Artifact

In the elevator, Karpov stood grim, frowning, and with his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. He was tormented by vague doubts about the purpose of his visit. Looking at the button, which glowed neon turquoise on the rim, Karpov recalled his recent phone conversation with the museum curator. Now he remembered how strange it was to hear about some kind of radiance.
At that moment, the elevator gently stopped, and the doors silently opened.
At the threshold of the exhibition hall, Karpov was met by a plump girl, immediately extending her chubby pink hand to take the entrance ticket.
"I'm Karpov," he said as if his surname should have been impressive.
"Nice to meet you," the ticket collector replied with a hint of irony, "but you'll have to show your ticket."
Karpov blinked in astonishment.
"Weren't you informed?"
The museum worker held a short pause, chewing on her thin lips.
"One antiquities expert was supposed to come..." she pondered aloud.
"Alright, that's something," Karpov sighed.
"Oh," the girl exclaimed, "so you're the one Semen Borisych is expecting?"
Annoyed, he puffed out his cheeks and audibly exhaled through clenched lips.
The ticket collector waved towards the end of the hall. Meanwhile, Karpov looked around and, taking out his phone from his pocket, checked the time. He heard the sound of heels. He saw a lady in trousers and a blue blouse with shiny buttons leisurely approaching. Her glasses, like two semaphore lights, flickered several times and went out as she made her way through the exhibition hall.
"You..."
"Karpov," he interrupted.
"Oh, yes, just a moment."
He stepped away from the entrance and disinterestedly observed the common faces behind the column, their eyes jumping from exhibit to exhibit, searching but apparently not finding anything truly impressive, and therefore looking dull and bored. Turning around, he met the scrutinizing gaze of the ticket collector and didn't take his eyes off her until she turned away.
The first hall displayed works of ancient art; the eastern wall was adorned with a collection of ex-libris and watercolors - on the same ancient theme; the western wall presented a wide range of sculptures made of bronze and terracotta. Today's exhibition was dedicated to the Third Syrian War, and several canvases depicted scenes of the murder of Berenice, the daughter of Ptolemy II. Not all of the samples presented here Karpov had seen in person before; within a minute, he counted a dozen exhibits that he had previously only encountered in catalogs. However, now he was not eager to pay attention to them, as he was eagerly preparing to witness something more curious, something that made him come on his day off at the invitation of the museum curator, believing his word that "this thing is incredibly ancient and its origin is unknown..." At this point of their phone conversation, Karpov's thought irretrievably got lost, drowned in the whirlpool of agonizing doubts. "You must see it with your own eyes," excitedly exclaimed Semen Borisovich, and immediately added a phrase that finally confused Karpov, "it's a slab, it glows."
From that moment on, Karpov repeated these strange words in his head dozens of times and with some oppressive excitement desired to finally learn what was behind it - were they trying to play a trick on him, or was the curator really losing his mind?
"Let's go," someone whispered to him.
Karpov followed through the long room, where two or more people crowded around each exhibit, and static figures of visitors silently moved. He walked, only looking at the back of his guide in a satin blouse, noticing the change of color schemes of the museum ambiance, but stubbornly ignoring works of graphics, painting, and sculpture. He was unusually excited and wanted to inspect the declared artifact as soon as possible.
The curator opened the cabinet and took out a small cellophane bundle, gently placing it on the table and carefully untying the nylon thread that bound it. Before Karpov's eyes appeared an elongated object about twenty-five centimeters high, rectangular in section.
"That same artifact you honored us with your presence for," Karpov slightly leaned over the displayed specimen. Nothing remarkable: a clay slab with a slight thickening at the base, blackened and covered with barely noticeable symbols. The text was written in cuneiform, with two or three dots above each vertical wedge. Something unprecedented? Karpov puzzled. The artifact resembled one of the Achaemenid tablets. But it was something completely different. Noticing a small chip on the surface of the clay, almost microscopic, he leaned in and cautiously touched it with his finger - and unexpectedly, to his great surprise, felt a burning cold. Startled, he instantly withdrew his hand, still feeling the residual effect of the strange influence of the artifact. His finger hurt as if it had been frostbitten. Karpov held his hand up to the light of the desk lamp and saw no traces, wondering why the pain persisted.
"I forgot to warn you," the curator realized, "you shouldn't touch it. It's another inexplicable peculiarity."
Stunned by what had happened, the expert returned to contemplating the object with increased curiosity. He suspected that they were trying to trick him during yesterday's phone conversation, but now his suspicion was replaced by even more painful bewilderment. Reaching again for the mysterious slab, he hesitated and decided it would be better to refrain from direct physical contact for now. He straightened up and grimly looked at Semen Borisovich. "The curator is definitely hiding something!" he thought, involuntarily squinting.
