u/Good-Chair288

«This is a historical fiction story set in 1937. The characters' sympathy towards Hitler reflects the real historical anxiety of the European bourgeoisie before WWII, not the author's views»

Part One

My name is Arthur Blackwood. I am the heir to a wealthy factory owner, Silas Blackwood. In fact, I had been managing my father's affairs for a long time, since he was already old and could no longer cope on his own, and for this I received my share. And recently my father passed away. May God rest his soul. I inherited his mansion, as well as his business — three factories in London: a match factory, a textile mill, and a paper mill. Several servants work in the house: the butler Pringle, the housekeeper Mrs. Hudson, the maids Martha, Betty, Daisy, and Agnes, and the cook Mrs. Briggs.

One day I was sitting on my balcony and heard a man's voice:

— Yes, they know nothing of the all-pervasive scurrying of mice!

The only one who could have said that was the butler, but it didn't sound like his voice, and besides, who would he be talking to?

I went into the next room.

— Pringle, is that you? Who are you talking to?

— What do you mean, sir?

— Didn't you hear anything?

— No, sir.

— Damn, strange.

— May I ask what you heard, sir?

— Some man's voice in this room.

— Forgive me, sir, but I was alone here and I didn't say anything. You must have imagined it.

— I must have.

— May I know what the voice said?

— Something about mice.

— I see, sir. I think we should ask the security to search the house?

— Yes, please.

— Very well, sir.

A little later, there was a knock on my door.

— Who is it?

Pringle entered the room.

— Sir, the security checked the house, they found no one.

— Good. I must have just been overtired.

— Get some rest, sir.

— Thank you, Pringle, please close the door.

Sitting in my room, after a while I heard a new conversation from several male voices.

— They will never understand us! Do you know a single bourgeois who understands us?

— No. But what about Orwell? He understands us!

— Yes, Orwell understands us. Have you read his book "The Road to Wigan Pier"?

— Of course not, you're the only one of us who can read, but I've heard of Orwell. Good man.

— But Orwell is not a bourgeois! He's one of us!

— What do you mean, not a bourgeois? He is a bourgeois, he says so himself.

— He's from the middle class!

— But he's still a bourgeois — he earns money from his books and doesn't work like we do. That he's one of us, I don't argue — he is, but he's a bourgeois.

— What the devil is going on?

The first time it frightened me, but now it's starting to annoy me. At that moment, I threw the door open. No one. What is this? The surprised maids who were cleaning in that room all stared at me.

— Is everything all right? — asked Martha.

— Yes, — I replied. — Just a headache.

— Shall I call a doctor?

— No, it's fine.

But the strangeness didn't end there. At night, I woke up thirsty. When I went to the kitchen to get a drink, I heard those husky voices again, but this time they were less distinct, like a worn-out tape.

— What did you eat when there was no food?

— Same as everyone else... (indistinct)

— Yeah, we also ate with the family... (indistinct) until my family was eaten... (indistinct)

— They've probably never even tasted it... (indistinct)

— How could they? They probably have lobsters on the table every day.

— That's for sure.

— Guys, what do you think about Pringle?

— What's to think about? That bloody lumpen-proletariat.

— Yeah, while we were dying in the barracks, he was sleeping sweetly in his master's palace.

The voices burst into laughter. It pressed down on me so hard that my ears began to hurt, as if I were at the bottom of the sea. Then it started to distort. My knees trembled, fear seized my body. Finally, I found the strength to flee back to bed.

"It's all in your head," I kept repeating to myself. But it wasn't over.

I didn't sleep long. In the middle of the night, I woke up with the feeling that someone was watching me. When I opened my eyes, horror seized my heart — I wanted to scream, but I was speechless. Above my bed stood mutilated bodies.

— Here he is, the exploiter, — said one of the corpses, pointing a finger at me.

— That's right, it's because of him that I starved to death on the street, — came a rough female voice from somewhere in the crowd.

It was hard to tell who was a woman and who was a man.

Finally, I gathered my courage and spoke:

— Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?

— Hah, did you hear that, comrades? It's his house! — The crowd of corpses burst into laughter. — You're in our house!

Part Two

— Mr. Blackwood! Mr. Blackwood! You have a visitor!

Half-asleep, I set my coffee cup aside and went to greet the guest. Standing at the doorstep was a gray-haired, stout, hunchbacked man with a thick beard.

— Arthur! Do you remember me?

It was Trofim Lukich Baranov — a Russian factory owner, an old friend of my father's.

— I heard your father passed away. My condolences. May he rest in peace, — Lukich crossed himself. — He was a good man. He often came to Russia, and we hunted together.

— Come in, Mr. Baranov, don't stand on the doorstep.

— Oh, no need, just Lukich will do, — the man said as he entered.

They sat down at the table.

— Mrs. Briggs, brew some tea for our guest.

— Right away. Does the guest prefer tea with sugar or without? — asked the cook.

— With sugar! — Trofim replied cheerfully.

He reached into his knee-bag and pulled out some dried pastries.

— Look, a little treat I brought you from Russia. To go with the tea.

— I'm most grateful. Tell me, what brings you here?

— You must know what's been happening in my homeland.

— Yes, I've read about the October Revolution.

— God rest the Tsar's soul, — Lukich crossed himself. — At first we thought the Bolsheviks wouldn't last long in power — their system was too flimsy — but now, in 1937, I can't say that anymore. Do you know what they're doing? Oh, Arthur, my boy, they take away your property and make you toil like some damned donkey. And this Stalin... One of my friends was sent to a camp, to forced labor — and I suspect he won't be coming back. In 1918, I counted on the Whites to crush the red vermin and return our stolen property. But in 1922... Ugh! Those damned Satanists won! How could the Lord God allow this?! So I began my escape. I managed to transfer part of my capital to Germany, and from there to Britain. I wanted to ask for temporary lodging, until I find a permanent place.

— Oh, of course. I'll have the servants prepare a room for you.

Trofim Lukich rose from the table and bowed.

— Most grateful to you, Arthur Blackwood, — then he plopped back clumsily onto his chair. — Ah, Arthur, you remind me so much of your late father. You know, Arthur, not all is lost. I hear there's a politician in Germany, a man named Adolf Hitler. You know, Arthur, all hope now rests on him — he alone can destroy the red plague in Russia before it spreads to other countries. I believe he is God's chosen emissary, sent to us from above, — Trofim pointed upward, — to crush the Bolshevik heresy!

— Well, let us hope so.

Trofim Lukich reached into his bag again and pulled out a bottle of Smirnov vodka.

— Here, Pyotr Smirnov's vodka, finest quality.

— Mrs. Briggs, bring us two shot glasses!

— I always knew you were your father's son! — the Russian factory owner said, grinning broadly.

Briggs placed the glasses on the table, and Trofim poured the vodka.

— Well, to Britain! — said Lukich.

— To keeping the Bolsheviks out of Britain! — I said.

— And to Hitler liberating Russia from the Bolsheviks! — added Baranov.

After we drank, we sat in silence for a while, until I broke it.

— Tell me, the revolution didn't happen for nothing, did it?

— What are you getting at? — Lukich asked, puzzled.

— I mean, we should have treated the workers better. Who knows, — I lowered my voice, almost to a whisper, — they might rise up.

— Oh, Arthur, my boy, don't you worry — the English proletariat is too stupid, just like any other proletariat. In Russia, it was only because of Lenin — an orator who stirred them up.

— Yes, but... You see, several workers died because of me — quite a few, actually — and it seems to me, — I said, now barely whispering, — that I hear their voices, and even see them at night.

— Oh, my friend, that happens. Just go to church, buy a mass — and it'll be done, — his tone turned serious. — But don't even think of doing anything that might hurt your profits. Think of what your father would say.

— Yes, you're probably right. I'll just buy a mass, and it'll pass.

— Of course, that's how it works. Buy a mass — and all the deviltry goes away.

After a few more shots, we went to our rooms. And of course, on my way, I heard the voices:

— No, Pringle is not a lumpen.

— He's a class traitor!

— Yes, I don't argue he's a traitor, but calling him a lumpen-proletariat isn't quite right. I'd say he's a lackey of the bourgeoisie.

At night, I saw them again.

