazed upwards. The green clay three-pointed face that was ordinarily perched in an immobile fashion was now in movement. It seemed to be writhing in agony; it made high, shrieking sounds, like those of a dying man contorted in his suffering. But then, it appeared to focus its attention upon my features. The clay figure continued to shake with spasms of pain, though it also seemed to be changing in appearance before my gaze. In a moment, I seemed to be contemplating the tortured face of Nicholas Pavlovich.

  I desperately wanted to run away, to escape this terrible place. But Ivan’s steel-like grip on my arm prevented me from fleeing. He seized me by the collar, pushing me toward the door. I flinched, turning my face away as my body was forced closer and closer to the door. Finally, I was inches away from the entrance. Chills ran up and down my spine as I shook in fear.

  “Now, Sonia,” Ivan’s crazed voice became higher and higher in pitch as he spoke. “Now is the Twilight of the Gods! Use that necklace to open the gate!” he ordered me. I was confused by his words, and tried to resist by attempting to pull free of Ivan’s grip. But he was too strong. He pushed my stricken face right up to the green clay figure. I stood horrified as the three-pointed face began to come to life, beginning to speak in some ancient foreign language. I thought that perhaps it was Hebrew, but I couldn’t be certain. The clay figure chanted for some short time; the sound was almost as terrifying to listen to as the unnatural sight of it coming to life was to my unbelieving eyes. Then, without warning, the figure became silent. The wooden door vanished, and I found myself in a small, claustrophobic room. It was the office of Vladimir Pavlovich, and I would have given anything to be somewhere else.

  It was not well-furnished, this study of Vladimir’s. A small wooden desk rested against a wall with filthy, peeling paint. A medium-sized picture of Russian Czar Nicholas II and his wife Alexandra hung prominently on this wall. On the opposite side of the room was a large painting of a mysteriously dark man. It contrasted sharply with the bright gold-colored wallpaper on which it hung. The man in the painting had long black greasy hair, deep penetrating eyes, and a thick scruffy beard. He wore the long black cloak of a Russian mystic. His right hand was raised, as if he were performing some strange ritual. There was no mistaking this haunting image---it was Rasputin!

  There was old Cyrillic writing visible on the wall, right above the painting. I tried to read some of it, but it was hopelessly muddled. If I had to guess, I would have considered that it was some kind of chant or spell. Under the letters were various groups of numbers. They seemed to be organized into some sort of pattern; the same letters seemed to repeat themselves in a recognizable form. Despite myself, I couldn’t help wondering what connection there was between the Cyrillic letters and the standard numbers. Was this the Kabbalah that Nicholas had spoken of on previous occasions? What did it all mean?

  I rubbed the arm that Ivan had gripped too tightly. Fortunately, he had relinquished his grip when I had entered the room. I looked around the chamber, but could see no sign of the bully. From the corner of my eye I spotted a crumpled up figure lying prostrate on the floor. At first I thought it was a wolf, or some wild dog with black fur. As I strained my eyes, adjusting them to the haziness of the room, I suddenly recognized the unmoving figure. It was Alexander! He was lying collapsed on the floor, perhaps even dead!

  I ran over to the still body of Alexander Pavlovich. I touched his arm, frightened at the possibility of finding him cold to the touch, like a corpse. However, I was happy to discover that he was still warm. I turned over his head, attempting to examine him more closely. His black hair still hung loosely over his closed eyes. His tongue lolled strangely out of swollen lips. Alexander was definitely unconscious; it appeared as if he had been drugged.

  From the shadows of the room, a sudden movement caught my eye. It was a large shape, materializing like some ghost from the grave. I gave a quick cry as a shock ran through my body. The figure slowly began to take on a more recognizable, human form. I regarded blondish-grey hair, old-fashioned eyeglasses and a gentle sneer that I knew all too well. It was Harriet!

  I rushed over and hugged her large frame. She returned my greeting, patting me on the head and gently rubbing my hand. I was so glad to find her alive that I wept tears of joy. Harriet wiped my eyes clean, smiling at me in her familiar reassuring way.

  “Where you been, Harriet?” I asked her. “I being so worried you…” my voice trailed.

  “Dead?” Harriet’s voice seemed to gently mock me. She affectionately placed her arm around my shoulders, gently guiding me to the door. I was feeling very relieved. Now that Harriet was alive and well, I felt that everything would be just fine.

  “I tell you before, Sonia,” she said warmly. “You are needing more confiden
ce. Believe in yourself…you are doing great things,” she advised me. I turned my head back in the direction of Alexander. He was beginning to move a little, though not without difficulty. He gave a low moan of pain, his eyes still remaining closed as he continued to lie on the dirty wooden floor.

  “Harriet,” I said in confusion. “Shouldn’t we be helping Alexander? He’s being very hurt,” I remarked with concern.

  The eyes behind the old-fashioned glasses unexpectedly changed expression. They took on a hardened, strange look that I had never observed in Harriet before this day. It was unfriendly, almost sinister. It startled me a bit. I told myself that it was just the dimness of the dusky room.

  “Oh, that Mr. Alexander and his computer, he going be just fine,” Harriet insisted. As she led me closer to the door, her grip suddenly became tighter. I unconsciously tried to pull away from her. Harriet grabbed me by the arm, squeezing it tighter than Ivan had earlier. In fact, her grip was like his, iron and unfeeling. Chills of fear suddenly ran up and down my spine.

  “Harriet,” I pleaded. “What you doing? I not understand,” I begged her.

  Harriet gazed at me with a look of pure contempt. She chuckled as she pulled me up to the entrance of the study.

  “No, you are never understanding, stupid peasant girl,” she rudely commented. “I play you like fiddle, but you never guess what tune is meaning,” she laughed cruelly.

  I glanced up at the doorway. I suddenly realized that someone was standing on the opposite side of the open entrance. Though it was still hazy, I could make out the hulking, threatening figure of Ivan Pavlovich. His face was red with anticipation. He was pacing back and forth in front of the door, like the wild animal that he was, eager to gain entry to the study. I suddenly realized that I had been an instrument to be played my entire time at 69 Keeney Avenue. And Harriet and Ivan were rubbing a bow across my strings for their own dark purpose.