Semen Borisovich was a tall, rather stout man, who didn't always manage to fasten his long-tweed jacket on all the buttons. The noticeably thinning brown hair with gray patches was neatly combed to the side. He wore tidy light mustaches and a small goatee. His face was broad, with a slight flush on his chubby cheeks, thin and light eyebrows, and narrow, small eyes.
Up to this point, the curator had been observing the expert's changing expression, noting how his interest grew. Meanwhile, he expected a livelier reaction from the guest. Semen Borisovich was overwhelmed with impatience; he thirsted for revelations that he was ready to voice and rehearsed in his mind even before Karpov's arrival. But the latter behaved surprisingly reserved. Now, catching his astonished gaze, the curator decided that the opportune moment had come and, anticipating some satisfaction, he smiled condescendingly. If only he knew what he had experienced himself when the artifact illuminated his office with flickering light!..
"I understand," the curator said through a smile. "The thing is extremely extraordinary. But rest assured, the most interesting part is ahead of you."
"Why are you speaking in riddles?" the expert asked irritably. "I still haven't heard where you got it from."
The curator somehow convulsively shrugged, then shook his head, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, walked around the table, and sat down in the chair.
"There's something inside," he said with obvious excitement in his voice. "We haven't scanned it, but there's definitely some metal inside. And it's not radioactive, checked it first thing."
With a short gesture, the curator pointed to the welding gloves prepared in advance, lying in the corner of the table.
- Use... and assess its weight.
Without taking his eyes off the curator, Karpov put on the gloves. Then he turned to the artifact, and the excited expression returned to his face.
Hesitating, he touched the slab.
He lifted the ancient object, tearing it away from the table with some effort. By his estimate, the slab weighed eight or even ten kilograms. Placing it back in its place, Karpov paced back and forth in the room. Semen Borisovich calmly watched him. Karpov paced the office and remained silent.
This went on for a couple of minutes until the curator finally couldn't take it anymore and sighed loudly. Karpov stopped instantly, taking it upon himself. He cast a stern glance at the curator, but then seemed to understand something and smiled reconciliatorily, with one corner of his mouth.
"What do you intend to do?" Karpov asked restrainedly.
"Get to the truth," the curator said decisively.
Karpov briskly chuckled, walked around the office again, to the door and back.
"If it's dangerous? I think it should be scanned beforehand..."
"Listen," the curator interrupted him, "this thing, it's something extraordinary, capable of surpassing our understanding of human history, perhaps of unknown ancient civilizations... and maybe not from this planet. Is the world ready to appreciate such a discovery?"
"What do you suggest?" Karpov asked, surprised.
"I suggest, dear colleague, that you join my triumph. If you haven't fully realized yet, you're lucky to be the second person in the world to know about the existence of such a marvel. Allow me to demonstrate."
Karpov watched in utter amazement as the curator leaped from behind the desk, causing the chair to rumble on its wheels and crash heavily into the cabinet. In a strange excitement, the curator rushed to the wall near the entrance, reaching it in an instant and flicking a switch.
For a moment, the office plunged into semi-darkness.
Karpov didn't scream only because horror completely paralyzed him. Blood-red light flooded the office, dim and flickering. And in its flickering, there was a strange pulsation, sharp alternating bursts, intervals of which resembled a heartbeat. The source of the light was the artifact itself.
With horror, Karpov noted that the creature was surveying the office with extreme interest, occasionally fixing its gaze on one object or another. At the moment their eyes met, Karpov couldn't bear it and fainted.
***
"Scythian skulls," Semen Borisovich whispered insinuatingly as Karpov raised himself on his elbow.
The ceiling lights were on in the office, but the curtains remained tightly closed.
The expert found himself lying on the table, the surface of which was cleared of all objects. A soft bundle of rotten canvas was carefully placed under his head, apparently containing some museum belongings for safekeeping. He blinked in confusion, seeing the curator's face, excited and yet illuminated with incomprehensible joy. The latter stood at the edge of the table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, like a doctor making rounds.
"How are you feeling?" he asked Karpov. "Just as I thought! Such a sight can amaze... and damn scare. Come to your senses quickly, I have much to tell you."
Karpov sat on the edge of the table, rubbing his eyes with his hands. He noticed that the slab was wrapped in cellophane again.
"So!" the curator exhaled. "This thing, this mysterious artifact, was found among Scythian skulls discovered during the excavation of a mound on the banks of the Deadwater. My old friend and colleague, Professor Cherepanov, shared the details of the excavation with me. He's also the dean of the history department at the N Institute.
The main burial had an area of ;;three and a half square meters and a height just over one meter. The remains found in it belonged to adult male and female. Here archaeologists also found gold buckles, fragments of metal plates, presumably armor, a combat belt adorned with bronze, a short sword in sheaths, knives, part of a mace, and clay amphorae. This was one of the traditional burials and nothing more. But here's what's remarkable. A narrow, almost impassable dromos leading deeper into the mound led to a later secondary burial, carved so skillfully that it baffled even experienced archaeologists.

