Ivan was a timid little man, so timid that the villagers called him "pigeon" or mocked him with the title "Ivan the Terrible."
Every night, Ivan stopped at the tavern on the edge of the village graveyard. He never crossed the graveyard to reach his lonely shack on the other side, even though the path would save him many minutes—not even in broad daylight.
Late one winter's night, as bitter wind and snow beat against the tavern, the customers resumed their familiar mockery. Ivan's weak protests only encouraged them. The Cossack captain flung a cruel challenge at him: "You are a pigeon, Ivan. You'll walk around the graveyard in this cold, but you dare not cross it."
Ivan murmured, "The graveyard is nothing to cross, Captain. It is nothing but earth, like all the other earth."
The captain cried, "A challenge, then! Cross the graveyard tonight, Ivan, and I'll give you five rubles—five gold rubles!"
Perhaps it was the vodka, or the temptation of the gold. No one knew why, but Ivan suddenly agreed. The tavern echoed with disbelief. The captain winked at the men, unbuckled his sword, and gave it to Ivan. "When you reach the center of the graveyard, in front of the biggest tomb, stick this sword into the ground. If we find it there tomorrow morning, the five rubles are yours."
The men roared with laughter, toasting "To Ivan the Terrible!"
The wind howled as Ivan left the tavern. The cold was knife-sharp. He buttoned his long coat and crossed the dirt road, hearing the captain's final yell: "Five rubles, pigeon! If you live!"
Ivan pushed the graveyard gate open and walked fast, muttering, "Earth, just earth…" But the darkness was a massive dread. "Five gold rubles…" The wind was cruel, and the sword felt like ice in his hands. Shivering, he broke into a limping run.
He stopped at the large tomb. Kneeling, cold and terrified, he drove the sword through the crust into the hard ground with all his strength, down to the hilt. It was done.
Ivan started to rise from his knees but could not move. Something gripped him in an unyielding hold. He tugged, lurched, and pulled—gasping in panic, shaken by horrible fear. He cried out, then made senseless, gurgling noises.
They found Ivan the next morning, frozen to death on the ground in front of the central tomb. The look on his face was not that of a frozen man, but of one killed by some nameless horror.
And the captain's sword was in the ground where Ivan had pounded it—through the dragging folds of his long coat.