Бесплатный фрагмент - The Dyatlov Pass Incident

Chapter 1 — Message from Nowhere

Moscow, Present Day

Maxim woke at 9:30, his eyes drawn to the curtained windows where a thin strip of dim light revealed another characterless December day in Moscow. The weather matched his mood — neither warm nor cold, just an endless stretch of dreary dampness that seemed to mock the very idea of sunlight. The next glimpse of sun wasn’t due until May, and the thought weighed heavily on his soul.

Following his daily ritual, he reached for his phone and spent the next half hour scrolling through social media, still wrapped in his bedding. Another morning identical to countless others — the predictability of it all terrified him. The endless cycle felt like a trap, but escape seemed impossible. Everything was so painfully foreseeable it made him nauseous: shower, breakfast, work — or rather, the “rat race” — then lunch, a walk, more work, and suddenly darkness would fall, signaling time for dinner and sleep. The monotony had become unbearable. But that evening, everything changed. Reality itself seemed to shift, leaving his former life behind like a distant memory.

As Maxim slowly maneuvered his car out of his office parking lot, he could barely contain his irritation. Moscow’s streets were choked with traffic, typical for the evening rush hour. The sky above hung gray and expressionless, a perfect mirror of his internal state.

A sudden impact from the side jolted him from his thoughts. The car shuddered from the force of the collision, and he felt adrenaline surge through his body, awakening every cell. After a few seconds, having recovered from the initial shock, Maxim stepped out to assess the situation. To his surprise, the other driver was remarkably calm — a woman around twenty-five, with striking black eyes that seemed impossibly bright against the gray urban landscape.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see your car,” she said, meeting Maxim’s gaze directly. There was something mesmerizing in her look. Maxim felt his irritation dissolving, as if the fabric of his ordinary reality was beginning to unravel at the seams.

“It’s fine, everything’s okay,” he replied, unable to look away.

As their eyes met for the second time, Maxim felt the world around him freeze. His heart raced, and a strange flash of light burst in his mind. He tried to focus, but suddenly his legs gave way, and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

Reality returned with the scent of frosty air and the touch of a warm hand. Maxim found himself lying on a park bench. Beside him sat the woman from the accident, holding his hand. Her face showed concern, but her eyes still held that same extraordinary power.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently.

Maxim nodded, trying to piece together the recent events. His gaze fell on her again, and he once more felt that inexplicable energy radiating from her presence. The world around them seemed different somehow, filled with hidden meaning and mystery.

“What happened?” he asked, looking at her.

She paused thoughtfully before answering, “It’s my fault, I wasn’t careful on the road.” Her words rang with sincerity. “I’m sorry I frightened you. How are you feeling? Are you better now?”

Maxim nodded, attempting to gather his thoughts.

“Yes, I think I’m fine,” he replied, slowly rising to his feet.

He felt the stability of the ground beneath him restoring his confidence and mental clarity. Together they walked silently back to their cars, each lost in contemplation about their strange encounter and its implications.

When they reached the accident site, Maxim was astonished to find that the damage to his car had somehow vanished. The dent he clearly remembered — deep, with a spray of cracks in the paint — had simply disappeared. The car looked untouched, as if the last half hour had been nothing more than a strange dream.

“How did…” he turned to the woman, but the words caught in his throat. She was gone, dissolved into the evening air like a mirage.

He looked around — no one. Maxim felt a surge of bewilderment and amazement wash over him. His eyes returned to the car, which now appeared completely intact, as if the accident had never happened.

He stood motionless, trying to unravel the mystery of this encounter, sensing that his life had just brushed against something inexplicable and enigmatic.

Reaching into his pocket, Maxim felt a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he saw several lines written in clear, almost engraved handwriting:

“This meeting was no accident. Look for answers in unexpected places. Your journey is just beginning.”

Maxim carefully folded the note and tucked it away. Sitting in his car, he paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on the empty space beside him where the mysterious stranger had been. His thoughts swirled around the enigmatic encounter and the cryptic message on the paper.

He put the car in motion and headed home, driving slowly, deep in contemplation, trying to piece together all the elements of this extraordinary evening.

Chapter 2 — Ghosts of the Past

The sight of his apartment door standing ajar made Maxim freeze on the fifth-floor landing. His heart hammered against his ribs, pumping a mixture of fear and inexplicable anticipation through his veins. He approached cautiously, feeling the air thicken with tension around him.

The door opened with a soft creak. Inside, the apartment held not a dead silence, but a living one, electrified, as if the air itself was charged with invisible energy. Something had shifted in the familiar space, though he couldn’t quite identify what.

A photograph lay on the table — one he was certain hadn’t been there before. Maxim approached slowly, as if afraid to startle an apparition. As he picked up the photo, a chill ran down his spine.

The black-and-white image showed a group of young hikers against the backdrop of a winter forest. Their faces radiated life and energy, but their eyes held something unsettling, as if they already knew their fate. Maxim’s fingers trembled as he turned the photograph over. On the back, in faded ink, was written the date — February 1959.

The photograph in his hands seemed to open a portal to the past, and the story behind it demanded to be told.

Ten young hikers, full of life and hope, had set out on an expedition to the Northern Urals in early 1959. The group was led by Igor Dyatlov — an experienced mountaineer whose name would later become synonymous with one of the 20th century’s most enigmatic tragedies. They had planned to traverse the wild, nearly inaccessible terrain and reach the summit of Mount Otorten.

Yuri Yudin, one of the participants, had fallen ill at the beginning of the route and was forced to turn back. That decision would ultimately save his life.

When the hikers failed to make contact at the appointed time, their families raised the alarm. The search operation revealed a horrifying scene: their tent on the slope of Mount Kholat Syakhl had been cut open from the inside, as if the occupants had fled in panic. Footprints led down the slope — the hikers had inexplicably rushed into the forest.

What the searchers found later sparked dozens of theories and speculations. The bodies bore strange injuries — crushed skulls, broken ribs, wounds that couldn’t be explained by ordinary accidents.