There lay the skeleton of a man, whose age was dated to the 9th century BCE. And this very slab, lying in a pile of skulls, apparently shards of Scythian amphorae. No more items, nothing that could be the property of the buried.

"But..." Karpov stared questioningly at the curator. "Why did you say that I'm only the second person to know about the existence of this artifact?"

The curator smirked cunningly. Karpov could only characterize this smile as cunning, if not downright sinister.

"A day after the slab was brought to light," the curator whispered, "everyone involved in the excavations said their goodbyes to life."

There was a pause, during which Karpov's gaze seemed to drift off into space. And only when the curator continued his story did meaning return to his eyes.

"One after another, although... here's the odd thing! It happened on the same day, as if their lives were cut short due to some mystical circumstances."

"Reasons?" the expert dryly remarked.

"Exactly unknown. But their deaths were deemed entirely natural, as far as I know. Nothing unusual, except that they were all connected by the discovery of the mysterious slab and the same day of death. A young student from the archaeology faculty, two associate professors, and the aforementioned professor."

Karpov shook his head, deep wrinkles furrowing his forehead. He looked very tired, exhausted. With each new answer from the curator, his desire to get to the bottom of things hopelessly waned, encountering increasingly incredible data. He helplessly looked at the slab wrapped in cellophane.

"Doesn't this mean," the expert quietly uttered, "that you and I will be the next ones touched by fate..."

"Curses?" Semen Borisovich demonstrated the same cunning smile. "This guess suggests itself, doesn't it?"

The curator paced around the office, clasping his hands behind his back.

"However, I'm still alive, despite today being the third day when you finally came."

Indeed, last week things piled up on Karpov, preventing him from visiting the museum as soon as he wanted. This information couldn't leave Karpov indifferent, and he had to endure until Saturday. His head was spinning. He suddenly remembered how much he hated dark secrets, and a vague feeling of regret about his involvement in all this began to creep in.

Semen Borisovich stood by the slab. As if in a pensive oblivion, he put on gloves and with a rustle touched the artifact, then lifted it with both hands and froze in that position for several seconds. All this time, he didn't take his eyes off the slab with a concentrated gaze.

Karpov was still sitting on the edge of the table, and his eyes were fixed on the curator, who suddenly turned in place. Semen Borisovich took two steps, and the slab ended up almost in front of the antiquities expert's nose.

Karpov slightly recoiled, looking with surprise at the strange expression on the curator's face, who was extending the artifact to him on outstretched arms.

"So, colleague, are you ready to cross the threshold of the unknown and touch the secrets of distant worlds?"

Karpov stepped back and stood up.

"What does this mean?" he asked perplexedly.

"You've seen him," the curator spoke with unexpected enthusiasm. "And he has seen you. That's enough... Take it with you. Take it for one night. At night, he will converse with you. The Sage from the Darkness, that's what he called himself. He is capable of revealing amazing things that will change your thinking. You will listen and ask questions, and then he will show you... You will see with your unworthy eyes too what was shown to me, and you will be grateful to him..."