— Sleeping soundly. When I was on the street, I slept very differently — after I once mixed up the colors of my fabric.

— He's breathing easy, isn't he? Look! He's opened the window, fresh air. Remember, lads, what it was like for us, breathing white phosphorus fumes at the match factory! — The crowd of corpses burst into bubbling laughter.

— Look, he's got doctors living right here in the house. At our paper mill, there wasn't a single doctor when the anthrax outbreak started.

— And no one gave me a crust of bread when rats were eating my family alive. You see, they were saving money!

— And what useful thing has he done for society? Nothing! He's just a parasite! Death to parasites!

The whole crowd began chanting: "Death to parasites!"

— Enough! Leave me alone! Be quiet!

I tried to cover my ears with the pillow, but nothing seemed to muffle the sound. And I burst into tears — like a little child. The crowd watched and reveled in my tears.

— Crying from fatness! When we wept from despair, no one came to help us, no one showed us pity!

Finale

I couldn't sleep again today. I was woken by a piercing scream. Hard to say whose — it sounded like Martha, though no, it was Daisy's voice. No, no, it was definitely Martha. Exhausted, I got out of bed and walked toward the room where the scream came from. As I walked down the corridor, the house smelled of morning coolness, but soon it was replaced by suffocating odors. First something cloying, like the smell of saltpeter, then a sour stench, like raw, rotting rags. And then, just before the door, mixed in with it all, a sharp, metallic smell of blood. What I saw shook me so much that I woke up completely.

Martha stood in the doorway. She was no longer screaming, but quietly crying, covering her face with her hands. Noticing me, she pointed toward the bed. On the expensive bedding, bleeding profusely, lay what was left of Trofim Lukich. Thousands of rats were swarming over him. That loud rustling sound will stay in my ears for a long time.

— Martha, call Pringle!

Staggering and barely holding back the urge to vomit, she left the room. About a minute later, Pringle entered.

— What's happened, s... Oh, my God!

— Pringle, the telephone! Call 999! Get the police, an ambulance, anyone! — I shouted, backing away.

Taking the receiver, the butler froze. Instead of the exchange tone or the London operator's voice, from the black earpiece came a disgusting sound that filled the entire hallway. It was a dry, mocking rustle of hundreds of rat paws on metal, and a distant, growing rumble of textile looms from the East End. The connection to the outside world was severed.

Realizing the phone was dead, I sent Pringle outside. He threw open the door, stepped onto the porch into the London fog, and whistled as loudly as he could. Out of the gray haze, a figure emerged — a constable in a high helmet. What struck me most, from what the constable said, was that he hadn't come because of the whistle. He was patrolling our area and heard some screams. He looked through the window and saw grimy faces. He hadn't heard Martha's scream — she had stopped screaming long ago, and besides, according to him, there had been many screams in different pitches.

After the police investigated, suspicion fell on me. The inspector thinks I poisoned the Russian factory owner's tea. In 1937, wealthy men in posh mansions aren't eaten alive by rats. The police believe my motive was to get hold of Trofim Baranov-Lukich's property, and that the rats came afterward to the dead body. It's a nightmare. I'm trapped — I can't exactly tell them it was the souls of dead workers who set the rats on Lukich. They'd send me to Bedlam.

I was taken in for questioning. I had to spin a story about left-wing agitators planting the rats:

— Inspector, you know what's happening in the East End. These left-wing troublemakers, strikers… They hate big industrialists. They could easily have slipped rats into my house or opened the ventilation shafts to intimidate me! This is a planned attack against my family!

The inspector slowly closed his leather notebook. The dry snap of the cover sounded like a shot in the silent office. He looked up at me.

— East End troublemakers, you say? — the inspector paused heavily, professionally. — Strikers planted rats in the ventilation? An interesting theory, Mr. Blackwood. Very convenient for a man of your class. One oversight — I've been in the London police for twenty years. I've seen the docks, I've seen the plague quarters. Wild rats are cowards, sir. They scatter at a single loud footstep. But these creatures… they sat on your guest's body like trained dogs. They only left when you crossed the threshold. Their behavior, Mr. Blackwood, is utterly unnatural.

I felt my collar grow suffocatingly tight. I reached for the brandy, but my fingers were trembling treacherously.

— Inspector, I… I'm no expert on rodent habits. What happened is a monstrous chaos — Martha is still in hysterics in the kitchen...

— It's not about the rats, — he interrupted, stepping forward. His voice dropped to an icy whisper. — The rats came later. My constable just examined what's left of Mr. Baranov's neck. Before the rodents began their feast, the Russian factory owner was strangled. There are distinct bruises from human fingers on the skin. Strong, deep marks.

I gasped for breath. Night shadows flickered before my eyes.

— That's… that's impossible. The mansion doors were locked by Pringle. There was no one else in the house!

— Precisely, sir, — the inspector looked at me meaningfully. — There was no one else. But strangulation is a fact. And you know what's odd? The expert will take measurements, but offhand… these hands were tiny. The fingers too thin for an adult male. As if Mr. Baranov had been throttled by a child of about ten. But with the strength of a grown blacksmith.

The inspector walked over to the desk, leaned on it, and stared straight into my eyes.

— There are no children in the house. No signs of forced entry. And your hands, Mr. Blackwood, are trembling very badly. Tell me again about the left-wing troublemakers. I'm listening carefully.

I had a choice: to disgrace my late father's honor by claiming he had illegitimate children, or to frame Martha.

— You know, sir, I have a suspicion that Martha's mind gave way from years of servitude. She strangled Baranov with her small feminine hands, then raised the alarm, frightened by the rats.

— Your theory has some basis.

Yes, the police actually believed it. I watched them lead away a broken, tearful girl. She had done nothing, but I couldn't mention the ghosts, and I couldn't tarnish my father's memory either.

As soon as the police left, the household staff confronted me. Led by Pringle, they stood and looked at me with eyes full of hatred.

— They told us everything, — the butler said coldly and harshly.

— We're leaving, — said the cook.

All the servants left, and the maids deliberately shoved me with their shoulders as they passed.

— Traitor, — Daisy whispered.

Tonight I stayed alone. But I prepared: I hung a crucifix over the bed, lit candles, prayed, and bought myself a cross.

At night, the crowd was in my room again. Two men with red flags stood by the door, blocking my exit. I jumped out of bed and held up the crucifix. They just laughed.

— Who are you trying to scare with that? — one of the ghosts sneered. — We're atheist ghosts. What drives us isn't devilry, but class hatred!

— Get off my property!

— This house isn't yours! — the same ghost continued.

— How isn't it mine? I inherited it from my father.

— And do you know where it came from?

I fell silent and stared at the ghost in surprise.

— It was built by workers just like us — with our money! You can claim it was your father's money, but that's nonsense. That money was created by our labor. He earned it simply by owning the land. This house was built on our unpaid labor. Without us, you are nothing!

I turned pale.

— And what do you do with us? — From the crowd came a whimper — soft, hopeless, disappointed.

The ghosts parted, letting me see a dead man. He gently, comfortingly embraced the weeping Martha. She looked at me with a gaze full of hatred and disappointment. I cowardly looked away. For a minute or so, silence reigned — they were waiting for me to meet her eyes, but I couldn't. I lacked the courage.

— You framed the girl, knowing she wouldn't survive a day in prison, — the ghost holding her said bitterly.

Suddenly they raised their flags and began prodding the crucifix with them until it fell. Then from the back of the crowd a ghost with a heavy hammer came forward, knocked me down, swung, and smashed the crucifix. And then they began jabbing me with their flags — flags of the Soviet Union, plain red flags with nothing on them. They all stabbed and stabbed and stabbed...

On August 15, 1937, Arthur Blackwood was found dead in his room. The presumed cause of death was cardiac arrest. Numerous pinpoint bruises were found on his body. At the moment of death, tears had appeared on his eyes.

(The End.)

«This is a historical fiction story set in 1937. The characters' sympathy towards Hitler reflects the real historical anxiety of the European bourgeoisie before WWII, not the author's views»

Part One

My name is Arthur Blackwood. I am the heir to a wealthy factory owner, Silas Blackwood. In fact, I had been managing my father's affairs for a long time, since he was already old and could no longer cope on his own, and for this I received my share. And recently my father passed away. May God rest his soul. I inherited his mansion, as well as his business — three factories in London: a match factory, a textile mill, and a paper mill. Several servants work in the house: the butler Pringle, the housekeeper Mrs. Hudson, the maids Martha, Betty, Daisy, and Agnes, and the cook Mrs. Briggs.

