The Werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn II.14
A Gothic Horror Novel
Book II, Chapter 14: Descent Into Darkness
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On the evening of 21 December 1870, a powerfully built man—dressed in the livery of the previous century (with tricorn hat and cockade)—arrived by horse at the Eltzbacher Coach Inn. His command of the steed was such that he effortlessly held his lantern with one hand while gripping the horse’s reins with the other. The road was not as icy as it had been, so the milk-white stallion trotted confidently over the frozen ruts, as if it were a Lipizzaner.
Elischewa Eltzbacher and her staff greeted the newcomer at the outer door. Benedikt and Walter each held lanterns that were not as impressively wrought as the one in the stranger’s hand.
The man cried, “Halt!” And the horse executed a one-two number before locking its legs into a position of attention. In a booming Bavarian voice, the man proclaimed that the world-renowned opera singer, Heidi Katherina Dautzenberg, would be arriving the following morning. She hoped to remain two nights “at this house of excellent repute” before continuing her journey to the south.
According to the herald, Fräulein Dautzenberg had been performing in Paris when the dispute between France and Prussia escalated into an all-out conflict. King Ludwig II of Bavaria, in one of those dramatic gestures of which he was quite fond, dispatched a coach and six through war-torn France “to bring our precious cygnet back to the Swan King’s embrace.”
Ludwig’s contempt for Bismarck’s “toy-soldiering” (as he called it), combined with Bavaria’s comparative neutrality in the French affair, all but guaranteed the singer and her entourage would be chivalrously escorted to the French border by the cavalry of all the contending parties. Since the northern highways remained open and traversable, the Wittelsbach coach passed from Paris to Antwerp before crossing the border into Westphalia.
With an ebullience as broad as his frame, the herald—whose side whiskers curled up his cheeks so majestically as to add a dash of Christmas cheer to the occasion—dismounted and negligently handed the lantern and reins to Hermann, who stood close by. He presented Frau Eltzbacher with a velvet purse containing a sum of Bavarian gulden, intended as both inducement and earnest.
The proprietress removed two coins from the purse and handed it back, proclaiming its contents to be out of proportion with so singular an honor. She informed him that, since the previous night’s guests had departed and no new travelers had arrived, her establishment would be “placed at the disposal of our royal guests” for the duration of the singer’s stay. Any newcomers seeking lodging would be diverted to a private estate close by “with whose lord we have excellent relations.” (The so-called “lord” was Herr Mattner, and the “estate” was his pub near the bridge.)
Frau Eltzbacher made it a point not to bow or show deference to the man, in recognition of the fact that, despite the herald being a royal servant, he remained her social inferior, seeing as she was the wife of a landholder. However, in an effort to divert attention from Monika, who kept curtseying whenever the Bavarian looked at her, Elischewa clapped her gloved hands and wondered aloud if Fräulein Dautzenberg would find it in her heart to grace her establishment with a private performance for her staff and a handful of notables from the nearby village.
The herald mounted his horse and responded in a drearily noncommittal fashion, as he accepted the lantern from Hermann. But when he caught sight of Walter marveling at his dress, something in the orphan’s face kicked the yuletide spirit up from the man’s jovial belly into his twinkling eyes, and he winked cherubically and vowed to Frau Eltzbacher to convey her request to the esteemed singer. Then he sped away into the night, gray cape flapping in the wind.
When he was gone, Elischewa indicated that she and Monika would spend the remainder of the night preparing the inn’s rooms. She planned to dash off a list of groceries and compose notes for “Florian” (as she referred to Walter) to deliver to certain shops and residences in Am Haus Löringhof.
“Benedikt and Moritz,” she remarked, “I need you to return to the carriage house now and sleep. Please be up by 4:00 a.m. to prepare the fire so that when the coach arrives, the common room is warm and you are both ready to attend to the royal coach and horses.”
Both replied with a “Jawohl” and departed, though Benedikt commiserated with Hermann when they were behind the inn that he doubted there would be enough room in the stable for the horses if they were all as grand as the specimen they had just seen.
It did not take Hermann long to fall asleep. Twice he woke in the night to the sound of Walter’s cat scrabbling on the wall. But he was surprised by how reinvigorated he felt when Benedikt shook him awake at the set time. Before the two of them headed out of the carriage house, Monika met them in the living room and whisperingly said that Walter had been up since about 2:00 a.m. and was asleep, and that she herself would likely be resting when the actress arrived.