"What nonsense!" With these words, the expert stood up and quickly headed for the exit.

Karpov tried to open the door, but it was locked. He pulled the door handle again, but it didn't yield any results. He heard a rustle and turned his face to the curator.

"It seemed to me that you were smarter than most, but apparently, I was gravely mistaken."

"What's happening?" Karpov became seriously concerned.

"I hoped you would understand the importance of the discovery," the curator continued, raising the slab above his head. His voice became increasingly excited. "At first, I didn't understand why he was sharing these monstrous secrets with me, but then it all became clear. He chose me. No one else listened to the Great Sage from the Darkness. Professor Cherepanov and his limited assistants rejected him. But I accepted... And then I wondered: how could I, an ordinary mortal, repay the guardian of cosmic wisdom? And he suggested to me. The inhabitant of the immaterial darkness feeds on life fluids. If you are somewhat knowledgeable in esoteric doctrines, you must know that the etheric envelope is the main life principle in the energetic structure of a human being. Yes, yes, he became insistent, but I treated his urgent needs with understanding. He named me his disciple. Just think what an exceptional honor the great..."

"Hold on," Karpov intervened. "You've gone mad! Just listen to yourself, this sounds like the ravings of a lunatic."

Suddenly the curator approached Karpov almost face to face. Thinking he was about to attack him, the expert recoiled sharply, literally pressing himself into the corner. But the curator only approached to flick the switch again, and the light went out once more.

Delirium? - the curator's bass voice echoed. - It will allow you to find out for yourself how much of it is delirium. Let the Sage of Darkness reveal his secrets and... Oh yes, it may seem like delirium to you. Because your little human mind is unlikely to withstand the horrors hidden in the darkness of the universe. He is looking for servants for his new cult. In this world... In the vast multitude of worlds, he has his circle of worship, altars, and shrines dedicated to him, and here he needs a new one, similar to those erected in the darkness-submerged Kherog and among the icy ridges of Khnarga. But are you worthy, esteemed expert? I noticed no hint of enthusiasm in you!

The plaque was already pulsating, and soon bright light spread freely throughout the office. The pulsating blood-red glow outlined the horned head, and the terrifying inhuman face became distinctly visible.

As soon as the large serpent-like eyes opened, they immediately found Karpov, frozen in horror in the corner of the office.

Karpov gasped in horror, unable to tear his gaze away from the monstrosity.

Suddenly, there was a quiet knock on the door. Just as Karpov snapped out of the trance, he rushed to the door and began to pound in vain on its thick surface. Still struggling to breathe, he managed to squeeze out a shrill, desperate voice:

"Let me out... They locked me in! Open up!"

The metallic clang on the other side brought such relief to Karpov, which he had not felt in his entire life, yet the time it took to choose the right key seemed endless to the expert. When the door finally clicked open, he momentarily glanced back...

The door opened, and barely avoiding knocking down a lady in a blouse, Karpov dashed down the dark corridor to the exhibition hall. There were no visitors, as the museum's opening hours had already ended. In the foyer between the columns, a janitor in a gray robe wrung out a mop. Karpov flew past her, kicking over the bucket with his foot, and the dirty water spilled onto the floor as swiftly as the torrent of curses, which Karpov no longer heard.

He raced down the stairs and, pushing open the heavy antique door, burst out onto the porch and ran away without looking back.

The rain was drizzling, and the traffic lights at the intersection reflected on the dark wet asphalt of the road. Exhausted, Karpov walked non-stop along the deserted night street, with the hideous red face with its terrible malicious grin still before his eyes.

Short, straight horns. Huge eyes with filament-like pupils. Sharp eyebrow ridges covered in scales. Antennae-like whiskers on a pointed chin. And a horribly wide mouth with thick lips.

But what else did he discover?

The last thing Karpov's eyes saw before he rushed out of Semen Borisovich's office seemed so grotesque, chimerical, and unbelievable that understanding what he had seen seemed impossible.

He made it home on foot. The journey took over an hour, and when he passed through the dark arch into the courtyard of his building, local hoodlums were sitting on the lower steps of the iron staircase. Climbing up, Karpov passed them indifferently, paying no attention to their vulgar, hoarse laughter and bass, unintelligible chatter, which only ceased when the chilled and soaked Karpov opened the door to his apartment.