One day I was sitting on my balcony and heard a man's voice:

— Yes, they know nothing of the all-pervasive scurrying of mice!

The only one who could have said that was the butler, but it didn't sound like his voice, and besides, who would he be talking to?

I went into the next room.

— Pringle, is that you? Who are you talking to?

— What do you mean, sir?

— Didn't you hear anything?

— No, sir.

— Damn, strange.

— May I ask what you heard, sir?

— Some man's voice in this room.

— Forgive me, sir, but I was alone here and I didn't say anything. You must have imagined it.

— I must have.

— May I know what the voice said?

— Something about mice.

— I see, sir. I think we should ask the security to search the house?

— Yes, please.

— Very well, sir.

A little later, there was a knock on my door.

— Who is it?

Pringle entered the room.

— Sir, the security checked the house, they found no one.

— Good. I must have just been overtired.

— Get some rest, sir.

— Thank you, Pringle, please close the door.

Sitting in my room, after a while I heard a new conversation from several male voices.

— They will never understand us! Do you know a single bourgeois who understands us?

— No. But what about Orwell? He understands us!

— Yes, Orwell understands us. Have you read his book "The Road to Wigan Pier"?

— Of course not, you're the only one of us who can read, but I've heard of Orwell. Good man.

— But Orwell is not a bourgeois! He's one of us!

— What do you mean, not a bourgeois? He is a bourgeois, he says so himself.

— He's from the middle class!

— But he's still a bourgeois — he earns money from his books and doesn't work like we do. That he's one of us, I don't argue — he is, but he's a bourgeois.

— What the devil is going on?

The first time it frightened me, but now it's starting to annoy me. At that moment, I threw the door open. No one. What is this? The surprised maids who were cleaning in that room all stared at me.

— Is everything all right? — asked Martha.

— Yes, — I replied. — Just a headache.

— Shall I call a doctor?

— No, it's fine.

But the strangeness didn't end there. At night, I woke up thirsty. When I went to the kitchen to get a drink, I heard those husky voices again, but this time they were less distinct, like a worn-out tape.

— What did you eat when there was no food?

— Same as everyone else... (indistinct)

— Yeah, we also ate with the family... (indistinct) until my family was eaten... (indistinct)

— They've probably never even tasted it... (indistinct)

— How could they? They probably have lobsters on the table every day.

— That's for sure.

— Guys, what do you think about Pringle?

— What's to think about? That bloody lumpen-proletariat.

— Yeah, while we were dying in the barracks, he was sleeping sweetly in his master's palace.

The voices burst into laughter. It pressed down on me so hard that my ears began to hurt, as if I were at the bottom of the sea. Then it started to distort. My knees trembled, fear seized my body. Finally, I found the strength to flee back to bed.

"It's all in your head," I kept repeating to myself. But it wasn't over.

I didn't sleep long. In the middle of the night, I woke up with the feeling that someone was watching me. When I opened my eyes, horror seized my heart — I wanted to scream, but I was speechless. Above my bed stood mutilated bodies.

— Here he is, the exploiter, — said one of the corpses, pointing a finger at me.

— That's right, it's because of him that I starved to death on the street, — came a rough female voice from somewhere in the crowd.

It was hard to tell who was a woman and who was a man.

Finally, I gathered my courage and spoke:

— Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?

— Hah, did you hear that, comrades? It's his house! — The crowd of corpses burst into laughter. — You're in our house!

Part Two

— Mr. Blackwood! Mr. Blackwood! You have a visitor!

Half-asleep, I set my coffee cup aside and went to greet the guest. Standing at the doorstep was a gray-haired, stout, hunchbacked man with a thick beard.

— Arthur! Do you remember me?

It was Trofim Lukich Baranov — a Russian factory owner, an old friend of my father's.

— I heard your father passed away. My condolences. May he rest in peace, — Lukich crossed himself. — He was a good man. He often came to Russia, and we hunted together.

— Come in, Mr. Baranov, don't stand on the doorstep.

— Oh, no need, just Lukich will do, — the man said as he entered.

They sat down at the table.

— Mrs. Briggs, brew some tea for our guest.

— Right away. Does the guest prefer tea with sugar or without? — asked the cook.

— With sugar! — Trofim replied cheerfully.

He reached into his knee-bag and pulled out some dried pastries.

— Look, a little treat I brought you from Russia. To go with the tea.

— I'm most grateful. Tell me, what brings you here?

— You must know what's been happening in my homeland.

— Yes, I've read about the October Revolution.

— God rest the Tsar's soul, — Lukich crossed himself. — At first we thought the Bolsheviks wouldn't last long in power — their system was too flimsy — but now, in 1937, I can't say that anymore. Do you know what they're doing? Oh, Arthur, my boy, they take away your property and make you toil like some damned donkey. And this Stalin... One of my friends was sent to a camp, to forced labor — and I suspect he won't be coming back. In 1918, I counted on the Whites to crush the red vermin and return our stolen property. But in 1922... Ugh! Those damned Satanists won! How could the Lord God allow this?! So I began my escape. I managed to transfer part of my capital to Germany, and from there to Britain. I wanted to ask for temporary lodging, until I find a permanent place.

— Oh, of course. I'll have the servants prepare a room for you.

Trofim Lukich rose from the table and bowed.

— Most grateful to you, Arthur Blackwood, — then he plopped back clumsily onto his chair. — Ah, Arthur, you remind me so much of your late father. You know, Arthur, not all is lost. I hear there's a politician in Germany, a man named Adolf Hitler. You know, Arthur, all hope now rests on him — he alone can destroy the red plague in Russia before it spreads to other countries. I believe he is God's chosen emissary, sent to us from above, — Trofim pointed upward, — to crush the Bolshevik heresy!

— Well, let us hope so.

Trofim Lukich reached into his bag again and pulled out a bottle of Smirnov vodka.

— Here, Pyotr Smirnov's vodka, finest quality.

— Mrs. Briggs, bring us two shot glasses!

— I always knew you were your father's son! — the Russian factory owner said, grinning broadly.

Briggs placed the glasses on the table, and Trofim poured the vodka.

— Well, to Britain! — said Lukich.

— To keeping the Bolsheviks out of Britain! — I said.

— And to Hitler liberating Russia from the Bolsheviks! — added Baranov.

After we drank, we sat in silence for a while, until I broke it.

— Tell me, the revolution didn't happen for nothing, did it?

— What are you getting at? — Lukich asked, puzzled.

— I mean, we should have treated the workers better. Who knows, — I lowered my voice, almost to a whisper, — they might rise up.

— Oh, Arthur, my boy, don't you worry — the English proletariat is too stupid, just like any other proletariat. In Russia, it was only because of Lenin — an orator who stirred them up.

— Yes, but... You see, several workers died because of me — quite a few, actually — and it seems to me, — I said, now barely whispering, — that I hear their voices, and even see them at night.

— Oh, my friend, that happens. Just go to church, buy a mass — and it'll be done, — his tone turned serious. — But don't even think of doing anything that might hurt your profits. Think of what your father would say.

— Yes, you're probably right. I'll just buy a mass, and it'll pass.

— Of course, that's how it works. Buy a mass — and all the deviltry goes away.

After a few more shots, we went to our rooms. And of course, on my way, I heard the voices:

— No, Pringle is not a lumpen.

— He's a class traitor!

— Yes, I don't argue he's a traitor, but calling him a lumpen-proletariat isn't quite right. I'd say he's a lackey of the bourgeoisie.

At night, I saw them again.

— Sleeping soundly. When I was on the street, I slept very differently — after I once mixed up the colors of my fabric.

— He's breathing easy, isn't he? Look! He's opened the window, fresh air. Remember, lads, what it was like for us, breathing white phosphorus fumes at the match factory! — The crowd of corpses burst into bubbling laughter.

— Look, he's got doctors living right here in the house. At our paper mill, there wasn't a single doctor when the anthrax outbreak started.