  I tried to break free of Harriet’s steel grip. “Let go!” I demanded. I attempted to push her away from me, desperate to somehow get away. But she held on even tighter, grabbing my other arm as well and forcing me to face the entryway. I suddenly realized that I was still wearing the cursed necklace around my neck. I glanced down to examine it. Its precious stones were now glowing, giving off an eerie green color. An odd vibrating sound echoed throughout the room, quickly becoming louder and louder. It hurt my ears with its metallic pitch. The green glow from my necklace began to cast a shadow upon the silhouette of the doorway. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash that forced me to close my eyes. When I gathered the nerve to open them, a horrible sight awaited me.

  Ivan Pavlovich was in the room.

  And he was smiling.

  I made a sudden movement, yanking myself free from Harriet’s grip. I ran to where Alexander still lay unconscious. I rubbed his face, shaking his shoulders and desperately calling to him.

  “Alexander…please to wake up!” I pleaded with him. He groaned, shaking his head and contorting his upper body. His eyes seemed to roll back in his head. He tried to speak; his lips moved soundlessly, no speech coming from them to show me he was aware of my presence. They opened and closed like a fish that was attempting to free itself of a hook in its mouth.

  Ivan and Harriet stood right next to each other. Harriet had slipped her arm through Ivan’s in a very familiar manner. If I hadn’t known that they were related, I would have thought them lovers. The very idea brought the taste of sickness to my mouth.

  Harriet was holding something in her large hand. The object was round and white, and seemed somewhat familiar to me. As she studied me, moving closer and closer, I realized that Harriet was holding a small plate with a piece of cake upon it. I realized to my horror that it was my prize-winning cake!

  “Here, little one,” she taunted me. “Wouldn’t you like a piece of your blue-ribbon cake? Or should Harriet say, her prize-winning cake?” Harriet said maliciously. She was every bit as imposing as she had been on the day I had met her. She looked at me with cruelty in her eyes and her hands on her hips. “You thinking you become chef? I wouldn’t trust you to boil water,” she said, her words cutting through my heart like a red-hot knife.

  Bitter tears came to my eyes. “You just using me,” I said with an angry voice. “Contest just way to gain Sonia’s trust,” I commented. Harriet smirked. She turned to Ivan, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “She getting smarter, this Russian peasant. Yes, little Sonia, you are waking up to reality. We served you cake, you served our purpose. But don’t be disappointed,” she said, with a tone of false concern. “Here is some cake for you and your new boyfriend,” she offered me.

  Harriet cut open the cake with a large, dagger-like knife. As she plunged it into the white frosting, a black cloud arose from the cake. When the smoke cleared, I viewed a horrifying image upon the plate. It was a swarm of black spiders crawling out from the inside of the dessert. They seemed to leap from the cake in my direction and attack me, their hairy legs grasping at my pale white skin. Before I knew it, I was covered with dozens of black Tarantulas. They crept up and down my writhing body, driving me into a wave of panic. I desperately pushed them away, shaking them free of my body and screaming with fright. I could hear the sound of Ivan and Harriet snickering at my plight, their laughter echoing off of the walls of the claustrophobic room. Unexpectedly, the spiders seemed to vanish as quickly as they had appeared. Ivan approached me, a purposeful look in his eyes.

  Ivan looked impatiently at his watch. Beads of sweat appeared upon his gargantuan forehead. He placed his ponderous face right up to my own, sighing with satisfaction. “Well, Sonia, I must say that these last few weeks have been a distinct pleasure. It really has been a pleasure to manipulate your little brain. Have you enjoyed all of the scary visions and terrors that I created on your behalf? I know that you’re a superstitious little peasant girl from a small village in Russia. Do you still believe that 69 Keeney Avenue is haunted by demons?” he mocked me.

  I mustered all of the courage that I still had in my body. Ivan clearly expected me to cower before him now. I surprised him by slapping him on the face. “The only unnatural beings I am seeing in house are you and Harriet,” I informed him. I stood up straight and boldly looked him in the eye. I was not going to let these two villains torment me without a fight.

  Ivan rubbed his face where I had slapped him. He didn’t seem angry, however, by my act of defiance. On the contrary, he actually appeared to be genuinely amused by my resistance. “You have become stronger, Sonia Godunov, since the time you first entered this house. I have thrown horrors upon horrors at you, yet you have remained at 69 Keeney Avenue and persevered. You see, Sonia, I inherited many of the drugs and potions that Rasputin gave to my grandfather Vladimir. They are such that can cause the eye to believe that it is witnessing horrible sights. Harriet has been kind enough to aid me in my cause, ensuring that you ingested the proper dosage of my drugs to cause hallucinatory effects. And they have frightened you, despite your bravery. It’s like what my brother Nicholas said that day we met you, ‘the third eye is in the mind’,” Ivan stated with a grin of malice.

  “Where is Mr. Nicholas,” I demanded, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. “What are you doing with him, you monsters?” I challenged them.

  Ivan glanced at Harriet, who responded by chuckling. She placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head sideways, as I had seen her do on many a happier occasion. She now regarded me with a benign look of amusement. I returned her look with one of anger and betrayal. Harriet replied to this by shrugging her shoulders.

  “Oh, well,” she said in a light manner. “You know how keen my nephew was to discover that connection between Kabbalism and Eastern Orthodoxy. He was obsessed with discovering what Rasputin had learned during his many travels. I sent Nicholas an anonymous e-mail at the University, promising him vital information concerning that meeting that the Dark One had with the Jews at the Monastery of the Caves,” Harriet paused a moment, savoring her own clever
deception. “You see, Vladimir had hidden the clue in a safe place here at 69 Keeney Avenue. It lay right out in the open, where any fool could see it, if they cleared the mist from their hazy eyes. A bridge to knowledge, if you will,” she said enigmatically.

  I suddenly understood. The painting in the living room! That was where the clue lay! Harriet nodded at me, as if she could read the thoughts in my mind.

  “Yes, the picture of the ghostly river and the bridge,” she confirmed my guess. Harriet grinned with malice, resembling Ivan in a way that I had never observed before, “It is representation of real bridge here in West Hartford. Or so e-mail led nephew to believe. Nicholas bolted in dead of night to this bridge to learn secret of lifetime,” she informed me.

