Candle in the Attic Window Part 5

A valve had been stuck and the growing forces had finally found the weakest point to get out. Everything in nature was struggling for balance ... even if we could not understand it.

The place the explosion had laid waste had to be freed from its ruins and I was among the helpers. What puzzled me was the fact that everything was so clean, so unlike any outburst of gas or flammable substances. I tried not to think too much about it and worked on. What else could I do?

At night, it was hardest. When the flames shone more brightly. Often did I catch the impression of something rus.h.i.+ng past me, soundless, yet somehow traceable. Like a shadow with luminous edges, but I was never sure if its source was the fumes that hung heavy in the air or the noises. The dust and the glowing heat could drive any man mad. But even so, I could not wholly shake myself free from the idea that something was lurking there amidst the cylinders and tubes.

This place was first known as 'Astnide', which was also the name of a Greek priestess who was eventually sentenced to death for having called upon great forces that were neither from Heaven nor from Earth. It was said that she had made a pact of a very mysterious nature, though with whom, I cannot say.

Artefacts from the Stone Age have been found in Essen, proof of some prehistoric past beyond our written and traceable history. Early buildings all centred around one vast temple complex of pits and small lakes. The inhabitants must have paid tribute to some kind of G.o.d or other powerful creature, for archaeologists found great amounts of ash, and pieces of plants and sh.e.l.ls, as well as pieces of charcoal. The area had been discovered in the early 1920s, when archaeology was still at its beginnings and only the pyramids in Egypt, with their treasures of gold, and the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum received attention. The temple complex didn't fit into the owners' plans and its buildings were either removed or simply filled in with soil. The past was forgotten, but it was never wholly gone and maybe it didn't care what we thought of it.

I was working at one of the great kettles, doing some maintenance, when I had again the strange feeling of being watched. When I turned around, I couldn't detect anything but the spouting kettle and its sounds of working metal that was endlessly heated and cooled down, until it was worn and had to be melted and formed into something new. Somehow, my attention was drawn to the melting furnace, to the small door at its front, and when I moved stealthily forward and looked into it, I thought I saw the flames dance wildly and form some kind of face, fretting at me. When I tried to retreat, I felt a heavy weight upon my shoulder, holding me still. A valve opened and the spell broke and I ran away without any true explanation as to what had just happened.

Only hesitantly did I tell the others on my s.h.i.+ft what had happened, and over the weeks, I learned their stories, too.

Florian said that he had seen a big, silvery, s.h.i.+ning ball, waiting in one of the hallways. Inside, there was the form of a women leering at him. The face was odd. The head more like an elipsoid and the skin of greenish hue.

When, three days later, his twins were born, something wasn't quite right about them.

And there were other tales, of unexplained noises and lights.

The next time the alarm rang, it was in my area. I knew the people of my s.h.i.+ft very well now, so instead of running to the next point of safety, I ran in the direction where the alarm was sounding, to see if I could do anything. I stopped stone-still when I saw that my efforts were, and must be, futile. Before me stood, as if built from iron clinker (the iron oxide formed during forging), the human shape of a screaming man. Looking like the human remains from Pompeii that were shown on exhibition at the museum, this thing stood before me, unearthly and yet human. I couldn't help but shrink away. I could discern the features of my coworker, Karl, who had been working in this area, but was nowhere to be seen. Yet, this couldn't be him. How could that be possible? This was a thing beyond physical laws and reality. Yet, it was standing before me.

I heard a faint sound behind me. A shadow flickered over the tubes and bunches of cables. Turning around, I saw a stag beetle buzzing against one of the lamps.

When I turned back, Karl was gone.

After the accident, in which we lost Karl another broken valve, they told us the air in our lounge area turned serious and our emotions seemed to hang heavy above our heads. Some played cards, but only half-heartedly did they follow the game, they just wanted something simple to do, so they did not have to think about the latest turn of events. You could have cut the air with a knife and the vibrations from the outside world of working machines seemed to us now like the bringers of doom.

"It's not the worst thing that has happened," mumbled Chester..

I raised my head in surprise. "What do you mean by that?"

