Having but one idea in his head—that is, the great wrong that had been done to him—he hardly fell asleep at nights but he was at once haunted by fearful dreams. His murdered brother would at once appear before him and ask him—urge him—to avenge his death:
"While you are enjoying the inheritance I left you, I am groaning in hell-fire, and my murderer is not only left free, but he is even made much of."
Masses were said for the dead man's soul, still that was of no avail; Vranic's dreams got always more frightful. The morina, the dreadful mara or nightmare, took up its dwelling in the tailor's house. No sooner did the poor man close his eyes than the ponderous ghost came hovering over him, and at last crushed him with its weight. The sign of the pentacle was drawn on every door and window. A witch drew it for him on paper with magical ink, and he placed the paper under his pillow. He put another on the sheets; then the nightmare left him alone, and other evil spirits came in its stead. Not knowing the names of these evil spirits or their nature, it was a difficult task to find out the planet under which they were subjected, the sign which they obeyed, and what charm was potent enough to scare them away.
One night (it was about the hour when his brother had been murdered) the tailor was lying on his bed in a half-wakeful slumber—that is to say, his drowsy body was benumbed, but his mind was still quite awake, when all at once he was roused by the noise of a loud wind blowing within the house. Outside, everything was perfectly quiet, but inside a distant door seemed to have been opened down in some cellar, and a draught was blowing up with a moaning, booming sound. You might have fancied that a grave had been opened and a ghastly gale was blowing from the hollow depths of hell below, and that it came wheezing up. It was dreadful to hear, for it had such a dismal sound.
Perhaps it was only his imagination, but Vranic thought that this mysterious draught was cold, damp and chilly; that it had an earthy, rank smell of mildew as it blew by him.
He lay there shivering, hardly daring to breathe, putting his tongue between his chattering teeth not to make a noise, and listening to that strange, weird blast as at last it died far away in a faint, imperceptible sigh.
No sooner had the sound of the wind entirely subsided than he heard a cadenced noise of footsteps coming from afar. Were these steps out of the house or inside? he could not tell. He heard them draw nearer and ever nearer; they seemed to come across the wall of the room, as if bricks and stones were no obstacle to his uncanny visitor; now they were in his room, walking up to his bed. Appalled with terror, Vranic looked towards the place from where the footsteps came, but he could not see anybody. Trembling as if with a fit of palsy, he cast a fearful, furtive glance all around, even in the furthermost corner of the room; not the shadow of a ghost was to be seen; nevertheless, the footsteps of the invisible person grew louder as they approached at a slow, sure, inexorable pace.
At last they stopped; they were by his bed. Vranic felt the breath of a person on his very face.
Except a person who has felt it, no one can realise the horror of having an invisible being leaning over you, of feeling his breath on your face.
Vranic tried to rise, but he at once came in close contact with the unseen monster; two cold, clammy, boneless hands gripped him and pinned him down; he vainly struggled to get free, but he was as a baby in the hands of his invisible foe. In a few seconds he was entirely mastered, cowed down, overcome, panting, breathless. When he tried to scream, a limp, nerveless hand, as soft as a huge toad, was placed upon his mouth, shutting it up entirely, and impeding all power of utterance. Then the ponderous mass of the ghost came upon him, crushed him, smothered him. Fainting with fear, his strength and his senses forsook him at the same time, and he swooned away.