  “And I was there on the other side of the bridge, to ensure that Nicholas would never waste my time again,” Ivan broke in, smirking as he did. He pulled a gold watch from his pocket. It was caked with dried blood. I shivered with horror at the grisly sight. Ivan continued to smile. “Nicholas was very prophetic, Sonia,” he remarked. “He couldn’t kill time; but time killed him, nevertheless,” he said with irony.

  I tried to back away from the monstrous duo. Just being close to the two murderers filled my heart with disgust. I kneeled down once more at Alexander’s side. He was still unconscious, shaking his head from side to side and moaning in pain. I turned my head back toward Ivan and Harriet, giving them an accusing glare.

  “What all this insanity for?,” I demanded of Ivan. “You richest man in West Hartford. What so valuable here in room that you kill brother for, like Cain kill Abel?”

  Ivan resumed his pacing back and forth, seemingly frustrated by the confined space afforded him by the size of the room. He stretched his large body out to its fullest capacity, his colossal head sticking out of his mammoth body, his eyes appearing to burst from his face. He was livid with anger, his lion’s voice roaring with rage.

  “The Samovar, Sonia!” he angrily reminded me. “I’ve no more time for these little games. The Samovar is right here in this room, and I will have it now. Your ignorance of its value is maddening. You will help me to retrieve it, and you will do it immediately!” he bellowed.

  Harriet stepped closer to me suddenly grabbing me by the neck. She dragged me to the picture of Rasputin. I tried to avert my gaze, but she roughly yanked my hair with her free hand, forcing my face inches from Rasputin’s features. I was reminded of my first impression of Harriet Blom. She truly was an ogre from some German fairy tale.

  “You want save Alexander’s life?” she taunted me. “Then kiss man in picture,” she ordered me.

  I thought that I had heard her incorrectly. “What…you crazy?” I asked her in horror. I stared into her wrinkled face, my own stricken with confusion. Harriet noticed my look, rubbing her face with her free hand caressingly.

  “Are you still insinuating I have wrinkles, pretty young girl?” she inquired with mocking derision. “When I have possession of Samovar, I will be young and beautiful again. Samovar has power to turn back clock. I will be pretty girl again, more beautiful than common tramp like you,” she added.

  It all made sense to me now. Ivan had played upon Harriet’s vanity, exploiting her deepest wishes to use her as a tool to retrieve the Samovar. I attempted to reason with her. “Don’t do this, Harriet,” I pleaded. “You are being good woman. You are not needing supernatural evil like this,” I informed her.

  Harriet responded by laughing in my face. “What you know of needs?” she asked me contemptuously. “Everyone is liking beautiful young girl like you. Who is liking old wrinkled hag like me?” she said with a scowl.

  “I like you,” I replied. “You have been babushka to me,” I told her.

  Harriet shook her head in frustration. “Samovar!” she declared. “That is all I need. And you going to get it for us. Kiss Rasputin’s face, Sonia, or I slit Alexander’s throat with my own wrinkled hands,” she threatened.

  I could see that she was deadly serious. There would be no hope of reasoning with her. I turned my head away, searching the room for some help, any sort of assistance. But there was none. Alexander still remained on the floor, and Ivan was growing more angry and impatient with each passing moment.

  “Do it!” he ordered me, his roar shaking the room. I reluctantly placed my lips against the image of Rasputin’s face. It leered back at me, as if it were no reproduction, but the real sinner himself. As my lips touched his, they first burned like fire and then seemed to freeze like ice. I felt an overpowering blast hit my face, like that of an explosion. The force of it flung me backwards, thrusting me down upon the dirty wooden floor. As I beheld the painting, a remarkable transformation occurred. The picture seemed to retract, flipping over and vanishing into the golden-papered wall. There was suddenly a loud, humming sound; it hurt my ears to hear its vibrations. Unexpectedly, a large red platform emerged from a part of the wall. It was shaped like some kind of rectangular table, with strange, onion bulb-like ornaments adorning each corner. They reminded me of the onion bulb domes that crested the towers of the Kremlin, back in Moscow, Russia. There was a white cotton cloth laid upon it, which appeared to have the Romanov family coat of arms emblazoned upon its surface. And resting upon this cloth was the most magnificent example of a Russian Samovar that I had ever seen.

  It was somewhat oval-shaped, with ear-like handles attached to each side. The body was clearly made up of some combination of gold and silver, its surface shone as if someone had just brushed it with a finish. There were gold leaves engraved upon its base, a beautiful decorative effect that took one’s breath away. The top of the Samovar was fluted, bordered on its edges with striking white pearls. But, the most remarkable feature of the Samovar was its front surface. It had two interlocking letter A’s engraved upon it, Cyrillic ones from the traditional Russian alphabet. A representation of the Russian Imperial Crown was embossed just above the crossed A’s. I had never seen such a rich, graceful object like this, not in my entire life. Its exquisiteness and fine detail were a sight to behold. And both Ivan and Harriet were beholding it.

  “At last…,” Ivan sighed, a feverish glaze apparent in his eyes. “A mighty angel commands the seal to be broken,” he said mysteriously.

  He shoved Harriet aside with one large hand, forcing his gargantuan body into the cramped space just in front of the Samovar. Ivan raised his hands to the ceiling with his palms upturned, his massive head tilted backward, and his eyes closed. He began to chant in a language that I didn’t recognize. At first, nothing seemed to happen. The room was silent, save for the sound of Ivan’s booming voice.

  Then a strange humming noise began to be heard in the room. It started softly, like the chanting of some Eastern Orthodox choir. Then it increased in volume. It became so intense that I felt the need to press my hands against my ears to block out the horribly loud noise. I felt a sharp pain in my head as the racket continued unabated. I thought that I would pass out from the discomfort of the deafening sound. But then, just as quickly as it had started, the humming suddenly ceased.

  Ivan moved his hulking body closer to the Samovar. His eyes were open now, gazing at the object with a mix of reverence and longing. He stretched out the long fingers of his hand and placed his palm against the interlocking A’s on the Samovar’s surface. At first, nothing appeared to happen. Harriet yelled at Ivan with impatience:

  “What you doing, fool?” she demanded of him. “How we gain power? When do I get young again?” she asked with consternation in her husky voice.

