Helen Grant - The Vanishing of Katharina Linden

That icy February, when Katharina Linden vanished, the entire town was in a state of shock, and yet nobody thought it would happen again. During Karneval, Bad Münstereifel was full of people from goodness-knew-where, and there was so much mayhem going on that anything might happen. Once Karneval was over, and the town was quiet again, nobody really expected another child to disappear. All the same, my mother began to take rather more interest in my comings and goings than was comfortable. There was to be no more roaming around the town on my own, and she was reluctant to let me go off to the playground in the Schleidtal, even if Stefan came as well. Going to Stefan’s house was out too, since it meant being smoked like a herring in the fumes of his mother’s chain-smoking. It was a relief for me and Stefan to be able to escape to the more agreeable environment of Herr Schiller’s house, where nobody asked about homework and we could beg him to tell us old stories of the town. That was how he came to recount the tale of Unshockable Hans.

“Unshockable Hans?” said Stefan. “What kind of name is that?”

He and I were sitting on the overstuffed sofa in Herr Schiller’s living room, sipping coffee so strong that it almost took the enamel off your teeth.

“They called him that because he wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone,” answered Herr Schiller, his tone very faintly reproving. “He lived in a mill in the Eschweiler Tal, long ago, before your grandparents’ parents were born.”

“The Eschweiler Tal. We’ve been there with the school,” said Stefan.

“Then you will know, young man, that it is a very quiet place. Lonely even, especially in winter,” said Herr Schiller. “Now, that mill had a bad reputation. A ghost mill, they called it, infested with all sorts of witches, phantoms, and monsters. It was as though the very timbers of the mill had soaked up the unearthly forces that seethed and thronged in the valley, like the wood of a wine barrel takes up the stain and scent of the wine.”

Stefan shot me a glance at this extravagant piece of narrative. I ignored him.

“No one had ever succeeded in staying in the mill for any length of time-not, that is, until Hans moved in. Previous inhabitants had been chased out; hardworking, unimaginative men who had invested most of their life’s savings in the mill had fled from it like frightened children, their faces as white as milk. It was not that Hans was too insensitive to feel or see the things that swarmed around the mill; it was simply that he did not fear any of them. He could walk through the mill at night, when the building was full of furtive scratching noises, and malevolent eyes glinted redly in the darkest corners, and he would be as relaxed as a visitor wandering through a greenhouse full of tropical butterflies. And perhaps because he was so totally unafraid, it seemed that none of these creatures could touch him.”

“Cool,” said Stefan.

Shut up , I telegraphed at him with a furious glare.

“The phantoms waited eagerly for Hans to flee like the others,” went on Herr Schiller. “When he didn’t, they redoubled their efforts. Things with far too many spindly limbs and leathery wings articulated like the spokes of an umbrella would dive upon him as he strolled through the mill after sunset, and tangle in his flour-dusted hair; grotesque faces would leer up at him out of the water butt outside, or from the corner cupboard where he kept his knife and plate. At night the creaking of the mill’s timbers mingled with groaning and wailing that would have made anyone else’s hair stand on end. Hans endured it all unmoved.

“Well, at last the things that infested the mill grew angry. At night the creaking of the beams sharpened to shrieks, and by day the great cogs of the machine seemed to move more slowly, as though working against some unseen resistance. If Hans cared about these things, he gave no sign.

“However, one day late in April he left the mill and walked into the town. When he returned he had a little package in the pocket of his breeches, carefully done up in a clean handkerchief. Intrepid as he was, Hans knew that in two nights it would be Walpurgis, the eve of May Day, when the witches gather for their Sabbath. The unseen foes with whom he was struggling for possession of the mill were certain to make some kind of attack.

“The last day of April was cloudy and overcast, and a chill wind was blowing. Night came in early and inside the mill it was dark, the light from Hans’s one little lantern hardly penetrating the deep shadows. Hans ate his solitary dinner of rough bread and cheese, said his prayers like the good Catholic he was, then put out the lantern and lay down on the pallet that served as his bed. Hans always slept well, caring nothing for little scuffling footsteps on the floor of the mill, or tiny clawed feet running across his blanket in the night. Tonight he slept on his back, his face turned boldly up to the ceiling and his beard quivering gently to the rhythm of his snores.

“For several hours his sleep was undisturbed. The oppressive atmosphere that had haunted the mill for days seemed to have lifted. The wind outside had dropped, the clouds had parted and the full moon shining through the little window above Hans’s rough bed outlined the few sticks of homely wooden furniture and the parts of the mill machinery in glowing silver.

“Perhaps it was the light that woke Hans up. At any rate, he opened his eyes and looked about him. Was it his imagination, or had he seen two twin lights, hot and red like the glowing embers of a fire, winking at him from a corner? Yes; there it was again- blink-blink , as if something were watching him, but shutting its eyes lazily for long seconds. Hans coughed gently, as though to show his unconcern, and was about to turn over and pull his blankets around him, when he saw a second pair of lights glowing from the top of a cupboard. Again they seemed to glint for a moment and then blink out.

“Hans considered for a moment, then he pulled the blankets around his shoulders and closed his eyes. Hans being Hans, he would actually have managed to fall asleep again, but just as he was drifting into slumber there came the sound of velvet feet padding softly across the earthen floor of the mill.

“This time, since Hans was lying on his side, he had only to open his eyes to see the source of the sounds. A large cat was strolling across the room, a cat with inky-black fur that shimmered like taffeta, and great green eyes that glowed phosphorescently in the darkness. Abruptly it stopped, settled itself on its hindquarters, tail curled elegantly about its haunches, and regarded the miller with its luminous eyes.

“For several seconds Hans and the cat stared at each other. Then Hans said, ‘Ach , pussycat-I’ve no milk for you.’ And he turned his back, pulling the blanket with him. Then there came a hissing, like an intake of breath, and another cat came padding out of the darkness, and then another. They wound their way through the patch of silver moonlight on the floor; they weaved in and out of the legs of Hans’s solitary chair; they sprang onto the sacks of grain and perched on the stout timbers of the mill. They slipped like quicksilver through the chinks between the planks of the door and slid knifelike between the stones of the walls. They oozed like viscous honey from the cracks about the window frames.

“If Hans had opened his eyes, he would have seen some of them come right through the walls, stretching as they did so, pulling their hindquarters after them. But Hans did not need to see this to know what they were; they took the form of cats, but his nocturnal visitors were witches , assembling for their great Walpurgis Night meeting in the place where they always met, and determined to turn this audacious mortal out.