Maxim studied the faces in the photograph, trying to understand what had driven them to slash their tent and flee into the freezing night. What force could have broken the ribs of experienced hikers?

He leaned closer to the image. This story had long been part of his life — how many hours had he spent studying documents, reading witness testimonies, trying to unravel the mystery of Dyatlov Pass? And now…

Reality around him began to blur, shattering into fragments of visions. The night sky erupted with strange lights, mysterious glowing orbs danced in the air. He saw the panic in the tent, heard the screams, felt the burning cold of snow under his feet. Then his consciousness seemed to split — he was everywhere and nowhere at once. Now he was driving a truck loaded with barrels of alcohol along a snow-covered road, now operating a train, now checking documents at a station in a police uniform.

Gasping, Maxim collapsed into a chair. Blood pounded in his temples, fragments of visions still flashing before his eyes. The photograph in his hands pulsed with strange energy, as if it were alive.

“What’s happening? Why am I seeing all this?” he whispered, feeling fear mix with burning, irresistible curiosity.

Then his gaze fell on a diary lying on the table. The worn leather cover bore the marks of countless touches. With trembling hands, Maxim opened it and froze — it was Igor Dyatlov’s own journal.

“My God…” he breathed, realizing the value of his discovery. In his hands were the writings of a man whose mysterious story had haunted him for years.

Dyatlov’s diary was full of secrets. The pages were littered with diagrams, formulas, and encoded entries, as if their author feared they might fall into the wrong hands.

The lines unfolded before Maxim like a map of unknown territory. A second group — never mentioned in any official account — had also been there at Kholat Syakhl. The choice of the tent site hadn’t been random — precise coordinates, calculated using mountain peaks, rock formations, and a specific cedar tree.

His fingers shook as he turned the pages. An encounter with an elf-like being they’d offered sugar to. A broken light filter used for determining coordinates. Panic in the tent.

One entry stood out — hurried, with smeared letters, as if Dyatlov had rushed to record what he’d seen before it slipped from memory:

“Today we saw something strange. Something glitters in the distance, on the mountain slope. We decided to check it tomorrow morning.”

Then Maxim stumbled upon something incredible. An entire page was devoted to strange glowing spheres in the sky. Detailed diagrams, thorough descriptions of their movements — smooth, as if guided by intelligence. They emitted a peculiar light that penetrated even the densest darkness. Sometimes they would hover motionlessly, as if observing, then vanish at impossible speeds, leaving behind silence and an inexplicable sense of unease.

Sitting in silence and reading these lines over and over, reality around him became increasingly unstable and unreliable. Overwhelmed by the depth of the mystery before him, he realized that the Dyatlov group was merely one link in a chain of events reaching back to the previous century. They hadn’t simply encountered something inexplicable — they’d become part of a grand design whose scale was only beginning to emerge.

1891. A secret expedition of the Russian Empire to the Urals. Scientists sent to investigate mysterious geomagnetic anomalies and strange lights in the night sky. In the yellowed pages of Professor Voronov’s diary, their quest came alive:

“Again observed strange luminous phenomena on the horizon. They appear as if from nowhere and vanish without a trace. We are powerless to explain their nature. The locals call them ‘spirit lights,’ but I am convinced — there is something more behind this, something that could overturn our understanding of reality.”

Maxim slammed the diary shut. The silence in the apartment pressed against his eardrums. The story that had begun more than a century ago still hadn’t reached its conclusion. And now he stood on the threshold of uncovering the truth.

The choice was crystal clear — though terrifying in its certainty. He could put the diary aside, return to his ordinary life, forget all this like a strange dream. Or step into the unknown, following the footsteps of those who had tried to uncover this mystery before him.

The answer was obvious. He couldn’t unsee what he’d witnessed, couldn’t unread what he’d discovered. He had to find the truth, no matter how terrifying it might be. The Dyatlov Pass tragedy was just the tip of the iceberg — beneath it lay a story capable of changing humanity’s destiny.

A chill ran down Maxim’s spine — he physically felt the weight of unseen eyes. Someone was watching him, evaluating, weighing. They were waiting for his decision, testing whether he was worthy of the ancient knowledge passed down through generations.

With a determination that surprised even himself, he stood up, feeling the heavy tension in his chest give way to clarity. A dangerous journey lay ahead — one that could change not only his fate but the course of world history. There was no turning back now.

Chapter 3 — Shadows of Ivdel

The photograph of the Dyatlov group drew Maxim’s gaze like a magnet. For hours he had been studying the black-and-white image, and gradually it came alive before his eyes. Nine young faces, full of life and hope.

In the center stood Igor Dyatlov, his gaze fixed on some distant point, as if he already sensed the approach of something inevitable. Next to him, Lyuba Dubinina smiled — her warmth reaching across the decades, touching even now. Yuri Doroshenko must have just told a joke — laughter still sparkled in his eyes.

As Maxim ran his finger along the photograph’s rough edge, he felt a strange connection to these people. It was as if he had been there himself, on that frozen day in 1959, sharing their last moments of carefree happiness before the impending tragedy.

He shook his head, dispelling the vision, and opened the diary again. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, but he sensed something important still eluded his grasp. Again and again, he pored over the lines written in Dyatlov’s hand, trying to penetrate the dead hiker’s thoughts.

Then suddenly — a discovery. On one of the last pages, he found something he’d overlooked before — an encoded message and a map with mysterious markings. His pulse quickened. Perhaps here lay the key to unlocking the mystery of the pass.

Turning to his computer, Maxim dove into the depths of the internet. On specialized forums, amid thousands of theories and speculations, he stumbled upon something truly disturbing — the testimony of Pelageya Solter, a nurse from the Ivdel morgue.

Her account of the bodies delivered in early February 1959 completely contradicted the official version. According to her, they brought in two women first — though documents told a different story. But most shocking was Solter’s claim that there weren’t nine bodies, but eleven. They arrived by military helicopters, in small groups of two or three.