“Frau Eltzbacher is relying on you and Moritz to be on the lookout for them, though she doubts they will be here until after the sun has risen. She, too, is now resting, but will be in the kitchen in a few hours. Please don’t touch any of the food I’ve laid out. It was brought from the village especially for the guests. Oh, and Benedikt, please kindle the hearth fire in the common room first thing—”
“I know, my love,” Benedikt said, kissing her. “Please go to sleep.”
Before heading to the inn, Benedikt and Hermann visited the stable to feed the only horse there (the Eltzbachers’ stallion). Then they grabbed firewood from the pile against the carriage house wall and carried in through the kitchen door. The tables were covered with sausages and vegetables on plates and cutting boards.
Benedikt struck a match in the common room and lit a candle. He seized an old scrap of newsprint from the cork board (listing coach schedules from the previous month), and set the paper afire so he could light the hearth. When the logs on the andirons were lapped in flames, he stood up and stomped his boots on the hearth rug to free them of the snow and gunk that had accumulated on them. Hermann did the same. Each man took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs on either side of the fire.
“You know,” Benedikt said, “this would be an ideal time for me to tell you more of the story of the werewolf. After all, we are alone and do not know when the guests will arrive. But then you may be overwhelmed with what I have thus far told you.”
“The tale is indeed extraordinary, and I have been pondering it every waking hour of the day. I would very much like to hear more of the demon’s history, since I am somehow involved in it.”
“I urged Fr. Matteo to explain how the creature ended up in the dungeon beneath that capuchin church in Rome. But when I pressed him for particulars, do you know what he said?”
“I cannot fathom.”
“He said, ‘If I were tell you his story before we left these Waldensian caves, you would be too terrified to do what we must do next.’
“And what was that?”
“We were to undertake a journey into outer darkness.” Benedikt stared broodingly into the fire, as a sizzling log cracked and cast sparks up the chimney flue. “As you recall, my master and I stood in that ancient grotto whose eastern wall adorned by a blood-red fresco depicting a chalice.
“The old man drew my attention to a narrow fissure that ran from the wall to our feet. He told me to take note of it, because it was into this rift that the werewolf—in a state of rage and despair—cast an accursed medallion forged of electrum.”
Hermann covered his mouth.
“Yes, Hermann, I believe it to be the same accursed piece the werewolf would later bestow upon your mother when he wore the guise of Mariahilf’s toll-collector.” Benedikt stroked his chin to watch the effect of his words on his auditor. “I never mentioned the story of your birth to Fr. Matteo.”
Hermann squirmed in his chair and chewed his right thumbnail.
“Abruptly, my master left the chamber, asking me over his shoulder how much food I estimated we had. I told him there should be enough to eat heartily for six days or sparingly for twelve.
“‘It should be enough,’ he remarked, moving from me at a rapid pace down a passage, which wended its way through a dark gallery before ending abruptly at an ample projection that hugged the mountain’s western slope. The terrible splendor of the scene that confronted me quite took my breath away.
“The Waldensian settlers had cut out of the rock arches supported by lofty columns. Each archway gave onto a private dwelling large enough in former times to accommodate a small family. But now they were unfurnished and bare. The ledge served as a main thoroughfare of this deserted village, and declined until it terminated before a passageway through which I saw Fr. Matteo disappear.”
“‘Master,’ I called after him, ‘although we have enough food, our kindling and tapers will last only a few days.’
“‘We will not need them where we are going.’
“I moved as quickly as my bandaged legs would permit, and when I had reached the foot of the last step, Fr. Matteo stood waiting for me next to an inscription carved into the wall. It was written in late medieval Latin and explained that the corridor beyond an arch was the only way out of the mountain. But whosoever passed that way must do so in complete darkness.”
“The last words of the inscription formed a rhymed couplet that read, SI LUCEM ACCENDERIS / IN TENEBRIS MORIERIS, which means: If you kindle a light, you shall die in darkness.
“I turned to my master with a smile. ‘You were once a man of reason. Surely you don’t believe this?’
“He expression clouded into one of Olympian impassivity. He beckoned me to precede him down the passage.
“‘Why do you want me to go first?’
“‘Because I am old,’ he said, ‘and there are places where the way is narrow. If I die along one of those stretches, it would be impossible for you to get past me.’
“I walked as far as the weak light of the afternoon sun penetrated. Then I stopped and turned around, doubtful.
“‘There is no other way, Benedikt.’
“I faced the black corridor and braced both hands against either wall. I moved forward forty paces and looked behind me again. Fr. Matteo’s silhouette was backlit by an indistinct oval of gray. By the time I reached one hundred paces, I could no longer see anything behind me. My boots echoed on the smooth floor, and I heard Fr. Matteo’s movements from behind.