He entered the bathroom, washed his face with hot water, and dried himself with a towel. In the reflection of the fogged mirror, his gaunt face seemed unrecognizable and alien. Thoughts about what had happened swirled in his mind in disjointed fragments, unable to find agreement. In the same mental distraction, Karpov went to bed, lay down on the bed, curled his knees to his stomach, heavily overwhelmed by the feeling of his own helplessness in the face of fears, still so strong... so powerful!

He fell asleep, covered with a blanket up to his chin. He fell asleep in his shoes, trousers, in everything except the coat he had taken off when entering the apartment. In his dream, he saw again what had vividly stood before him during his escape from the museum, throughout the journey home.

His head continued to emit an unnatural light, giving the walls and ceiling in the office a supernatural shade. Behind the curator's shoulders, who raised the plaque above his head, in the perspective of the abyss opened a breathtaking ephemeral landscape, consisting of countless cyclopean towers with slender spires, on which long, cobweb-like banners fluttered; twisted minarets with rows of oblique, blade-like spikes on the walls, and strange irregular pyramids standing on massive black columns. And here and there, towering statues of such monstrous and grotesque shapes that one could go mad from just a glance at their remarkably evil, bulging eyes. It seemed that in that world suddenly revealed to Karpov, a truly devilish, overwhelmingly discouraging disharmony reigned, laid down with some incomprehensibly blasphemous intention of unknown architects in the very architectural plan of the repulsive city. The spontaneous thought of what kind of inhabitants could inhabit this dreadful metropolis caused Karpov's heart to shrink, and he barely kept from falling when the museum employee finally opened the door to the office.

He fled from the insane curator and the terrifying face, illusionarily swaying over the ancient plaque, but the nightmare remained, penetrating deeper into the hidden layers of his mind.

Karpov fell asleep, and he dreamed of crooked streets, hemmed in by ominously tall buildings of unpleasant outlines. There he wandered, hiding in fear in black angular shadows, when the sounds of shuffling and gurgling voices were heard nearby. Each time he was forced to run from his temporary hiding places upon hearing rustles in the dark doorways. He ran from one gloomy corner to another, even gloomier. But everywhere he was awaited by sudden terror lurking in the darkness of corners and incomprehensible recesses, resembling warped windows in leaning houses. The ugliness and grotesqueness of the architecture filled him with a sense of overwhelming horror, and at some point he posed a pressing question to himself: what is the name of this repulsive city?

Karpov didn't even notice how fear, his constant companion, led him to a wide square paved with huge dark-green cobblestones, worn to a glossy shine. The square was quite spacious, and where its expanse met the crooked, almost hunched giant buildings, like a pair of gray curved fangs, they thrust their sharp peaks into the bottomless sky—giant obelisks. And between them, some hazy formation swayed, resembling either a cloud tinted with the crimson of dawn or a dull cluster of ruby stars. It softly glowed, causing the huge shadows and half-shadows cast by the obelisks to quiver rhythmically. It was the same light that animated the nightmare in the curator's office. Having grasped this forbidden secret, Karpov... woke up?

He found himself lying on the table in the curator's office of the Museum of Western and Eastern Art. The windows were still tightly curtained. The light was off. The expert sat on the edge, trembling with horror as he looked around. In the dim light, he could make out the outlines of a cabinet, a shelf with small sculptures and figurines, an old leather armchair on wheels left in the place where he had rolled during his last meeting with Semyon Borisovich. Karpov stood up, realizing that he was alone here.

He thought he was still dreaming. However, some weak, trembling nerve broke in him before Karpov realized that all of this was real. He gasped for air, holding it in his lungs, then exhaled with a crushing pain in his side. Then he took a deeper breath, filling his lungs completely. There was a nauseating, sickly-sweet smell here. Now Karpov was firmly convinced of his physical presence in the curator's office.

It seemed to him that there was a mechanism clicking in his head, switching between moments of reconciling with the absurdity happening to him and desperately rejecting it. Each such moment, with a new depth of realization opening up before him, revealed another wave of irrational horror. One chilling wave replaced another. And in the short intervals between them, Karpov fell into a kind of mental paralysis. As best he could, he gathered the remnants of his mental strength and turned on the light, continuing to inspect the surroundings with feverish attention.