Maxim felt tension course through his body. Something here was fundamentally wrong.

Digging deeper, he discovered another irregularity — the dates didn’t align. The criminal case had been opened long before the Dyatlov group was officially reported missing.

“Why?” The thought pulsed in his head. “How could the authorities have known about the tragedy in advance?”

Then it hit him like lightning — what if they had initially found different bodies? What if they had mistakenly identified them as the Dyatlov group? That would explain both the early case opening and the conflicting witness testimonies.

With each new fact, the mystery deepened. Maxim felt he was approaching the truth, but his intuition warned that the reality might be so shocking it would overturn everything he thought he knew.

Exhausted from hours of internet research, Maxim returned to the diary. Flipping through the pages, he froze — among Dyatlov’s entries, there was a mention of a particular cedar tree near their campsite.

“Why did he single out this tree?” The thought nagged at his consciousness. Maxim began researching the area, and suddenly an incredible theory formed in his mind.

What if the cedar had been planted deliberately? Perhaps more than a century ago? A marker tree, indicating something hidden from prying eyes, some anomaly in the area.

“Did Dyatlov know something about this cedar? Or did he accidentally stumble upon an ancient secret?” Maxim felt he had found a thread leading to the truth. Each answer spawned a dozen new questions, but now he had a clear purpose.

There was no time to waste. He retrieved a large backpack and methodically began packing for the journey, as if preparing for an expedition into the past. Warm clothes, sleeping bag, flashlight, provisions, first aid kit — everything arranged with military precision. Most important were Dyatlov’s diary and documents, carefully sealed in a waterproof bag. These yellowed pages now seemed more precious than any treasure.

He studied the area map like an ancient manuscript, trying to discern secret signs left by his predecessors behind the contour lines.

As he prepared for departure, he suddenly felt someone watching. Looking out the window, he spotted a black car lurking in the shadows of the building across the street. Surveillance? Possibly. But who?

He needed to act carefully. The apartment’s back exit led him to the courtyard, where a taxi took him to the station via a circuitous route. Just in case.

Buying his ticket to Ivdel, he noticed a man with a red beard. The stranger watched him openly, and when their eyes met, Maxim was struck by a sharp sense of recognition — he had seen this face in one of his visions of the past.

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The train carried him east for almost two days. Snow-covered Ural peaks drifted past the window as Maxim tried to piece together the puzzle from fragments of information. He sensed that somewhere among these ancient mountains lay a secret capable of transforming humanity’s understanding of reality.

Ivdel greeted him with biting cold. The wooden station building, snow-laden firs — it seemed nothing had changed here in sixty years.

Suddenly reality wavered before his eyes. In a rushing vision, he saw them — young, vibrant hikers, talking animatedly on this very platform. Dyatlov, his companions… The vision vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

When the world regained clarity, Maxim noticed an elderly man watching him intently. Something in his gaze felt hauntingly familiar, like an echo from the past.

“Looking for answers about the pass?” The old man’s quiet voice sounded unexpectedly close. It carried a strange mixture of wariness and relief.

Maxim tensed but nodded. Something about the stranger inspired trust.

“Nikolai Ivanovich,” the old man introduced himself. “I was in the search party. Looking for Dyatlov’s group. And what we found there…” he glanced around, “Come with me. This isn’t the place for such conversations.”

The small café near the station smelled of coffee and damp. Over cups of scalding tea, Nikolai Ivanovich began his story, and with each word, the reality around Maxim became increasingly unstable.

“They ordered us to stay silent about what we saw. We were supposed to forget everything, as if nothing had happened. But how can you forget something that leaves a mark on your soul?”

Maxim listened, afraid to miss a single word. The old rescuer’s account supported his boldest theories — about the events of those years and the strange phenomena on Kholat Syakhl.

“But most importantly,” Nikolai Ivanovich lowered his voice almost to a whisper, “next to the bodies we found a strange device. Like a radio, but… different. And a note…”

The door bell jingled. Two men entered the café — their military bearing unmistakable. Nikolai Ivanovich abruptly cut off his story.

“We need to go,” he said, rising. “Tomorrow at noon. The old sawmill by the weather station. I’ll show you something… What I’ve kept all these years.”

They slipped out through the café’s back door into the frozen night. In his hotel room, insomnia awaited Maxim. In his fitful half-sleep, he saw fiery spheres hovering above mountains, heard shouts in an unfamiliar language, felt reality itself coming apart at the seams.

Chapter 4 — Escape into the Unknown

The frosty winter morning found Maxim in his hotel room, preparing for his meeting with Nikolai Ivanovich. The black car still lurked below — its familiar silhouette reflected in the frost-covered window. There was no time to waste.

Grabbing his backpack, Maxim silently descended the fire escape. He knew that somewhere there, in the old sawmill, answers awaited that could turn the world upside down.

The abandoned building emerged from the morning fog like an ominous specter. Tall pines surrounded it in tight formation, like silent sentries. Nikolai Ivanovich was already waiting at the half-collapsed entrance.

“Quickly,” the old man’s voice was barely audible. “They might be close.”

Inside, the air smelled of rotting wood and time. Beneath a pile of old boards lay an expertly concealed safe. Nikolai Ivanovich’s hands trembled as he opened it.

“Here,” the old man exhaled. “I’ve kept this for sixty years.”

Inside the safe lay a worn folder and a strange metallic object. At first glance, it appeared to be an ordinary radio, but something about it seemed alien, wrong.

“We found this next to the bodies,” Nikolai Ivanovich spoke quietly, as if afraid the walls might hear. “And in the folder — documents about the second group. And Dyatlov’s notes that they ordered us to burn.”

Maxim picked up the device — it was unexpectedly light. The metal emitted a barely perceptible vibration, as if some alien energy pulsed within.

“And something else,” Nikolai Ivanovich’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Near where the second group died, they found a body in a spacesuit. A living body.”

Maxim froze.

“Living?”

