The Werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn II.1
A Gothic Horror Novel
Book II, Chapter 1: Francs-tireurs
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“Wake up. . .”
Hermann climbed out of the blackness, seizing Walter’s shirt. He was not yet awake. The boy was yanked to the ground and pinned. The crunching of dead leaves under Hermann had invaded his dream as the cracking of ice on a frozen alpine lake. His blinking eyes—wild and roving—came into sharp focus. He exhaled and his breath fogged the air.
The two had escaped from the workhouse and wandered through the night. At sunrise, when they could continue no more, they hid in a copse of trees at the edge of a fallow field. Behind a thicket of briars, they built a hasty bed of leaves and snuggled together to keep warm.
By the position of the sun, Hermann judged it was sometimes in the afternoon, November 1, 1870: All Saints’ Day. He thought again of Henrietta and his children, and how it had been their custom long ago to gather on this day for a meal at the grave of Hermann’s father, praying for the Virgin to watch over Moritz’s everlasting soul. Mariahilf, Hermann thought. Our Mother of Mercy.—Mariahilf am Inn, my home. . .
The sky was bright and limpid, but gray clouds marbled the west. He heard sparrows and, since he and Walter were not far from the Wupper, he could make out the sound of the purple herons calling out to one another, but he could not hear the river; and he was thirsty.
Walter trembled from the infrequent but sharp gusts that blew through the autumn trees. But he regarded Hermann with an expression of absolute obedience. “There’s a farmhouse,” he said, pointing to a wall and mass of buildings on the other side of the field. “I heard chickens.”
“We’re not going to steal, Walter.”
“Maybe the people there can help us. I think this field belongs to them.”
“We have to be careful.”
“I know.”
They crossed the field, no longer stooping or slinking about as they had done in the night. A furtive approach might have been interpreted by anyone observing them from the farm as a threat. Besides, they were certain that no one from Cronenberg had pursued them out of town.
The resources of the civil authorities of North Rhine and Westphalia were overextended in support of the Prussian King’s war against France. The cities of the Rhineland hoped that, by aligning themselves with Berlin, it would redound to their benefit in a post-war order, which was already beginning to take shape.
Walter ran ahead to scout out the situation, because Hermann was barefoot and limping. His feet had been cut up and bruised in his mad dash across the slime pits. Walter beckoned from the low wall, signaling that the coast was clear. Hermann joined him and they surveyed the scene.
The sound that Walter had heard was not grown chickens but the peeping of chicks. There were over a hundred of them milling about the yard, cold and hungry. Scores of others lay dead. There were neither hens nor roosters anywhere in sight. The coops had been hacked open or pried apart.
Walter looked confused. “Someone’s robbed the farm.”
Hermann didn’t answer but climbed over the wall. Other than the sound of the chicks, all was quiet. An eeriness fell over the bright afternoon. He hoped to God this had not been the work of the werewolf.
Hermann walked around the yard, scrutinizing the marks and gashes in the mud. There were hoof prints—cattle, goats—extending from two fenced-in corals near a large half-timbered barn. Men wearing hobnail boots had been here. There were also fresh wagon ruts. “There were several horses here,” he mused aloud. “And lots of men.”
“The family must have been away.”
“People don’t leave this kind of property unattended.”
They went to the back door of the two-story farmhouse. Without knocking, Hermann tried the door. It was locked. He pointed to the corner of the house and indicated to Walter that they should go around to the front.
When they made it to the other side, they saw that the front door was nailed shut. A placard pasted on it bore the Hohenzollern crest. It was a decree, stating that the farm had been seized and was now the property of the King of Prussia. It was dated 30 October and was signed by Colonel Ludwig Landecker.
“What’s it say?” Walter asked. He couldn’t read.
“There were soldiers here. They’re the ones who took this family’s possessions and farm, possibly for the war. The family’s been evicted.” When he said this, he could not help but recall the day Ludwig had evicted him and Henrietta from the mansion.
“Are the soldiers coming back?”
“I don’t think so. But I can’t promise that. Walter, if the soldiers return, I command you to run away and leave me.”