He rubbed his chin and took a sip of milk. "There were guys before, in my youth. They were not dead when we found them, but the foremen were so hasty in taking them away that there was much room for imagining. Something weird had happened to them. We were not allowed to see them anymore. One of the officers did slip us a word that they were put in some kind of asylum with another man who dared to look ...."

"But what is that thing out there? What does it want?"

"Some say it is some kind of personified evil. It's said it is a man; others believe it's some kind of force, nature-bound, like rain or a heavy storm." This time it was Pit, who always smoked a cigarette, even though it was forbidden to smoke inside Komplex 5.

"However it is ... there is still the question".

Chester looked ominously at me, as if this was an especially important detail.

"The question?"

"They say that whatever it is, it asks you a question. If you answer right, you might find some kind of reward. If you're wrong ... well ..."

"And what kind of question is it? I get that you're speaking about some kind of riddle."

Chester shrugged his shoulders. "It's always a different one. A different one, depending on what person you are, what character you have."

I couldn't get the his words out of my head. The whole evening, I worked in a kind of mechanical stupor, I did not listen to the greetings of my s.h.i.+p mates, nor to the call for supper or lunch. Only when my s.h.i.+ft ended did I wake up, as if from a very deep dream.

I took up my stuff and turned around the corner. All seemed very silent. Had I lingered too late? Too deep in thought to think about time? The Komplex usually never slept, but the two hours between one and three o'clock were the quietest hours. I should have left four hours ago. Getting my overalls out of my locker I withdrew my hand as if touched by an electrical discharge. The door was icy cold. Hastily, I changed into my fresh clothes, with my mind made up to leave the Komplex as fast as I could. Today was an unlucky day. I felt it with every fibre of my aching body.

Someone opened the door. I turned around, but my eyes took some time before they could discern the person's features in the dark.

There it stood. It was humanoid, but almost double my height. Its skin was red and seemed to steam, while its face was a mocking mask, with very deep and dark eyes that shone like charcoal in its sockets. When it reached out and pointed at me, it seemed to do so in a kind of slow motion. It held out a claw with three fingers. An unearthly voice that seemed to hold at least a thousand other tongues from ancient times spoke.

"What's your desire?" it asked in a low voice.

I was terrified. Only one thought came to my mind: "To live."

It nodded. "You will live."

The light went out.

When I awoke, I found myself smeared with a sticky substance. A red fluid spread all around me. Even if this was very puzzling to the men who found me, nothing bad had happened to me. I was whole and healthy, and had survived they told me later a rather bad fall down a flight of stairs.

"I guess you won," said Chester, looking strangely at me.

"Do you think it is gone?"

He shook his head gravely.

Things started to change for me. Someone recommended me for a better position and, within a short time, I was climbing the ladder of success. I became, after three years, the partner of Harry Linde, who had been until a few weeks before, the chief of Komplex 5.

Today, I'm running one of the biggest industrial centres of Europe. But a certain feeling of dread has never left me. Day after day, I watch the men going to work. Some won't ever return. I wonder what price I paid and what tribute I deliver.

Bobby Craneston was born in a quiet and ancient part of Germany. She is a musician, poet and author, as well as a student of ancient mysteries. Bobby started writing fiction at the early age of nine and continued working on short stories and books in the years to follow, living the life of a penniless but pa.s.sionate artist. Accompanied by a small fan following in the UK, through the immeasurable wonders of the Internet, she is eager to spread words of magic and tales of bewilderment to any who will listen.

The Shredded Tapestry.

By Ryan Harvey.

The thieves who held up Richard Davey on the forest road from Munich to Regensburg must have been in a hurry. They left him with two valuables that men of their lot rarely leave their customers: his boots and his life.

Richard was thankful to have both, but the three men with handkerchiefs covering their faces, and pistols with c.o.c.ked hammers, had taken away his st.u.r.dy horse and its saddle packs, which contained a hundred thalers and his sketchbooks filled with the clockwork devices he had studied on his long journey to Prague.

A moment later, Richard realized that the bandits had not ridden off suddenly into the October night out of generosity. Something large was moving through the brush at the road's edge.

Richard, who still had his hands raised foolishly in the air, turned toward the rustling sound. Beech trees and nettles crowded the narrow road and, although the wind was not blowing, the leaves trembled.