“Yes. But the military took it almost immediately. It only managed to say a few words — in a language no one knew. Except for one word. Kholat Syakhl.”

At that moment, the device in Maxim’s hands came alive. Glowing symbols raced across its surface, and strange sounds emerged from its speaker — like distorted human speech passed through an unknown filter.

“Lord above,” Nikolai Ivanovich breathed. “In all these years, it never…”

Maxim felt the metal pulsing beneath his fingers like something alive. He held in his hands not just the key to the pass’s mystery, but to something incomparably greater.

The sound of approaching vehicles shattered the silence.

“Go,” Nikolai Ivanovich pushed him toward a far door. “Quickly. I’ll hold them off — won’t be my first time.” The old man darted to a corner of the sawmill and pulled a pair of hunting skis from under a tarpaulin. “Take these. You won’t get far in the winter forest without them. Behind that door is a trail into the mountains. Head for Kholat Syakhl — that’s where the answers wait.”

Maxim stuffed the device and documents into his backpack and shouldered the skis. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. I know how to talk to people like them. Now go!”

After a firm handshake with the old searcher, Maxim plunged through the indicated door. Behind him, the growing roar of engines, the thunder of opening doors, and sharp voices violated the winter forest’s silence.

He ran along the snow-covered trail, each step carrying him further from the familiar world. In his backpack, the strange device hummed quietly, counting out his heartbeats. Ahead, among the stern Ural peaks, waited a mystery that had kept its silence for more than half a century. There was no turning back now.

Chapter 5 — On the Threshold of the Unknown

Maxim ventured deeper into the forest, leaving the sawmill and sounds of pursuit far behind. The frigid air burned his lungs, and with each step his backpack seemed to grow heavier. But he didn’t stop — fear and curiosity drove him forward.

After several hours of exhausting ascent, the forest parted to reveal a small plateau. Maxim paused, catching his breath. In the distance, among the Ural mountain ridges, lay Mount Kholat Syakhl.

The strange device in his hands came alive. A series of pulsing signals joined its familiar hum, and the mysterious symbols on its surface began to shift. Slowly turning, Maxim held the device before him like a compass. When he pointed it toward one of the distant peaks, the signals grew clearer, more insistent.

Further progress was impossible without skis. He put them on, silently thanking the old man for his foresight.

Fortunately, his serious background in skiing proved invaluable now. The hunting skis, fitted with climbing skins, were unusually wide but gripped the snow well. He moved quickly for the first few hours, driven by fear of pursuit. The winter day waned, the forest grew denser, massive fir trees converged overhead, barely letting through the dim light. The frost intensified, creeping under his jacket, but he couldn’t afford to stop.

As darkness approached, Maxim finally caught his breath and surveyed his surroundings. The sawmill lay far behind, and ahead stretched an endless winter forest. He checked the map — Kholat Syakhl was more than a hundred kilometers away — a long journey ahead.

As night fell, fatigue began to take its toll. In a small clearing between trees, Maxim decided to make camp. Taking a thermos of tea from his backpack, he suddenly realized how cold and exhausted he had become. A long night lay ahead, with several days’ journey still remaining to the Mountain of the Dead.

He hastily constructed a small shelter from pine boughs beneath a spreading fir tree, clearing away the snow. The frost intensified during the night, and even his warm sleeping bag couldn’t completely ward off the cold. He drifted in and out of troubled sleep, starting at every rustle, flinching at the crack of frozen trees.

He set out again at first light. The morning sun painted the snow pink, and fog crept between the trees. The forest seemed endless; kilometer after kilometer Maxim pressed on, occasionally checking his map. The old hunting skis glided softly over the snow, leaving long tracks behind.

Several days passed this way. Each day mirrored the last — long treks through snowy forest, brief rests, and cold nights.

Once, fortune smiled on him. He encountered some kind people on a snowmobile who, upon seeing Maxim, offered to take him to the nearest village. This significantly hastened his progress and allowed him some respite from the long journey.

On the fourth day, the forest began to thin, and ahead the outlines of mountain ridges emerged more distinctly. Maxim sensed he was close to his goal. Somewhere among these stern peaks lay Mount Kholat Syakhl. He took out the device again to confirm his direction, and suddenly caught movement from the corner of his eye. Among the trees appeared a small figure — no taller than a child, but with unnaturally white, glowing eyes. The white-eyed Chud — ancient Mansi legends made flesh.

The being studied Maxim and the device intently, then pointed toward the mountain and spoke something in an incomprehensible language.

With trembling hands, Maxim retrieved a package of sugar from his backpack — remembering Dyatlov’s notes. It carefully accepted the offering and again pointed to the mountain.

“They’re guiding me to my destination,” Maxim realized.

The journey grew increasingly difficult. Snow reached to his knees, the wind strengthening with each step. The device in Maxim’s hands pulsed more frequently, as if sensing the approach of something significant.

By evening, they reached the mountain’s base. At the entrance to a small cave, the being stopped and gestured for Maxim to enter, its movement carrying an air of ancient wisdom.

Deep in the cave, ancient drawings glowed with a dim phosphorescent light. Maxim gazed in amazement at the strange images — human figures, stars, and objects floating in the sky. In the center, like the heart of a sanctuary, rose an altar stone.

The being approached the altar and touched it with its white hand. The device in Maxim’s hands exploded with light and sound — the signals became deafening, symbols on its surface whirling in a frenzied dance.

The air in the cave thickened, pulsing like a living thing. The stone walls dissolved, revealing the infinity of starry sky and the outlines of alien worlds whose existence humanity had never suspected.

Maxim understood — he stood on the threshold of a discovery that could overturn all understanding of reality. Here, in this ancient cave, awaited answers not only to the mystery of Dyatlov Pass, but to questions about the very nature of the universe.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward into the unknown…

Chapter 6 — Gateway to the Unknown

A flash of light blinded him. When his vision returned, Maxim found himself on a snow-covered slope beneath a night sky crisscrossed by the trajectories of fiery spheres. They floated above the horizon as if performing some ancient dance.