  Ivan slowly turned his body toward Harriet. His eyes were glassy, as if they belonged to someone else, or were under the influence of some narcotic. Without saying a word, he took the hand that had touched the Samovar and pressed it against Harriet’s forehead.

  She shrieked with pain and cold fear. Her entire body shook with convulsions. Harriet tried to pull away from Ivan’s touch, but seemed powerless to do so. I could smell a foul stench, like flesh burning. Clouds of smoke arose from Har
riet’s large frame. Then, a horrifying thing occurred. Harriet Blom simply became black dust, spilling upon the wooden floor in a dusty heap. I attempted to scream, but no words came out of my terrified lips. She was gone---this time for good.

  Ivan returned his attention to me. For the first time that evening, I took a good look at what he was wearing. It was a long black robe, like that of an Eastern Orthodox priest. But around his neck was something golden; a chain with some kind of pendant attached to it. As he drew closer to me, I could see that it was a Star of David. Ivan rubbed it tenderly, much like Alexander had done with his cross. However, I doubted that in Ivan’s case it was a fashion statement. He stalked me, creeping closer to me like a beast that is playing with its captured prey. He held out his gargantuan hand, the same one that had just killed Harriet. It was glowing red, like flames in a fire. The glare of this hand seemed to hypnotize me; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t look away from it. Ivan stopped right in front of me; his grossly large body consuming all of the limited space before me. His red goatee seemed to glow as red as his hand. Sweat poured off of his bald head. His eyes were now cruel, savage with evil intent. But then, he suddenly gave me that friendly, charming smile that he had used on previous occasions.

  “Ah, poor Harriet,” he lamented with sadness. “I promised her that she would have no more wrinkles to frustrate her. Well. You must agree Sonia, I have kept that promise,” he said with a mirthful grin.

  I averted my eyes from his features. I was filled with disgust and loathing for him. “Only thing I am agreeing on is that you are being viper,” I spat at him with contempt.

  Ivan once more seemed to be amused by my defiance of him. He saw me regarding his Star of David; he looked down at it, lifting it up so that I might have a better view of it.

  “You’ve no doubt been wondering if the Pavlovichs are truly Jews. My dear, we are descended from the tribe of Dan. I am a viper in this fashion. I bite the horse’s head, causing the rider to fall backward,” he said cryptically.

  Ivan hurried back to the rectangular table. He lifted the Samovar with his obscene hands, gripping it by its ear-like handles and carrying it over to me. To my horror, the Samovar was humming; black steam arose from its spout as this noise continued. The interlocking A’s seemed too glow like bulbs. The closer the Samovar came to me, the greater a sense of dread filled my heart. I wanted to run away from this horrible place. But I knew that I couldn’t leave Alexander there. Alexander! I had momentarily forgotten him. I desperately searched for his form in the blackness of the darkened room. However, I couldn’t see him in the dusk. Had he been consumed by hellfire? Had he been sucked down into some pit, never to be seen again? I dared not to consider the awful possibilities.

  Ivan held the Samovar above his head in triumph. His large eyes gleamed with malice and delight. “You see, Sonia,” he addressed me, a taunting cruelness in his voice. “Land is only useful for storing the dead. You are correct, I already have all the money I could ever need. What this Samovar can give me is power. It first belonged to Ivan the Terrible, greatest of all the Russian Czars. He enlisted the supernatural to defeat the Tartars and to steal their souls. Rasputin, my grandfather’s master, was able to procure this venerated object by performing deeds of black magic for Nicholas II. Had the Czar known of its true power, he would never have allowed it to escape from his hands.It could possibly have saved the Romanov Imperial dynasty, had they understood its secrets,” he informed me.

  The Samovar seemed to glow hotter and redder as Ivan spoke. His voice became louder and more intense, sounding more insane with each word he said. Ivan’s eyes grew wide and manic-looking, as his voice became more passionate. “From this chalice, the Red Dragon will give me power, a throne, and authority over all. You and Alexander will be the next victims of my blasphemy. I shall now blot you from the Book of Life,” he threatened.

  Ivan raised the Samovar high with his outstretched arms. He began to chant again in that foreign tongue. More black smoke arose from the gold and silver chalice. I covered my eyes with my arm, too terrified to witness this awful spectacle. I was convinced that I was about to die a horrible death.

  Suddenly, a white light enveloped the room. I looked up and was stunned to recognize the aged features of Father Nicolai, my friend and priest. He held a large Byzantine cross in his hands, and was pointing it at Ivan. I recognized the cross; it was usually attached to the wall of the chapel at the Eastern Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street in Hartford. In Father Nicolai’s hands, it seemed to glow with the very power of Christ. I felt a sense of warmth and safety as I regarded this cross.

  Ivan laughed at the sight of Father Nicolai. He lifted the enormous Samovar over his head, challenging the aged priest with its great power. “You are a fool, old man,” Ivan said with a sly grin. “Your gods are dead, now. I represent the New Order! Your Savior couldn’t even save himself,” Ivan mocked the elder man. He lifted the Samovar into the air, pointing it in Father Nicolai’s direction. Orange flames seemed to shoot out from the spout of the Samovar; they rose up, appearing to dance in the confined space of the room. Father Nicolai trembled, yet he somehow persevered, grasping the Eastern cross tightly and saying the Lord’s Prayer as he did so.

  Suddenly, the dancing flames seemed to change direction. They ignited in an explosion, blazing downwards toward Ivan Pavlovich. He was consumed by them in a matter of mere seconds. His large body was jerked up and it shook violently as he was engulfed in hellfire. Black smoke arose from the blaze; when it had finally cleared, there was nothing left of the man but sooty ashes.

  I ran toward Father Nicolai, and embraced him warmly. He rubbed my hand affectionately, comforting me with his kindness. I looked over his shoulder to see what had become of the Samovar. It had disappeared, perhaps forever. Maybe it was an organic part of 69 Keeney Avenue; I really didn’t care, just as long as the cursed thing was out of my sight.

  “How you get here, Father Nicolai?” I asked him in astonishment. I observed the door, remembering how difficult it had been for me to pass through the entryway. But then another question occurred to me: How had Harriet and Alexander made their way into the room? Neither of them had possessed the necklace, nor had Ivan. I scratched my head with wonder as I tried to make sense of it all.

