Stefan Seitz - Nettlewooz Vol. 1

It was rumoured that someone had been seen in the tower … a thin, shadowy, black-clad figure crouching behind one of the windows. It was apparently wearing a waistcoat, tails, and a crumpled top hat. Elsewhere, there were rumours of a vampire with flashing teeth and a swirling cloak. Or a crow in a frock coat. There was no end to the tales that did the rounds. In Burdock Village, a sleepy little place on the northern edge of the Dark Forest, this figure was said to be a flying shadow with a hat and bat-wings. And that was just the start of it. The fretful denizens of Burdock Village claimed, moreover, that this shadow’s nefarious deeds weren’t confined to the tower, but that he had been plaguing their village for several centuries. He was evil, so they said: a bloodthirsty vampire who flapped around their church steeple by night, stealing their food and causing fear and terror.

Superstition, you might think. Old wives’ tales and silly horror stories. However, they did seem to contain a grain of truth.

For on this spring night, too, when the moon was high above the Mizzle Meadows, a light was burning at one of the skylights and a loud banging sound came from the tower.

“… I can’t get it off …” A voice rang out through the night. “Sorry, but it’s stuck.”

“It can’t be that difficult,” came the rasping reply. “Haven’t you got any tools?”

Silence fell. But just moments later, there came an ear-splitting clatter-bang sound, like that of chains, or metal bowls, or pan-lids. The sound echoed around the hills so loudly that any passing walker would have taken to their heels and fled. But tonight, just as on every other night, there was nobody around, and so nobody was there to see the dark figure standing behind one of the illuminated skylights.

The inside of the old tower was by no means as dilapidated as the outside might have suggested. It was merely dusty and astonishingly untidy. Every single room was stuffed full of books, parchments, and scrolls, along with glass phials, protractors, pairs of compasses, and countless other scientific instruments. Cobwebs spanned the rooms, and thick dusty tendrils hung down from the ceilings. The only room which was very slightly tidier was the garret, which was more or less completely filled by a gigantic oak bed with a red and white checked counterpane, and was distinctly cosy. A hatch in the floor gave onto a ladder which led to the kitchen. The garret, however, didn’t extend across the whole of the top floor; it was more of a mezzanine surrounded by a railing, which gave the bedroom a full view of the rather grand sitting room and its fireplace.

The moon shone down on the windows, bathing the garret in its milky blue light. A candle flickered beside the bed, illuminating the strange, sable figure which was standing there with arms helplessly outstretched. The figure was of medium height and very thin. It was wearing an old-fashioned tailcoat, white spats, and – just as the villagers said – a tall, crumpled top hat.

So the dark shadow really did exist, albeit made of flesh and blood. He – for it was definitely a he – stood irresolute before a rustic longcase clock, staring at its face. He seemed to be trying to converse with the clock as he addressed it insistently and loudly.

“No, I haven’t got any tools,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“I don’t believe it,” a muffled voice came from behind a little doorway in the clock case. “Have you looked in the box? There must be a pair of pliers there, surely?”

The shadow turned to one side, giving a clear view of his pointy nose. He looked thoughtfully at the chest standing in the corner by the bed. Then he turned back to the clock.

“I know for a fact there’s no set of pliers. I don’t need to look.” He tapped his foot, thinking.

“You listen here, Primus,” came the voice from the clock. “I’m now nine minutes and 27 seconds slow. This is going to foul up my entire day. It’s a complete disgrace. I’ve gone a hundred years without this kind of thing.”

The shadow, who evidently answered to Primus , turned and pushed his top hat slightly off his forehead, revealing thus a chiselled visage with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. His black hair was severely parted and tucked back behind his ears. He scratched his forehead briefly and returned his hat to its normal resting place. Then he stood on tiptoe and pressed his body questioningly against the clock case. He then peeped through a gap into its innards.

“Yoo-hoo!”

“Bah,” came the grumpy reply from the case.

“Well, hello, Bucklewhee,” said Primus. “I know how we can do this. Hold tight. Things might feel a bit wobbly.”

With these words, he took hold of the clock and started to tilt it. The weights clanged as the clock tipped forwards.

“YOU CALL THAT ‘FEELING A BIT WOBBLY’?!!!” The voice screeched from within. “I’d like to know what you’d say if someone were doing that to your house.”

Primus, who was busily ensuring that the heavy clock didn’t fall over, rolled his eyes. Then he inserted his fingernail into the narrow gap in order to try to pull the little doorway open.

“Just watch out now,” he called. “You need to press with all your might against the door while I …” Primus didn’t get any further. His words stuck in his throat as the doorway suddenly sprang open.

He gasped for breath, threw his head back, and sank to his knees. He almost dropped the clock case out of sheer shock. For just moments later a metal concertina arm whizzed out of the clock case, arching with a screeching noise above his head. At its end was a perch, occupied by a little rooster’s skeleton. Its beak was open in amazement. Cackling, it flapped its bony wings whilst the concertina arm propelled it towards the bedpost. Primus clenched his teeth. He steadied himself against the clock and shoved it with all his might back against the wall. It fell back into place with a cracking and thundering sound, and the garret trembled beneath a cloud of dust.

At the very same moment, the concertina arm also beat a retreat. It retracted itself as quickly as it had emerged, and whizzed back into the clock case. The little bird had no idea what was happening. It suddenly found itself whipped backwards. It could in fact have simply hopped off the stick on which it found itself but, in its agitation, it clung on tightly. It flapped its wings, squawked loudly, and clattered back into its lodgings. Silence fell for a moment.

Then there came a pitiful moaning from the little gap. The hatch had, fortunately, been left open. Primus was leaning against the clock. He was exhausted; his arms hung limply by his sides. He took a deep breath.

Then he raised his head and looked at the clock case. “Oi!” Primus called. “Are you still alive?”

There was a pause, then a gurgle which sounded almost like desperate laughter.

Primus removed his hat, dumped it on one of the bedposts, and flopped down onto the mattress. At least one thing had been proven beyond all doubt: the tower was not uninhabited.

Primus had lived in the tower for as long as he could remember. He spent his time prowling around the rooms, rummaging in all the nooks and crannies, and burying his nose in whatever book he happened to come across. He had completely lost track of how many years he had been doing this for. But the truth was that he didn’t really think about it either. Primus had done his own thing undisturbed since forever. Why would he bother to think about it?

It was difficult to guess how old Primus was. His features seemed remarkably young, even youthful – yet his pale skin and deep-set eyes suggested someone considerably older. Moreover, the first reports about a mysterious dark shadow dated back more than 200 years, which rather suggested he was older than he appeared.