The crunch of snow behind him made him turn. There she stood — the same woman from Moscow where it all began.

“You?” Maxim could only breathe.

“I’m Anna,” she smiled with the same mysterious expression as in Moscow. “And I’m here to help you understand.”

The world around them swayed and blurred like melting wax. They found themselves beside a majestic cedar tree, next to a crackling fire. Two young men — Yuri Doroshenko and Yuri Krivonischenko — sat by the flames, shivering from cold, unaware of the invisible eyes watching them.

“Look,” Anna whispered.

Something gleamed in Krivonischenko’s hands — an object shimmering in the firelight with a living, unearthly glow.

“A key to the gates between worlds,” Anna explained in response to Maxim’s unspoken question. “They received it shortly before the tragedy.”

The night sky suddenly exploded with light. Fiery spheres darted about like maddened fireflies. Horror and wonder froze on the faces of the two Yuris as they leaped to their feet.

“The gates are losing stability,” Anna’s voice grew anxious. “And they have neither the strength nor knowledge to control them.”

Reality shifted again. Now they saw the tent on the mountainside — and the panic that overtook the group. There they were, cutting the tent fabric from inside, scattering across the snow, then forming a line. Their struggle was visible, each breath seemingly difficult, but despite the bitter frost and their overwhelming fear, they began descending the slope — each step a battle for survival.

Maxim lunged toward them, but Anna held him back.

“The past cannot be changed, but we can prevent its repetition,” suddenly in her outstretched hand appeared the familiar device from Maxim’s backpack.

“This is one of the keys to closing the gates. Soon you’ll understand how to use it,” Anna looked at him with slight concern in her eyes, as if unable to tell him everything.

When Maxim took the device, the ancient symbols on it flashed, as if recognizing their master.

“How?” he asked.

“You’re from the lineage of guardians. The knowledge flows in your blood. Just trust it.”

Maxim closed his eyes, feeling the device’s energy streaming through him. Understanding came naturally, as if awakening from the depths of memory.

When he opened his eyes, the summit of Kholat Syakhl spread beneath him. In the raging chaos of realities, all times merged at once.

Raising the device above his head, Maxim was ready to meet his destiny. The mystery that had waited more than half a century had finally found one who could unveil it.

Chapter 7 — Keys from the Past

Suddenly Maxim felt his consciousness expanding, encompassing multiple dimensions at once. He saw the history of Mount Kholat Syakhl stretching back thousands of years. Ancient shamans performing their rituals; a secret society founded in the 19th century to study anomalies; Soviet scientists conducting experiments in the 1950s. All these events were connected by a single thread leading to this moment. At some point, this stream of knowledge seemed to break free, and the world before him changed. The very air around him became saturated with some new force, and the space around him acquired an unknown depth.

His gaze now turned toward the majestic forest growing at the mountain’s foot. Among its dark, ancient trees stood Anna, meeting his gaze with understanding. She smiled softly, and her words resonated like an echo from another world:

“Your journey is only beginning. You are one of the guardians. You have an important mission that must change everything.”

Maxim approached her and nodded, understanding that his life would never be the same. At that moment, Anna pulled a worn notebook from her pocket.

“This is Semyon Zolotarev’s notebook,” she said. “It was empty when they found it, but that doesn’t mean it contained no information.”

Maxim took the notebook and ran his hand over the cover. Suddenly images flashed before his eyes: he saw Zolotarev hurriedly writing something, then running his hand across the page, making the text disappear.

“Invisible ink?” Maxim suggested.

Anna shook her head.

“Something more complex. Zolotarev had the ability to encode information in the paper’s very structure. Only those who know the secret can read these writings.”

She pointed to Maxim’s wrist.

“The watch. Zolotarev had two of them. They didn’t just tell time — they were instruments for determining exact coordinates and navigating between realities.”

Maxim raised his hand and was surprised to discover an antique watch that hadn’t been there before.

“How is this possible?”

“You’ve inherited not only the knowledge but also the artifacts of the guardians,” Anna explained.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. An elderly Mansi man in traditional clothing emerged from the forest. He bowed to Maxim and Anna.

“I am Itokai,” he introduced himself. “My people have guarded the secrets of these mountains for centuries. We knew of the new guardians’ coming.”

Itokai told them about ancient Mansi legends, the mountain spirits, and those who came to study the anomalies. He mentioned the second group that was on the mountain at the same time as Dyatlov’s team.

“And now,” said Itokai, “let me show you something.”

He led them to a small cave. Inside, they saw rock paintings depicting people, stars, and strange devices.

“This is the history of the guardians,” Itokai explained. “And now you are part of this history.”

As they studied the drawings, Maxim suddenly felt his consciousness expanding again. He saw the Dyatlov group boarding their bus, heading for their fateful trek. He felt their excitement, heard their conversations and jokes.

He saw Yuri Yudin especially clearly — the tenth member of the Dyatlov group who had to turn back due to illness.

Maxim felt his disappointment and simultaneously an inexplicable relief, as if part of Yudin knew of the approaching danger.

“Yudin,” Maxim whispered. “He must know more.”

Anna nodded.

“Yes, Yudin is a key figure in this story. He didn’t just survive — he was the keeper of memory.”

Itokai added:

“Many searched only for external causes of the tragedy: avalanches, weapons, wild animal attacks. But the real mystery was always deeper, in the very fact of boundaries between worlds.”

Maxim looked at Zolotarev’s notebook, at the watch on his wrist, at the ancient drawings on the cave walls. He understood that each of these elements was part of an enormous puzzle he had to solve.

“What now?” he asked.

“Now,” Anna replied, “we must find Yudin. Only he can help us decipher Zolotarev’s notes and understand what really happened that fateful night.”

Itokai nodded.

“The path won’t be easy. Dark forces won’t leave us in peace. But remember, we’re not alone. The mountain spirits and the souls of the dead Dyatlov hikers will be with us, guiding and protecting us on our way.”

