Sinful angel, my angel!
Take me with you.
Take me home--
There's a hideout.

Over the wide river,
Above the flowing water
Sing me a song,
Calm down.

That grief is not a problem,
That there is always hope,
And there's no harm in telling lies
Sometimes.

That it's coming soon, brother!
We'll arrive at the marvellous city,
Where everyone is welcome
Straight to hell!

---

Tell me, angel of darkness,
About broken dreams
And the white trail of fate
Aft.

Tell me how betrayed you are,
How they lie in the eyes of those they love.
And what colour is the blood
Jude's.

Is it nice in hell?
All right, I'll come round sometime.
I'll drop by,
I will.

Are you in a hurry? Well, goodbye.
But don't forget!
At least visit once in a while.
Come!

---

The breeze whispered -
The angel of light has flown in.
Standing over my shoulder
And silent.

Well, say something!
Recommend a holiday
Give me good luck.
Wish!

How tired I am, my angel,
From the road from the earth!.
From labour and from care,
From adversity.

I have sinned... But, well!
There's no going back.
You better go back to heaven.
And goodbye.

A breeze whispered,
A dark angel flew in.
Behind the other shoulder stands
And silent.

Jack

1.

Fyodor, exhausted for the day, sat without moving on a rickety folding chair by the faintly smouldering fire, gazing enchantedly at its slowly flickering reddish embers and selflessly fighting sleep. His eyes were drooping. I wanted to sleep fiercely. I wanted to get up now, get to the tent, crawl into it, plop down on the inflatable mattress and fall asleep immediately! Well, the mosquitoes are only to be killed in the tent first. However, on this warm July evening there were almost no mosquitoes.

Fyodor felt that in a little while he would do just that. Right now he would go to the tent, unzip it....

He shook his head and stood up sharply, jerkily (the chair toppled over). He staggered over to a washstand hanging from a nearby tree, bent over slightly and began to wash himself. A few handfuls of cold water in his face and he was almost fully conscious. He still wanted to sleep, however. But there was no way he could sleep. He still had to go to check the bottoms.

Did he come here to sleep or to fish? You can sleep at home. Or tomorrow afternoon. There's plenty of time. It's hot in the daytime anyway, nothing to do. And if I don't go now, I'm sure the bait will be gone by tomorrow. Did I fish for nothing? And maybe I've caught one on the dongs, so I'll have to take it off. I haven't checked all day! Anyway, we have to go. We have to go! Don't dawdle!

With these cheerful thoughts, Fyodor picked up a bucket of bait and began to walk slowly down the path to the water. Jack, a huge black dog, who had been sleeping by the fire, immediately woke up, jumped up and ran beside him.

Fyodor went to his rubber boat, put a bucket on the grass and pushed the boat into the water. There was no wind, and the boat stood motionless at the shore. Fyodor returned for the bucket and, holding it carefully in his hand, stepped carefully into the boat with one foot. He sat down, balancing on the soft side (damn! I must pump it up; all right, later), waited until Jack jumped into the boat, and pushed off the shore with his other foot. Immediately he sat down, swaying slightly, on the wooden bench (Jack was watching him closely), clasped the bucket with his feet to keep it from tipping over, put the oars into the water, and began to row leisurely.

There was almost no current, so it was easy to row. The boat was hardly drifting at all. The moon was shining brightly, and everything was clearly visible.

Fyodor quickly crossed the river, which was not wide in this place, and sailed into a familiar shallow sandy bay. The boat bumped gently against the gentle shore. Fyodor stood up and, although it was quite quiet, first threw a heavy stone tied to the bow of the boat onto the sand. Just in case. To keep the boat from being swept away. (Or you might move away, and then the wind would pick up).

Then he picked up the bucket of bait and stepped over the side and went ashore. Jack, who had jumped out earlier, hovered close by. Fyodor, with his free hand, carelessly pulled the empty boat slightly onto the sand, patted his pockets (so!... a knife... a bag for fish, - hm! «for fish»! - line... sinkers... hooks... - everything seemed to be in place) and walked to the right along the shore; to the place where he had set up a few fishing poles since morning.

«Which one to start with? The near one or the far one? I'll start with the near one! - he quickly decided to himself. - I'll stretch my pleasure at the same time.

It was quite a long way to the far bottom. Fyodor was finally in full swing, his sleep was gone, his mood was great.

Quiet, warm, almost no mosquitoes. Full moon, not a cloud in the sky.

Oh, my God! How many stars! The whole sky is covered with them. What's that smell? Grass? Earth? Night!

Admiring the stars, looking around curiously, breathing in the fresh night air, Fyodor didn't notice how he got there.