Even though fear clutched at him, Richard's mind was busy flipping through memories of the bestiaries he had read. What animals might haunt this stretch of forest road? Wolves hunted in Bavaria, but rarely so close to the cities. Perhaps it was a bear. Neither was a satisfying answer. He settled on a simple piece of knowledge: Animals would only rush a man who tried to flee.

But when the nettles shuddered again, and a low breathing soughed through the air, Richard hoped that a slow, indifferent walk would be almost the same as standing still.

He moved in his original direction on the road. The nettles rustled beside him, matching his steps.

His gut told him to run, but his mind ordered him to move cautiously. He came around a bend in the road and spied an orange light through the prison bars of beech trunks. If the light came from a cottage window, a fast run might get him to safety in time.

He gave thanks for the boots that were still on his feet as he sped up his steps. The movement in the nettles stopped. For a moment, Richard Davey felt that it was nothing more than a phantasm in his ruffled mind.

He looked behind him for a.s.surance.

That was when he saw it.

Against the grey forest, a dreadful black had curled onto the road. It loomed as large as a bear, but its hair spiked wildly, making a diabolic outline. Yellow eyes reflected light without a source. The dark blotch had the feeling of something malignant and feline. Electricity, like rubbing the long fur of a cat on a winter morning, rippled over Richard's skin.

When he heard the hiss, a pitiless sound that nothing in nature should make, he started to run. At any moment, he expected to feel the weight of forepaws and unsheathed claws dig into his back.

Suddenly, Richard's fists were hammering against the oak of enormous double doors. He thought he had heard the padding of feet at his back, but perhaps it was only the echo of his own steps. The solid wood under his fists wrenched him back to his senses.

He looked behind him. There was no sign of anything on the road, no animal prints in the dirt. He had run only a short way, out of the eaves of the forest and onto a trail that split from the main road through an open gate.

He stepped back to look at the building he had run to in his panic. It was a large stone structure with a peaked wooden roof that reminded him of a church. But the churches of Bavaria have distinctive onion dome steeples, and this squat thing had no steeple at all although Richard could sense where one might have stood. Above the double doors was a tympanum with a fresco, but wind and rain had long ago faded it to hazy outlines. In the darkness and the half-moon light, he could see little else except the edge of an outbuilding and patches of earth that could have grown the snowdrop and blue fairy thimble flowers of southern Germany, but instead held only crumbly soil.

Richard clutched at the fabric of his coat and took a moment to regain his composure. He had been years away from home, but never before had he felt so much a foreigner on the continent. His inquisitiveness, his skill in losing himself in bra.s.s rubbings and sketches of gears, often made him forget that months had pa.s.sed since he had last heard a word of English.

Richard did not recall that he had knocked, so he twitched as the doors started to creak open. Although he felt foolish after his panic, he was relieved to see someone inhabited the grey place.

Warm light spilled from the crack. "Yes? What do you want?"

"If you please," Richard said in his proficient boarding school German, "I've just been robbed. If you wouldn't mind "

The voice, which had a peculiar accent, interrupted: "You are out of breath. Are the thieves still near?"

"Uh, no " Again, he felt a fool, as if he were still walking about with his hands stuck in the air. "I thought there was a large animal after me."

The light spilled out onto the porch. "Inside! Inside now!" A hand grabbed Richard's arm and tugged him between the doors. It happened so fast that he might have left his boots on the porch.

As he entered the vestibule, Richard felt a peculiar sensation around his legs. It was as if a fur shawl were rubbing between his ankles, slipping through the door crack and past him. But there was nothing to see after the man slammed shut the heavy doors and dropped down the bar.

"Pardon me, young man," his abrupt host said, "but the highwaymen here are a vicious cla.s.s and it's best if they don't spy you looking for help."

Richard was about to mention that the man had reacted, not to news of robbers, but news of the stalking animal. However, the warmth of the inside and the chance for hospitality made him stay quiet. His natural curiosity, which thrived when his life was not in immediate danger of ending, was coming alive again.

The man was grey with age, but had the posture of a saint's statue on a French cathedral. It was an easy comparison to make, for not only had Richard sketched the Chartres and Bourges Cathedrals, but his host wore the habiliments of a monk. His robes were a simple brown, with a heavy topcoat that draped down to his wrists. A black skullcap clung to his silver hair.