Maxim took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility that had settled on his shoulders. But at the same time, he felt a strange excitement. The Dyatlov Pass mystery was just the beginning of a greater story, and he was ready to uncover it completely.

Chapter 8 — The Mystery of the Red Beard

Maxim, Anna, and Itokai set out to find Yuri Yudin. They knew this man was a crucial figure connected to the tragedy at the pass. However, the further they proceeded, the more they sensed their search might be futile. Local residents avoided discussing the topic, and all information about Yudin was fragmentary and contradictory. Some said he had left long ago, others claimed no one had seen him.

Nevertheless, they pressed forward despite growing doubts. In another village where they decided to stop, they noticed a man sitting by a fire near the road.

As they approached, the man stood and walked over, nodding in greeting.

“Hello, travelers,” he said. “I’m Mikhail Sharavin, a local. Are you looking for something? How can I help?” His gaze was attentive and calm.

Maxim explained they were searching for Yuri Yudin and their urgent need to find him.

“Yudin, you say?” Mikhail squinted thoughtfully. “He doesn’t appear here often. But I know where his house is. You’d hardly find it without help, but I can show you the way.”

Sharavin pointed toward the forest and gave detailed directions to Yudin’s house. He didn’t speak long about Yuri himself, only adding:

“That man doesn’t like excessive attention.”

Yudin’s house stood apart, surrounded by a high fence. When they knocked, the door opened to reveal a gray-haired man with deep wrinkles on his face. His gaze was wary and tired.

“Yuri Efimovich?” Maxim asked.

Yudin nodded, studying the visitors intently.

“You’ve come to learn about the pass,” it wasn’t a question but a statement.

They entered the house. Inside was dark and cool. Maxim went straight to the point.

“Was the 1959 trek your last? Did you never hike again?” he asked.

Yudin shook his head.

“Never. After that trek… everything changed.” He paused, then continued: “You want to know the truth. But are you ready for it?”

Maxim showed him Zolotarev’s notebook and the watch. Yudin’s eyes widened.

“So the time has come,” he whispered.

Yudin began his story:

“Before we reached the starting point, something happened. On the way to Vizhay village, the bus driver dropped us off for a couple of hours — he went about his business in a restricted settlement, promising to return in an hour. To avoid wasting time, the others suggested visiting some facility near the road, one I’d never heard of before. We went. Within twenty minutes, we were there. A man with a red beard met us.”

Another red beard? Maxim was alarmed but didn’t show it. It seemed to be appearing too frequently in his life lately, he thought.

“He gave Zolotarev some instructions,” Yudin continued. “And passed something to the others. What exactly — I don’t know. But after that, everything changed. They became… different.” Yuri Efimovich’s face suddenly changed, and he jumped to another part of his narrative. It seemed very strange — one could feel how difficult it was for him to relive these events.

Yudin then described how Grandfather Slava took them to the starting point by cart.

“He knew more than he said. I saw him whispering with Zolotarev.”

“And then,” Yudin sighed, “I fell ill and turned back. Part of me was disappointed, but another part… seemed to know it was necessary.”

He looked Maxim directly in the eyes.

“I’ve kept this secret my whole life. Lived in seclusion because I was afraid. Afraid they would come for me.”

“Who are they?” Maxim asked.

“Those who want the gates to stay open,” Yudin replied. “They never abandon their attempts.”

Yudin took Zolotarev’s notebook.

“I can help decode this. But you must understand — this knowledge won’t bring you peace.”

Maxim nodded.

“I’m ready.”

Yudin began moving his hand over the notebook’s pages. Gradually, strange symbols and diagrams began appearing on the paper.

“Here’s a map,” said Yudin. He pointed to one spot. “This is the pass. But there are others. Zolotarev tried to connect them all, create… a portal.”

Itokai, silent until now, suddenly spoke:

“Ancient prophecy speaks of one who will connect all points and become a bridge between worlds.”

Everyone looked at Maxim. He felt the weight of this knowledge pressing on his shoulders.

“What should I do next?” he asked.

Yudin stood.

“You must find the man with the red beard. He knows the next step. But be careful — you’re already being watched.”

Chapter 9 — Shadows of Belukha

After leaving Yudin’s house, Maxim, Anna, and Itokai headed to Vizhay. The old photograph Yudin had given them showed a man with a red beard — the same one Maxim had seen at the station in Moscow.

“Nikolai Ognev,” Maxim read the inscription on the back. Next to it were coordinates of some location in Vizhay.

The village greeted them with silence and desolation. Most houses stood abandoned, their windows boarded up. Time seemed to have stopped here in the late fifties.

They found the house they needed on the outskirts. The old wooden structure had almost merged with the surrounding forest, but someone clearly lived there. A man with a red beard answered their knock.

“I’ve been expecting you,” said Ognev, inviting them in. “Especially you, Maxim. You’ve already started seeing, haven’t you? Seeing through time?”

Maxim nodded, remembering his visions.

Inside, the house was filled with old photographs and maps. On one wall hung a large photograph of Mount Belukha in the Altai Mountains.

“To understand what happened in fifty-nine,” Ognev began, “you need to know what occurred in the summer of fifty-eight. That’s when Igor Dyatlov, along with Yudin and Thibeaux-Brignolles, went hiking to Mount Belukha in the Altai. What they saw there… it changed them forever.”

He took out an old photo album.

“Look here. This is them at the foot of Belukha.”

In the photograph, Maxim saw young Dyatlov, Yudin, and Thibeaux-Brignolles. They looked happy but focused, as if preparing for something important.

“Belukha is a special place,” Ognev continued. “The ancients considered it sacred. But it’s not about mysticism. On its slopes, they found something that later led them to Kholat Syakhl.”

“What exactly?” Maxim asked.

“In one of the caves, a very important meeting took place that determined the group’s future. There they received knowledge, including coordinates. These coordinates pointed to places of power, not just in the Urals, but in other regions,” Ognev paused momentarily, as if remembering something. “They planned to investigate these places… but…”

“But what?” Maxim asked alertly.

