Nikolai Kapyonkin, an old-timer of the village of Gilyovo, Loktevsky district, who at one time worked as the chairman of the village council, has been interested in the history of his small homeland for many years. He created the chronicle of the village of Gilyovo, which was included in the book "Red Gold Elbow". It is document based. But besides this, Nikolai Konstantinovich keeps in his memory the village was. One of them was a witness himself, others heard from the elderly. Some stories from the fifties of the last century are surprisingly similar to Gogol's work "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka."
Poltergeist pranks?
- Something like this exists next to us, - begins another story Kapyonkin - Here are the facts. Our old house stood in the center of Gilyovo opposite the village council. And my friend Aleksey Bessmertnykh lived far away, on the western side under the hill Pomorka (the village was founded in 1725 by six families of Old Believers from near Arkhangelsk, they called the high hill on the outskirts Pomorka - L. Ye.). It was in the early 50s of the last century, when we, young guys, went to the club in the evenings, and then with a friend dropped in to see me, sometimes he stayed overnight. At that time there was no electric light in the village, in the evenings they lit kerosene lamps with a twisting wick.
Once we go home with Alexei, and his mother says: "Probably, the pipe fell down, something rattled up above." Previously, pipes laid in the attic were built from ordinary clay, but not directly, but with a "knee" to prevent a fire. It was called “boar”. The Russian stove in the winter heated it up, forming frost on top. The boletus got wet, and the chimney often collapsed, blocking the chimney. I had to check it out. A roof opening led from the closet. We light a lantern with Alexei, climb up. The whole pipe is standing, looked below - everything is fine. We went to bed. Suddenly something hummed, thundered. There is no time for sleep. They searched for the cause of the noise at midnight, did not find it. And on the street at that time there was a quiet winter night.
In our house there was a large icon of the Mother of God, which is now over 260 years old. It is written on the board. There is a date: "Rostov icon-painting workshop, 1750". Even my mother's great-grandmother was blessed with this icon. The icon hung in the corner on a large, sturdy hook. A month after that noise, we come with Alexei from the club at two o'clock in the morning, and in the hut the lamp is on, my mother sighs in fright: "It happened here!" - and points to the hidden room, behind which there is an old icon (hidden - chest. - L. Ye.). The hook is in place, the ring is intact, and the icon fell on the chest, but the glass frame, which I recently replaced, did not break. At the same time, it hung on hinges in the form of a stranglehold, which cannot be easily untied, but then they parted themselves and the ropes dangle.
My friend's grandmother lived in Rubtsovsk, constantly attended church, where a very old priest, Father Ignatius, served. Soon, Aleksey and I went to Rubtsovsk to the bazaar, told his grandmother about the icon and the strange noises in our house. She promised to go to Father Ignatius in the morning. The next day, the grandmother relayed the priest's request to come to him. We agreed.
Father Ignatius said: “Do you guys know that there is another life next to us? But the human senses are arranged in such a way that we cannot see and hear this life. He warned: if such an incomprehensible thing began in the hut, then perhaps it was the dark forces who chose our house for their communication.
Promotional video:
We ask: "How to discourage them?" Answers: “It is necessary to use the symbol of the cross. The symbol is very ancient, Christianity borrowed it for a reason. I advise you to come to the Sunday service, buy candles in the church, light them at home and draw crosses with fire over the front doors, on the doorposts of the windows. To show that it is a cross. All this otherworldly power is very afraid of the power of the cross. " They did as the priest said. Since then, there have been no incomprehensible phenomena in the house.
Go with us
Pavlovka is located behind the Pomorka hill, right behind the village of Gilyovo. Nikolai Kapyonkin, who from his youth often visited his neighbors, knew many there. And he still remembers the stories he heard from them that happened to real people. He continued his story:
- In the fifties, grandfather Dmitry Methodievich, his younger brother Mitrofan Methodievich and their sister Fekla lived in Pavlovka. All three are whimsical in nature. Dmitry is small, Mitrofan is taller. At one time, together with other immigrants, their family arrived in Altai. Then they settled in whole streets - the street of Ukrainians (Ukrainians in the forelock), the street of the Katsapov - that was the name of the bearded Russian men ("tsap" in Ukrainian "goat"; "like a tsap" - "like a goat", they did not wear beards in Ukraine). The nephew of Dmitry's grandfather Andrei worked as a foreman in Pavlovka.