  Father Nicolai patted my shoulder. He regarded me with paternal affection, his sad eyes moist with sympathy. “I know all about the necklace, Sonia,” he replied to my silent question. “But you see, you really didn’t need it to gain entry to the study of Vladimir Pavlovich. Ivan has been playing with your mind for quite some time. His special narcotics have made you susceptible to his suggestions. He drugged Alexander, and then Harriet dragged the boy into the room, right through that very entryway,” he pointed to the doorway.

  I was more confused than ever. “Why?” I inquired, my forehead wrinkling with the effort of thinking. “Why Mr. Ivan not just enter room and take Samovar? Why he needing Sonia Godunov to help him?” I asked in puzzlement.

  Father Nicolai sighed with frustration, as if he were struggling to speak to a child. I had never witnessed him do such a thing before; he was usually a very considerate, patient man. But, I was intent on discovering the secret to the mystery of 69 Keeney Avenue, and so I ignored this strange behavior.

  “This room is no ordinary study,” he declared. “It is a gateway to a certain other place. To gain ultimate knowledge, Vladimir Pavlovich had to bargain the one thing that someone should never bargain,” he shook his head sadly as he stated this.

  “His soul?” I asked naively. I still couldn’t believe that all of this was real. I felt that I must be dreaming the worst nightmare that I had ever experienced.

  Father Nicolai nodded his head in assent. He wore an odd smile on his face, one I had never seen on him, but remembered observing on someone else. “Father Nicolai learned this on that day long ago, the day Vladimir Pavlovich disappeared. You see, I didn’t tell you everything, Sonia,” Father Nicolai paused, appar
ently wishing to examine the look on my face. My eyes opened wide with bewilderment. Then, he smiled. There was no warmth in those eyes. Just coldness.

  “What you mean?” I asked with some hesitation. I was beginning to become uncomfortable in Father Nicolai’s presence. Something wasn’t right; I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I felt that something was wrong.

  “Vladimir betrayed his own master to Prince Yusupov,” Father Nicolai informed me. “He was at the scene of Rasputin’s assassination; he actually assisted in disposing of his body. As he dropped his former master into the river, Vladimir reached into the pocket of his cloak and stole the Romanov necklace. What was its worth to him? Not the millions of rubles to be gotten from selling it on the black market. No, it was linked to a far more valuable item.”

  “The Samovar!” I interjected.

  “Da, Sonia, the Samovar,’ he confirmed my guess. “A Romanov family heirloom, obtained from the Czarina. Of some sentimental value, to be sure; it had belonged to Czar Alexander III, after all. But its true merit lay in what Rasputin had stored in it. The culmination of his life’s work,” he declared.

  “I am not understanding,” I admitted. Father Nicolai seemed to grow impatient with me. “Foolish girl,” he growled. “Don’t you see? Rasputin connected all the dots! At Mount Atlas, he received the complete text of John the Apostle’s Revelations! He traveled to Jerusalem to compare the Greek and Aramaic scriptures. Rasputin took his newly-acquired knowledge to the Monastery of the Caves in Kiev, in order for him to unlock the secrets encrypted in the missing text of the Bible. By using a numerical Kabbalah code, he unraveled the secrets of the Apocalypse! The End of Days! Can’t you see?” he asked me.

  I began to back away from Father Nicolai. He seemed to have undergone some transformation. Gone was the kindly, gentle man who had been a father surrogate for me here in America. I didn’t recognize the lunatic that had replaced him, and was standing in front of me now, terrifying me with crazy talk.

  “Even Rasputin, an evil-doer with no fear, was afraid of what he had discovered in the text. Vladimir Pavlovich, his servant, was there the day Rasputin dared to read aloud from John’s scripture. The Eastern Orthodox chant, the ancient Jewish numerology; he combined them all with his reading of the forbidden words! When Rasputin had finished, a force arose from the ground, so horrible and dark that it appeared to come from Hell itself. A crevice opened up in the Earth, and a small, well-dressed man arose from the ashes wearing a smile on his suave face. He calmly told Rasputin that he was to receive certain knowledge of the future for his pains. He informed the black monk that he would soon die, a victim of a plot perpetrated by his friends and aided by his most trusted followers. He related to Rasputin how his patrons, the Romanovs, would soon be deposed in a revolution, then brutally executed. With much relish, he told him how his beloved Russia would soon suffer horribly under a brutal dictatorship and then collapse in ruin,” he informed me.

  Father Nicolai paused for a moment, observing my reaction to his strange story. He walked around me in a circle, nodding his head in an enigmatic fashion that I could swear I’d witnessed before now. But it hadn’t been Father Nicolai who had done it. The priest stopped a moment, rubbed his white beard and continued his narrative.

  “After he had made these predictions known to Rasputin, the well-dressed man pointed a finger at his Samovar, which had been displayed prominently on a shelf in his room. It floated in the air, until it came to rest at Rasputin’s feet. The stranger lifted his arms; as he did so, a black cloud arose from the pit. A horrible stench permeated the air, and as Vladimir looked through the haze, he could observe a pale horse. Its rider was named Death. He would grant whoever mastered the power of the Samovar the ability to kill everyone in the world. The rider and his horse then vanished into a cloud of smoke; this cloud of smoke then seemed to swirl into the spout of the Samovar. The well-dressed stranger promised Rasputin that whoever possessed the Samovar would also possess unlimited power. But with that power would be a price---eternal damnation.

  Father Nicolai regarded me with a hungry, almost lustful eye. I continued to back away from him, certain that he had lost his mind. But we were in a small room, the study of Vladimir Pavlovich, and I soon found myself pressed up against the wooden desk, unable to escape.

  “Don’t you see, Sonia?” his voice was becoming more and more agitated. “That fool Ivan didn’t understand the true nature of the Samovar. He thought it would give him power over men, just as Vladimir had believed. But owning the Samovar was a curse. The Pavlovich men who possessed it were all damned. Vladimir, Peter, and Ivan as well,” he informed me.

  I turned my gaze away from him, frightened by the change in him. Father Nicolai reached over and gently stroked my face. Then he suddenly grabbed me by the hair, yanking it hard. I screamed with a combination of shock and pain.