The boy turned and looked at the property’s front gate, which was open. The gate stood approximately 20 meters away. No other dwellings could be seen in any direction.
Hermann put both hands on the door and pressed against the wood. “There’s no bolt or crossbeam on the other side. Just a latch and these four nails. I can’t kick the door with my feet in this condition. I’m going to need your help.”
With their shoulders, Walter and Hermann rammed the door until it made a cracking sound and gave way, swinging inward and rupturing the hinges. Inside, everything was a wreck. They smelled apples. The fruit was rotting, but it didn’t matter. They were weak and starving. Without inspecting the rest of the house, they ran to the discarded half-eaten fruit on the floor and ate it.
Hermann deduced that, when the soldiers ransacked the house, they had helped themselves to a basket of apples, now overturned and empty in the corner of the kitchen. They taunted the family by eating their food in their presence.
The fruit had a tonic effect on him, but his head was still clouded. “Walter, I’m thirsty. I need water. Will you please go outside and see if there is a well or rain barrel by the barn? It’ll should be near the corrals. The soldiers would not have tainted the well if they plan to commandeer the farm.”
The boy grabbed a tin pail near the door and went out.
Hermann wiped his hand through his hair. His armpits were rancid. He still wore the stained nightshirt and trousers he’d fled in. He and Walter would need to wash and find fresh clothes before they entered another town. He removed the satchel slung over his shoulder, which contained his father’s possessions: the mirror, straight-razor, and memento mori. He dropped it by the entryway. Then he explored the house, looking for things he and Walter could use. Obviously they would need to leave soon. There was no telling when the soldiers might return. Who’s to say it’ll be soldiers? A state inspector could be sent for all I know.
He entered a common room, over half of which contained a long table where the family had taken their meals. At the other end of this were stairs leading up to a narrow landing with four bedchambers. The larger room was where the husband and wife slept. The other three rooms contained a total of five beds, three smaller ones in one (presumably for the children), and two larger beds in separate rooms. He examined each room, searching for clothing, shoes, blankets, anything.
The cubbies and closets stood ajar. Dresser drawers had been pulled out. The bed covers were stripped from the mattresses and gone—as were all the clothes. And shoes. The mattresses had been ripped open to search for hidden valuables. The trunks and chests were broken apart. They were looking for concealed compartments. Much of the furniture, however, had been left in place, both upstairs and downstairs.
Descending the steps, Hermann noticed a small shelf mounted to the wall of the common room that he hadn’t noticed before. A Bible and another book stood on it. Hermann went to the shelf and removed the Bible. It was in Latin. He picked up the other book and thumbed through it: a French missal. This farm belonged to French Catholics. That’s why it’s been confiscated.
He would’ve expected to find rosaries or images of saints. And the fact that these weren’t here led him to suspect Ludwig had been present in the room. For all of his brutality and wickedness, Ludwig was superstitious. He probably had the relics transferred to a church. But why did he leave the Bible and missal?
Walter stormed in and stopped at the threshold of the common room, shaking uncontrollably. He no longer held the bucket.
“What’s wrong?!”
The boy put both hands to his ears and began wiping his face, he couldn’t speak. He was in shock.
“Walter, are there soldiers?!”
The orphan fell to his knees and sobbed. Hermann sprinted past him and ran out the door. No one was outside. He saw the pail lying in the yard between the farmhouse and barn. Walter had evidently opened the barn door. Hermann went to it.
It was maddening the way the chicks ran after Hermann. He inadvertently stepped on one, crushing it beneath the pad of one foot. As he neared the barn, his nostrils were assailed by a pungent stench. His heart lurched when he saw a lean shadow dangling inside. He clenched his nightshirt and pressed it to his mouth before stepping in.
