[Scene: Inside a cozy wooden cabin in a small village near Yaroslavl. The samovar is bubbling gently. It’s snowing outside. Nikolai and Yelena are sitting on a bench, wrapped in towels, having just returned from a late-night session at the banya.]
Nikolai: (looking nervously at his watch) Yelena, I told you we should’ve left earlier. It’s 12:17 a.m. We just broke the rule. You know what they say—after midnight, the spirits start wandering in the steam!
Yelena: (grinning, pouring tea from the samovar) Kolya, the only thing wandering in that steam was your imagination and your towel. Honestly, I saw more of your backside than any ghost’s.
Nikolai: (crossing himself playfully) You joke now, but you weren’t raised with Baba Katya telling you about the spirit of the old washerwoman who drowned in the river and now waits in the bathhouse steam to drag people away. She appears only after midnight!
Yelena: Ah yes, the classic “banya banshee” story. Kolya, your Baba Katya also believed sneezing three times in a row meant a bear was nearby.
Nikolai: (dead serious) And once, there was a bear. In our backyard. After I sneezed!
Yelena: That’s called coincidence. Or allergy season. Honestly, your bear might’ve been attracted to your leftover pirozhki.
Nikolai: (sipping tea, still uneasy) But look, can you explain why so many people feel something strange happens in the banya at night? It’s not just me. The steam thickens. The shadows stretch longer. You feel watched.
Yelena: Sure I can. Our senses are tuned differently at night—especially in dim, steamy spaces. The pine resin smell is strong, the crackling of wood can sound like whispers. It’s your brain playing tricks on you in low-light conditions. It’s called pareidolia—seeing shapes or figures where none exist. Like when you think you see a face in the steam.
Nikolai: Hmm… But what about my cousin Vadim? He went to the banya after midnight last year, slipped on the wet floor, cracked his ankle, and swears he heard a woman laughing. He doesn’t drink, by the way!
Yelena: (raising an eyebrow) Did he actually hear laughter, or did the pain make him woozy? Also, how does slipping on a wet floor become supernatural? That’s just poor traction, not paranormal activity.
Nikolai: Still, why do these stories go back generations? So many old Russians avoided the banya at night. That can’t be for nothing.
Yelena: You’re right. But think about it—before electricity, a banya was dark and dangerous after sunset. Fires could start, people could get burned or fall. So the “spirits” story was a clever way to scare people into being safe. Folk wisdom wrapped in myth.
Nikolai: (pausing, thinking) That… actually makes a lot of sense. Like how they told kids not to whistle indoors or they’d summon demons—but really, it was just annoying?
Yelena: Exactly! Or not sitting at the corner of the table because it was impolite or unlucky—probably just a way to keep table etiquette.
Nikolai: (smiling) You always ruin my best ghost stories with your logic.
Yelena: (grinning) And you always make my science lectures more fun with your ghosts. Deal?
Nikolai: Deal. But I’m still keeping a broom near the door tonight. Just in case.
Yelena: (raising her cup) To the ancient spirits of pine tar and superstition—may they always keep your imagination toasty.
Nikolai: And to rational friends who ruin a good scare but make excellent tea.
[They clink their tea glasses, steam rising as laughter echoes in the warm wooden cabin.]
Science Vs Superstition 
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