ABSTRACT
My grandfather himself told me that he was at a wedding and saw a sorcerer. He sat in the place of honor, and everyone bowed to him and treated him royally and didn’t contradict him in anything for fear of spoiling. Three people from our village shrieked because of him, and two walked about on all fours. He lived for a long time, amassed a pile of money, and as soon as he began to die, they broke the edge of the roof. At midnight he rose from the grave and ran after the lector who read the psalms. And they dug him out and drove an aspen stake into the grave so that he couldn’t rise again.1
