The Unnatural One

Within the innermost depths of the remotest region of Bavaria, there exists a tale of horror that exceeds the ancient folklore of German mythology. The ineffable horror that I refer to is forever attached to the haunting vestiges of the abnormality of death.

From whence there is a praeternatural world that has remained insoluble and known only to those specific individuals who have transcended that delicate boundary temporarily. The tale that you are about to read is a factual account of my encounter with the dreadful Nachzehrer.

My name is Friedrich Laufenburg, and on the 18th of April in the year 1798, I was travelling in a carriage through the solitary road near the vast forest. I had been travelling that entire day until I arrived in the late midday at the village of Irmelshausen.

From there, I rode unto the cobblestone bridge and moated castle of the late Baron Wilhelm Offenheimer. We had been friends since our early childhood, and he was an illustrious man of a proud lineage, who had recently passed away. His death was inexplicable, but I had received the unfortunate tidings of his funeral a week ago. I had not seen the baron for several years, but we had remained in contact through our correspondence and letters exchanged. I had clearly remembered with fond affection his baronial castle and estate.

Upon my arrival, I had perceived a conspicuous and eerie veil of mystery that had loomed over the Bavarian landscape continuously. I was not certain of the nature of this peculiar distinction, except that the baron had a unique attachment to the area. An evident accumulation of thick clouds had begun to cover the sky as I descended from the carriage.

I was cordially greeted at the entrance by one of the employed servants of the castle. As I had entered, I felt the mystery enveloping the hall within a sober gloom that was exceedingly significant of death and dreariness. I had never experienced such a sensation before. The sombre tone I had witnessed was never to the degree of this disturbing nature. I was escorted up the stairway and to my chamber on the second storey of the castle. The placidity was interrupted by a sudden gust of wind that entered through the ornate window. I closed the window and wooden shutters and heard the voice of a woman who was addressing me.

'Good afternoon, Herr Laufenburg. I hope that your trip was not of an inconvenience. I am Mila, one of the maidservants of the castle. I am here to serve you during your stay'.

She was a young woman in appearance, with a defined smile and lovely blue eyes that flowed beneath her brown curly locks of hair. Her unassuming demeanour was exposed with her expressions.

'I thank you for your amiable gesture and courtesy, young lady'.

'Will you be having your dinner here in the chamber or in the dining hall?'

'As you can imagine, the trip was long and wearisome. Therefore, I would rather have my dinner in the chamber'.

'Of course! I shall bring you your dinner once it is prepared'.

'Thank you! Before you go, will there be more guests coming?'

'That I do not know, but I shall inform you if there are more guests'.

I was not aware of the number of guests who were to attend the funeral of the baron before my arrival, but I had contemplated a funeral with many persons who were either intimate acquaintances or direct members of the family. The villagers of Irmelshausen had known the family of the Offenheimers for centuries. Their name had been well established since the beginning of the 17th century.

The countryside was a fresh breath of new air compared to the usual congestion and bustle of the city. I unpacked my clothing and prepared myself for dinner. Mila, the diligent maidservant, had brought my dinner, and afterwards, I remained in my chamber for the night.

The following morning, I was awakened by the noise of chirping birds who were spry in the adjacent forest. I got dressed and headed down the stairway when I was greeted by Mila, who had seen me coming. Her faint smile and her comportment I noticed perceptibly, as I stood before her.

'Good morning, Herr Laufenburg. Will you be having your breakfast at the table or in your chamber?'

'Good morning, Mila. I shall be having my breakfast at the table'.

'I shall have the table prepared then!'

'Good! Meanwhile, I shall entertain myself within the castle'.

Before I entered the dining hall for breakfast, I walked around to see the historic composition of the castle in its entirety from within its foundation. I was always a fervent admirer of Bavarian architecture, and I knew the baron was a fine connoisseur of art and culture.

