Oliver Pötzsch - The Werewolf of Bamberg

“Father, whatever you have in mind, just remember you’re not as young as you used to be, and I’m worried that you-”

“Damn it,” he interrupted angrily. “The day my daughter starts worrying about my age is the day I’ll willingly go to my grave. But first I have a few questions I want to ask that fellow over there. You wait here.”

Silently, he disappeared behind a frame holding a large beaver pelt. For a brief moment she could hear the sounds of his receding steps, but then all fell silent. Magdalena sighed and shook her head.

“Your grandfather is as stubborn as a mule, and an idiot, do you know that?” she said to the children, who were still peacefully sucking on their licorice sticks, their legs dangling from the pier.

“You say the same thing about Georg,” Peter replied, “and about Dad, as well. . and about the wagon drivers in Schongau who are always playing cards and getting drunk down at Semer’s tavern. Are all men stubborn mules and idiots, Mama?”

Despite her annoyance, she couldn’t help smiling. “Well, most of them, but your grandfather much more than the rest. I hope he doesn’t hurt himself.”

Hiding behind the drying racks, Jakob Kuisl disappeared behind the furrier’s house, then slunk down a cluttered alleyway parallel to the river, and from there back to the other piers. Some children playing in the street looked up anxiously as the grim giant hurried past them in his flowing cloak.

Kuisl’s thoughts were racing. Ever since he’d seen the wolf’s pelt in the furrier’s trunk, he had an odd suspicion-so odd it just might be correct. Especially after learning that a stranger, just a short time ago, had bought a whole bunch of wolf pelts from the furrier.

Could it be possible?

He wanted to get to the bottom of this as fast as possible. If the man hiding behind the nets turned out to be the stranger the furrier had mentioned, that would explain a lot of things.

But if it is him, why did he come back?

A muddy path led from the lane down to the pier where the man had just been standing. Kuisl stayed close to the wall of the house. From the corner of his eye he could see a few fishermen watching him suspiciously from their boats out on the river, but he couldn’t let them distract him now. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the open.

The stranger was still standing behind the frame holding the fishnets, but in the gathering darkness it was hard for Kuisl to see more than the vague outline of a man wearing a floppy hat and an overcoat. Slowly, the hangman walked along the path-the only access to the pier, so the man wouldn’t be able to escape. Unless he decided to fight. But Jakob had been in many fights, more than most people.

“Hey, you,” the hangman said, addressing the stranger. “Stop, I need to have a word with you.”

When the man saw he’d been discovered, he froze like a cornered animal. And then he did something Kuisl never would have expected.

He jumped.

It was a full three yards to the next pier, almost ten feet, but the man landed safely on the creaking planks. For a moment it seemed like he might fall backward, but then he got his balance again and ran down the pier toward the shore. Kuisl was startled to see that the stranger had a slight limp. He knew only one person in Bamberg who limped-and that was his own brother.

That’s impossible, he thought. Or is it?

Cursing, he turned and ran back through the little alleys full of rotted rowboats up on jacks, handcarts, and barrels of fish. The man with the floppy hat had a lead of at least twenty paces, and Kuisl had to remember what his daughter Magdalena had said earlier: he wasn’t so young anymore. In a fight he could count on his experience, but in running, younger was better. Nevertheless, he’d already gained a few yards on the stranger when suddenly he made a sharp right and ran back down to one of the four piers.

“Now I’ve got you,” Kuisl panted.

He ran toward the pier as fast as he could and only at the last moment saw what the other was planning to do. A small rowboat was tied to one of the posts with the oars tossed carelessly into the stern. In one fluid move, the man jumped in, pulled out a knife, and quickly cut the rope. Just as Kuisl reached the end of the pier, the boat cast off and started floating down the river with the current. The distance between them grew from one second to the next.

There was no time for Jakob to reflect. He just kept running and, with a final sprint, jumped off the pier toward the boat, and-

Missed.

He hit the cold water with a loud splash, the waves closed over him, and in the next moment his clothes filled with water and threatened to pull him under. As he thrashed about wildly, Kuisl pulled off his heavy coat. Only then, and with powerful strokes, could he make his way back to the surface. Breathing hard and paddling to keep afloat, he looked around in all directions.

The boat was drifting slowly down the river, already some distance away. Jakob watched as the stranger put the oars in the oarlocks and pulled vigorously.

Then the boat disappeared around the river’s next bend.

The man with the floppy hat was breathing heavily as the small, half-timbered houses in the Fishermen’s Quarter, with their balconies and piers, slowly receded. Night was falling over Bamberg, but the shadows did not fill him with happy expectations, as usual, but something approaching fear. His foot hurt, and his whole body shivered. To add to his misery, he’d evidently sprained his ankle jumping off the pier. That was nothing critical, but it showed him he was not invulnerable.

For the first time, he’d been not the hunter but the hunted.

He cursed himself under his breath for returning to see the furrier, but on his most recent visit he’d taken a liking to the beautiful furs, and so he planned to buy the last two pieces in order to continue his search for prey. For now, he enjoyed the musky odor and softness of the furs. When he wrapped them around him, he felt like someone else. The first time, it was the apothecary’s wife who had given him the furs to try on. They were like a second skin wrapped around him, protecting him, and turning him into some sort of monster.

Something that inspired fear in people-as much fear as he had once known, long ago.

But then he’d made an unforgivable mistake. It had given him a feeling of power to observe unnoticed, practically invisible, a potential victim, and this thrill had almost caused his ruin. He bit his lip nervously. His coat, floppy hat, and fake beard might conceal his true features-but he’d still have to be very careful.

The buildings along the river were thinning out-just a few more sheds and an old mill. Then the beginning of the forest, the wilderness, the realm of the beasts-a realm where, more and more, he was beginning to feel at home.

Old Schwarzkontz had broken down faster than any of them, and he was the first to die. The first woman also confessed quickly-her heart stopped beating from the fright, and he disposed of the corpse in the usual way. But he learned quickly. The young woman who was his next victim had survived four questionings before she, too, finally died.

For the first time, he felt pity, a feeling that he immediately suppressed. Pity was weak, and he could never show weakness. Just the same, he kept putting off the torture of his next victim, the apothecary’s wife. Each time he looked into the woman’s eyes, a shudder came over him, and he felt disgusted with himself.

Fortunately, though, he had come across Thadäus Vasold the night before.

The old fool had fallen into his trap in just the right place. It warmed his heart to see that wrinkled face frozen in horror. The feeling of revenge had been so sweet, like thick, golden honey. Now the old man was all tied up in the house, awaiting his next interrogation.