— And no one gave me a crust of bread when rats were eating my family alive. You see, they were saving money!

— And what useful thing has he done for society? Nothing! He's just a parasite! Death to parasites!

The whole crowd began chanting: "Death to parasites!"

— Enough! Leave me alone! Be quiet!

I tried to cover my ears with the pillow, but nothing seemed to muffle the sound. And I burst into tears — like a little child. The crowd watched and reveled in my tears.

— Crying from fatness! When we wept from despair, no one came to help us, no one showed us pity!

Finale

I couldn't sleep again today. I was woken by a piercing scream. Hard to say whose — it sounded like Martha, though no, it was Daisy's voice. No, no, it was definitely Martha. Exhausted, I got out of bed and walked toward the room where the scream came from. As I walked down the corridor, the house smelled of morning coolness, but soon it was replaced by suffocating odors. First something cloying, like the smell of saltpeter, then a sour stench, like raw, rotting rags. And then, just before the door, mixed in with it all, a sharp, metallic smell of blood. What I saw shook me so much that I woke up completely.

Martha stood in the doorway. She was no longer screaming, but quietly crying, covering her face with her hands. Noticing me, she pointed toward the bed. On the expensive bedding, bleeding profusely, lay what was left of Trofim Lukich. Thousands of rats were swarming over him. That loud rustling sound will stay in my ears for a long time.

— Martha, call Pringle!

Staggering and barely holding back the urge to vomit, she left the room. About a minute later, Pringle entered.

— What's happened, s... Oh, my God!

— Pringle, the telephone! Call 999! Get the police, an ambulance, anyone! — I shouted, backing away.

Taking the receiver, the butler froze. Instead of the exchange tone or the London operator's voice, from the black earpiece came a disgusting sound that filled the entire hallway. It was a dry, mocking rustle of hundreds of rat paws on metal, and a distant, growing rumble of textile looms from the East End. The connection to the outside world was severed.

Realizing the phone was dead, I sent Pringle outside. He threw open the door, stepped onto the porch into the London fog, and whistled as loudly as he could. Out of the gray haze, a figure emerged — a constable in a high helmet. What struck me most, from what the constable said, was that he hadn't come because of the whistle. He was patrolling our area and heard some screams. He looked through the window and saw grimy faces. He hadn't heard Martha's scream — she had stopped screaming long ago, and besides, according to him, there had been many screams in different pitches.

After the police investigated, suspicion fell on me. The inspector thinks I poisoned the Russian factory owner's tea. In 1937, wealthy men in posh mansions aren't eaten alive by rats. The police believe my motive was to get hold of Trofim Baranov-Lukich's property, and that the rats came afterward to the dead body. It's a nightmare. I'm trapped — I can't exactly tell them it was the souls of dead workers who set the rats on Lukich. They'd send me to Bedlam.

I was taken in for questioning. I had to spin a story about left-wing agitators planting the rats:

— Inspector, you know what's happening in the East End. These left-wing troublemakers, strikers… They hate big industrialists. They could easily have slipped rats into my house or opened the ventilation shafts to intimidate me! This is a planned attack against my family!

The inspector slowly closed his leather notebook. The dry snap of the cover sounded like a shot in the silent office. He looked up at me.

— East End troublemakers, you say? — the inspector paused heavily, professionally. — Strikers planted rats in the ventilation? An interesting theory, Mr. Blackwood. Very convenient for a man of your class. One oversight — I've been in the London police for twenty years. I've seen the docks, I've seen the plague quarters. Wild rats are cowards, sir. They scatter at a single loud footstep. But these creatures… they sat on your guest's body like trained dogs. They only left when you crossed the threshold. Their behavior, Mr. Blackwood, is utterly unnatural.

I felt my collar grow suffocatingly tight. I reached for the brandy, but my fingers were trembling treacherously.

— Inspector, I… I'm no expert on rodent habits. What happened is a monstrous chaos — Martha is still in hysterics in the kitchen...

— It's not about the rats, — he interrupted, stepping forward. His voice dropped to an icy whisper. — The rats came later. My constable just examined what's left of Mr. Baranov's neck. Before the rodents began their feast, the Russian factory owner was strangled. There are distinct bruises from human fingers on the skin. Strong, deep marks.

I gasped for breath. Night shadows flickered before my eyes.

— That's… that's impossible. The mansion doors were locked by Pringle. There was no one else in the house!

— Precisely, sir, — the inspector looked at me meaningfully. — There was no one else. But strangulation is a fact. And you know what's odd? The expert will take measurements, but offhand… these hands were tiny. The fingers too thin for an adult male. As if Mr. Baranov had been throttled by a child of about ten. But with the strength of a grown blacksmith.

The inspector walked over to the desk, leaned on it, and stared straight into my eyes.

— There are no children in the house. No signs of forced entry. And your hands, Mr. Blackwood, are trembling very badly. Tell me again about the left-wing troublemakers. I'm listening carefully.

I had a choice: to disgrace my late father's honor by claiming he had illegitimate children, or to frame Martha.

— You know, sir, I have a suspicion that Martha's mind gave way from years of servitude. She strangled Baranov with her small feminine hands, then raised the alarm, frightened by the rats.

— Your theory has some basis.

Yes, the police actually believed it. I watched them lead away a broken, tearful girl. She had done nothing, but I couldn't mention the ghosts, and I couldn't tarnish my father's memory either.

As soon as the police left, the household staff confronted me. Led by Pringle, they stood and looked at me with eyes full of hatred.

— They told us everything, — the butler said coldly and harshly.

— We're leaving, — said the cook.

All the servants left, and the maids deliberately shoved me with their shoulders as they passed.

— Traitor, — Daisy whispered.

Tonight I stayed alone. But I prepared: I hung a crucifix over the bed, lit candles, prayed, and bought myself a cross.

At night, the crowd was in my room again. Two men with red flags stood by the door, blocking my exit. I jumped out of bed and held up the crucifix. They just laughed.

— Who are you trying to scare with that? — one of the ghosts sneered. — We're atheist ghosts. What drives us isn't devilry, but class hatred!

— Get off my property!

— This house isn't yours! — the same ghost continued.

— How isn't it mine? I inherited it from my father.

— And do you know where it came from?

I fell silent and stared at the ghost in surprise.

— It was built by workers just like us — with our money! You can claim it was your father's money, but that's nonsense. That money was created by our labor. He earned it simply by owning the land. This house was built on our unpaid labor. Without us, you are nothing!

I turned pale.

— And what do you do with us? — From the crowd came a whimper — soft, hopeless, disappointed.

The ghosts parted, letting me see a dead man. He gently, comfortingly embraced the weeping Martha. She looked at me with a gaze full of hatred and disappointment. I cowardly looked away. For a minute or so, silence reigned — they were waiting for me to meet her eyes, but I couldn't. I lacked the courage.

— You framed the girl, knowing she wouldn't survive a day in prison, — the ghost holding her said bitterly.

Suddenly they raised their flags and began prodding the crucifix with them until it fell. Then from the back of the crowd a ghost with a heavy hammer came forward, knocked me down, swung, and smashed the crucifix. And then they began jabbing me with their flags — flags of the Soviet Union, plain red flags with nothing on them. They all stabbed and stabbed and stabbed...

On August 15, 1937, Arthur Blackwood was found dead in his room. The presumed cause of death was cardiac arrest. Numerous pinpoint bruises were found on his body. At the moment of death, tears had appeared on his eyes.

(The End.)

I would like to ask whether I may share my creative work containing a Marxist subtext in this community.

I couldn't sleep again today. I was woken by a piercing scream. Hard to say whose — it sounded like Martha, though no, it was Daisy's voice. No, no, it was definitely Martha. Exhausted, I got out of bed and walked toward the room where the scream came from. As I walked down the corridor, the house smelled of morning coolness, but soon it was replaced by suffocating odors. First something cloying, like the smell of saltpeter, then a sour stench, like raw, rotting rags. And then, just before the door, mixed in with it all, a sharp, metallic smell of blood. What I saw shook me so much that I woke up completely.