I observed the wrought tapestry and the bedecked armorial trophies that were hanging in one of the corridors. The remarkable paintings of such venerable men of prestige in valuable frames had suddenly captivated my dormant intrigue. The direct lineage of the distinguished Offenheimers was visibly displayed in the array of colourful paintings. I had been to the castle several times, but a peculiar sensation caused me to be contemplative in my thoughts.

Soon, I would head to the dining hall. There, at the table, I took my breakfast with three other guests who had recently arrived in the early morning. Unbeknownst to me, the three guests were Ludwig Von Sternberg, Otto Müller, and Anna Betzenstein. They were each relatives of the late baron and had come to the funeral as well.

Apparently, the baron had requested our immediate presence. I was the only person amongst them who was not a family member, but an esteemed acquaintance. We exchanged the customary pleasantries of formality, and I learnt of their distinctive personas.

Herr Von Sternberg was a prominent banker from Berlin. Herr Müller was a wealthy merchant from Düsseldorf, and Lady Betzenstein was the wife of another baron from Dresden. They were all inheritors of the noble class of the Lower Franconia region. The general impression of them was of a considerable demonstration of banal expressions, as if they were indifferent to the death of the baron.

At first, they were not certain of my desired intentions, since the baron had bequeathed an inheritance before his untimely death. This was not a consideration I had sought, for I was not a member of the family nor had I fancied the baron’s wealth.

The preparations for the baron’s funeral arrangements were determined for the early morning. Therefore, we headed towards the local graveyard, where the baron was to be interred. The proceedings had occurred as planned, and what I thought odd was the fact that only twenty individuals were amongst the attendees. Was this designed intentionally, or was there an ulterior motive that I was not truly cognisant of its actual definition? That particularity did not inhibit the funeral.

After the baron had been laid to rest, I returned to the castle with the other three guests I had met previously. I had intended to leave the castle the same day, but the oncoming storm had prevented my departure as well as the other guests. For that reason, we returned to the comfort and shelter of the castle, whereupon we gathered in the main hall to talk. Our conversation was focused on our genuine relationship and knowledge of the baron.

Herr Von Sternberg had described the baron as callous and temperamental, whilst Herr Müller described the baron as unreasonable and intolerable. Lady Betzenstein’s description of the baron was a man of a reclusive and sullen nature. These different observations were ultimately contradictory to my personal interpretation of Baron Offenheimer. We spoke also at length about the unusual death of the baron.

His death had not been resolved, except that he had been suffering from a gradual form of uncontrollable hysteria. If this serious revelation was proven to be accurate, it would have compelling implications. I was surprised that no one in his immediate family had been apprised of his deteriorating condition. Perhaps the baron had sought to keep this private, not meant for public disclosure.

Furthermore, it seemed pointless to dwell on it now, since he was dead. Yet, my perception would be altered by a discovery that would dismiss any reasonable doubt about the baron's tormenting affliction. When our conversation had abated, Mila, the maidservant, handed me a letter addressed to me. It was apparently written by the baron himself before his regrettable death, and it was supposed to provide a startling account of the last days of the baron—days that had been troubling indeed.

My immediate concern was why I felt such a rising intensity. Why had the baron confided in me regarding this particular agony of his? The contents of the letter were disturbing and alarming as I read it in its entirety, but the dire predicament the baron had confronted seemed to lead him inexorably toward death.

According to his words, he had been experiencing sudden episodes of hysteria that were undermining his sanity. I had no vivid recollection of any degenerative madness in his family history, yet it was plausible that his mind and civility had slipped into this unhinged instability.

He mentioned a profound depression manifesting in his inherent indisposition. Suicidal thoughts had consumed his thinking and rationality, and he had become withdrawn into a state of isolation. This was later confirmed by the maidservant, who had tended to him.

I had concluded from this poignant assertion that the baron had taken his own life. While this was a presupposition, it was a tragedy to confront the horrendous truth about the baron's death. I pondered the significance of the letter and its connection to the mystery that had been unfolding around his death. I also wondered whether the others would discover this unsettling fact later on.

