IVAN PETROVICH PANEKHEDIN turned pale, put out the lamp, and began in an agitated voice:

      "It was Christmas Eve, 1883. We had all been attending a spiritualistic seance given by my poor brother, the one who died to-day. By the time the meeting broke up a dark, impenetrable fog had settled down outside; the streets, too, through which I had to pass on my way home, were for some reason not lighted that evening, so I had to grope my way along as best I could in the darkness. I was lodging then in Moscow, in the house of a clerk of the name of Trupoff, who, being very poor, lived, of course, in one of the most out-of-the-way parts of the city.

      "I was a prey to gloomy and oppressive thoughts. 'Thy life is nearing its end. Repent!' This was the sentence which had been uttered to me at the séance by Spinoza, whose spirit we had succeeded in invoking. I had asked for its repetition, and the rappings on my plate had not only confirmed it, but added into the bargain, 'To-night.'

      "I do not believe in spiritualism, but the thought or even the hint of death always makes me feel depressed. Death, my friends, is certainly unavoidable and common to all, but none the less the thought of it goes against the grain of every man. So that night, enveloped by the cold, impermeable mist, with the raindrops whirling madly before my eyes, with the wind moaning dolefully overhead, and unable to see around me a single living soul or to hear the sound of a human voice, I was seized by a vague and inexpressible fear. It seemed to me that if I looked back I should be sure to see Death in some phantom form."

      Panekhedin sighed heavily, poured himself out some whiskey, and went on:

      "This ill-defined, but to you perfectly intelligible, fear still possessed my soul when, having climbed up to the fourth floor of Trupoff's house, I unfastened the door and entered my room. It was quite dark in my modest habitation. The wind moaned in the stove pipe, and, as though seeking admittance into the warmth, kept on knocking at the door of the ventilator. If I believed Spinoza — and I tried to smile at the thought — I should know that this soughing of the wind to-night foreboded my death. It was dismal enough, anyway.

      "I struck a match. A more violent gust shook the roof of the house, and the low. moaning changed into an angry roar. Somewhere downstairs a shutter, half blown open by the wind, began to bang, whilst the ventilator seemed to wail a piteous dirge for help. An evil night, thought I, for those who have no shelter.

      "But I had no time to indulge in such reflections. By the light of the match's blue sulphur flame I cast my eyes round my room — when lo! an unexpected and appalling sight met my gaze. Would that that gust of wind had blown out my match! Then perhaps I should never have seen what made my hair stand on end. With a shriek I stepped back towards the door, and, over whelmed with wonder, despair, and terror, shut my eyes.

      "In the middle of the room stood a coffin!

      "The blue flame went out almost immediately, but I had had time to take in what I saw. Neither the rose-coloured pall of brocade, dotted all over with spangles, nor the gold-embroidered cross on the lid, had escaped my notice. There are some things, my friends, which are indelibly stamped in one's memory even though they are seen only for a moment. So it was with me and this coffin.

      "I had seen it only for a second, but I can vividly recall its minutest details. It was a coffin made for a middle-sized person, and, judging by the rose colour of the stuff, was probably intended for a young girl; while the expensive brocade and the brass handles alike testified that the deceased belonged to the wealthy class.

      "I fled headlong from my room, and blindly, thoughtlessly, conscious only of overmastering fear, rushed down the stairs. The corridor and staircase were plunged in darkness, and my feet caught in the long tails of my fur coat; how I reached the bottom, indeed, without breaking my neck, was little short of miraculous. When I got into the street I tried to collect my senses, and began to reassure myself, but my heart was beating wildly, and I could scarcely get my breath."

      One of the listeners here lit the lamp and moved nearer to the speaker, who then continued his story:

      "I should not have been surprised if I had found my room on fire, or if I had dis covered a burglar or a mad dog. I should not have wondered so much if the ceiling had fallen in, if the floor had given way, or the walls collapsed. Any of these things would have been natural and intelligible. But — a coffin How in the name of fortune had that come into my room, and whence?

      "An elaborate and expensive coffin, made evidently for some young and aristocratic lady. How on earth could it have got into the room of a poor underling like myself? And who was she, this rich woman who, having bade a final adieu to this life, had paid me such a strange and terrible visit? Here, indeed, was a horrible mystery.

      "'This must be either some miraculous portent, or else some crime has been committed, was the thought that flashed through my brain. I floundered in a maze of conjecture. The door had been locked all the time I was away, and the place where I kept the key was known only to my nearest friends, and my friends would never have presented me with a coffin.

      "One might perhaps suppose that the coffin had been brought there to my room by the undertakers by mistake. They might have taken me for somebody else, or have gone to the wrong floor or the wrong door, and so put the coffin down where it had no business to be. But who doesn't know that our good undertakers would never think of leaving until they had been tipped for their trouble, or at any rate until they had got a drink?

      "The spirits foretold my death, thought I; perhaps they have also kindly furnished me with a coffin! My friends, I do not believe, nor did I ever believe, in spiritualism; but such a curious coincidence might well induce a mystic mood even in a philosopher ——

      "Come, this is all rubbish, and I am as cowardly as a schoolboy, I concluded at length. It was an optical illusion and nothing more. I was in such a gloomy humour on my way home that it was small matter for surprise if my shaky nerves did see a coffin. Of course it was only an optical illusion! What else could it be?

      "The rain lashed me in the face and the wind snatched angrily at my coat-tails and cap. Numbed with the cold and soaked through and through, I must find shelter somewhere — but where? If I went back to my own room there was the risk of seeing that coffin again, and that was a sight which I felt I could not bring myself to face.

      "Out of sight of every living soul, and out of sound of every human voice, to be left alone, tête-à-tête so to speak, with the coffin which might conceal a corpse — this might well deprive me of my reason.

