Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

Markus’s screams stopped abruptly as the huge fangs clamped down on his neck. He twitched violently a few times, his legs thrashing uncontrollably, as the beast ripped apart his throat and drank his blood. Finally, he lay there motionless.

The creature raised his head and stared at Simon.

For the first time, the medicus studied the animal and realized how huge it was. It had short, pointed ears, a stubby face, and a wide mouth with jowls that hung down over a row of sharp teeth. Its red eyes glowed faintly like tiny jack-o’-lanterns, and its rib cage was much too large and wide for its head, as if the creature had been cobbled together from different races of hounds. Its fur was a grayish-white and it had massive forelegs and huge paws. It was the size of a young bear and spattered with blood. It seemed to have been created with just one purpose.

To kill.

Simon regarded it with a mixture of horror and awe. It wasn’t a werewolf but clearly some kind of dog.

But it was at least as dangerous.

Once again the animal gave that threatening growl. Jakob was still lying stunned and motionless on the forest floor, just a few steps from the monster that approached him now, sniffing loudly.

Simon felt his whole body quiver. What would the beast do to his father-in-law?

“Hurry up and shoot!” screamed the woman, who had sought refuge behind a bush. “Shoot before it kills us all!”

Simon was going to reply that his weapon was old and useless, but he took out the gun again and aimed.

I have to try, at least, before the beast eats my father-in-law alive. I have to try. Lord, help me. .

He pulled the trigger.

This time there was a loud report, a bright flash in front of him, and a recoil that traveled up through his hand like a whiplash. He shouted and dropped the burning-hot pistol, thinking he’d gone blind-but then he heard a whimper, opened his eyes, and saw the monster in spasms on the ground. Blood flowed over the white fur of the animal’s chest. It gasped, and its legs kicked as if it were running through an imaginary meadow.

Then, suddenly, it froze.

I hit it. The realization shot through Simon. I actually hit the beast.

For a few moments, the world seemed to stand still. In the background, flames shot up even higher toward the roof of the hunting lodge, the wind howled, and the firs bent and groaned under the force of the heaving wind.

Then he heard a cry from inside the building.

“Brutus! My God, Brutus! What have they done to you?”

Simon looked toward the burning front entrance, where Magdalena and Bartholomäus were standing, holding a stunned-looking Georg between them.

They carried the boy a few more steps until he was beyond the reach of the fire, then Bartholomäus let go of him and hobbled toward the dead dog.

“Brutus, my dear little Brutus,” he wept. “Why did you have to run away from me?”

Magdalena was in the clearing with Georg, who stood there moaning as the flames slowly crept up to the roof of the lodge. The wind had subsided a bit now but was still blowing hard enough to turn the building into a fiery inferno. The events of the last few hours had shocked Magdalena. As if in a trance, she’d helped Bartholomäus carry her injured brother through rooms full of fire and smoke, past stuffed, mangy heads of stags and wild boar, smoldering furniture, and wall hangings full of holes, with flames licking up them toward the ceiling.

She shouted, cried, wailed. Barbara and her father had to be somewhere in the house, but she couldn’t help them. The only one who might still save them was a crippled old man, but he, too, had presumably already been consumed in the flames or suffocated in the smoke.

They’d finally reached the front doorway, coughing, when they heard a shot outside. Some distance away, Magdalena saw Simon and a woman she didn’t know, but the man on the ground had to be her father. Alongside him was something white that she couldn’t quite make out. A wave of relief came over her. Her father had escaped the hellish flames.

And Barbara? How about Barbara and Jeremias?

Bartholomäus let go of Georg and ran toward the group, so Magdalena dragged her brother the last few steps by herself, finally letting him down gently on the ground.

“Everything will be all right,” she mumbled, almost like a prayer she was saying just for herself. “Everything will work out.”

Then she was standing around the corpse with the others, while Bartholomäus leaned down to it as if it were a dead child, stroking the blood-spattered pelt and speaking soft words of consolation. Simon, in the meantime, had run over to care for Georg and stanch the blood from the wound on his leg with a few strips of material from his torn shirt. Markus Salter lay a short distance away, ripped apart like a wild animal slaughtered in the hunt, but no one paid attention to him.

“I can only do the most basic things for your brother,” Simon said grimly, turning to Magdalena as he tightened the bandage. “The wound is quite deep. The boy urgently needs medicine so it doesn’t become infected.” He also pointed to Magdalena’s father, sitting silently and dejectedly on an overturned tree trunk nearby. “And your father also needs bandaging. That crazy scoundrel hit him hard in the head several times. But he won’t let anyone help him.”

“Don’t you understand? He’s thinking of Barbara,” Magdalena snapped as her whole body began to tremble. “We’re all thinking about Barbara. Except you, apparently.”

“Perhaps she’s not even in the burning house,” Simon ventured, trying to console her. “Salter suggested he might’ve taken her somewhere else.”

“She’s inside,” said a soft voice beside them. It was the blond woman, who Magdalena realized must be Adelheid Rinswieser, the wife of the Bamberg apothecary, who had been missing for more than a week. “Barbara was his last victim,” she continued sadly, “along with that old scribe.” Timidly, she placed her hand on Magdalena’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Magdalena felt something wet on her cheeks-tears, running down her face in streams. She felt as if someone had kicked her hard in the stomach.

“I must go to Father,” she mumbled in a flat voice. “He needs me now.”

She stood up and walked over to Jakob, who was still sitting alone on the tree trunk, looking like a craggy boulder that had washed up ages ago in a forest clearing. She sat down next to him, and together they stared into the crackling flames now rising over the roof of the old lodge.

“It’s my fault,” the hangman said suddenly. “I was so. . angry. I went charging in there all by myself, like a wild bull. Bartl is right. I am a good-for-nothing.”

“Father, what are you saying?” Magdalena replied in a soft voice. “You couldn’t have stopped it. All of us-”

She stopped, suddenly seeing another figure staggering out the front door. Burning wooden beams from the roof came crashing down and glowing shingles flew through the air, but the figure staggered on. Only now did Magdalena see it was Jeremias, holding something in his arms carefully, like a treasure.

It was a delicate human form, wrapped tightly in a blackened monk’s robe, but Magdalena knew right away who it was.

“Barbara!” she shouted, running toward them.

Magdalena’s cries tore Jakob out of his profound grief.

He thought at first that his mind was playing tricks on him, but then he looked up and saw Jeremias stumbling toward the group, holding the motionless girl in his arms. He jumped up, rushed the few steps over to the two, and took his daughter in his huge, muscular arms. He hadn’t cried since the death of his wife, but now tears ran down over his bearded, smoke-blackened face.