If so, it would certainly preclude any conjectural speculations about the baron's death. Yet, this vital task of relating the details of his demise was not incumbent upon me, nor did I have much desire to pursue it. I was more concerned with preserving the baron's reputation and his legacy among his closest acquaintances.

The storm persisted, the sound of heavy thunder rolling through the air, and lightning flashing from the edges of the windows in our internal chambers. I noticed that the storm was gradually unsettling the other guests. As the hours passed, the storm showed no signs of abating. The sky had darkened, enveloping the castle and the surrounding countryside in a dull, dim haze.

The rain began to pour heavily, reaching the cobblestones of the front bridge and moat. The soft patter of raindrops trickled over the bedoven roof of the castle. Lady Betzenstein grew increasingly fearful of the storm's intensity, while Herr Von Sternberg and Herr Müller were more absorbed in the baron's intriguing collection of splendid art.

Because the storm had trapped us on the castle grounds, we tried to distract ourselves as best we could. We gathered in the hall to wait out the worst of it. All of us were passionate admirers of art, so our conversation turned to the baron’s personal collection. Herr Von Sternberg was particularly taken with the Renaissance paintings, while Herr Müller spoke of the Baroque pieces. Lady Betzenstein was more fascinated by the elaborate gilded arabesques of the Middle East.

There was another collection, however, that had caught my attention. It was not associated with any known painter but appeared to be an abstract vision. I was told by the maidservant that this collection had been painted by the baron himself, who, it turned out, was a proficient artist. I had not known this aspect of the baron, but his paintings were unique and revealing.

Mila informed me that there were more of the baron’s paintings in his private study, and these were said to be even more disturbing. The study had been kept locked since his death, with explicit instructions that no one was to enter. However, I managed to convince Mila to let me into the study with the key. I wondered if the baron had foreseen his tragic death in some way.

It was too soon to make such a haunting assumption. When I entered the study, I was met with the terrible torment the baron had experienced in its most tangible form. Several paintings adorned the walls, each a disturbing depiction of the fractured mentality of a troubled mind. I managed to enter and leave the study without the other guests knowing.

Once back in the hall, I was asked where I had gone. I told them I had spoken to the maidservant about the preparations for our meal. The others were still absorbed in their contemplation of the paintings and the relentless storm outside. This part of Bavaria was notorious for its unpredictable weather at this time of year.

As the night wore on, we retreated to our private chambers, awaiting dinner. Afterward, we reconvened in the hall. Our conversation turned again to the mysterious circumstances surrounding the baron’s death.

It was difficult to conceal the knowledge of the baron’s dreadful state of mind and his unfortunate suicide, but I did not want to dishonour him with this shameful revelation. I kept the truth a secret, confident that the maidservant and the other staff members would not betray the intimate nature of the baron’s delusions. I sensed they were aware of his suffering, but they were loyal and would not reveal such painful details.

The lack of an official confirmation regarding the baron’s death confused the other guests. When they inquired, the maidservant told them that the doctor who had examined him would soon make the cause of death public.

I was relieved to hear that, as it adhered to the proper protocol. After all, the doctor had been the baron’s personal physician for many years. I recalled the baron’s childhood and his charismatic father, wondering if his torment had begun back then or had gradually worsened during his adult life.

Although the mystery of the baron’s death had not yet been solved, the guests were eager to offer their own theories. Each had their own conclusion. Herr Von Sternberg suggested that the baron had been poisoned by someone seeking to claim his wealth. He even suspected one of the servants might be involved in his death.

Herr Müller had made the insinuation that the baron had contracted a virulent disease that had killed him in the end. Lady Betzenstein was even more audacious. She had claimed that the baron was murdered by a jealous lover whom he had courted and spurned before.