It was on the eve of the November 7 holiday. Dmitry with his wife, Fekla with her husband Arseny, other guests gathered at the table in Mitrofan's house. We talked, had a snack, drank beet mash. Sat up late. Grandfather Dmitry's wife several times called him home, tugged at his sleeve, but he brushed it off: "Come on, that you are attached!" Grandma slammed the doors and left. We sat still. Snow fell the day before, but melted quickly. Moonlit night, light frost. When my sister and her husband left, Dmitry also gathered. Mitrofan accompanied him a little and returned to the hut. As grandfather Dmitry himself said, the month was so bright that at least collect needles. Goes, hums to himself. He hears the accordion played. Out of nowhere are lads, healthy, with accordion. They are catching up with him: "Uncle, come with us." - "Will there be vodka?" - "Will be". Then the grandfather told the young Nikolai Kapenkin:
- I went up to the accordion player, he is healthy. He plays, I sing. I raise my head, but the accordion player has no face. Instead, there is a dark spot. Unclean power is impersonal, it is written in the Gospel. I was surprised, but went further with them along the road that leads to Gilyovo. We approached the bridge over the river, beyond it the border of the villages and khomutin - the old dry bed of the Alei. In the summer there is water, and in the fall only puddles, the pigs bathe. Moreover, there was a pigsty nearby. My house was 40 meters away, on a moonlit night the roof was already visible …
At this time, the company turned off the road and took Dmitry Methodievich along. Grandfather caught himself: "Lads, where are we going?" Those: "And we will go so shorter." And they took my grandfather into this pit with muddy puddles. It seemed like they were walking together, when suddenly it snowed, crackled and the lads disappeared. And the grandfather woke up one waist-deep in water. I looked around and saw a pigsty. Shouted: "Save!" The cowgirl on duty Maria, his neighbor, heard that someone was shouting in the swamp. I recognized him: "Uncle Mitka, why are you?" - "Tse I!" My partner and I put on swamp boots, together they dragged the grandfather out and brought him home. But the matter did not end there.
Harmony in the stable
Mitrofan Methodievich worked as a groom on the collective farm. One day he asked his older brother: "You smell me for me while I go to my friends in the area." Dmitry comes on duty in the evening. I took a flashlight, magazines, locked myself in the stable. I sat down to look through the magazines. He hears the accordion, as it did then. Then there was a knock on the door: "Open it, your own people have come." And again the accordion. Grandfather drew a cross on the door, everything rumbled and fell silent. In the morning the foreman comes - his nephew Andrey. Dmitry tells him about the night incident. "Uncle, did you drink?" - "What are you, drunk on duty - never!" We agreed that they would take duty again in the evening. And the nephew will come with a gun.
The second night came. Andrei lay, struggling with sleep, but still fell asleep. The grandfather sits on guard. The accordion played again. Andrey jumped up, grabbed a double-barreled gun, threw open the stable gates. It is dark outside. The accordion player is the first. The nephew shot the accordion player point-blank with two barrels. And in response they burst out laughing. Everyone in the village heard it. And again it crackled, whirled in the wind and everything disappeared.
And although all the villagers were warned to remain silent about the incident in the stable, the rumor reached the district party committee. They began to raise the issue at the party activists. The third secretary of the district committee, a native of Belarus, said that they would have nothing in the republic for such conversations. They believe in evil spirits. But here it is important not to talk too much, so that information about this incident does not leak out of the district.
The old people in the village of Gilyovo still remember the stories about werewolves. They were told not only by Nikolai Kapyonkin, but also by my grandfather Dmitry Nikonovich Fetisenko and other relatives. It used to be that young people walk at night, return from the club, suddenly out of nowhere on the yard they are met by a pig. Runs, throws himself at his feet, squeals. And so many times. Moreover, the pig is unfamiliar, not a village one. Everyone believed that it was a witch who turned into a pig. In the early 60s, grandma Kobzikha lived in the village, people said that she was a witch. At 80, she was very energetic. Next to her lived a neighbor - a disabled war veteran without an arm and deaf. He rode a horse. The neighbor began to notice: he would arrive in the evening, unharness the horse, and in the morning he came out - the horse was all wet. Someone drives it at night. I went to the village council, complained that the kids were chasing a horse. They gave the task to the vigilantes. Watch the night, the other - nothing. A few days later, Kobzikha's neighbor Anna Petrovna came to the village council. They asked her if she knew the story about the horse. She laughed: “It’s grandmother Kobzikha who rides a horse at night, she harnesses and unharnesses it, carries some sacks. She came to me once …"
And there is more than one such story in the memory of Nikolai Kapyonkin.