A man had been hanged from one of the rafters. A document was pinned to his chest. The man’s right palm was stained black. Hermann snatched the paper from the body and stepped outside so that he could breathe the comparatively fresher air and read it. The document bore an official letterhead and was handwritten. It was a death sentence:
The prisoner confesses to being a member of a band of francs-tireurs who ambushed our supply lines outside of Metz sometime at the end of August or maybe at the beginning of October. He sustained a severe wound to his left shoulder during one such attack, and fled to the Wupperthal, seeking refuge from the Family Allard, his relatives. He has been hiding out in the family’s barn ever since.
Hermann knew the Family Allard. They had emigrated from France nearly two decades ago. They had attended the same church as Hermann and his family, St. Laurentius in Elberfeld. Hermann could only remember the mother’s name, Juliette. There was an older son and daughter and three girls. Where have they been taken?
He went back to the barn because he had noticed that the soldiers had left behind several tools: spades, mattocks, etc. They were probably in a hurry and couldn’t haul everything off. That, or they’ve decided to leave these items for whomever the state appoints as custodian of the property. Walter and I can take some of these with us and sell them.
Again, he covered his face. He felt like he was going to retch. He took stock of the tools scattered about the barn. Then he glimpsed something against the south wall, still enveloped in shadow.
“Oh, no, no, no. . .”
The Family Allard had been executed by firing squad. The seven bodies were arranged in a single row, heads obscenely propped up against the barn wall. Above each was a bloody palm print. Hermann now realized what had happened.
Growing up in the Tyrol, he had been thrilled as a boy by the legendary exploits of the banditti who lived on the other side of the Alps. Some were alleged to settle their vendettas by executing an enemy’s entire family, leaving the man against whom vengeance had been sought alive long enough to witness the massacre. That man would be forced to dip his hand in the blood of each victim, pressing his palm to the wall to show that the blood of the slain was on his hands.
Ludwig was from Innsbruck. He, too, would have recalled these tales. It was obvious to Hermann that Colonel Landecker had given the order to commit this atrocity. This was the reason the hanged man’s right palm had been black with blood.
When Hermann returned to the house, Walter’s complexion was ashen. It was the first time since their flight that the child’s courage had faltered. Hermann turned away from the orphan boy. “You shouldn’t have seen that. I’m sorry.”
It occurred to him that Walter might only have seen the one body, and might be ignorant of the enormity of the crime committed here.
Henrietta had once confided to Hermann that his voice in moments of crisis had a soothing effect on people. Walter needed direction from an adult. He needed Hermann to talk, even if that talk was rambling and inconsequential.
“I don’t think we’re in immediate danger, Walter. The soldiers would not have polluted the barn if they expected to send someone here to take charge of the property anytime soon. But we will only be here for a few days. We can’t press our luck.
“Listen to me, there are mattresses upstairs that have been ripped open but the eiderdown is good. We will form makeshift beds to sleep on. But we’re going to sleep here—on the floorboards in the entryway—between the front and back door. If we fall sleep upstairs, we could be trapped if the farm is stormed.
“We need to be careful about building fires; and raising our voices at night. Smoke can be seen for miles. Nocturnal noises carry far. We don’t want to alert a Prussian unit bivouacking close by to our presence.
“We’re going to have to eat some of those chicks in the backyard. We need strength. There is a well behind the barn. I saw it just now. I need something to drink or I’m going to faint.”
“I’ll fetch the water,” the boy said. He was rallying.
Hermann decided that he had to tell him about the other corpses in the barn. He would not be able to keep it a secret, especially considering what he had resolved to do.
“Walter, there’s not just one person in the barn.”
“I know. . . I saw them.”
Then he did go inside.
Hermann glanced over at the Bible and missal on the shelf. “I will not leave here until I have given them a Christian burial. They left their home in France and came to the Wupperthal to start a new life. What has been done to them is a sin in the eyes of God: Thou shalt neither vex a stranger, nor oppress him: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
Brilliant again, Daniel. Showing that horrors can be carried out far more frequently by humans against their own than by the worst monsters of our imaginations
This is such a great story that I always look forward to reading, but know that each chapter is one step closer to the end. Might need to go back to the start once I’m done 😁👍🏼
The amount of detail in this is fantastic and adds much authenticity. Well done, Daniel!