“I spoke in order to break the silence. ‘If it is smooth like this all the way, it won’t be too bad, although I’m wary of inadvertently walking into someone—or something.’ I spoke half-jocularly, hoping to elicit as much information from him as to what lay before us.
“‘There are no subsidiary corridors,’ he replied. ‘But you will need to proceed carefully and be mindful of your head.’
“‘As he spoke, the walls narrowed until I had to remove my rucksack and hold it with my left hand. I extended my right hand into the windless obscurity and continued. My shirt tore against the rocks. Eventually, the walls widened again, and I breathed a sigh of relief, blinking my eyes in an attempt to will them to penetrate the inky gloom through which we marched.
“It was with joy that I heard the babbling of water and felt a wet place where it issued from the rocks. I let the water pool in the cups of my hands and drank. It was brackish but refreshing. My master bumped into me, and I felt his venerable hand reach for the same spring. We filled our flasks as best we could.
“‘We will not go thirsty on this journey,’ he assured me. ‘But we should keep going.’
“On and on we walked, then paused; then on and on once more.
“‘How long has it been since we entered?’ I asked.
“‘You mustn’t think about the passage of time while in here. It could drive you mad. We will need to sleep soon. And when we wake, we will continue our journey.’
“‘Wait. How long will this take?’
“‘That depends on you.’
“‘You said six to ten days’ worth of food would be sufficient. Surely it won’t take longer than that.’
“He exhaled heavily. ‘Keep going.’
“We continued until I told him that I needed to eat, because I was feeling weak. We stopped. I handed him one of the strips of salted pork from my rucksack. For a while, the smacking of our lips was the only noise in the cave.
“‘Do you think we should sleep now or keep going?’ I inquired.
“‘If you have the energy to continue, I would advise you do so.’
“I walked on in a state of mounting irritability. I could feel my heart racing. “‘Master, I’ve never done anything like this.’
“‘I know you haven’t.’
‘I have my tinderbox on me. I can make a fire—’
“‘You mustn’t do that! Remember the inscription.’
“‘I’ve bumped my head twice.’
“‘That’s because you’re moving recklessly and precipitously.’
“Again, we walked in silence. We came to a stretch of the cave that was again quite narrow. I told him that I was ashamed, because I needed to piss and I knew that he would have to walk over my urine barefoot. He told me that holding back the urge would slow my pace. And then he idly commented that Galen and Avicenna had written of the salutary effect of urine on scrapes and wounds.
“As I emptied my bladder I felt myself shaking. When I was done, my boots splashed over the puddle I had made.
“‘The walls are not widening! How long do we have to walk through this!’
“‘Benedikt, you mustn’t panic. It will make you weaker and you feel hungry. You mustn’t waste your food.’
“Again the walls widened. But now they had widened so much that I could no longer touch both sides of the corridor at the same time. ‘Please, Master, I wish to rest.’
“‘Then we shall rest. I think you should try to sleep.’
“‘I was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. I tried to force myself to relax a prolonged, but this did not work. By the time I told Fr. Matteo that I was ready to continue, I was frankly exhausted.
“For hours at a time, I could only feel one wall. Fr. Matteo assured me that both walls tended in the same direction, and that it did not matter which side of corridor we passed along. This ampleness, however, offered some consolation in that I was able to void my bowels well away from Fr. Matteo in the dark. But I had nothing to clean myself with. A person in such a state begins to lose a sense of shame for those natural processes that we cannot control. . .”
Benedikt closed his eyes and cupped his hands over his ears, as he recalled the horror of the journey.
“You will think it disgusting, but this cycle of voiding waste was the only way that I could deduce how long we had been in that corridor. My body was accustomed to begin each day with a bowel movement. And so I reasoned that we had spent three days walking in the dark and taking meals. But I was not prepared for the next trial that awaited me.
“Eventually the corridor narrowed again, but only momentarily. With both hands touching one wall—and with my head lowered and my shoulders hunched—I felt my way along a smooth circuit until my fingers made contact with the opposite wall of that narrow corridor through which we had only just emerged. I sensed Fr. Matteo standing in the center of this round room.
“‘Master, I’m confused. Does this lead back the way we have come?’
“‘No. You’re groping too high along the wall. The way forward is beneath your waist. Walk toward my voice and I will show you.’
“I did as he told me. His dirty hand gripped my wrist, and he forced it down until I could feel the smooth contours of a small tunnel.
“‘O God,’ I said. ‘How long do we have to crawl?’
“‘For the remainder of the way.’
“‘I want to go back!’
“‘Benedikt, we have enough food to make it back to the Waldensian reboubt. But we will starve there.’