What, already? That was fast. I thought it was further. Yes, there's a familiar rakita tree... Is it this one?..? Yes, that's it, the trunk is split, now there should be another grave with a fence on the left - did someone drown here? - Aha! Here it is, and right around the corner there will be bushes where the last dunk is.

These? Or those over there? Well... let's see... No, those ones after all... Strange, I thought I put them here... Why didn't I put them here then? It's a good place... Alright, we'll put it there now... We've got bait... Or tomorrow? So we don't have to work overnight? You'll get confused. All right, I'll put it up tomorrow. Don't forget... Well, I won't forget...

So, here are our bushes... Where's our fishing pole?... Aha! Here it is, our fishing pole. So, what do we have here? I see. We don't have a damn thing. What about the bait? There's a live one. Fresh and vigorous. It's a tiger, not a bait! Well, well... let's see... No one touched you, brother... Well, go on then, have another swim....

Strange... The Pit, sort of... Yep... The beginning, to put it bluntly....

Jack! Stay out of the way! You can't!

Oh, well, that's okay. We'll just consider it a first pancake. Heh-heh-heh.

Let's see now how the second one is... Ta-kay... And it's empty! Very nice! However. It's about time someone got caught. Walking around, walking around.

Get off me, Jack! Stay out of this! You're out of here.

So... the bait is eaten... What teeth! What kind of crocodile lives here? Well, it's already good... It's already wonderful... We'll catch this crocodile....

Get away from me! Ew!

That's it. That's it. That's it. All right, swim. Here we go. Okay, that's great. That's good. That's good. Masterful throw! Mas-ter-ter. Same spot.

Come on, crocodile, wait! Shit! My hands are shaking with excitement!

Well, well, well, well, well, well, well! Well, where's our next bait? Oh, yes... There's nothing else here... Around the corner is our next snorkel... Over there. Right in front of the grave with our dear drowned man.

I wonder if he's scaring away the fish in here. When he swims at night? They're supposed to swim at night during the full moon. Or do they come out of the water? Out of the grave! Well, it doesn't matter... They come out... They swim... The main thing is that they splash and scare the fish. Maybe I shouldn't have put the bottom here in the first place? And maybe that's why I didn't get a bite on the two previous ones? That this damned drowned man scared away all the fish...? Especially since it's a full moon... Yes! And then who bit all the bait on the second dunk? Drowned too?.

Jack grumbled.

Fyodor turned his head, shuddered and stopped. With an instantaneous half-conscious feeling of horror that seized him all over, he suddenly saw by the light of the moon that someone was sitting on the grave. His heart sank, his thoughts were cut short.

Somehow he realised who it was all at once quite clearly. He could neither realise nor explain to himself the nature of this certainty, but he did not need to. He just knew. He knew, that's all.

It was as if he recognised something, remembered something. Something long familiar, but then firmly forgotten.

It was as if some dark and gloomy memory of his ancestors, which had been deeply dormant at the very bottom of his soul, had suddenly awakened, as if some dam had burst inside, and the blind, draughty and viscous cold horror that was now flooding him, his whole being to its very edges, was rapidly eroding all the reserved, age-old and ancient barriers and protections in his soul; and he, chillingly, recognised that still somewhat elusive inhuman posture - the icy, frozen stiffness and immobility of the ghoul that had just come out of the grave; and that unbelievably bright and dead light of the huge full moon hanging in the sky; and....

As if he had seen and experienced all this once before... Once upon a time, long ago... In some other, different life... It was as if all this had already happened to him once before... Somewhere out there... In the past... Far away... In the dark, gloomy and bottomless past....

He was suddenly flooded with dreams or memories. The memory suddenly whirled and whirled with scraps and pieces of some wild, strange and terrible events.

The procession... bells... singing... candles... candles... candles... the stern faces of the priests... candles again... the coffin... the shroud... the dead man's arms folded on his chest... his unnaturally fresh, repulsively ruddy face with sharply marked, brightly flaming poison-red and nasty-moist lips... here they lower the coffin... bury it... blood!!!!. blood-blood-blood-blood!... much, much blood!... coffins!... coffins... a dead child with its throat torn open... a naked, tortured corpse of a girl lying flat... more blood... more coffins... more... more... empty, extinct villages... more blood... and finally, as a summation of everything, a drumbeat... dancing torchlight... an aspen stake... a roaring mob tearing up the grave....

It's all happened before. It was, it was, it was... And it was right here, on this very spot. A long, long time ago... A long, long, long time ago... A long, long, long time ago....

But it was over then! It's gone.