  “Foolish peasant girl!” he unexpectedly shouted. “You will soon understand, da? The night Rasputin was murdered Vladimir retreated to his own home bearing both the necklace and the Samovar, which he had stolen from his master. He hid both in a trunk and then took on the disguise of a hated Jew. Thus, he was able to escape Russia with his valuable possessions intact and immigrate to America, free of suspicion. He came to the town of West Hartford, in Connecticut, with his Ukrainian wife Elizabeth in tow. The Samovar he stored here in this study. However, its curse followed him to the New World, haunting him to the day he vanished. Vladimir never dared to attempt to utilize its full powers; he became insane with the forbidden knowledge of its true nature,” he said.

  Father Nicolai’s eyes seemed to glow red in the dark room. Though it was warm in the stuffy study, his breath seemed to form little clouds in front of his scruffy mouth. There was something almost sinister about this man that I had grown to love and respect these past weeks.

  Father Nicolai continued to speak. “On the day of his disappearance, Peter confronted his father, demanding to know the reason for his brutal treatment of his family. Vladimir told his son everything. For the first time, he revealed the hidden Samovar; he confided to Peter the details of his pact with the Devil. Vladimir commanded his only son to honor the covenant he had made with the Dark Lord, and to protect the Samovar. But, unbeknownst to Vladimir, Peter had already spied on his father. He had witnessed the rituals that his father had performed, learning all of the ancient spells that he had used. Peter now chanted one of these spells; suddenly, the floor opened up to reveal a deep crevice in the ground. Vladimir Pavlovich was dragged into a dark pit screaming with terror. The crevice closed up, as if there had never been any crack in the floor. Vladimir had vanished forever,” the priest informed me.

  “Peter Pavlovich now possessed the Samovar,” he continued. “He jealously hid it in the same room, damning his own soul as his father had before him. Peter was to discover one more thing about the Samovar. Only a woman with a pure heart could allow one to access it. Anyone could enter the study; Ivan tricked you with the illusion of the necklace opening the door. Why did he need you so badly, then? He could have seized the Samovar with his own hands. However, Ivan knew that without the presence of a woman with a pure soul, the Samovar was nothing more than a tea kettle. That was why Peter needed Catherine, and why Ivan needed you for his evil purpose.”

  Unexpectedly, Alexander appeared from out of the shadows. He threw himself at Father Nicolai, yanking him hard by his shoulders. I was thrown to the floor in the struggle.

  “How dare you mention my parents, you false priest,” he said angrily. “They died many years ago, in a fire. What do you know of Peter Pavlovich? You were no friend to him, to betray his secrets!” Alexander accused the priest.

  Father Nicolai had considerable strength for someone so old. As Alexander struggled to subdue him, the old man pulled free of his grip. He grabbed Alexander forcefully by the neck, tightening his fingers around his throat until the younger man began to choke.

  “Alexander!” I cried out. I quickly rose to my feet and then
leaped at Father Nicolai in order to help Alexander. I clawed at his face and hair, pulling at his gray locks and beard. To my surprise, a wig came off in my hands. I staggered back in shock, regarding the man in front of me with stunned eyes. I instantly realized that this person was not Father Nicolai.

  He was Nicholas Pavlovich.

  Nicholas threw his younger brother to the floor. He regarded me with a look of pure triumph. I returned his gaze with my own, one of complete bewilderment. Nicholas ripped off the fake beard that he had worn on his chin, and wiped make-up off of his face. I couldn’t believe that he had succeeded in fooling me with this charade.

  “Surprised, Sonia?’ he taunted me. Oh, but you shouldn’t be! Did Harriet neglect to inform you that in college I was an actor? My favorite part to play was that of Faust’s Mephistopheles. It was a role that I was well suited for,” he smirked.

  I regained my ability to speak, though my tongue still felt like sandpaper. “Where…where is being real Father Nicolai?” I demanded.

  I took a good look at Nicholas Pavlovich. It was him alright. There was no mistaking the round face, slightly-bent nose, and the stooped over figure. I couldn’t understand why I had failed to recognize him before now. How could I ever have mistaken him for Father Nicolai? However, his eyes were now different. Before they had seemed watery and lifeless; they now sparkled with malice and evil intent. They seemed to contain a fire in them that burned red with passion.

  “Oh, Father Nicolai,” he said in a light, mocking tone. “Well, the good priest was always so eager to help. He visited this house one afternoon, concerned for your well-being. I convinced him that you were in no danger here at 69 Keeney Avenue. Apparently, he believed that you were on that local bridge in the dead of night. He rushed over there, determined to save your life. I was nice enough to lend him my hat and coat, seeing as it was chilly. Apparently, Ivan mistook him for me; it was after all, a dusky evening,” Nicholas smiled.

  I sank to my knees in despair. “Father Nicolai…no!” I cried.

  Nicholas approached me stealthily. I could now see that his walk was truly that of a leopard. His body movements suggested cunning, craftiness, and deviousness. He was the antithesis of his brother Ivan. You would never hear Nicholas’s roar. He would devour you before you even heard his footsteps in the jungle.

  “Da, Sonia,” Nicholas said, his head tilted to one side. “Father Nicolai was an unfortunate casualty in the war between Ivan and me. In the end, there can be only one beast,” he declared. He crossed his arms, shaking his balding head with sadness. “Ivan used a particular sickle that night. It was one I believe you are well-acquainted with, a sharp farming tool. He hoped to kill me with it. Instead, he murdered an innocent Eastern Orthodox priest. Bad form, really,” he lamented.

  Hot tears came to my eyes. “He was planting sickle with blood on it in kitchen,” I said with outrage. “Monster trying to frame me,” I declared.

  Nicholas slowly circled around me, much as he had that first day we had met. He nodded his head in the same enigmatic fashion. “Yes…you will do, Sonia Godunov,” he informed me. “You are kind, but strong as well. I am very glad you came to 69 Keeney Avenue. However, you are mistaken concerning one thing,” he said. “Ivan didn’t plant that sickle in the kitchen for Paulie Dante to find. I did,” he corrected me.

  I pulled on my earlobe. I couldn’t help it at this point. I was too distraught to control my actions. “Why,” I asked him. “Why are you doing this? You are wanting me in prison?” I demanded of him.