“‘Better there, than here! I want to see the sunlight! Why did you not tell me of this?’
“He did not respond. When I had stopped panting, I told him I would need to rest before beginning this most frightful stage of our journey. There was another of those springs trickling from the wall in this room. So I drank from it and filled my flask again. I heard him settling down in the center of the room to sleep.
“I began to form a plan. The steady burbling of the water (I reasoned) would mask the sounds of my kindling a fire. Once the flame had blossomed, I would demonstrate to him how foolish his credulity in that inscription had been.
“I lay down with my eyes open in the dark, listening for Fr. Matteo’s breathing to steady. I removed the tinderbox from my rucksack, stood up and tiptoed to the corridor through which we had come. I crouched at its threshold with my back to him. It was my custom to keep in my pocket a wad of dry straw wound up in oilcloth for exigencies such as this. I bunched the straw before me and set about clacking the flints to build the fire.
“But with an almost inhuman rapidity, Fr. Matteo closed the distance between myself and him. ‘What are you doing!’ he exclaimed.
“But in the flashes of the sparks that I had created, something happened that chilled me to the bone. In the blink of an eye, I had glimpsed unnumbered faces carved into the walls that seemed (in an instant) to become alive and turn their attention toward me.
“‘What are they!’ I cried. ‘I can’t bear this. I must see light!’
“‘Recall the inscription, Benedikt!’ Fr. Matteo warned. Then he waited as I wept. And when he spoke again, it was in a mollifying tone. ‘My son, there was a second inscription in the antechamber—an inscription I concealed from you, because I did not know how you would react to it. It says that this passage has existed since the creation of the world. And that the Devil himself has adorned its walls with the faces of the fallen angels. Their tormented souls gaze from the eye sockets carved in the rock. They are determined to destroy anyone who dares to light a fire in their presence.’
“As he spoke, a preternatural groan filled the empty air.
“‘I want out of here!’ I screamed. I sprinted down the corridor the way we had come, disregarding my rucksack, which I had left on the floor behind me. But I ran into something made of flesh, and stopped dead in my tracks.
“Fr. Matteo seized the back of my shirt. ‘A lonely and miserable death awaits you, Benedikt, if you return whence you came. But if you continue the way I have indicated, you may find your way back to the light. It is no accident that you and I have been brought together.’
“Still shocked, I extended reached into the darkness in front of me, but whatever had been there moments before was gone. So desperate was I to believe what Fr. Matteo said, that I determinedly returned to the chamber, gathered up the straw and contents of the tinderbox, found my rucksack, and jammed these items into it.
“My sense of orientation in the dark had grown keener, and I soon located the tunnel and crawled into it, insensible of the fatigue I felt from our long day of travel. I soon realized that the indentations and holes that my fingers came into contact with were the features of those vile masks Fr. Matteo had spoken of. My head bumped the craggy ceiling repeatedly. I told Fr. Matteo that I would have to remove my rucksack, because the low-slung ceiling above kept snagging it.
“After several hours, I could no longer flex my arms and was forced to slither, like a worm or a snake. When we reached a place where I could lift myself enough to form an L with my elbows, I told my master that I would need to sleep. He, too, could go on no more. No sooner had he told me this than I sank into oblivion.
“When I came to, my body trembled from the cold. I had soiled myself in my sleep; and the front of my trousers were damp. But not as damp as they should have been had I slept for only one night.
“‘Master!’ I cried.
“Fr. Matteo was snoring. But he stirred awake when I called out to him. ‘Yes?’
“‘How long have we slept?!’
“‘I don’t know.’
“‘I am famished. I need food! I need water! I want to stand!’ I lifted my body and pressed my back against the unyielding rock.
“‘Stop it, Benedikt! You will kill yourself for fear!’
“As he spoke, I quaffed water from my flask. I pulled the rucksack to my face so that I could grope for the salted pork that my body craved. When he asked if I could pass him some food as well, I hesitated. I was on the verge of abandoning this madman who had brought me to this extremity. With a scowl, I placed a strip of meat parallel to my knee, and felt his bony hands palpating my leg until it made contact with the food.
“I continued on, keeping my eyes shut, for there was no purpose in their being open and I was afraid that the dust and grit my hands churned up would lodge in them and blind me forever. I tied my rucksack to one leg and tore strips away from my clothes, because they kept getting snagged. Even the bandages Fr. Matteo had wrapped around my knees and shins were gone. The wounds had been reopened.
“‘At one point, I could not lift my nose or chin. And it was here that again I was forced to sleep. I did not tell Fr. Matteo why I had stopped—I no longer had the energy, nor the will. I felt his hands pushing against my boots. He asked urgently if I was alive. This made me smile, and I grunted yes.
