A Ghost Story

If you’ve died, become a ghost, and don’t know what to do to find peace, then don’t gather a gang of other ghosts around yourself and try to get what you want that way. It’s possible—and even quite likely—that you’ll end up in an awkward situation even in the mystical afterlife. That’s exactly what happened to the ghost of the Cardiff giant.

I rented an apartment in the very center of Broadway, in a huge old building; its upper floors had been empty for many years before I moved in. It was a kingdom of dust and cobwebs, loneliness and silence. On the very first evening, as I climbed the stairs, I felt embarrassed and timid, as if I were wandering among graves and disturbing the peace of the dead. For the first time in my life, a superstitious fear crept into my soul, and when I turned into a dark corner of the stairwell and an invisible cobweb wrapped my face like a sticky veil, I shuddered as though I’d encountered a ghost.

When I finally reached my rooms, I felt relief—I locked the door with a key and shut myself off from the grave-like gloom. In the fireplace, the fire crackled cheerfully, and I could feel with my whole being the bliss and calm. Two hours passed; I remembered past times, images of old days rose before me, half-forgotten faces emerged from the fog of the past, voices long silenced sounded again—songs that now no one sings. My dreams grew ever more foggy and sad, and that’s why the howling wind outside sounded like plaintive crying, while the rain, furiously drumming on the windowpane, now seemed to tap softly and gloomily. One by one, the sounds of the street died away; somewhere in the distance, the steps of the last passerby stopped. Complete silence set in. It was only broken by the pounding of my heart.

Suddenly, my blanket began to slowly slide down, as if someone were pulling it toward my feet. I couldn’t move. The blanket kept slipping away; soon my chest was exposed. With all my strength, I clutched it and pulled it over my head. And again I waited, listened, and waited. A jerk. For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, I lay frozen with terror—the blanket was slipping. Gathering all my strength, I yanked it toward myself and held it as tightly as I could. Feeling a slight tug, I squeezed my fingers until it hurt. But the blanket was being pulled harder and harder, and I couldn’t keep it. On the third time, it ended up on the floor at my feet. I moaned. A moan answered.

Drops of sweat appeared on my forehead. Life was barely still in me, and suddenly I heard heavy footsteps—not a human shuffle, but something like the pounding of an elephant. To my great relief, the steps were moving away. Someone approached the door, left without opening the lock and bolt, and went on through the dark corridors. The floors and beams creaked, then silence returned once more.