"I am Abbot Fletcher," he said, with a bend at the waist. "You will be safe here for the night, and we can offer you modest food and drink. Please come this way."

Richard followed the abbot into a chapel. He was wondering at the abbot's unusual accent, which was familiar but drowned under the heavy gravy of German. "So, this is a monastery?"

"Yes. When the nearby town of Kelheim converted to Luther's heresy, they built this place as their church. Eventually, the righteous returned and burnt down the steeple in anger. That was two hundred and fifty years past. Our brotherhood has resided here since."

Richard decided it was inappropriate to mention that he was a follower of the Anglican faith and had no love for the Pope. But he had nothing against the Pope's followers, as he had learned from the kindness he had met so far in his journey across Bavaria. Highwaymen excepted.

Abbot Fletcher led him along the ambulatory into a room that might have once been a sacristy. Now it was decorated as a small banquet room. A fire struggled in a brick hearth, and an oil lamp added light from a table with Italian-style carvings on the legs. The rug spread across the floor had Moorish swirls, which Richard thought queer for a monastery.

The most striking furnis.h.i.+ng in the room was an enormous tapestry covering the wall farthest from the door. While the abbot poured from a flagon of wine into tin goblets, Richard walked up to the hanging. On the thick wool was a distinctive stone bridge arching over a wide river toward a map of a city. Prominent in the middle span of the bridge was a statue of a child with his eyes covered, as if he were afraid to look on the unfinished cathedral at the end of the bridge.

"Regensburg," Richard remarked.

"Indeed. Have you come that way?"

"I'm heading there now." He gave a short explanation of his travels: He was hoping to reach Prague before winter so he could study the collections of Emperor Rudolf II. Richard was an admirer of mechanical devices and contraptions, and the sixteenth-century emperor was famous for his clockwork museum.

Richard placed his fingers on the grey weave of the tapestry that made the bridge. The abbot's face turned stony and Richard pulled his hand back.

"I'm sorry. It's just that I'm eager to cross this bridge. It's one of the finest in Europe, I hear. So firmly built, they say the Devil himself could not break it, although he once tried."

The abbot turned back to the table. "The Devil is said to spend too much time in Regensburg. Too much time."

Suddenly, Abbot Fletcher spoke in clear English with a slight Scottish burr. "You must excuse me, but your accent tells me that what I am now speaking is your first language."

Richard felt a warmth swell that the tiny fire could never have made. To hear his own language, after so many months deep in Bavaria, was almost enough to bring tears. "I had wondered at the name 'Fletcher'," he said.

The abbot did not seem as moved to hear his mother tongue. He started to slice a hard rye and serve it onto pewter plates. "Do you see the church with the courtyard in the middle of the tapestry?" he asked. Richard had noted it, since its halo of gold thread dared the eye to look anywhere else. "That is was the Benedictine Abbey of St. James. Now this " He gestured with disdain at the roof over him. " is the Abbey."

"The old Scots monastery?" Richard asked. "Are all of you Scotsmen, then?"

"At one time. But we are dwindling and the initiates who join now are more often German." The abbot sat down in the tall-backed chair at the head of the table and motioned for Richard to sit near him.

"Why did you leave Regensburg? I know that the city converted, but I did not hear of them hurling out all the Catholics."

The abbot sipped his wine. "All does not mean none. It's a pitiful tale, not fit for an autumn night after the fright you've had. The summary of it is that one of our brethren fell prey to the Devil's temptation and committed an ... indiscretion ... of which the city had little tolerance."

When the abbot said the word indiscretion, Richard felt a p.r.i.c.kle around his legs, like touching a bra.s.s doork.n.o.b in crisp winter. He remembered the strange sensation, as he entered the door, and the imagined feline thing on the road.

"That was before the lifetime of anyone here. We've gone forward in our brotherhood, quietly carrying on G.o.d's work." The way Abbot Fletcher swallowed his wine placed a period on the story and Richard asked no further. The abbot moved on to other topics and, at last, seemed to enjoy using his native language with a new listener. He listed the names of his brethren, of whom there were now only 12, and who were asleep in the dormitory attached to the old chapel.