All of these theories were nothing more than inventive concoctions of fanciful imaginations. I tried not to be overtly indubious in my posture, but it was uncomfortable not to interject, with what I had already known of the baron. The situation surrounding the anonymity of the baron's death was beginning to progress into a burden that had busied my conscience. The storm had persisted with a ferocious impetuosity that seemed unrelenting.

As the night advanced, we decided to wait for the abatement of the tempest in our private chambers. There was no possible way we could have departed, because the roads were inundated with water and heavy mire. We were resigned to leave in the morning or midday if the weather permitted our immediate departure. I had thought the storm was the main suspense that would occupy our time and night, but I never anticipated the dreadful and shocking events that unfolded afterwards.

I found myself unable to sleep. The flickering candle beside my bed offered little comfort, its pale flame seeming only to accentuate the oppressive gloom of my chamber. In my restless state, I wandered the room, pacing aimlessly, when my eyes caught sight of a small, dust-laden bureau pushed against the far wall. It was old, its wood cracked and swollen with age, and curiosity—or perhaps an unspoken instinct—compelled me to investigate.

Opening the top drawer, I searched through brittle papers and discarded scraps until my fingers settled upon a folded letter, yellowed and brittle with time. It was addressed, in a tight, elegant script, to no one in particular. Unfolding it carefully, I began to read—and felt a chill creep up my spine with every line:

‘To whomever discovers this, heed my words well. Within these ancient walls lurks a darkness far older and fouler than I can reckon. I, Baron Wilhelm Offenheimer, am not its master, but its thrall. My lineage, cursed by some forgotten transgression, has bound me to this place, and I have come to understand that what haunts this castle is no mere spectre of the mind, but a living malice—a hunger incarnate.

Each night, the whispers grow louder, the shadows more insistent. I have sought every manner of exorcism, every sacrament known to man, but all has failed. It watches me from the crumbling walls, from the hollow eyes of the statues. I fear my fate is sealed; soon, I too will succumb to the evil that festers here. Pray, if you read this and live still, flee this place. Do not tarry.’

I stared at the second letter, my hands unsteady, as the last words seemed to sear themselves into my consciousness. The baron’s handwriting was unmistakable, and yet, the implications were unfathomable. He had spoken of something worse than himself—a deeper malevolence rooted within the actual stones of the castle. In that moment, a heavy dread settled upon me, as I realised I was entangled in a web of darkness far more insidious than I had ever imagined.

As I was finishing reading the disconcerting letter of the baron, I heard a loud scream coming from one of the guest chambers of the castle. Quickly, I grabbed my pistol and scurried to where the clamour originated, and I saw Mila, the maidservant, outside the chamber of Lady Betzenstein.

There was a ghastly expression on the maidservant's face. Inside was the dead body of Lady Betzenstein, mauled to death. It was a horrific image, and there was a pool of blood splattered everywhere. The question was who had killed Lady Betzenstein and for what reason?

I had the ominous impression that Mila knew who, but did not want to tell us. The culprit had to be someone who had been in the castle or someone who was in the castle from the beginning. Was it a complete stranger who had strayed onto the grounds without detection? Was it one of the servants, or worse, one of the guests?

I told Mila to inform the others, including the servants who were in the castle. When she went to the other chambers, she found Herr Müller dead. His body was badly mauled to death like Lady Betzenstein's. As for Herr Von Sternberg, he was not in his chamber.

He was discovered dead in the moat by the lackey, as his body was floating in the water. Apparently, he was murdered as well. There were no servants in the house except Mila and the lackey. The gruesome nature of their deaths had unnerved me, and it was a sequence of events that triggered such unexpected developments.

The mystery thickened with the fact that the murderer was perhaps in the castle amongst us. I spoke to Mila about any person she knew who could have been the cold-blooded killer, but she was not aware of anyone. I perceived that she was not telling me the truth. Was she the actual murderer of the other guests? Did she see who killed them and had assisted this unknown individual?