“To understand the complete picture, you need to go to Altai, find these places, and see everything with your own eyes,” Nikolai replied, pointing to the map.

“How will we do that?” Maxim asked.

“Zolotarev’s watch. It doesn’t just tell time — it can open a passage to the past. But you need to find the right transition point.”

Suddenly the house grew very quiet. Ognev tensed, listening.

“They’re here,” he whispered. “Leave through the garden. There’s a path behind the house that leads to the river. We’ll meet in two days at the foot of Belukha, at the old alpine camp. And remember — you can’t change anything in the past. One careless word could alter the entire chain of events.”

They quickly and silently left the house. Through the snowy yard, sinking in deep snow, they made their way to the narrow path leading to the river. The cold wind covered their tracks.

“Where to now?” Anna asked when they had reached a safe distance.

“To Altai,” Maxim replied, gripping the device tighter. “We need to find out what they discovered that summer.”

In his pocket, Zolotarev’s watch ticked quietly, as if counting down the moments until their meeting with the past.

Chapter 10 — The Edge of Times

Making their way through deep snow, they reached a strange place in the forest. Among ancient fir trees rose a stone pillar that resembled a human figure. Snow didn’t settle on its surface, as if the stone radiated warmth.

“Here,” said Itokai, stopping reverently. “The Mansi call this place the Edge of Times. Our ancestors said you could hear the voices of the past here.”

Maxim took out Zolotarev’s watch. In the freezing air, the mechanism emitted a strange humming. The hands began rotating counterclockwise, gaining speed with each revolution.

Around the stone pillar appeared a strange glow, like the northern lights but concentrated around the rock.

“A portal,” Anna whispered. “Time grows thin here.”

Maxim stepped closer to the glow. The device in his hands responded with vibration, the symbols on its surface flashing brighter.

They stood around the stone pillar, touching its surface with their hands. Zolotarev’s watch pulsed more intensely, its humming growing into a low vibrating drone.

Suddenly everything was flooded with a bright flash of light. Maxim closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the winter forest had vanished. They stood on the slope of Mount Belukha, bathed in summer sunlight. The air was warm and thin — they could feel the altitude.

“It worked,” Itokai breathed. “We’re in fifty-eight.”

Maxim looked around. The majestic Belukha towered before them, its snowy peak glittering in the sunlight. Below stretched a green valley, cut by the silver ribbon of a river.

“Look!” Anna pointed down the slope.

There, about two hundred meters below them, they saw three people. Even from that distance, Maxim recognized them from the photographs: Igor Dyatlov, Yuri Yudin, and Thibeaux-Brignolles. Young, full of energy, they were animatedly discussing something, occasionally pointing toward the mountain’s peak.

“We need to get closer,” Maxim whispered. “But without them noticing us.”

They began carefully descending, hiding behind rocks. The wind carried fragments of conversation.

“Tibo, are you sure you want to do this?” It was Dyatlov’s voice.

“Yes,” Brignolles replied. “I feel… feel that it’s possible here.”

Chapter 11 — The Altai Experiment

They crouched behind large boulders, observing the group. Thibeaux-Brignolles stood slightly apart from the others, his tall figure silhouetted against the mountain.

“Go ahead, Tibo,” they heard Dyatlov’s voice. “Try again. Like yesterday.”

Brignolles slowly raised his hands. For several seconds nothing happened, and then… his feet left the ground. Slowly, as if in a dream, Tibo began to rise into the air. He hovered about a meter above the ground, his face expressing complete concentration.

Maxim felt the device in his pocket respond to this strange phenomenon — it began vibrating more intensely, the symbols on its surface glowing brighter.

“Look!” whispered Anna, pointing to the horizon.

An unusual object appeared in the sky, resembling a comet — with a bright luminous core and a long, shimmering tail. It moved slowly along the horizon, as if observing the events below.

Tibo slowly spread his arms outward, taking the pose of a crucified Christ. His figure, floating above the ground with outstretched arms, against the backdrop of majestic Belukha and the glowing object flying in the distance, looked surreal, almost mystical.

“Incredible,” whispered Dyatlov, continuously photographing. “Yuri, are you seeing this?”

“Yes,” Yudin replied quietly, not taking his eyes off the floating Tibo. “Like last time, only… stronger.”

Tibo continued hovering with his arms spread. The glowing object in the sky seemed to pause, hanging above the mountain. Its tail shimmered in shades from white to orange, casting strange reflections on Belukha’s snowy peak.

“We need to capture this,” Dyatlov frantically changed angles, clicking his camera’s shutter. “This happens once in a lifetime.”

Suddenly Tibo’s face changed. His eyes widened as if he’d seen something astounding. His lips began to move.

“Yalpyng nyor… Tul tov ul mien…” strange, guttural sounds of the ancient Mansi language echoed in the ringing silence.

Itokai grabbed Maxim’s arm:

“He’s speaking of the sacred mountain… warning… ‘Don’t go there…’”

At that moment, the glowing object began slowly descending. Its tail curved, forming a luminous arc in the sky. Tibo still floated in the air, his figure with outstretched arms casting a strange shadow on the mountain slope.

“Quick, take the picture!” Yudin shouted. “While they’re both here!”

Dyatlov aimed his lens to capture both Tibo and the mysterious object in the sky. At that moment, something strange began happening with the light — it seemed to condense around Brignolles’s floating figure.

“What’s happening?” whispered Maxim, gripping the device in his pocket tighter. It vibrated more intensely, almost burning his hand.

Tibo suddenly spoke again, but now his voice sounded different — as if someone else was speaking through him, someone more ancient and powerful:

“The time will soon come… Kholat Syakhl… nine steps… the sacred mountain calls…”

His words echoed off Belukha’s slopes. The next instant, the comet-like object shot upward and vanished into the sky, leaving only a glowing trail.

Tibo slowly descended to the ground. He looked exhausted, but his eyes burned with a strange fire.

