Yesterday I explored the inside of the wall on the east side of the cemetery. It is an uncanny region, and I had never ventured that far before.
I discovered a tall hedge of holly bushes cutting across from the east wall to the north wall, and shutting in a triangular space which the hedge concealed from my sight.
What strange presentiment was it that drove me to examine this mysterious enclosure? It was not easy to get into it, for the hedge was thick and every holly leaf was a little clawing hand that lacerated my skin. There was nothing in the enclosure; that is, nothing but eight crosses which seemed to be standing in the order of their age, so that the first one was rotted and discolored by the rain, while the last one was fresh and bright. . . . These certainly were not old graves. . . .
Last night my sleep was haunted by nightmares. I felt as if an enormous weight were crushing my chest, and the wound behind my ear hurt atrociously.
I'm afraid. . . .
There is something wrong. How does it happen that I didn't notice it before?
Neither Ossip nor Velitcho touches the chur. This morning they forgot to put away the three cups. The three stood on the table together, but only mine had had the liquid in it. The others were perfectly clean.
This evening I tried to keep awake and see if I could learn anything. I drank the chur. I lay down on my cot, I struggled against the drowsiness, I resisted it with all my strength and all my brain. Ah, it was terrible!
I saw Ossip and Velitcho watch me. They thought I had lost consciousness. With a mighty effort I kept my senses for a second. And I heard the frightful curlew shriek by the window.
Then something horrible happened. I caught a glimpse of a face against the window. It had glassy eyes, like a corpse's, white hair that stood on end like quills, and a grimacing mouth with black teeth, a mouth like fire or fresh blood. Then the fiery wheel turned in my head and I lost consciousness. And the nightmare came.
I drank the chur. I drank it every evening. They watch me like tigers and I know that something ghastly happens every night. What? I can't tell, I can't think any more. All I can do is suffer. . . .
What mysterious force is it that draws me back to look at the crosses again?
When I was just starting to come away, my eye fell on a scrap of wood just visible above the earth beside the eighth cross. I drew the little board out of the ground. I could see that something had been painfully written on it.
It was difficult to decipher, but I figured it out. It ran:
Friend, if you can't get out of here, this is where you will be buried. They have killed seven already. I shall be the eighth, for I have no strength left. I don't know what is going on; it is a horrible mystery. Get out!
Pierre Brunen! I remember having heard that that was the name of my predecessor. The eight crosses marked the tombs of the keepers' helpers for the past eight years. . . .
I tried to escape. I climbed the north wall at a place where I had found some rough places that I could get my feet into.
I had almost reached the spikes at the top, when a stone broke loose two inches from my hand, then another, then a third. At the foot of the wall I saw Velitcho coldly pointing his gun at me, and his eyes had the icy glint of metal—of the metal they cast into bells to toll when men die.