“I had slept and awakened at least five different times in the tunnel before I felt myself going stark-raving mad. The fifth time I awoke, I continued forward without rousing Fr. Matteo, who slept soundly behind me. Many hours later, when I needed to rest again, I heard him call out feebly. He told me that he needed water, because his flask was empty and we had not encountered one of those springs since entering the tunnel.
“I no longer addressed him as master. I replied in bitterness. ‘I thought you said we would not die of thirst in here.’
“‘There was water in this tunnel when I crawled through it many years ago. Oh Benedikt, if you are determined to go on without me, I will not begrudge you.’
“‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, weeping and clenching my teeth. I waited until he had crawled up to me and I passed him the flask. I told him that I didn’t have much water myself.
“‘We are nearing the end,’ he said. I recognize this bend in the tunnel.
“Without asking him what he meant by nearing the end, I was so encouraged that I shinnied on as fast as I could. But I came to an impasse. My hands met only rubble. I told him this and heard him choke up.
“‘The tunnel has collapsed,’ he said. ‘We are lost.’
“‘No!’ I exclaimed. I could not turn around. It was impossible to go back the way we had come. ‘If it has collapsed, we must dig our way out!’
“In a white heat I began to pull the rocks away and pass them down the length of my body. When they were at my feet, I kicked them toward Fr. Matteo, who likewise set to work removing them behind his own feet. We worked for hours. Again, we were forced to rest. Again, we ate and sipped just enough water to fortify ourselves for a few hours more of labor.
“When the food and water were gone, my pace slowed as well. I felt myself slipping away. I was resigned to my inevitable death. I stopped moving and saw a wan light at the end of the tunnel. I assumed I had crossed over into the afterlife. Yet my wits were still about me and, for the first time in many days, I could see my fingertips—and my hands!
“‘Master, I can see the way out!’ I forced myself over the remaining rocks, which cut at my face and rent my garments to tatters. Fr. Matteo moved followed.
“Eventually, I emerged from the cave into an ample wooden hut perched on a mossy ledge over the river Inn. It was raining and a mist hung over the scene. I pulled myself up to the window, feeling the lancing sting of long disuse running up and down my legs. There were receptacles hanging on the windows to collect the rainwater. I drank the greedily from these, and heard my master exiting the cave behind me.
“Fr. Matteo crawled across the floorboards to a tarpaulin in the corner of the hut, and yanked it away. Underneath, were sacks of chestnuts and three pots of honey. He handed me a pot. It ate its contents and chewed the honeycombs inside of it into balls of wax, which I spat out and stuck to the wood for later use.
“Fr. Matteo explained to me that the hut had been used by hermits before him. But as far as he knew, he was the only one to lay a kind of claim over it for decades. People often pillaged the food he stored up, but he did not mind, since, as a Franciscan, he kept no possessions of his own. He said that he had set out from his retreat to Mariahilf am Inn in the spring, when soldiers he encountered fishing for perch on the river told him of the strange occurrences that had taken place there. . .”
Hermann shook his head in wonder. Benedikt shrugged.
“Regarding that journey out of the mountain, there is not much else to tell. Fr. Matteo told me to burn my clothes and bathe in the river. He kept four spare habits in the hut, which he gave to me.
“‘No one ever steals these,’ the friar commented. I think the thieves draw a line at stealing a holy man’s clothes.”
The front door was unlocked and Elischewa Eltzbacher stepped inside. She carried with her a basket of spices brought from her cottage. Both men rose from their chairs.
“Please sit down.” The men glanced at each other and resumed their seats. “If you can sleep in the chairs, do so. I will need you both to be well rested when our guests arrive. Don’t mind me in the kitchen.”
“As you wish, Frau Etlzbacher,” Benedikt said, replying on behalf of both of them.
When Elischewa had grabbed the candle from the central table and taken it with her into the kitchen, Benedikt leaned forward and spoke to Hermann confidentially. “You told me that you can read. But can you comprehend long narratives?”
“Yes. As I mentioned before, my wife taught me to read. I can follow the plot of a novel—not a complicated one, like the ones you enjoy. But I can read and understand a long narrative.”
“In that case, I shall write down everything concerning the werewolf’s history as Fr. Matteo told it to me. But I will need a few days. . .” Tears sprang to Benedikt’s eyes. “For the monster’s tale is an even greater descent into darkness than that journey through the mountain that I described to you.”
That was intense…
Yikes, that was harrowing! I've had some panicked, claustrophobic moments crawling through passage tombs, and those are nothing compared to this!