[DE GERMAN WATTYS GRAND PRIZE WINNER & TOP 25 HISTORICAL AWARD 2023] *The perfect first mission for two inexperienced seekers: a small village in the middle of dark forests. Gruesome deaths and mysterious events. Kyle is a self-proclaimed Master of...
West Coast Devonshire, Dartmoor St George October 22, 1898, 5:38 p.m.
Lively, light steps carried the young girl along the avenue, past the Taylors' estate. From the old barn came the calls of cows. The heavy smell of cattle and straw wafted around her nose with the evening breeze. It played with their long, open hair, her curls of beautiful hazel, which so many of the village girls envied. The pretty moss-green dress clung to her more feminine form and matched her green eyes perfectly. The ones she had inherited from her mother and which could perform the perfect innocent eye-blink in front of her father at any time, should it be necessary.
Today she was in a particularly good mood because Adam Hughes had tried to get under her skirt. Adam was the village goat of St George. And rightly so. For he was incredibly handsome, had relatives in London, and was the best match in the village. After her, Marie Mosten of course, after all, she was the mayor's daughter! She had baited him a little, given him an innocent kiss or two like sugared berries, and then made herself scarce again. After all, she wasn't easy, just like Sandra. Her friend would fall head over heels for anyone who came around the corner with a little bundle of wildflowers. A grin appeared on her lips. She hummed softly to herself as she thought of how she would tell Sandra about their little rendezvous. She reached out, even jumping a few meters along the path like a shepherdess, playfully tapping the posts of a wooden fence again and again.
The old fence that flanked her way back to town like a faithful Cavalier was broken and patchy in many places. But it was enough for the sheep and cows not to run away. Across the plain around the village, the mist was already drifting over the peat fields. In summer it took longer, then the grass often stood tall and swayed in the gentle breeze.
At this time, the corn swayed in its golden glow in the Taylors' fields, and they often enjoyed playing amusing games to pass the time between eras. In the country, as here, there was not very much for the youth to do, and she indulged too readily in the mischievous ideas of Anthony and Kian. Of course, she let the boys do the main work. It was far too funny to watch them make a fool of themselves to impress her.
Now in autumn, however, the days were getting noticeably shorter and so was the time for shenanigans. No more gold of the eras stretched towards the sun. Instead, the mist crept out of the forest earlier and earlier and the sun disappeared behind the pointed treetops of the many dark firs. It was getting dark earlier, but today even this could not dampen her spirits. Passing old Mrs. Clarke's apple trees and sharply to the left of the small house with its many vines, she turned into the road that led to the village. The Clarkes' large apple tree lined up between a few smaller descendants. Like all the other trees, those already bore the motley dress of yellow and reddish leaves instead of red fruits.
A soft clicking behind her made the young girl pause. But when she turned around, there was nothing to be seen. Only a small pebble lay conspicuously innocent amidst the path of trampled earth. Blinking, she let her gaze wander again but then decided not to dwell on it and eventually continued on her way.
The narrow road was deserted, as it always was when evening came to St George. Most of the workers had returned from the peat fields around mid-afternoon. With the ground cooling and freezing more and more often, it was getting harder to extract peat, and soon they would not be able to cut any at all for the winter. Then they had to find other ways to get through the winter. Some hunted, and others tried to cut wood. Others made themselves useful by helping with other work and earned some extra money there.
Against the streaks of the evening sky in its colors of blue, orange, and grey of the clouds, the long beam of a road train stood out darkly. Like a dragon, it stretched its long neck toward the sky. Heavy ropes and chains connected the behemoth to the body on massive wooden wheels and a heavy cauldron dangled from its outstretched arm. The old thing had served the village for many years and was no match for the modern cranes from larger cities. Recently, Mc Hoon probably had some things renewed on it. At least that's what her father had told her at dinner, but she hadn't listened any further. Now the long arm slowly swung to the side. Creaking and squeaking, as if it were following the wind that blew cold into her neck.
A shiver ran down her spine and all at once she had the feeling of being ogled. She didn't know where the thought or sensation came from and for a moment she wondered if Adam might have followed her from the granary. But that was not the way of the rather dull fellow. He was not the type for pranks.
Marie let her gaze glide over the alley. It was deserted, no one was to be seen. The brickwork of the house, no more than a skeleton of stone and wood, jutted out a little way behind the half-height construction fence. Marie shook herself slightly. She tried to banish the shiver from her limbs and the unease from her mind. Hastily she took the next steps. Again there was a squeak and Marie felt her heart make a strange leap. It beat faster in her slender chest as if it wanted to keep up with her pace.
She almost missed it because she had peered over her shoulder again. Now, however, it caught her eye as unmistakably as a large, juicy red berry amidst the autumnal sparse bushes. The fabric of her dress rustled as she leaned down. A curl slipped forward over her shoulder as she stretched the delicate finger limbs, which had never had to do a single laborious task, towards the ground. Her mother would have scolded her severely if she had seen that. They shouldn't pick up anything from the ground, she had always said. But the cock's feather, which stood out so conspicuously with its pretty crimson coloring against the ground in front of her, was too pretty not to collect. Her eyes clung to the feather, which was about 5 inches long. Bushy and delicate at the bottom, it fanned out into soft red fluffy feather branches and then tapered upwards. A fine blackish pattern on the feather's keel looked as if it had been sprinkled with charcoal. Surely it was a fancy hat feather that someone had lost.
It was a groaning sound that drew her gaze upwards from the find. Marie did not see what it was that was responsible for the snapping sound as if a bowstring were snapping under too much strain. What she did see, however, was the large cauldron directly above her, which all at once shifted its weight and tilted. She was unable to move. Too slowly. Her body was frozen. Only her little heart was beating so incredibly fast that her world began to spin. Marie's eyes snapped open as the pitch-black liquid cut through the air as if in slow motion. Something hit her, heavy as lead. A shriek broke free from her lips, gurgled, and choked. For a second there was only burning, indescribable pain everywhere. Then everything went black.
When, only moments later, the dressmaker Alison Greywater rushed out of her house to search for the source of this bloodcurdling scream, a picture of horror opened up before her. When Marie Mosten was found, the body lay crushed and doused in boiling pitch under a large metal container. With her skull crushed, limbs broken, burnt under all the pitch, there was hardly anything left of her to even recognize.
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