And now, today, it's happening all over again. Like some terrible, nightmarish dream. When you fall and fall into some slowly rotating, grey abyss that pulls you in, and you want to scream, to wake up, but you can't.

It wasn't over then. It wasn't over. The sorcerer has returned.

The ghoul raised his head sharply. Fyodor felt that he was covered with sticky sweat, his legs were buckling, and a soft, nasty and nauseating weakness was spreading all over his body. He was literally chilled with maddening fear. There was a monstrous emptiness in his heart. The feeling of terror became physically intolerable.

He already knew in advance from somewhere what was going to happen next. Now the dead man would get up and move towards him, and under his empty and fierce gaze he, Fyodor, would not be able to run away, or scream, or even move. He would just stand frozen and wait, helplessly. Wait and watch. Look and wait... God!....

The corpse stood up. His shroud looked dirty grey in the moonlight. Bony and skinny yellow bare feet were visible from beneath the shroud. The long arms, with the curled fingers bent inward, seemed clawed, like the paws of some gigantic, hideous bird of prey.

Fyodor closed his eyes. His whole body shook with a coarse shiver, cold sweat poured down his face. He couldn't, didn't want to look. But the thought that the ghoul would grab him right now! Right this very second, when he couldn't see him! made him shudder with revulsion. He opened his eyes again.

The sorcerer was already very close by. He seemed to be walking smoothly and leisurely, but somehow incredibly fast.

Time stopped for Fyodor. One step... one more step... Now!..!!.

And at that moment Jack jumped. Fyodor caught the edge of his eye, and the next instant a snarling and shrieking ball of two bodies, human and dog, rolled on the ground.

Fyodor stared at him dumbly for a while, then clumsily turned round, and on stiff legs, without thinking about anything else, he ran. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster. As he moved away from the grave, his strength returned to him, and the last few metres he was literally flying.

Here was the boat! Forgetting about the stone tied to the bow, Fyodor jumped into it and began rowing feverishly. He had probably never rowed like that in his life. The stone followed the boat along the bottom and clung to everything, but Fyodor did not notice anything. He paddled and paddled as hard as he could.

Suddenly a fish splashed loudly in the distance. Fyodor suddenly thought that it was a drowned man chasing him, and he was terrified and started paddling even faster.

As soon as the boat finally touched the shore, Fyodor jumped out of it and, not remembering himself and not seeing the road, rushed to the car.

In about ten minutes he was already speeding along an empty motorway. At one of the turns, Fyodor lost control and flew into the oncoming lane. The motorway was deserted, there were practically no cars at that hour, but this episode had a sobering effect on him. He slowed down sharply and drove on, trying to come to his senses and calm down somehow. He pressed the key of the car radio with a jumping finger. The music purred quietly and affectionately in the cabin.

It was beginning to dawn. The summer nights were short, and the day was quickly coming to an end.

There was a traffic police post ahead. The sight of a sleepy and indifferent policeman standing by the roadside encouraged Fyodor somewhat.

Music... people... brightly lit post... All the night events somehow faded, blurred, moved away and in the cosy cabin of the car, under the soft enveloping sounds of music whispering about something of their own, began to seem somehow distant and unreal, as if they did not happen to him at all.

«Maybe I was dreaming or imagining the whole thing... - he thought, and he remembered it all at once again: the night... the moon... the nightmarish white spot outside the fence... - It just couldn't be! It's crazy! The living dead!»

Fyodor suddenly felt that he was beginning to shiver again, and sweat was beading on his forehead. He hurriedly pressed the button of the tape recorder. That's it... Louder!.. louder!.. louder!.. even louder!..!.

It helped.

«Shit! I've got to stop and think about this,» he decided, turning the sound down again, barely calming down and occasionally still flinching reflexively. - Where am I really going?"

Fyodor turned round and slowly drove back. A little before reaching the post, he pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the engine. He felt more confident around people.

Fyodor watched the post mindlessly for a while, then finally relaxed and leaned back in his seat.

«Gotta think it over,» he repeated sluggishly to himself and closed his eyes.

2.

When Fyodor woke up, the day was in full swing. There was a steady stream of cars flowing along the motorway in both directions, people scurrying along the roadside. The inspectors at the checkpoint were checking the documents of a lorry driver standing next to them. In general, life went on as usual.

Fyodor yawned, stretched and got out of the car, stretching his legs. It was a bright, sunny day, birds were chirping in the woods by the motorway, people were going about their business, but it was as if all this was slipping by, beside him, outside him. It was as if he were looking at it all from outside, from some cold, gloomy, damp cellar or basement.