  Nicholas laughed in response. “Don’t talk like an ignorant peasant, Sonia,” he said. “That fool Dante was my puppet. That sickle was for Ivan and Harriet’s benefit, not yours. I disrupted their plans, forcing Ivan to push you prematurely. He manipulated your mind with his drugs, making you believe that the necklace was possessed of some magical power. Ivan did understand that he needed you in the presence of the Samovar to utilize its powers, just as our father Peter had needed our mother Catherine. But, you are in this room because I wished it so. All this has been for your benefit, Sonia. You are the star of this play,” he declared.

  Alexander regained his feet. He stuck a finger in his older brother’s chest. “How dare you insult the memory of Father and Mother?” he demanded of him. “This was their home! We were brought up to respect God, not to utter blasphemies against Him! You are betraying everything that our parents stood for,” he accused his brother.

  For a second, Nicholas regarded Alexander with something akin to pity. But then, a hard, ruthless look appeared in his eyes. He shoved his younger brother hard against their grandfather Vladimir’s desk. Alexander crashed into it, collapsing with the broken chair entangled around his body. He seemed momentarily stunned, not just by the blow, but by his usually complacent brother’s violence.

  “Young fool!” Nicholas shouted down at Alexander’s prostrate body. His face was animated with emotion. “You know nothing of our parents. Peter Pavlovich yearned for the power and the glory that the Samovar represented. He knew that after his father Vladimir had activated it by invoking Rasputin’s forbidden chant, no man could touch it alone without being consumed my hellfire. He needed a pure, untainted soul to gain access to it’sdeepest mysteries,” he informed us.

  “How are you knowing this?” I asked in dismay.

  Nicholas seemed to burn with pride. His usually placid features became animated; he took on a confident, almost arrogant manner. He rubbed his chin with gusto, as if he wore a beard there instead of a flabby white chin. Nicholas began to pace back and forth with nervous energy. For a moment, I thought he might take a quick peek at his watch.

  Nicholas addressed himself to my question. “On the day our parents died, I secretly followed Mother to Grandfather Vladimir’s study. She had requested that I remain in the rose garden, but I didn’t obey her wish on this occasion. For you see, I felt that something was wrong. Before departing from the garden, Mother stopped and turned for a moment. She had a peaceful, resigned look in her eyes. Little Alexander was safe at Aunt Harriet’s place in another part of town. Ivan was gone that day as well, probably off cheating his friends at cards. Mother’s face haunted me for the rest of my life. She bore the look of a martyr, one about to sacrifice herself. She walked steadily with purpose toward the house. Then she opened the door to the little front porch and disappeared,” Nicholas related.

  He paused for a moment, as if the memory continued to haunt him. But then he continued. “I stalked her step, careful not to make a sound. I followed her up the narrow stairs, past the white stucco walls into the blackness of the upstairs hallway. I couldn’t see her clearly; I was just able to make out an impression of her body. She had paused in front of the door to Grandfather’s study. We were strictly forbidden to enter this room, though the order was unnecessary. Neither of us had the courage to venture into that mysterious room. As my gaze became accustomed to the dark, I suddenly realized that Mother was not alone. A pair of red eyes shone in the blackness. I didn’t understand why, but somehow I knew that those eyes were those of Father. He was undoubtedly leading Mother into danger. I attempted to get closer to them, but a sudden sense of dread made my body feel like lead. Then, I heard the strange voice from the darkness.”

  “I peered into the dusk, and realized that my parents had gained entry to the study. I hadn’t heard the sound of the door opening or closing, but as I crawled toward the entrance I could see that they were gone. I painfully made my way to the door, fear making my knees feel like jelly. Then, I saw the thing that I had feared most. It was the green, three-pointed clay face that guarded the entrance to the study. It seemed alive to me, like some demon from the underworld. But, I couldn’t be certain if it wasn’t my terror that was causing me to witness this horror. I thought that I could hear the strange voice in my head, demanding that I pay the toll to enter the room. I was alarmed, unsure of what my next move should be. I felt the urge to run screaming down the hall, away from the ghastly figurine. But t
hen, I remembered something that I had read in the past. It was an excerpt from a book belonging to my father. It was in ancient Greek, and it translated into these cryptic words: ‘But as for you, Daniel, shut up the words and seal the scroll until the end of time.’ The clay figure seemed to smile, and I was able to open the door and enter the room unchallenged,” Nicholas said.

  He paused for a moment, licking his lips and observing our reactions to his tale. I regarded him with horror and loathing. He smiled, the glassy look seeming to return briefly to his eyes. Then he continued. “By the time I entered the study, Father appeared to have been successful in his effort to obtain the Samovar by using my mother. It rested on this very platform, shining as brightly in the haze as a brass instrument on a sunny day. Father was chanting in some ancient foreign tongue; he had an insane look in his eye, as if he had been driven mad. His arms were extended upwards as he repeated the chants. Suddenly, clouds of red and black smoke arose from the Samovar. Unexpectedly, a beast materialized from the smoke; he was more hideous and misshapen then any creature I had ever seen before. The beast had seven heads and ten horns, a foul-smelling thing that hissed with its every unnatural breath. My father placed my mother upon the back of this creature, as if it were no different than a horse. She was wearing a purple and scarlet dress, adorned with gold and pearls. She held a golden cup in her hands. And then, I witnessed the most horrible sight of all. Upon her forehead was written the name ‘Mystery of Babylon.’ It had been written in blood, though I couldn’t determine whose blood it was. Father shouted, saying that his wife was the mother of all whores and would abominate the Earth. He snatched the cup from her hands and drank from it. It was blood that he drank; he smiled and dropped the cup on the floor, resuming his chanting.”

  “The room hummed. I saw locusts flying around the room, banging into the walls and falling down dead. A foul stench arose in the room, sour and pungent. I was filled with the urge to vomit. I ran to my mother and wrapped my arms around her, attempting to protect her. My father pushed me away violently. I turned on him, pulling an object from my coat pocket. It was a cross. This very cross,” Nicholas indicated the one he still held in one hand. “I stole it from that church on Scarborough Street then, as I did now,” he said proudly, lifting up the cross so that Alexander and I could get a better look at it.