      "On the other hand, I could not stay there in the street in the pelting rain and cold. So I resolved to go and spend the night with my friend Upokoeff, the man who, as you remember, subsequently committed suicide. He lived in furnished rooms let by a merchant called Tcherepoff, in Dead Man's Lane."

      Panekhedin wiped away the cold perspiration which stood out on his pale fore head, and then, with a long-drawn breath, resumed:

      "I did not find my friend at home. Having knocked several times at his door, and being convinced that he was out, I felt for the key which I knew hung from the joist outside, and then, unlocking the door, went in. I took off my wet coat, and threw it on the floor, and, fumbling about in the blackness, found the sofa and sat down to rest.

      "It was pitch dark. I could hear the melancholy drone of the wind through the ventilator and the monotonous chirp-chirp-chirp of a cricket in the stove; whilst: the church bells in the Kremlin were ringing for the early morning Christmas service. I hastened to light a match. But, alas! The light did not rid me of my gloomy thoughts, but, on the contrary, the old, horrible, inexpressible terror returned. I shrieked, staggered, and, unable to believe my senses, fled from the place.

      "In my friend's room I had seen the same thing as in my own — a coffin!

      "This one was almost twice as large as mine, and the light-brown metal work on it seemed to give a specially sinister colouring to the whole. How had it got here? It was an optical illusion; I could doubt it no longer. There could not possibly be a coffin in every room. This was evidently some affection of my nerves, some kind of hallucination.

      "Wherever I went henceforth I should always see before me this terrible dwelling place of death. . . . I was touched with insanity, and had become afflicted with some dreadful kind of coffin mania. Nor was the cause of my lunacy far to seek; I had but to recall the spiritualistic séance and the words of Spinoza.

      "'I shall go quite mad, I thought, clutching hold of my head in my terror. 'What am I to do?' My brain reeled, my legs sank under me. The rain poured down in torrents, the wind seemed to blow right through me, and I had neither hat nor overcoat. Go back for them into the room I simply could not — it was altogether beyond my power.

      "An icy fear gripped my heart, my hair stood on end, and the cold sweat poured from my face; and yet I believed all the time that it was an hallucination. But what was I to do? I had taken leave of my senses, and now ran the risk of catching my death of cold.

      "Fortunately I managed to recollect that not far from Dead Man's Lane there lived one of my best friends, a young doctor just beginning to practise, Pogostoff by name, who had attended the spiritualistic séance with me that night. To his house, then, I made all speed. This was before his marriage to the rich merchant's widow, and he lived at that time on the fifth floor of a house belonging to Kladbischensky, a Councillor of State.

      "But my nerves were destined to receive yet another shock at Pogostoff's. On my way up to his rooms, which, as I said, were on the fifth floor, I heard a terrible noise: Someone was running about upstairs, stamping heavily with his feet and slamming doors.

      "'Help!' and I heard a heartrending shriek. 'Help! Porter! Come here!'

      "A moment later there rushed down stairs to meet me a dark figure in a fur coat and battered top hat.

      "'Pogostoff!' I exclaimed, for I recognised the man as indeed my friend, 'Is it you? What on earth is the matter?'

      "As he came past me he stopped, and convulsively caught hold of my hand. He was as pale as death, breathing in great gasps, and shuddering. His eyes rolled uncannily and his chest heaved.

      "'Is it you, Panekhedin?' he asked in a hoarse voice. 'But what is, it! You are as pale as though you had stepped out of the tomb. But stop — is it you or your ghost? Good Heavens, how ghastly you look!'

      "'But what has happened to you?' I said; 'you look so wild.'

      "'Oh, my dear friend!' he answered, 'give me a moment to recover my breath. Ah! how glad I am to see you — if it is indeed you, and not a fancy of my imagination. Thrice cursed be that séance It has so unstrung my nerves that on my way home just now I saw in my room, if you can imagine it — a coffin!'

      "I did not believe my ears, and begged him to repeat his words. 'A coffin — a real coffin said the doctor, sitting down exhausted on the stairs. 'I am no coward, but the Fiend himself would be alarmed if he had come straight from a spiritualistic séance and had run up against a coffin in the darkness!'

      "Halting and stammering, I then recounted to the doctor my own experience of the coffins which I had seen. For a minute we gazed at one another with staring eyes and mouths wide open in astonishment. Then, in order to make sure that we were not victims of hallucination, we began to pinch each other.

      "'The pinching is painful to both of us,' said the doctor; 'we are therefore not asleep or dreaming. It follows that the coffins, mine and your two, are not optical illusions, but things actually existing. What then, old man, shall we do now?'

      "We stood there a whole hour on the cold staircase, lost in a thousand guesses and conjectures, with the result that we both got chilled to the bone. At last we determined to throw off our pusillanimous fears, to wake up the hall porter, and go with him into the doctor's room. And so we did. We went into the room and lit a candle. And there in very deed we saw a coffin, covered over with a white-brocaded pall with gold fringe and tassels. The porter devoutly crossed himself.

      "'Now we can find out,' said the doctor, who was, however, still pale and shaking all over, 'whether the coffin is empty, or whether there is something inside.'

      "After considerable but not unnatural hesitation the doctor bent down, and, clenching his teeth in fearful expectation, tore off the covering from the coffin, and ——

      "The coffin was empty!

      "There was no dead person inside; but there was a letter, and this is how it ran:

      "It took me three months after this to recover from the severe nervous prostration which the events of that night had caused. Our friend the son-in-law of the coffin-maker succeeded in preserving his goods and his good name, and has now set up an office for contracting for funeral processions, and does a bit, too, in monuments and tomb stones. But I know that his business is rather precarious, and every evening when I go home I am still in constant dread lest I should see some white marble monument or catafalque standing at my bedside."

(THE END)