The heavy and hopeless feeling of dread and longing that had been lurking inside didn't go away. It had simply shifted now, temporarily, somewhere deep inside. Reluctantly it retreated, hiding from the sun's too bright rays. But it hadn't gone anywhere. It was here, close by. The icy thin crust of fear on his heart had not melted. He didn't dare to remember the night before.

Most of all he wanted to get into the car now, immediately, and drive away as fast as possible, away from this cursed place, back to Moscow.

In the meantime, we had to get back.

Firstly, I felt sorry for my things: the tent, the boat - everything was still there. («Maybe to hell with them, with the things? - suddenly suddenly flashed through his mind. - To hell with them!»)

And secondly, Jack. He couldn't leave him again! He'd already betrayed him once by cowardly running away, and now he was going to leave him in the woods? To thank him for saving him. Maybe he's hurt. Maybe he needs help.

Anyway, how can you leave him? He can't survive alone in the woods. He's a friend! How can you abandon a friend?!

We should have gone.

(«Or maybe I should quit...? - Suddenly he thought again, cowardly, and was surprised at his own meanness. - To sit down right now and leave! What «friend»!... I betrayed him. How will I look him in the eye now?... That's not the point. I can't go back there! I can't go back there.)

Fyodor hesitated and looked longingly at the sky. The sun was still high, but noon had clearly passed. It was at least two or three o'clock. He had to do something immediately. It would take a while to get there... It would take a while to pack... And Jack might still have to be found. (At the thought that it would be necessary, perhaps, to cross to the other side again, Fyodor shuddered, but he immediately by an effort of will forced himself not to think about it for the time being. We'll see there. We'll sort it out on the spot.)

It was late, of course, but Fyodor was not going to wait for darkness under any circumstances. This he knew to himself quite firmly. No way in hell! Even if he had to abandon and betray everyone and everything! Yes, he simply could not bring himself to do it. Even if he wanted to. It's just beyond him. He can't even think about it!

In general, it was necessary to go as quickly as possible. Fyodor already knew he was going, so there was nothing to delay. The sooner it was over, the better.

He resolutely got into the car and switched on the ignition. The engine rumbled obediently.

So... There's enough petrol... We should go... Or maybe we shouldn't go after all...? А?.. We have to go! We have to go. We must, we must, we must, we must! That's it! Stop talking! Let's go. What am I, like a woman!

Fyodor switched on his left indicator and carefully moved off. Without hurrying, according to all the rules of the road, he passed the traffic police (the policeman did not pay the slightest attention to him) and, gradually picking up speed, moved back.

The closer he got to his parking place, the heavier he felt. All the fears of the night had come alive inside him and were bursting out. Almost all his strength was now spent in trying not to give in to them.

The last kilometres were particularly hard. The urge to immediately turn round and leave - leave! leave!!! - had become almost unbearable.

He could only bring himself to drive over the bridge with both hands on the steering wheel and without looking round. When he glanced carelessly at the river as he entered, he was so terrified that he almost crashed into the guardrail, immediately attempting to turn round on the bridge. He did not make that mistake again, nor did he dare to look up. Just slowly and thoughtlessly followed a lorry with local licence plates that was barely dragging ahead of him and stared at its dirty wheels. Just the wheels! Just the wheels! He clutched the steering wheel frantically, his eyes downcast, looking at nothing else around him.

In fact, he could already sense that something was going wrong. He shouldn't have come back here. He shouldn't have done that.

(«Leave! Leave this place at once!!!» some voices inside him shouted.)

But he couldn't turn around and leave. He could not, that was all. A kind of dull indifference seized him, and he acted mechanically, as if in a dream.

So... Now to the right... Again to the right... Here under the arrow... On the circle... Now it's close... Here is the exit... Yes, here... That's it, here we are. We have to turn round.

He turned off the motorway, and the car rolled on the gravel. Pebbles clinked against the bottom. There was a forest on the left and a field on the right. He could not see the river from here, but he could see the forest on the opposite bank.

Fyodor glanced there and immediately looked away. He thought for a moment that he saw something white at the edge of the forest. Some small white spot. He did not dare to look at it again. He wanted only one thing now: to get it over with as quickly as possible. He didn't realise why he was going there at all. He no longer cared: the things, Jack... As he approached the river, all his normal, everyday human qualities and feelings: thrift, shame, duty, decency-all of these vanished without a trace, dissolved, quickly washed away by the wave of that familiar dark, blind, unreasoning horror which was gradually engulfing him again. It was as if he had frozen, stiffened. There was nothing left in his soul but icy fear.

Move!!! Turn around and leave immediately! Betrayal, betrayal, he didn't care about any of that anymore. Just leave! Leave!!! Now! Now! Before it's too late!