The macabre murders and the active storm had augmented the suspense and sudden thrill of the night to the point that I was expecting to be the next victim of the murderer. Why was I not killed? Was it that I was extremely fortunate to have survived? The uncertainty caused me to confront Mila, and I did. When I ordered her to tell me what she knew, she made a startling admission. I shall not forget the incredible tale she disclosed to me so vividly. She told me that the baron was not dead, as we know the word to mean.

Verily, I was stupefied by her discreet declaration, and I demanded clarification. She asked me if I knew what a Nachzehrer was. I answered with a question of my own: what did this have to do with the baron? She then expounded by saying that the baron was a living specimen of the abominable creature of ancient Bavarian mythology. I was too incredulous to believe that what she was alleging was true.

Therefore, I assumed her involvement in the murders, but I refrained from making an accusation, sensing that I was at a clear disadvantage. Gradually, I began to walk towards my chamber, when I saw the faint image of a stranger ahead of me. When I approached cautiously, I saw the horrendous appearance of a vile being that resembled my childhood friend Baron Offenheimer. My initial reaction was of absolute disbelief and stupor that left me aghast.

His eyes were tinted with a dark film over the whiteness of his ghoulish eyeballs. His teeth were yellowish and sharp. His clothing was completely covered in dirt and wet. There was an obvious putrid stench of death that reeked noticeably and reached my nose. How could the baron be alive, since it was impossible? Was this some preternatural occurrence that I was witnessing?

Soon, I heard the daunting utterance of my name and the familiar voice of the baron. He approached me closer and repeated my name again, until he spoke more words that were tangible to my comprehension.

‘Friedrich Laufenburg. It is me, Wilhelm, my old friend. Do you not recognise me?’

‘No, it cannot be! Wilhelm, you are dead! How can you be alive, when I saw you buried six feet under a gravestone?’

‘It is true, I was buried on that day of my funeral, but I have been reborn, with acute senses of extraordinary abilities I have never known before. You do not understand, Friedrich’.

‘Understand what, Wilhelm—that you have risen from the dead miraculously?’

‘The proof of my immortal existence. Imagine what it means to be immortal—eternal life’.

‘By killing people to survive? I call that eternal damnation!’

‘It is a compulsion I cannot control. I must survive!’

‘Survive? You are dead, Wilhelm. You have no volition, but you must still have a human soul’.

‘My soul, you ask? Where was God when I was suffering? He truly abandoned me in my hour of need!’

‘You took your life!’

‘Yes, because I could bear no more! You do not understand the anguish and pain I had to suffer daily. My mind was going mad! I wanted the nightmare to end!’

‘Why did you not seek my help, Wilhelm? I have been your friend since we were children’.

‘Because I was fearful of my own shadow, and isolation was my only escape from the real world'.

‘Underneath this monstrous façade of yours, gone is the Wilhelm that I knew—intellectual, logical and a believer in God’.

The lightning resounded in the background as we stood in front of each other. Mila and the lackey were at the end of the hall. I asked her if she knew of the baron's unbelievable resuscitation, and she responded with her acknowledgement that she and the other servants had known since they first saw the baron rise the previous day.

They had served him for years and were loyal to him. They were also strong believers in the supernatural realm of the walking dead, who had quickened. I was then horrified by this unexpected confession. I sensed danger was nigh, and I had to overcome swiftly my momentary amazement to flee the horror of the castle.

My options were few, and I had to destroy the creature—and that signified destroying the baron, if that was even a likely feasibility to accomplish. Thus, I took my pistol from within my frock coat and pointed it at the baron. I threatened to shoot him if he advanced further towards me. I instructed the maidservant and the lackey to step aside, as I slowly walked past them.

Intuitively, I realised they were not going to allow me to escape the castle alive. Moments later, the lackey charged at me, and I was forced to shoot him. The single bullet killed him instantly, as the maidservant looked on in horror. I seized her by the arm and used her as a shield to make my escape, but as I did so, the baron lunged at us and killed the maidservant, Mila.