Martha stood in the doorway. She was no longer screaming, but quietly crying, covering her face with her hands. Noticing me, she pointed toward the bed. On the expensive bedding, bleeding profusely, lay what was left of Trofim Lukich. Thousands of rats were swarming over him. That loud rustling sound will stay in my ears for a long time.

— Martha, call Pringle!

Staggering and barely holding back the urge to vomit, she left the room. About a minute later, Pringle entered.

— What's happened, s... Oh, my God!

— Pringle, the telephone! Call 999! Get the police, an ambulance, anyone! — I shouted, backing away.

Taking the receiver, the butler froze. Instead of the exchange tone or the London operator's voice, from the black earpiece came a disgusting sound that filled the entire hallway. It was a dry, mocking rustle of hundreds of rat paws on metal, and a distant, growing rumble of textile looms from the East End. The connection to the outside world was severed.

Realizing the phone was dead, I sent Pringle outside. He threw open the door, stepped onto the porch into the London fog, and whistled as loudly as he could. Out of the gray haze, a figure emerged — a constable in a high helmet. What struck me most, from what the constable said, was that he hadn't come because of the whistle. He was patrolling our area and heard some screams. He looked through the window and saw grimy faces. He hadn't heard Martha's scream — she had stopped screaming long ago, and besides, according to him, there had been many screams in different pitches.

After the police investigated, suspicion fell on me. The inspector thinks I poisoned the Russian factory owner's tea. In 1937, wealthy men in posh mansions aren't eaten alive by rats. The police believe my motive was to get hold of Trofim Baranov-Lukich's property, and that the rats came afterward to the dead body. It's a nightmare. I'm trapped — I can't exactly tell them it was the souls of dead workers who set the rats on Lukich. They'd send me to Bedlam.

I was taken in for questioning. I had to spin a story about left-wing agitators planting the rats:

— Inspector, you know what's happening in the East End. These left-wing troublemakers, strikers… They hate big industrialists. They could easily have slipped rats into my house or opened the ventilation shafts to intimidate me! This is a planned attack against my family!

The inspector slowly closed his leather notebook. The dry snap of the cover sounded like a shot in the silent office. He looked up at me.

— East End troublemakers, you say? — the inspector paused heavily, professionally. — Strikers planted rats in the ventilation? An interesting theory, Mr. Blackwood. Very convenient for a man of your class. One oversight — I've been in the London police for twenty years. I've seen the docks, I've seen the plague quarters. Wild rats are cowards, sir. They scatter at a single loud footstep. But these creatures… they sat on your guest's body like trained dogs. They only left when you crossed the threshold. Their behavior, Mr. Blackwood, is utterly unnatural.

I felt my collar grow suffocatingly tight. I reached for the brandy, but my fingers were trembling treacherously.

— Inspector, I… I'm no expert on rodent habits. What happened is a monstrous chaos — Martha is still in hysterics in the kitchen...

— It's not about the rats, — he interrupted, stepping forward. His voice dropped to an icy whisper. — The rats came later. My constable just examined what's left of Mr. Baranov's neck. Before the rodents began their feast, the Russian factory owner was strangled. There are distinct bruises from human fingers on the skin. Strong, deep marks.

I gasped for breath. Night shadows flickered before my eyes.

— That's… that's impossible. The mansion doors were locked by Pringle. There was no one else in the house!

— Precisely, sir, — the inspector looked at me meaningfully. — There was no one else. But strangulation is a fact. And you know what's odd? The expert will take measurements, but offhand… these hands were tiny. The fingers too thin for an adult male. As if Mr. Baranov had been throttled by a child of about ten. But with the strength of a grown blacksmith.

The inspector walked over to the desk, leaned on it, and stared straight into my eyes.

— There are no children in the house. No signs of forced entry. And your hands, Mr. Blackwood, are trembling very badly. Tell me again about the left-wing troublemakers. I'm listening carefully.

I had a choice: to disgrace my late father's honor by claiming he had illegitimate children, or to frame Martha.

— You know, sir, I have a suspicion that Martha's mind gave way from years of servitude. She strangled Baranov with her small feminine hands, then raised the alarm, frightened by the rats.

— Your theory has some basis.

Yes, the police actually believed it. I watched them lead away a broken, tearful girl. She had done nothing, but I couldn't mention the ghosts, and I couldn't tarnish my father's memory either.

As soon as the police left, the household staff confronted me. Led by Pringle, they stood and looked at me with eyes full of hatred.

— They told us everything, — the butler said coldly and harshly.

— We're leaving, — said the cook.

All the servants left, and the maids deliberately shoved me with their shoulders as they passed.

— Traitor, — Daisy whispered.

Tonight I stayed alone. But I prepared: I hung a crucifix over the bed, lit candles, prayed, and bought myself a cross.

At night, the crowd was in my room again. Two men with red flags stood by the door, blocking my exit. I jumped out of bed and held up the crucifix. They just laughed.

— Who are you trying to scare with that? — one of the ghosts sneered. — We're atheist ghosts. What drives us isn't devilry, but class hatred!

— Get off my property!

— This house isn't yours! — the same ghost continued.

— How isn't it mine? I inherited it from my father.

— And do you know where it came from?

I fell silent and stared at the ghost in surprise.

— It was built by workers just like us — with our money! You can claim it was your father's money, but that's nonsense. That money was created by our labor. He earned it simply by owning the land. This house was built on our unpaid labor. Without us, you are nothing!

I turned pale.

— And what do you do with us? — From the crowd came a whimper — soft, hopeless, disappointed.

The ghosts parted, letting me see a dead man. He gently, comfortingly embraced the weeping Martha. She looked at me with a gaze full of hatred and disappointment. I cowardly looked away. For a minute or so, silence reigned — they were waiting for me to meet her eyes, but I couldn't. I lacked the courage.

— You framed the girl, knowing she wouldn't survive a day in prison, — the ghost holding her said bitterly.

Suddenly they raised their flags and began prodding the crucifix with them until it fell. Then from the back of the crowd a ghost with a heavy hammer came forward, knocked me down, swung, and smashed the crucifix. And then they began jabbing me with their flags — flags of the Soviet Union, plain red flags with nothing on them. They all stabbed and stabbed and stabbed...

On August 15, 1937, Arthur Blackwood was found dead in his room. The presumed cause of death was cardiac arrest. Numerous pinpoint bruises were found on his body. At the moment of death, tears had appeared on his eyes.

(The End.)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of historical fiction set in 1937. It contains mentions of historical figures, including Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin. These references are strictly for historical context and period accuracy, and do not reflect the author's views, nor do they promote or endorse any totalitarian ideologies or hate speech.

— Mr. Blackwood! Mr. Blackwood! You have a visitor!

Half-asleep, I set my coffee cup aside and went to greet the guest. Standing at the doorstep was a gray-haired, stout, hunchbacked man with a thick beard.

— Arthur! Do you remember me?

It was Trofim Lukich Baranov — a Russian factory owner, an old friend of my father's.

— I heard your father passed away. My condolences. May he rest in peace, — Lukich crossed himself. — He was a good man. He often came to Russia, and we hunted together.

— Come in, Mr. Baranov, don't stand on the doorstep.

— Oh, no need, just Lukich will do, — the man said as he entered.

They sat down at the table.

— Mrs. Briggs, brew some tea for our guest.

— Right away. Does the guest prefer tea with sugar or without? — asked the cook.

— With sugar! — Trofim replied cheerfully.

He reached into his knee-bag and pulled out some dried pastries.

— Look, a little treat I brought you from Russia. To go with the tea.

— I'm most grateful. Tell me, what brings you here?

— You must know what's been happening in my homeland.

— Yes, I've read about the October Revolution.

— God rest the Tsar's soul, — Lukich crossed himself. — At first we thought the Bolsheviks wouldn't last long in power — their system was too flimsy — but now, in 1937, I can't say that anymore. Do you know what they're doing? Oh, Arthur, my boy, they take away your property and make you toil like some damned donkey. And this Stalin... One of my friends was sent to a camp, to forced labor — and I suspect he won't be coming back. In 1918, I counted on the Whites to crush the red vermin and return our stolen property. But in 1922... Ugh! Those damned Satanists won! How could the Lord God allow this?! So I began my escape. I managed to transfer part of my capital to Germany, and from there to Britain. I wanted to ask for temporary lodging, until I find a permanent place.