But he couldn't leave. It was as if he had already crossed some invisible line of some enchanted circle from which there was no return.

The gravel ended. Fyodor turned right, down to the river. The road was dry, the car rolled smoothly on the hard ground. The shore began.

Further... Further... There goes his car park.

At the sight of his tent, Fyodor felt as if he had woken up. The feeling of fear and some sucking, hopeless, deadly longing inside him only grew stronger, but now at least he had regained the ability to think and act independently.

Strange... Where are the neighbours? Weren't there more tents around here? And the cars. Where did they all go?

The shore was empty. His tent was the only one. There was no one else around. Not a living soul. Fyodor looked around, and everything seemed suddenly ominous to him. The motionless ribbon of the river, the still sun frozen in the sky, the still stuffy hot air. Not a breeze! Dead silence all around. Dead silence. Even the birds seem to have stopped singing.

He got out of the car and looked at his tent. The thought of having to mess with it now, and of having to stay here longer because of it, was intolerable.

To hell with her! To hell with her! I can't wait to get out of here!

Fyodor already knew clearly what he was going to do next. He was seized with a kind of feverish, frantic haste and a desire to act.

Now, to clear his conscience, he would only go down to the water for a second, make sure that there was no Jack on that bank, of course, and then jump back into the car and drive straight to Moscow. Immediately! Right now, without stopping anywhere else for a moment.

Neither the boat, nor the tent, nor the things interested him any more. He'd forgotten all about them. Blast them to hell! What boats! Get out of here! Get out! Right now! Now!

Actually, the opposite shore was perfectly visible and there was no need to go down from here, from above, but somehow Fyodor knew for sure that he had to do it.

He hurriedly, stumbling and slipping, almost running down to the water (the boat was in place, nobody had touched anything), looked up and froze.

Jack stood motionless on the opposite bank. He looked at him silently. He did not bark or squeal with joy at the sight of his master, but just stood and watched. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere! When Fyodor came downstairs, he wasn't there.

Fyodor, too, stared at him in silence, and the longer he stared, the more and more uneasy he became. There was something unnatural in the dog's immobility. Its gaze seemed strangely meaningful. It was not the dog, not his favourite, loyal Jack, but something quite different.

And this other thing frightened Fyodor to the point of convulsion, to the point of mortal trembling. He recognised that look. The empty and lifeless gaze of a ghoul sitting motionless on an empty grave.

Fyodor backed away. Jack was still watching him silently, and still he didn't move. Fyodor kept backing up and backing up, until suddenly his back was against the car. He did not remember how he had managed to climb up the mountain without falling or even tripping.

Feeling the car, Fyodor, still not taking his eyes off the creature standing on the other bank, opened the door slowly, by touch, and just as slowly climbed in.

It seemed to him that if he lost sight of the creature for a second, it would be at his side in an instant. The thought filled him with an inexpressible dread.

Once in the car, Fyodor immediately slammed and locked the door, took the steering wheel and stepped on the gas. The car sped along the uneven road, bouncing on the bumps and bumping the bottom and bumper against the ground.

But Fyodor didn't care about that. He didn't notice anything at all.

Hurry up! Hurry up!!! Just to get out of here! Not to see that motionless black figure frozen on the shore! (Fyodor suddenly caught himself thinking that he did not even to himself call her Jack any more. It was not Jack. It was something absolutely alien.)

Desperately squealing brakes, the car flew out on the motorway and, increasing speed, raced towards Moscow.

120 km./.hour... 140, 160.....

On the bridge, it suddenly seemed to Fyodor that Jack had suddenly grown up on the road in front of him and jumped straight at him through the windscreen. He turned the steering wheel sharply, and the car crashed into the water from ten metres away, smashing through the bridge fence.

* * * * * *

When Fyodor's body was pulled out of the water, one of the policemen bored in the cordon suddenly noticed some strange wounds on the corpse's neck.

«Wow! It's like someone's teeth marks... Very much like that...» - he thought lazily, and when he heard a sudden rustle, he raised his head.

A huge black dog stood on the opposite bank of the river, staring at the body lying motionless on the ground. When the dog noticed that he was being stared at, he grinned and growled.

The policeman glanced at its monstrous fangs, then looked again at the wounds in the dead driver's neck. Then he looked again at the dog's grinning mouth, more attentively.

He felt creepy for some reason. He looked once more at the corpse... at the dog... then at the corpse again... and suddenly, quite unexpectedly for himself, he hurriedly crossed himself.

When he looked up again, the dog was no longer on the other side of the bank.