He began tearing at her garments and devouring her flesh like a wild animal. This gave me enough time to flee the castle through the front door. I dashed across the bridge, but was suddenly seized by the baron, who had caught up with me. Blood was streaming from his sharp teeth, and his deadly stare was terrifying. I warned him: ‘If you come any closer, I’ll shoot.’

He paid no heed and came straight at me. I pulled the trigger. I fired several bullets into his chest, but he did not falter in his relentless advance. I aimed at his head and fired; only then did he stop, collapsing into the moat, swollen with the storm’s torrential rain.

The current dragged him towards an ancient berm, newly exposed by the rain. He fell into the pit and struggled in vain to escape. A sudden bolt of lightning struck the upper part of the castle, sending huge stones tumbling down onto the berm. The baron was trapped some twenty feet below, and his desperate attempts to climb out proved futile.

At first, I stood there, paralysed, watching and praying that the baron would not rise again. He let out a dreadful, guttural roar, bellowing my name. Only then did I dare to leave, convinced he was buried beneath the weight of those colossal stones.

There was a moment that nearly unhinged my sanity—a scene seared into my mind like a brand. After Mila’s death, I found myself lost in the castle’s dim corridors, alone, the air thick with dread. I had to double back through the grand hall, its vastness echoing with the groans of the storm outside. That was when I heard it—a slow, dragging noise behind me, like something heavy being pulled across the floor.

I turned, heart racing, and saw Mila’s lifeless body being dragged by unseen hands across the marble floor, her eyes glassy and her limbs limp. It was not the baron this time—it was something else, something spectral. The air grew bitterly cold, my breath puffing visibly before me, and then, with sudden force, the grand doors slammed shut, plunging me into darkness.

‘Leave this place,’ a voice rasped from the shadows—low, guttural, yet distinct from the baron’s. I felt a chill claw its way up my spine as I realised I was not merely dealing with one monstrous entity, but perhaps the castle itself was steeped in ancient, malevolent forces. I stumbled backwards, desperate to escape the hall, and tripped over a toppled candelabrum. As I scrambled up, a faint blue glow began to pulse from the cracks between the stones, illuminating twisted faces—carved grotesqueries that I swore had not been there before.

My panic only grew when the baron’s voice rose above the din, taunting me: ‘You cannot run forever, Friedrich.’

By some miracle, I found my way back to the main vestibule, where the storm’s wind battered at the broken windows. It was there that the final confrontation began.

I considered alerting the authorities to the baron's monstrous nature, but I doubted they would believe my story and feared they might deem me mad.

Instead, I spoke to the villagers themselves, and to my relief, they believed me. They knew of the legend of the Nachzehrer and assured me they would never open the pit, nor allow anyone else to do so. I placed my trust in them and was eager to leave that cursed place behind, to forget the dreadful castle and the abhorrent creature that was the baron.

When I reached the village after the baron's entrapment, I was met with a wary silence. Though it was late, every house seemed watchful, their shutters ajar as if the villagers had anticipated my arrival. A cluster of them gathered around me, oil lanterns flickering in their hands, their eyes shadowed with fear and something else—resignation.

An elder stepped forward, face lined with age and hardship. ‘We heard the castle cry out,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell us—what happened?’

I recounted the events breathlessly, sparing no detail of the baron’s savagery and the final struggle. The villagers listened in grim silence, exchanging uneasy glances.

‘We have lived under his shadow for too long,’ one woman murmured, clutching a child to her side. ‘Did you truly trap him?’

‘I buried him beneath the stones,’ I said, though doubt tinged my voice. ‘He cannot escape.’

The elder shook his head. ‘No one escapes the Nachzehrer’s curse so easily.’

They ushered me to the tavern, where by the hearth’s glow I learned more of the baron’s ghastly legacy. They told me of the pact forged long ago—a legend of a nobleman who sought immortality through forbidden rites, sacrificing his own humanity in the process. The Nachzehrer was said to be not merely a vampire but a being of insatiable hunger, preying on both flesh and soul. Several villagers bore scars, subtle but real, from the baron’s nocturnal visitations.