— Oh, of course. I'll have the servants prepare a room for you.

Trofim Lukich rose from the table and bowed.

— Most grateful to you, Arthur Blackwood, — then he plopped back clumsily onto his chair. — Ah, Arthur, you remind me so much of your late father. You know, Arthur, not all is lost. I hear there's a politician in Germany, a man named Adolf Hitler. You know, Arthur, all hope now rests on him — he alone can destroy the red plague in Russia before it spreads to other countries. I believe he is God's chosen emissary, sent to us from above, — Trofim pointed upward, — to crush the Bolshevik heresy!

— Well, let us hope so.

Trofim Lukich reached into his bag again and pulled out a bottle of Smirnov vodka.

— Here, Pyotr Smirnov's vodka, finest quality.

— Mrs. Briggs, bring us two shot glasses!

— I always knew you were your father's son! — the Russian factory owner said, grinning broadly.

Briggs placed the glasses on the table, and Trofim poured the vodka.

— Well, to Britain! — said Lukich.

— To keeping the Bolsheviks out of Britain! — I said.

— And to Hitler liberating Russia from the Bolsheviks! — added Baranov.

After we drank, we sat in silence for a while, until I broke it.

— Tell me, the revolution didn't happen for nothing, did it?

— What are you getting at? — Lukich asked, puzzled.

— I mean, we should have treated the workers better. Who knows, — I lowered my voice, almost to a whisper, — they might rise up.

— Oh, Arthur, my boy, don't you worry — the English proletariat is too stupid, just like any other proletariat. In Russia, it was only because of Lenin — an orator who stirred them up.

— Yes, but... You see, several workers died because of me — quite a few, actually — and it seems to me, — I said, now barely whispering, — that I hear their voices, and even see them at night.

— Oh, my friend, that happens. Just go to church, buy a mass — and it'll be done, — his tone turned serious. — But don't even think of doing anything that might hurt your profits. Think of what your father would say.

— Yes, you're probably right. I'll just buy a mass, and it'll pass.

— Of course, that's how it works. Buy a mass — and all the deviltry goes away.

After a few more shots, we went to our rooms. And of course, on my way, I heard the voices:

— No, Pringle is not a lumpen.

— He's a class traitor!

— Yes, I don't argue he's a traitor, but calling him a lumpen-proletariat isn't quite right. I'd say he's a lackey of the bourgeoisie.

At night, I saw them again.

— Sleeping soundly. When I was on the street, I slept very differently — after I once mixed up the colors of my fabric.

— He's breathing easy, isn't he? Look! He's opened the window, fresh air. Remember, lads, what it was like for us, breathing white phosphorus fumes at the match factory! — The crowd of corpses burst into bubbling laughter.

— Look, he's got doctors living right here in the house. At our paper mill, there wasn't a single doctor when the anthrax outbreak started.

— And no one gave me a crust of bread when rats were eating my family alive. You see, they were saving money!

— And what useful thing has he done for society? Nothing! He's just a parasite! Death to parasites!

The whole crowd began chanting: "Death to parasites!"

— Enough! Leave me alone! Be quiet!

I tried to cover my ears with the pillow, but nothing seemed to muffle the sound. And I burst into tears — like a little child. The crowd watched and reveled in my tears.

— Crying from fatness! When we wept from despair, no one came to help us, no one showed us pity!

(To be continued)

Part One

It was an ordinary day. A young man named Nikita moved to a new neighborhood, to Pushkinskaya Street, house number thirteen. He had just unpacked his things and decided to go out for some fresh air, and at the same time get his bearings in the new area. During his walk, he spotted one of his new neighbors—a man of about fifty, with a gray beard and, what struck Nikita as especially odd, a shotgun. The man introduced himself as Makar. Our hero introduced himself in return.

"Listen, kid, I've got to explain something to you," Makar began. "Around here, people don't go out without a gun. I'll lend you mine until you get your own."

"Why?" Nikita asked.

"This neighborhood is cursed. You'll see for yourself soon enough," said the old man, handing Nikita the shotgun.

Our hero, being a dialectical materialist, didn't believe in any "cursed neighborhood," but he took the gun, knowing it was pointless to argue with such people.

Later, walking around the area, he noticed that there were hardly any people on the streets, and those who were there all carried shotguns.

Back home, Nikita went to bed. He tossed and turned for a long time, thinking that all these armed people could be roused into an uprising, and even form a neighborhood commune—but the young man had no particular gift for oratory, so he wouldn't have been able to lead them anyway.

In the morning, the young man went out to the store—without his shotgun. He hadn't forgotten it; rather, he'd deliberately left it behind. The morning was early, the air fresh, the sun shining bright, but there was still a hint of morning chill. A few passersby glanced at him sideways, surprised by his lack of a weapon and seemingly wary of something. One man, somewhat plump, with stubble, even offered his own gun, but Nikita refused. It was as if he wanted to test what would happen.

At one point, when there was no one near him, he felt a piercing stare on his back. Nikita carefully turned around. Behind him was a young woman of attractive appearance; she also had no weapon, and with a slight smile at the corners of her lips, she was walking briskly toward him. Strange—she seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Soon she was right behind him, and when he turned, she lunged at him. Her teeth were sharp as fangs. Nikita tried to push her away, but she was much stronger. Realizing he was trapped, he braced for the worst—but then a shot rang out, and the woman vanished.

"I told you—don't go without a gun!" It was old Makar intervening.

"Who is that?" asked the young man, surprised, almost frightened, but even with a hint of curiosity.

"That's my granddaughter, son," the old man continued, a little warmer. "A local resident. She's like a spirit—you can't kill her. Shotguns only make her disappear for a while. She feeds on human flesh. Her strength is comparable to a bear's, and despite her seeming fragility and tenderness at first glance, she's an adapted predator. She's very heavy, as you may have noticed when you tried to push her, and she's built for killing. She feels no pity for people, and according to the survivors," the bearded man lowered his voice, "she's a pervert. You should be wary of her," he said, returning to his normal tone. "She's the reason we carry weapons."

The young man was in shock. He didn't want to abandon his philosophy and worldview, trying to think dialectically: where did she come from, what was the cause of her killings, and what was her class nature?

"Listen, old man, where does she come from, and what was she in life?"

"She was never alive. She's part of the curse, part of this neighborhood. If she leaves it, she might dissipate, or lose her strength, or simply reappear in the area—I don't know exactly. But I do know she can't leave it, and I know she was never human."

Nikita was puzzled. He thanked Makar for his help and continued on to the store. Along the way, he reflected: this isn't something supernatural or mystical; nothing supernatural exists—if it exists, it's already natural. Yes, there was a spirit—I saw her with my own eyes and felt her touch. But if it's something that interacts with the material world, then it's not mystical—it's merely something not yet studied. Yes. There is no unknowable, only the unknown. With such philosophical thoughts, he reached the store.

Part Two

Back home, Nikita was overwhelmed with thoughts of the incident. After the spirit's attack, he felt even more eager to walk without a gun. "I wonder what she really is," he thought. He refused to accept anything spiritual or supernatural. He speculated that it might be some unknown form of matter, and a form of life based on it. But if it was a living creature, it must have undergone natural selection, like any other species — something must have driven it to become so strong. Old Makar says it's a curse, but I don't believe in curses. She doesn't leave the neighborhood — that must mean this is her territory. When it runs out of prey — people — she'll be forced to migrate. With such turbulent thoughts, the young man managed to fall asleep only around three in the morning, when the birds were already singing in full force. Not exactly at three, but at three-thirty or three-thirty-one — he didn't know the exact time, and it's not that important to our story anyway.

Nikita made it to work without any incidents — no one attacked him on the way. He works as an ordinary office plankton, or, as he calls himself, a proletarian of mental labor. All his colleagues are apolitical philistines, so they only laughed at his attempts at agitation. Earlier, the guy had been a member of the RKRP (Russian Communist Workers' Party), but later he noticed they were sliding into opportunism and social-chauvinism, so he left them, never returning to party activity in any new progressive party. He never had any friends — there were acquaintances with whom he constantly argued; colleagues with whom he also constantly argued; and party comrades with whom he argued, disagreeing with their positions.