On the floor lay shreds of wrapping torn from the ancient slab by the curator. But the most mysterious artifact was nowhere to be seen. Karpov circled the table—and suddenly screamed with a hoarse voice.

On the other side of the table, on the floor in a pool of blood, lay a head. Its widely open, frozen eyes stared at the dusty skirting board. It was the head of the museum curator. Karpov clamped his hands over his mouth to stop himself from screaming again. But the scream still burst out of him, turning into a stifled moan. In a semi-fainting state, he turned to leave the office.

The door was not locked. Opening it, Karpov stepped into a short corridor flooded with electric light from the sculpture hall, at the entrance to which he immediately encountered a lady in glasses and an atlas blouse. She sat on a chair to the right of the passage, completely immersed in herself.

Feeling dizzy and weak, the expert leaned against the wall.

The woman stood up from the chair before turning her empty eyes to him.

"We've been waiting for you," she said quietly, maintaining complete composure on her powdered face. She averted her meaningless gaze and moved towards the painting hall.

Shocked by what was happening, Karpov moved only when the museum worker turned in the next passage and, in the same quiet monotonous voice, said:

"Everyone has been waiting for you for a long time."

Karpov flinched.

The rustle of his companion's clothing seemed unbearable to him amid the deep museum silence. Karpov walked into the next exhibition hall, whose walls were hung with antique canvases in restored frames. Almost immediately, his attention was captured by a single object mounted on an old worn tripod, the round platform of which had clearly known many curious specimens. Now, however, a small clay slab covered with rows of primitive cuneiform signs was displayed on its surface.

The expert descended from the single step and froze in the passage.

All the museum employees were present in this hall. Right there, further away from the artifact, next to a large mirror as tall as a human, sat an elderly cleaning lady in a gray robe, with a green scarf tied around her head. The ticket seller with her voluptuous figure stood in line with the lady in the blue blouse and the long-haired slender girl in a cream-colored business suit, whom Karpov had only seen once before.

The same cold indifference on their faces exacerbated Karpov's apprehension. He breathed heavily with excitement, subconsciously suspecting that all those gathered here could be accomplices in an unimaginable atrocity. "At the very least," he clandestinely guessed, "one of them did the dirty work."

The lady in the blouse with shiny buttons adjusted her glasses and gestured with a broad sweep of her hand towards the slab, located at chest level.

"He warned that the new Ishu-Bihshar would come," she said monotonously. Her brightly painted red lips stretched into a crooked smile. "Please, come closer, don't be afraid."

Karpov once again scanned the women present with a troubled, distrustful gaze. They smiled at him, but it seemed forced. And that scared him.

Unconsciously, he took a step forward.

The girl in the business suit made a smooth and rather graceful movement with her hand, like a mythical siren luring a sailor. She seemed pretty to Karpov. But something was hidden behind her attractive smile, and in the way she looked at him, he vaguely sensed cold-blooded pretense. In the crease of her jacket, between the buttons of the light blouse, the upper part of her lovely chest peeked through. Without realizing it, the expert took another step.

The cleaning lady, who had been sitting motionless all this time, like a stone statue, suddenly rose from her chair. She tore off the scarf from her head and carelessly threw it to the floor. Then she began to slowly unbutton the buttons on her greasy robe. Losing eye contact with the beauty in the elegant suit, Karpov sobered up instantly. The incredibility of what was happening turned into stunning absurdity. The expression on his face changed sharply, and this circumstance, as he immediately guessed, did not escape everyone's attention.

"Ishu-Bihshar," said the lady in the blouse and glasses, emotionally. "Trust him."

"Nonsense!" he said, unexpectedly.

The faces frowned. Only the old woman continued to smirk strangely. Her robe now lay on the floor as well. She stood before him in her underwear, thin as a pole, with a pale, sunken belly and sagging breasts. She faced away from the mirror, revealing a depressing view of her flabby buttocks, a deeply protruding bony spine, and protruding ribs in the reflection. Gray strands of her curly hair lay on sharp bony shoulders, tightened by the straps of an old faded bra. She appeared to be no less than seventy years old to Karpov, and she evoked an indescribable disgust in him.

