Ghost of the night

      The moon rose over the abandoned estate of Count Vishnevetsky. The rays of the moon illuminated the walls of the collapsing building, several rays shone on the half-broken rainbow stained glass windows in the windows at the top of the castle tower, causing the colorless ray of the moon to turn into a rainbow on the floor of the tower. It seemed like time had stopped here forever. The estate was a large abandoned palace with a tower, the right side of the palace was full of cracks and seemed about to collapse, and the second floor of the left side was a semi-ruin with empty window openings and ruins of the roof. And almost all the windows were boarded up, shards of glass sticking out of the window frames shimmered in the moonlight. Only beams remained of the tower's pointed roof. On all sides the palace was surrounded by forest, which was probably once a beautiful garden, because in some places there were old rose bushes and, apparently, old fruit trees. The place was very creepy. When the moon reached the middle of the heavens, something flashed through the opening of the amphilade of an abandoned palace. The barely visible silhouette soon became more clearly visible. It was the silhouette of a thin old man with very pale skin and dull, milky white lifeless eyes. His features were aristocratic, with thin lips and a hooked nose. His long gray hair reached his lower back and he also had a shaggy goat-like beard, from which it looked as if a piece had been torn off. The old man was dressed in a shabby, faded burgundy silk robe with wide sleeves and a train; along the collar, edges of the sleeves and train the robe was trimmed with shabby, frayed but fluffy fur. He was belted with a beautiful belt with tassels. From under the hem one could see the hem of a garment that looked like an old, shabby nightgown. His feet were bare. The old man walked through the half-empty rooms with extraordinary grace, as if he was not walking but floating. His gaze slowly wandered over all the objects, from time to time he approached some objects and took them in his hands, examining them with nostalgia and then putting them in place. The rays of the moon penetrated through the half-boarded windows and were reflected in the cracked antique mirrors, making the inside seem lighter than it actually was. The old man seemed to be deliberately trying not to look in the mirrors and walked past them quickly. Walking through the living room, his gaze flashed to a beautiful patterned fireplace whose chimney had collapsed, but by some miracle the vase standing on the fireplace survived. The old man came up and moved the vase to the nearest table and then swam on. He found himself in a spacious hall with two staircases, one leading to the left side of the palace to the second floor and the other to the right to the second floor. The old man stopped in the middle of the stairs and looked at the room again; the large antique chandelier that should have hung proudly above the room was lowered just a meter from the floor and all the crystal decorations were missing from it. On the other side there was the main entrance door, but it, like the windows, was boarded up and the floor next to it was broken. The old man sadly looked at it all, as if imagining what it looked like before, and headed to the second floor. Quickly walking through the corridors, he entered the bedroom and sat down on a dusty antique bed. With a deft movement, he took out a silver box from the bedside table and opened it. The box contained some jewelry, silver pre-revolutionary coins, old letters and a tattered leather-bound notebook. He took it and opened it. On the first page, in a beautiful, elegant handwriting, it was written: “This notebook belongs to Alexander Fedorovich Vishnevetsky,” then there was the inscription “1850 - “there was no final year, just a dash. Next in the notebook were several black and white old photographs. The first photo showed an estate with beautiful gardens, not yet abandoned and prosperous. The second depicts a young family. A young beautiful woman in a fashionable dress of the 19th century, 1860s, and next to her a young man with dark hair tied with a ribbon in a ponytail, wearing a suit with a frock coat, fashionable at that time. They stand against the backdrop of a large rose bush. The old man looked sadly at the last photo and put it back in his notebook. He flipped through the notebook almost to the end; a lot was described there, difficult times, the revolution and the beginning of the Red Terror. All these records were made by Count Vishnevetsky. It was dawning in the gardens of the abandoned castle. The sun had not yet risen, but somewhere very far away a rooster crowed several times. The old man got out of bed to put the notebook in the box, but disappeared into thin air as if he had never existed. And the notebook fell to the floor, opening to the last page where it was written: “The Bolsheviks are already at the gate. They will come for me...” then the recording was cut off. The first rays of the sun illuminated the tops of the trees and the ruins of the palace tower, and the nightingales finished singing.       10/02/2024