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 the full light of noon.
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 horrid challenge at their victim: "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. Perhaps it was the temptation of the gold. No one knew why, but Ivan moistened his lips and said suddenly, "Yes, Captain, I'll cross the graveyard."
The tavern echoed with disbelief. The captain winked, unbuckled his sword, and handed it to Ivan. "When you get to the center of the graveyard, in front of the biggest tomb, stick this sword into the ground. In the morning, if the sword is there, the five rubles are yours."
Ivan took the sword. The men drank a toast: "To Ivan the Terrible!" They roared with laughter.
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 voice yell after him, "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. He must have sobbed—a sound drowned by the wind. Cold and terrified, he kneeled and drove the sword through the crust into the hard ground. With all his strength, he pushed it down to the hilt. It was done.
Ivan started to rise from his knees. But he 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 on the ground in front of the tomb in the center of the graveyard. He was frozen to death. The look on his face was not that of a frozen man, but of a man 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.