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed again.

The way to the foyer was blocked. Karpov feared passing through the line of insane museum workers. "They couldn't have severed the head with their bare hands...," he thought in torment. "Somewhere, there must be a weapon, stained with blood, hidden for now."

His tense gaze no longer darted as wildly when he began to think about the presence of a fire exit in the service rooms. Of course, he should be there!

"Ihshu-Bikhshara, trust us," repeated the woman in the blouse and glasses, "for you..."

"Nonsense," Karpov nervously chuckled.

"...are the new chosen one of the Sage from the darkness," she finished the sentence, and Karpov noticed that the woman was looking past his head.

Under the disgusting hysterical laughter of the naked old woman and the frantic beating of his heart, Karpov slowly, as if delaying the inevitable horror, turned around.

He saw looming over him a large red face with colorless eyes, barely perceptible pearlescent hues, and vertical pupils staring intensely at him. Thick lips stretched into a sinister and monstrously wide smile. Large sharp white teeth sparkled like polished marble. On its elongated chin trembled and writhed thin bifurcated appendages, like huge parasitic worms. The creature had a body, with arms and legs—human ones. It was clothed... In Karpov's eyes everything blurred, but he managed to note that the creature was wearing a brown tweed jacket—just like the one he had seen on the museum curator, Semyon Borisovich.

A spasm compressed Karpov's chest. He heard the air escape his lungs with a choked wheeze. As if from a sudden blood rush, his hands and feet instantly became numb and paralyzed. And his head was filled with a weight he couldn't hold. A black veil separated him from the monster. Karpov heard the last weak beats of his faltering heart and with a quiet, suffocating moan, he fell into the gaping darkness that opened before him.

In the thick palpable darkness, he felt a dizzying fall into the bottomless void of emptiness, trembling with murmuring, brittle, and nasal voices, repeating the same thing over and over: "Ihshu-Bikhshara... trust him... Ihshu-Bikhshara... trust him... Ihshu-Bikhshara... trust..."

Disgustingly fawning voices appealed to him from the black boundless space. Four pale spots flickered, whirled, and then approached, hanging over him like a small flock of birds, and he saw the faces of museum workers and their idiotic, feigned smiles, and mad eyes. He felt the chilling rays of a strange white sun with a bloody-red halo rising above a horrible city with crooked, narrow towers, scratching the deathly pale sky with its long spires, and above the terrible statues of shining black marble. Under him, beneath the dense green gloss, lay worn cobblestones of an endless square, on which shadows of irregular shapes lay. Gradually, Karpov realized that the wicked city had once again captured him in the nightmarish captivity of its surrealistic paintings. The swirling nebula suddenly stirred between two cyclopean obelisks, resembling fangs, shining with a dull crimson hue, and then, like a huge mass of ectoplasm, began to take the form of a gigantic head.

***

The window in his bedroom was slightly ajar, and the thin translucent tulle fluttered gently in the breeze. Awakening, Karpov felt that the room was filled with the invigorating smell of ozone and the chilly freshness of the morning.

He lay on his back, covered with a blanket up to his nose. He felt hot.

The sleepy cooing of pigeons came from the street, and somewhere far away, several blocks from here, a car rattled over cobblestones. Karpov believed he had seen a strange dream because the phantoms from the nightmare were already fading, dissolving in his mind like morning mist. To dispel them sooner, he tried to think about something mundane.

Throwing off the heavy blanket, Karpov sat on the edge of his bed to return to the cool embrace of the familiar surroundings. And then he sobbed convulsively. He was wearing trousers and a shirt, and dirty shoes on his feet, which he had taken off by the bedside. His mind refused to give an explanation for this. Karpov sat and stared at his shoes, soiled with street dirt, as if seeing them for the first time. Later, when a distant noise distracted him from his passive and thoughtless contemplation, Karpov headed to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

Huge and bleak, almost colorless eyes with narrow vertical pupils focused their mocking gaze on him. On his emaciated body, the head seemed like a huge red pumpkin, caricaturally disproportionate and grotesque. Despite the indescribable horror filling Karpov, the grotesque face in the reflection continued to smile at him with a truly demonic grin.