“What was that?” asked Dyatlov, running to him. “What did you see?”

“I… I don’t remember,” Tibo rubbed his temples. “It felt like someone was speaking through me. And visions… many visions.”

“What visions?” Dyatlov took out his notebook, ready to write.

“A mountain… different from Belukha. Dark, with a flat top. And nine figures in the snow…” Tibo spoke slowly, as if trying to hold onto fleeting images. “Something is supposed to happen there. Something important.”

“Kholat Syakhl,” Yudin said thoughtfully. “You said that name while floating. We need to find out where exactly this mountain is.”

Maxim, Anna, and Itokai exchanged glances. They knew which mountain it was and what would happen there in less than a year.

“We need to organize an expedition,” Dyatlov said decisively. “Find this mountain.”

“Igor,” Yudin placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s first understand what’s happening here. Tibo has only just started… manifesting these abilities. We need to understand their nature.”

“Let’s take another photograph,” Dyatlov suggested after a pause. “For memory. Shall we build a pyramid?”

“Can you repeat… what happened just now?” Dyatlov asked Tibo. “For the photograph?”

Tibo nodded, though it was clear he hadn’t fully recovered from his strange trance.

“Hey, everyone!” Dyatlov called to the other group members who were nearby. “Let’s take an unusual photo!”

Soon the whole group gathered. They began building a human pyramid against the backdrop of the majestic mountains: two participants stood on their hands at the sides, two more positioned themselves in the center, three people formed the second row above them, and Tibo with his guitar was to take the highest position.

Maxim, Anna, and Itokai continued watching from their hiding place. Tibo, now familiar with his new abilities, easily ascended to the top with his guitar. As before, he seemed to lose weight, barely touching his companions’ shoulders.

The ninth group member adjusted the camera on its tripod. From above, under the cloudless sky, a strange afterglow still fell upon them — a trace of the vanished luminous object.

There was something strange about the photograph taken at that moment. Yes, everything looked normal — a cheerful tourist pyramid against the mountains, everyone smiling, Tibo with his guitar at the top. But looking closer, it wasn’t clear exactly how he was staying up there, what he was standing on.

“Perfect shot!” exclaimed the photographer, returning to the group.

“We’ll need to print several copies,” said Dyatlov, helping his companions dismantle the pyramid.

“Igor,” Yudin called quietly when everyone started dispersing. “We need to talk. About what’s happening with Tibo… and about this mountain, Kholat Syakhl.”

Maxim watched as the three — Dyatlov, Yudin, and Brignolles — moved aside and began speaking seriously. Tibo looked thoughtful, as if still under the impression of his strange experience.

Maxim, Anna, and Itokai carefully moved closer, trying to hear the conversation.

“It gets better each time,” Tibo was saying, looking at his hands. “As if I’m learning to control it. But the main thing — the visions. They’re becoming clearer.”

“What exactly do you see?” asked Dyatlov.

“A mountain… dark, with a flat top. And some lights above it, like the one we saw today. But there’s something else…” Tibo paused, searching for words. “As if the mountain itself is trying to say something. Warn us.”

“About what?” Yudin asked quietly.

“I don’t know. But it’s connected to the number nine. I keep seeing nine… something. Figures, signs, I can’t tell exactly.”

Dyatlov took out a map and unfolded it:

“We need to find this mountain. Kholat Syakhl… Should be somewhere here, in the northern part of the ridge.”

“Strange,” Yudin ran his finger over the map. “This place… there are two mountains. Kholat Syakhl and Otorten to the north.”

“Which one is it?” Dyatlov looked up from the map.

“In the visions, I see Kholat Syakhl,” Tibo answered. “The mountain with the flat top. I’m certain. There… there’s something there. Something ancient.”

A strange sound suddenly came from above — a low hum similar to that made by the luminous object. All three looked up at the sky but saw nothing.

Maxim felt a chill run down his spine. He knew this expedition would take place. And he knew how it would end.

Chapter 12 — Crossing Paths

The Dyatlov group began descending to their camp. Maxim, Anna, and Itokai waited a while before moving down themselves, taking a different route — they needed to reach the old alpine camp where Ognev would be waiting for them in two days.

“Look,” Itokai suddenly stopped, pointing to a neighboring slope. Another hiking group was visible there. In the lead walked a tall, powerfully built man in his forties. Even from a distance, his movements betrayed a military bearing.

“Is that…” Anna squinted. “Semyon Zolotarev?”

“Yes,” Maxim nodded. “A war veteran, hiking instructor. One of the future participants of that trek…”

They froze, watching as Zolotarev’s group descended the parallel slope. His gait carried the confidence of a man who had seen war. He led his group, occasionally stopping to survey the surroundings carefully.

“Strange,” Anna whispered. “It’s as if he’s searching for something.”

Itokai remained silent, but his gaze, fixed on Zolotarev, grew even more attentive.

Suddenly both groups — Dyatlov’s and Zolotarev’s — began converging. Their paths intersected at a small mountain lake.

“We need to get closer,” Maxim whispered. “This meeting… it’s important.”

They carefully approached the lake, concealing themselves behind large boulders. From here, they could clearly hear the voices of both groups.

“Hello,” Dyatlov spoke first. “Heading far?”

“To Belukha,” Zolotarev replied, appraising the group of young hikers. “And you, I see, are returning from there?”

“Yes, third day here. Amazing places,” Dyatlov studied the experienced hiker with interest. “Which route are you taking to Belukha?”

“From the Urals. I work as an instructor at the Kaurovka base. Semyon Alekseyevich.”

“We’re from UPI, hiking club,” Dyatlov introduced his companions. “I’m Igor, this is Yura, and this is Tibo… Thibeaux-Brignolles.”

At the mention of this name, Zolotarev suddenly tensed. His gaze pierced into Tibo’s face, as if trying to recall something. A strange silence hung for a moment.

Chapter 13 — Shadows of the Past

Tibet, 1935