  Then Nicholas Pavlovich continued his story. “My father laughed at me,” he said. “My father challenged me, asking ‘What kind of good Jewish boy comes bearing crosses?’ But his laughter stopped when he got a closer look at the cross. All of the color left his face; he was suddenly as white as a ghost. My father began to back away, crashing into the red platform in his confusion, and almost knocking over the precious Samovar. I repeated the words that I had learned from the New Testament, a book that I had been forbidden to read. I said, ‘Whoever rejects Jesus Christ will be blotted from the Book of Life.’ Suddenly, smoke and fire arose from the spout of the Samovar. Devilish spirits flew from it, encircling my father and covering him with their foul dust. He screamed, reaching out to my mother in desperation. My mother tore herself from my grasp, reaching out a hand to her beloved husband. They touched fingers for the last time, the tips just barely making contact. Then they were both consumed by massive flames. I had to shield my eyes from the huge conflagration. When the smoke had cleared my father and mother were dead. I had lost them forever,” Nicholas related with sadness in his countenance.

  “No! You lie!” Alexander screamed at his older brother. He charged at him, throwing his lean young body against the pudgy body of Nicholas. His brother lifted his arm into the air. Some strange unseen force threw Alexander against a table. He collapsed to the floor, apparently unconscious. I turned to rush to his aid, but was stopped by the iron grip of Nicholas. He pulled me violently, seeming to be even stronger than his late brother Ivan. He dragged me to the Russian Samovar, forcing me to kneel in front of it, as if I were at Church praying. I tried to lift my head and spit at him, but my dry mouth had no moisture left in it.

  “Yes, Sonia,” he said with a sadistic smile. “You will do! You are the pure girl that I need to control the Samovar. You will be my Black Virgin Mary! You represent the ardent search for the soul. Only those who learn the nature of God can understand suffering. And you understand; I saw that in your eyes that first day you came to this house. I will use you, Sonia Godunov, just as my father Peter attempted to use my mother that horrible day years ago,” he declared.

  “But why?’ I asked him in a pleading voice, hot tears running down my red flushed cheeks. “Why you do this? Why repeat father’s mistakes?” I begged of him. Nicholas raised his hands to the ceiling in response. Streams of black liquid flowed impossibly from his eyes, ears, and mouth. Then, he spoke in his leopard voice:

  “It is my destiny. We Pavlovich men have been biding our time for this very moment. You are the harlot, Sonia. You will help me to build a temple in the land of Babylon. The nations of the world will be deceived by us, then become enslaved by my sorcery. On the plains of Armageddon , the final battle will be fought. All the cities in the world will be destroyed,” he announced, his eyes red with passion.

  I stared at him, dumfounded. Nicholas lifted the graying brown hair right off of his head, revealing a skull that was as bald and shiny as his brother Ivan’s had been. And then I saw something horrifying. I blinked my eyes to ensure that I wasn’t imagining what I was seeing. But it was there, right on his scalp. The number 666. And then I finally understood.

  “No!” I screamed. I tried to avert my eyes from the mortifying sight. Nicholas laughed; he then began to stalk me like an animal he had cornered. He reached out his hand toward me. His fingers were claws, ugly and sharp. He smelled of death itself. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I covered my face with my hands.

  But then, something strange happened. A white light appeared from the ceiling. Roses began to fall steadily upon the floor. A wonderful aroma, like that of fresh flowers, permeated the tiny study. I suddenly observed an image materializing in the center of the room. It was a pale young girl with milky-white skin and ivory-blonde hair. She wore an equally white sweater and skirt. It was Becky.

  And she was smiling.

  “Becky!” I called out. I wanted to run to her side. But Nicholas quickly grabbed me by the wrist, his fingers tightening so hard that I cried out in pain. He grabbed my other wrist and roughly spun my body around to face the ghostly apparition in front of us.

  “Run home little girl, before you get hurt,” he taunted Becky. He scowled, but I could tell from his increased rate of breathing that he was alarmed. His leopard voice slightly broke as he spoke, his confidence shaken a bit.

  “You should never have left the Rose Garden, Nicholas Pavlovich,” she replied. “Someone needs to protect the roses,” she calmly said.

  Nicholas roared with laughter. It was a repulsive sound, like some kind of sick hyena. He pointed one of his claws in the direction of Becky.

  “I know what happened to you,” he told her with a smirk. “My grandfather Vladimir caught you snooping around his yard. So he broke your little neck for you,” he said with relish.

  I stared at Becky. Her paleness, the mysteriousness surrounding her. It all made sense to me now. I was grief-stricken. “No, little Becky…no,” I pleaded. She regarded me with those beautiful sad eyes of hers. Then she suddenly smiled and waved at me.

  “Thank you for teaching me how to cook,” she said. Her voice sounded faint, as if she were calling out to me from far away. “I really did enjoy the bird’s milk cake,” she added.

  Becky lifted a ghostly hand. Unexpectedly, she appeared to be astride a large white horse. And she was not alone. A tall, thin man was holding her by the waist; he sat behind her on the horse, seeming to protect her as she waved once more to me. The man had a kind face; he smiled at me as I observed the two of them upon the beautiful animal. I couldn’t help smiling back at him he seemed so gentle and nice. The horse spun around, then disappeared in
to the mist that enveloped it.

  From the floor, a crevice suddenly opened up. It was as if an earthquake had torn the ground apart, creating a large, dark pit. An odd noise arose from this crevice. It was soft and musical, like some tender lullaby. It captivated me, making me feel like I was in some sort of trance. I wanted very much to go into the pit and meet the source of the music.

  Nicholas released his grip on my wrists. He remained silent, simply ambling over to the large hole in the floor. He paused at the edge, as if he too were in some kind of trance, unable to control his movements. Then he looked back at me and smiled. But his eyes weren’t smiling. They were like they had always been, glassy and dead.

  “That picture in the living room, Sonia,” he said, quietly and sadly. “It is Russia. A mighty river going nowhere, with a rickety old bridge across it,” he said with sadness in his voice. Then something impossible happened before my eyes. The top half of his body fell off, like a Matryoshka doll. From within the hollow exterior of Nicholas emerged a dark-haired, bearded man. He resembled Ivan Pavlovich, but was somewhat older and more sinister. He glowered at me with a look of pure hatred. I suddenly realized that I was regarding the soul of Vladimir Pavlovich. Then the man unexpectedly evaporated, his smoky remains blowing down into the pit and disappearing.

  This was too much. I collapsed upon the dusty, wooden floor. I immediately lost consciousness.