After work, he hurried home. As he entered the neighborhood, he felt a kind of thrilling and joyful anxiety. Nikita expected something to happen — and it did. He had only walked down one street when he felt he was being followed, but it didn't frighten him in the least. The feeling that something was approaching served not as fear, but as a guide. At the last moment, the young man turned around and grabbed the predator by the hands. Her nails looked more like claws, but they weren't disgusting or dirty — quite the opposite: it was clear she was cleanly. The girl herself, which we haven't mentioned yet, was dressed in a black dress and barefoot — her feet were slightly scratched and a little dusty. She put all her strength into breaking free from Nikita's grip, but he managed to say something that made her freeze.

— Wait! Let's talk!

— Talk? — the girl said in surprise. — No one has ever offered me a talk.

She was even more shocked by the young man's suggestion to come to his place.

— Come to your home? You do realize who you're talking to, right? I'm not a sweet girl. I've been hunting the locals for centuries.

— I understand, but I have questions for you.

— Questions? Why not ask the people? That old man, what's his name...

— Makar.

— Right, Makar.

— I have questions that neither Makar nor anyone else can answer.

— And why do you think I'll answer them? Why do you think I'll answer anything at all?

— I don't know, but I'll try. I'll treat you to some tea. Have you ever had tea?

— No, — the girl said with interest. — I've never had tea. But I've often heard: "It's dangerous outside, let's go home and have some tea."

— Well, now you'll come and have some tea. So, what do you say?

— Alright, — she said, not just with interest, but with some kind of unusual joy.

Part Three

When Nikita arrived home with the girl, he noticed that she couldn't step across the doorway. Anyone else would probably have thought that some force was stopping her, or something of the sort, but the young man quickly figured it out. As we mentioned earlier, her claws were clean, as were her fangs, which suggested that even though she was an ancient spirit, she was cleanly. However, her feet were constantly dusty, and from this the young man realized that she wasn't staying back because of some restraining force, but because she was embarrassed to dirty his clean floor.

— Come in, don't be shy. Go on, go on, don't worry, I'll mop the floor later.

The girl stepped inside, then took another step. She looked around the house with great curiosity — before this, she had only ever peeked through the windows.

Nikita put the kettle on, and the girl's first move was to go to the bathroom to wash the dust off her feet. When the young man poured them tea, she burned herself right away, not knowing that tea is hot. But since she wasn't a living person, the burn meant nothing to her.

— So, what did you want to ask me?

— I wanted to know if you know where this so-called curse came from?

— No, of course not. No, I really don't know.

— Maybe you at least remember the era of your appearance?

— The era... Yes, I remember the era. The last era in my memory is... How should I put it: there was a red flag, and then there was what came before it. That — back then it was still a wheat field, not a residential area.

— So you remember pre-revolutionary Russia.

— Yes... I suppose. Oh! I even remembered why I appeared. Want me to tell you?

— Why, of course?! — Nikita burned with curiosity.

— Like I said: back then, in pre-revolutionary Russia, as you put it, there was a hayfield here, and on that hayfield many girls died — peasant girls and farm laborers.

— What did they die from?

— They died because of the landowner's wife. From backbreaking labor, from lack of sleep and malnutrition. Some would just drop dead right in the field.

— In a word, from exploitation, — the young man added.

— Yes, I suppose. I'm not the spirit of any particular girl — I'm something collective and general. I appeared here with the goal of killing the landowner's wife, but then these guys came with rifles and red flags...

— The Bolsheviks.

— Yes, the Bolsheviks, and they shot her. I don't mind, really, but I wanted to kill her myself, — the girl said, sounding slightly offended.

— I see. Do you have a name?

— A name? No, I don't have a name.

— Well then, we'll come up with one, — Nikita thought for a moment. — What if we call you not by a first name, but by a last name? Pushkina.

— Pushkina?

— Yes, after Pushkinskaya Street.

— I like it.

Part Four

After tea, Pushkina decided to stay at Nikita's place. In his room, she found a strange figurine of a bearded fellow on the shelf. It had "Karl Marx" written on it. But the spirit girl couldn't read — neither in Russian nor in English — so she just turned the figurine over in her hands. Suddenly, it slipped from her fingers, fell to the floor, and broke. The young man ran into the room.

— Are you hurt?

Pushkina looked into Nikita's eyes with a sense of shame.

— Oh, don't worry, it's a bust of Karl Marx worth six hundred rubles. I'll buy a new one later.

— It must have been important to you.

— Well, it's just a pretty figurine. What's far more important is his theory. You see, it's not an idol of Christ — it's just a memorial to a philosopher. I don't pray to his image; I read his books.

— What kind of books?

— He criticized the existing system. It was his theory that inspired those very Bolsheviks who stole your revenge.

The young man introduced the girl to communist theory, but she didn't particularly like it — she was far more interested in anarcho-communism. The guy didn't object; quite the opposite — he gave her a copy of Bakunin's "Statism and Anarchy" and, using that book, taught her to read. Nikita introduced Pushkina to popular culture. She especially liked the book and the film "Fight Club" — she memorized quotes from it, particularly the first and second rules of Fight Club: never talk about Fight Club.

Her favorite musician became Yegor Letov. She had her own top songs: "Dogs," "Russian Field of Experiments," "He Saw the Sun," "My Defense," "Dog." But her most favorite was "Incomprehensible Little Song." It seemed she understood these songs no worse than Letov himself did. She was anarchistic not only in her views but also in her soul. She even developed a hobby — embroidery. She embroidered red patterns on her black dress herself — the combination of black and red, the colors of anarcho-communism.

Finally, Nikita bought her shoes and taught her to leave the neighborhood limits. Holding her hand, they stepped together beyond the border of her territory. Nothing terrible happened — she simply lost her ability to disappear and reappear. She could only do that within the neighborhood, but she no longer used it anyway. One could say she had become a real person. Whereas before the girl would just vanish and appear, now Pushkina had a permanent home — she moved in with Nikita.

He started taking her to rallies and marches. And there she was, just recently hunting the neighbors, already standing at a mass rally with a black poster on which was written in red: "I Hate Exploitation!" and shouting slogans like "Down with the State!" and singing along to "The Internationale" with everyone else.

There was an incident with Nikita, too. One evening, Pushkina, slightly tipsy, approached the police and started shouting "Down with the State! Long live anarchy!" The police didn't like that, of course, and both she and Nikita were taken to a holding cell for two days. After that, the young man didn't let her drink; later he softened a bit and allowed it only at home, under his supervision.

Once, he even helped her organize a public action called "There Are Fools Sitting There!" It was a harsh anti-war manifesto where she performed Letov's and even Tsoi's songs in public. She shouted anti-war and anti-state anarchist slogans. After that, they even tried to put her on the list of extremists, terrorists, and foreign agents, but the authorities couldn't do it — since there was no Pushkina in any database; for the state, she didn't actually exist. But Nikita was put on the list, and that made his life harder. His house was searched three times, but he wasn't imprisoned, and he held no grudge against Pushkina — on the contrary, he was proud of her.

And they were happy together. Pushkina no longer hunted the neighbors at all, which caused great surprise among the neighbors themselves. Now she walked with Nikita, discussed politics, and went to public events. It seemed she had become happy for the first time. It seemed she had become human for the first time. But then Nikita fell seriously ill. He started feeling unwell, and the illness confined him to bed.

Finale

Pushkina paced restlessly from one side of the house to the other, while in the next room the doctor was saying something to Nikita. She didn't understand most of his words, but from what she did grasp, it was clear—the situation was dire. Finally, the doctor came out and addressed the girl directly:

— I've examined the patient. His condition is serious. I've prescribed him pills, but he won't be able to go get them himself. His life is now in your hands. Goodbye.

Pushkina went into the room and sat down by the head of the bed.

— I bought you a figurine, to replace the broken one.

She handed him the statuette of Karl Marx. Nikita smiled.

— Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.

— The doctor said you need medicine.

— Yes, he left a list on the nightstand.

The girl looked at the list.

— Okay, I'll go get them. How much money should I take?

— Take five thousand rubles from the wardrobe. Put the change back when you return.

Heading out for the medicine, Pushkina walked slowly, unhurriedly. The weather was fine. She even greeted the neighbors, who threw her frightened glances in return, not understanding what was happening.