A young man, pale and hollow-eyed, recounted how his sister had vanished years ago, lured to the castle and never seen again. Another, an old woman with trembling hands, said she had glimpsed the baron’s silhouette outside her window on nights of the full moon, always watching.

‘It is not over,’ the elder said gravely. ‘The castle may fall, the baron may be buried, but evil of that magnitude seeps into the soil. We will guard the berm, but you must guard yourself, Herr Laufenburg. His hunger is not easily quenched.’

They provided me with amulets—small carved stones, etched with protective symbols—and whispered old prayers for my safety. I left the village at dawn, burdened by more than fear: a terrible certainty that my fate and the baron’s were now inextricably entwined.

The once brilliant and celebrated Baron Wilhelm Offenheimer, as I knew, was no ordinary man but a monster cloaked in civility—a true Nachzehrer. What I, Friedrich Laufenburg, witnessed that dreadful night was not a fevered hallucination but a manifestation of pure nightmare. And though time passes, I remain watchful, for some nightmares, I fear, are not so easily laid to rest.

The following morning, I departed from the village of Irmelshausen. I returned to Berlin with the chilling uncertainty of whether the baron would one day escape and come after me. Was that berm truly his tomb, or merely a grim foreshadowing of my worst fears? For years, I have lived under the daunting shadow of the baron, haunted by the thought that I might cross paths with his devilish presence once more, whether in the streets of Berlin or at my present home.

I understood all too well the terrible consequences should that eventuality come to pass. The once brilliant and esteemed Baron Wilhelm Offenheimer, as I knew, was a monster of unspeakable depravity, known to the local peasants as the Nachzehrer. What I, Friedrich Laufenburg, witnessed on that dreadful night at the castle was no mere hallucination but a living nightmare made flesh.

It was in Berlin, months after my return, that a curious and unsettling event disturbed my already fragile peace of mind. I had settled into a modest house in the district of Charlottenburg, attempting to resume a life of normalcy, though my dreams were still plagued by visions of the baron and his dreadful lair. One bitter winter evening, as I sat by the hearth engrossed in my reading—a vain attempt to calm my troubled mind—a soft, deliberate knock came at the door. The sound was measured, almost too precise: three raps, a pause, then two more, echoing through the stillness of my flat.

I rose cautiously, my nerves tightening like a bowstring. ‘Who is there?’ I called out, but there was no answer. I stood, unmoving, for a moment that seemed endless, every fibre of my being attuned to the silence that followed. With mounting apprehension, I unlatched the door and opened it just a fraction, peering into the dimly lit corridor. It was empty. Only the faint whistle of the wind passed through the drafty hall, unsettling in its eerie calm. I was about to close the door, chiding myself for indulging in such irrational fear, when my eyes dropped to the floor—and I froze in place.

There, resting on the worn rug like an omen, lay a single black feather. I stooped, hand trembling, and picked it up. It was sleek and glossy, unnaturally dark, and carried with it a faint, metallic scent that turned my stomach and chilled my blood. My mind, against my will, raced back to the castle, to a fleeting image I had nearly banished from my thoughts: the baron’s cloak, lined with feathers, dark as the void, trailing behind him like the wings of some monstrous bird.

A hollow ache swelled in my chest. I searched the corridor again, stepping out into the dim light, eyes darting up and down the hallway, but there was no sign of life, no indication of who—or what—had left the feather behind. My breath quickened; a film of cold sweat settled on my brow. I shut the door swiftly, bolting it with shaking hands, and pressed my back against it, heart racing wildly.

For the remainder of that endless night, I kept the feather close, unable to discard it, unwilling to let it out of my sight. Sleep eluded me entirely, and as the pale dawn crept through the frost-laced window, one terrible thought gnawed at me with unrelenting insistence: the baron’s reach was far longer, and far more insidious, than I had dared to imagine.

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