Chapter One: The Snow in Steinbruck
(From the journal of Father Benedikt Jurić)
The winter clung to the village of Steinbruck. Snow lay in thick blankets over the steep rooftops, pressing against shutters like a silencer's hand. The stone bell tower of St. Nikolaus Church pierced the leaden sky, its frozen spire catching the last light of a dying sun. Smoke curled from scattered chimneys below, lazy and relaxed, as if reluctant to rise above the treeline that loomed like jagged sentinels. Few dared to speak too loudly during this season, fewer still strayed into the forest. The wind carried more than frost; it carried voices mocking whispers that spoke with familiar tones, drawing men into darkness. In the stillness stood Father Benedikt Jurić. Cloaked in black and grey, he seemed to merge with the monastery walls as he gazed over the valley from the arched window of the bell tower. The wind tugged at the edges of his cassock, but he remained unmoving. He had seen many winters but none quite like this. Steinbruck was not empty. Not yet. But something had shifted. People spoke in whispers, crossed themselves more frequently, avoided their own reflections in water. The Jäger boy Severus had not been seen in over a week, though his traps still sprung in the woods. Old Faenlin was shouting again, calling names that hadn't been heard since before the duchy had sent soldiers to the borders. And yesterday, little Hans Götzinger swore he saw his dead grandmother tapping on the frost covered window. The truth, however, was more cunning. Father Benedikt knew. Because he had heard it too, a voice like his mother's.
Father Benedikt's Journal:
"God help me, I have seen the veil thin. The people of Steinbruck speak often of wolves in the mountains and pagan remnants in the woods, but they do not see. They do not know. Not as I do.
It began seven days past, as the last light of service extinguished itself behind the alpenglow. I was in the sanctuary, preparing the oil for Chrism, when I heard my name whispered, urgent, from the old confessional booth.
"Benedikt."
My blood turned to ice, not because of the voice itself, but because it was my father's voice. The man who bled out in our family chapel with his eyes open to the vaulted ceiling, forever staring.
I did not answer. I did not dare.
The silence that followed stretched so long I began to doubt what I heard. But when I opened the booth, the inside was wet with snowmelt, though the door had remained locked and sealed since All Saints' Day.
And then came the second voice gentler.
Mother.
I would burn the church to ash before I wrote down the things that voice said.
This valley has a memory. The trees remember blood. The wind knows the names of the dead. Something ancient stirs again, something older than the Church, older than the Duchy, older than even the Wurzelthron cult whose dark banners we burned in 1163.
I see it in the eyes of my flock.
Gundemar, the blacksmith's son, spat blood on the church floor three nights ago and laughed about it. He says he dreams of a white stag with seven legs and a mouth full of fire. He drank three bottles of mead and tried to hang himself from the bell rope. We cut him down, but he's different now. He stares too long at the mountains.
Young Brunhalt came to me for confession, his hands still stained with soil. He dug a hole, he said dug it for a bird, but kept digging. His voice trembled when he told me: "The earth whispered back. It said my name, Father. Over and over. It said it knew my mother."
God grant me wisdom there is more.
Ulrich Siegenthaler walked into the church this morning and dropped a fox's head on the altar. Said nothing. Left. His sister Hildegard came shortly after, begging for prayers. She fears her brother wanders the woods at night speaking to "our mother," though she's long dead. She did not know I saw the same dirt under Ulrich's nails that I saw on the grave behind the chapel, a grave disturbed.
What lives in these woods wears the voices of those we loved. It mimics them perfectly. I once read of such a creature in a text forbidden to even the Bishop "Nachzehrer," the soul-chewers. But this is worse. This is no revenant, it is a mockery. A parasite of memory.
I write these words not for comfort, but for record. If I disappear, let it be known that I did not go willingly. My heart, heavy though it may be, is not suicidal.
Not again.
And if you hear my voice, do not follow it.
It is not me."