— Makar, things have gone quiet in the neighborhood, and no one's dying. Maybe she really has changed? — said a male voice.

— Hard to believe. I've lived in this neighborhood since I was a kid, and for a spirit to just up and reform... Besides, we haven't seen Nikita for a while. I think it's a trap. We won't shoot her without cause, but we won't stop carrying guns either.

Arriving at the pharmacy, the girl still had to wait in line, and then, blushing in front of the cashier, she struggled to pronounce the names of the medicines.

When she got back, it was four o'clock, and Nikita was asleep.

— Hey, wake up. It's too late to be sleeping, — she gently roused him. — I bought your medicine.

After that, he started taking what the doctor prescribed, but his condition didn't seem to improve—on the contrary, it only got worse.

— I think you got the wrong medicine.

A tear rolled down the girl's face.

— I'll run to the pharmacy right now and get the right ones.

— No.

— What?

— You won't make it. I have a feeling...

— What kind of feeling?

— Just don't go anywhere. I want you to stay here with me.

The girl sat down on the bed, sorrowfully. She didn't fully understand what was happening. Nothing like this had ever happened in her existence.

— Lie down, — the young man said.

And so she lay down beside him, lightly embracing him. At some point, he began to cough up blood violently, and the blood spattered onto her chest. On the black fabric, the red blood stood out like a wet, glistening stain. Pushkina held Nikita even tighter, and her eyes welled up. She wept. For the first time in her life. She felt every one of his breaths—and then she felt nothing. The young man was no longer breathing.

She stood up and, staggering, not fully comprehending what had happened, walked outside. Before, she had never understood how she destroyed people's lives—now her own life was shattered just the same. Outside, she sat down on a bench and burst into loud, wailing sobs. The neighbors came running at the sound, with their guns, but no one fired. They simply sat down beside her, and some stood staring in shock. Finally, the girl gathered her strength and, through her tears, said:

— Look! You see that stain on my chest? That's... that's... that's his blood. He coughed blood, and now he's gone!

Now the neighbors understood why Nikita hadn't been seen for so long. She hadn't eaten him, as they'd feared—he had been seriously ill, and she had been caring for him all this time.

— Why?! How is this possible?! I can't bear it!

Then the girl broke into a scream. She screamed at the top of her lungs. Then she would fall silent, choking on her own sobs, and then scream again. This repeated several times. Finally, old Makar tried to calm her down. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she flinched away as if from something burning hot and screamed even louder:

— Why him?! He was the best person I ever knew! He even gave me a name! Pushk... K... K... In... n... n... aaaah!

— Pushkina, — Makar whispered, barely audibly.

— He was the only one who ever listened to me! Why him?!

Then the girl grabbed Makar's gun—not pulling it from his hands—and pressed the barrel to her forehead.

— Shoot me, — she said quietly, through tears.

— You know that won't help, — the old man said calmly, with a hint of regret.

The girl stepped away from the gun and, turning to the neighbors, choking on her sobs, said:

— You can stop carrying guns now.

Then she turned and walked away. She walked toward the sunset, until the bright rays swallowed her.

(10 years later)

Two men—one about forty, the other sixty—were sitting at one of their homes, drinking tea. You know this man well—his name was Makar. You also know the other man: once, he had offered Nikita his gun, but Nikita refused. We never mentioned his name. His name was Arthur. Behind them, leaning against the wall, stood a shotgun. It hadn't been used in ten years. It was covered in dust.

— Listen, Arthur, — Makar began. His voice sounded quite aged, though he was only sixty. — Have you noticed a kind of... melancholy, if you will.

— Yes, you're right. After she disappeared, the village became dreary.

— Yeah, we looked for ways to get rid of her, but all we had to do was understand her and talk to her.

— Mhm, — Arthur sighed gloomily.

— The house is still standing, the lights are on. Everyone's alive and healthy. And it seems like we should be living without sorrow. So why does this melancholy remain?

(The End.)

My name is Arthur Blackwood. I am the heir to a wealthy factory owner, Silas Blackwood. In fact, I had been managing my father's affairs for a long time, since he was already old and could no longer cope on his own, and for this I received my share. And recently my father passed away. May God rest his soul. I inherited his mansion, as well as his business — three factories in London: a match factory, a textile mill, and a paper mill. Several servants work in the house: the butler Pringle, the housekeeper Mrs. Hudson, the maids Martha, Betty, Daisy, and Agnes, and the cook Mrs. Briggs.

One day I was sitting on my balcony and heard a man's voice:

— Yes, they know nothing of the all-pervasive scurrying of mice!

The only one who could have said that was the butler, but it didn't sound like his voice, and besides, who would he be talking to?

I went into the next room.

— Pringle, is that you? Who are you talking to?

— What do you mean, sir?

— Didn't you hear anything?

— No, sir.

— Damn, strange.

— May I ask what you heard, sir?

— Some man's voice in this room.

— Forgive me, sir, but I was alone here and I didn't say anything. You must have imagined it.

— I must have.

— May I know what the voice said?

— Something about mice.

— I see, sir. I think we should ask the security to search the house?

— Yes, please.

— Very well, sir.

A little later, there was a knock on my door.

— Who is it?

Pringle entered the room.

— Sir, the security checked the house, they found no one.

— Good. I must have just been overtired.

— Get some rest, sir.

— Thank you, Pringle, please close the door.

Sitting in my room, after a while I heard a new conversation from several male voices.

— They will never understand us! Do you know a single bourgeois who understands us?

— No. But what about Orwell? He understands us!

— Yes, Orwell understands us. Have you read his book "The Road to Wigan Pier"?

— Of course not, you're the only one of us who can read, but I've heard of Orwell. Good man.

— But Orwell is not a bourgeois! He's one of us!

— What do you mean, not a bourgeois? He is a bourgeois, he says so himself.

— He's from the middle class!

— But he's still a bourgeois — he earns money from his books and doesn't work like we do. That he's one of us, I don't argue — he is, but he's a bourgeois.

— What the devil is going on?

The first time it frightened me, but now it's starting to annoy me. At that moment, I threw the door open. No one. What is this? The surprised maids who were cleaning in that room all stared at me.

— Is everything all right? — asked Martha.

— Yes, — I replied. — Just a headache.

— Shall I call a doctor?

— No, it's fine.

But the strangeness didn't end there. At night, I woke up thirsty. When I went to the kitchen to get a drink, I heard those husky voices again, but this time they were less distinct, like a worn-out tape.

— What did you eat when there was no food?

— Same as everyone else... (indistinct)

— Yeah, we also ate with the family... (indistinct) until my family was eaten... (indistinct)

— They've probably never even tasted it... (indistinct)

— How could they? They probably have lobsters on the table every day.

— That's for sure.

— Guys, what do you think about Pringle?

— What's to think about? That bloody lumpen-proletariat.

— Yeah, while we were dying in the barracks, he was sleeping sweetly in his master's palace.

The voices burst into laughter. It pressed down on me so hard that my ears began to hurt, as if I were at the bottom of the sea. Then it started to distort. My knees trembled, fear seized my body. Finally, I found the strength to flee back to bed.

"It's all in your head," I kept repeating to myself. But it wasn't over.

I didn't sleep long. In the middle of the night, I woke up with the feeling that someone was watching me. When I opened my eyes, horror seized my heart — I wanted to scream, but I was speechless. Above my bed stood mutilated bodies.

— Here he is, the exploiter, — said one of the corpses, pointing a finger at me.

— That's right, it's because of him that I starved to death on the street, — came a rough female voice from somewhere in the crowd.

It was hard to tell who was a woman and who was a man.

Finally, I gathered my courage and spoke:

— Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?

— Hah, did you hear that, comrades? It's his house! — The crowd of corpses burst into laughter. — You're in our house!

(To be continued)

​

I'm a member of your community. I've written a short story where the main character is a dialectical materialist who tries to make sense of a mystical phenomenon through Marxist philosophy (class analysis, the knowability of the world, etc.).

I'd like to share it with the community (a crosspost from my profile). Is it allowed to post fiction with philosophical subtext here? If so, I'd be glad to hear the comrades' feedback and criticism.

Thank you in advance for your response.