Markus cups his hands as far around the enormous tankard in front of him as he can manage and lowers his head towards the brim. As the hot steam envelopes his head he sighs happily, and then lifts his gaze slightly and steals a shy glance though the vapours at the large old lady bustling busily at the far end of the kitchen. He could watch her cooking for hours. The way she moves with such purpose always pleases him. Each movement is executed with instinctive precision, leading on to the next with no pause in between. Mixing, kneading, rolling, cutting; no measurements, no scales, just years of continuous practice that has resulted in effortless, perfectly light lebkuchen each and every time. As she works she hums to herself; folk ditties on which she improvised new refrains, and Marcus’ heart lifts as, now and again, he sees her feet kick out instinctively in time; muscle memory of dances long since danced. As she lifts the last biscuit off the work surface and drops it into place on the baking sheet, she steals a glance of her own at the boy sitting in rapt attention at the kitchen table. “It doesn’t matter how hard you stare, they will take the same time to cook, my impatient kinder!” She exclaims, as she slides the tray into the top shelf and closes the oven door. As she catches his eye, Marcus blushes and looks away before responding quietly; “I know Oma, but maybe while I wait I can lick the bowl please?” The old lady clucks and chuckles to herself, she sees right through his shy, angelic smile, and has been expecting the request ever since the moment she placed the mixing bowl to one side and had seen the way his eyes were drawn to it. She tuts theatrically as she picks it up, hesitates for a moment as if weighing up whether to hand it over, and then smiles indulgently and walks over to place it in front of him, fondles his hair affectionately and then walks back and begins to wipe down the surfaces. “So, it’s Oma when you want something then?” She asks with a laugh. Markus doesn’t respond, but just lifts his head out of the bowl and smiles happily; a liberal covering of biscuit batter already visible around his mouth. The lady waves her hand dismissively, and turns away so the boy won’t see her smile at his impudent behaviour. In truth, she delights in hearing him call her Oma, and she is wise enough to know that it is something the boy needs as much as she does.
As she cleans up, Markus makes short work of the suspiciously generous helping of batter that had been left over, and then he pushes it away, lifts his mug of trinkschokolade to his mouth and takes a large satisfied gulp of the sweet, thick liquid. For the next few minutes neither of them speak. Once again he is happy to watch her work, and to wait for the moment that, without any checks or methods of timing, she will reach for the oven glove and slide the tray of perfectly cooked hot cookies from the oven. Finally, after what seems an eternity, he sees her steal a tiny glance over to the oven, and sits up in anticipation as she strides over to the cupboard and brings out a small pile of plates from within. He smiles again as she placed a plate in front of him, and then almost immediately the smile freezes on his face as he sees her first place another down for herself, and then a third in front of the empty chair next to his own. Looking down towards him, the old lady registers the look on his face and shoots him a questioning glance even as she looks over at the plate, and then the colour drains from her face as she realises what she has done. Without a word, she snatches the extra plate up from the table, strides over to the cupboard and thrusts it back on to the pile within with a clattering suddenness that sounds loudly in the sudden strained silence within the kitchen, and then remains standing with her back to the boy, her fists screwed together, knuckles white with the tension that flows through her body. Marcus sits still for a moment longer before he gets slowly to his feet, pushes his chair away behind him and walks softly over to the old lady and places his hand hesitantly on her arm; “Oma” he says softly. At his touch, she reacts as if she has been stung, whirls around towards him, stares into his eyes, and blinks away the tears that well from her eyes, leaving them to fall unbound down her cheeks and drip onto the top of her blouse. “Don’t call me that”, She hisses. For a few seconds more they stand facing each other helplessly, until an acrid smoke drifts out from the oven and seems to break the spell as it reaches the old lady’s nose. She looks away and out of the window for a moment and then shivers and turns back towards him. Bending low she grips his shoulders with both hands and speaks with an urgency he has never heard before. “Markus. All you have been told about Ralf is lies. They think these lies are protecting you, but they are not. I have seen them Markus. They have taken enough from me already, so promise me you will obey my rules.” Markus hesitates for a moment and then replies, but despite his best effort to conceal his fear his voice is shaking now. “Oma, who do you mean? Who are you talking about? Papa doesn’t tell me about Ralf, and the other children.” The old lady grips his shoulder with a vice like strength that causes him to cry out and break off mid-sentence, and then she moves her face closer to his, until their eyes are only a few inches apart and then speaks slowly; “Don’t be a fool, child. I’m talking about Die Gesichtsdiebe. They are real. I have seen them. They took my Ralf and they will take you too. They will not come for me because I am an old lady but for you….” As she sees how scared the boy is her voice trails off, and she takes a deep breath and then climbs to her feet, lets go of his shoulders and begins to push him gently towards the kitchen door. “Markus. It is getting dark now, and the cookies are ruined. Go home… and go the long way around.” As they reach the door Markus looks up at her again as if to speak and then thinks better of it and grabs his coat and mittens from the stand and quickly dons them, buttons them up, and hurries away out of the door and down the path. The old lady watches him disappear into the twilight until she sees him turn left out of the gate and away from the forest and then locks the door behind her, returns to the kitchen and disposes of the burnt lebkuchen. Despite the acrid smoke that fills the kitchen, she leaves the windows closed.
As Markus hears the door close shut behind him, he suddenly feels very alone. Even now, he is still shaking, and his every instinct is to turn around and carry on past the house in the other direction, towards the short route, ten minutes to home at most, that skirts around the outside edge of the Black Forest. But the memory of the fear in the old lady’s voice cuts right through that thought and he keeps on walking. “Die Gesichtsdiebe”; The Face Thieves. It has been at least six months since he has heard the phrase spoken aloud, and even then only by children at school. It has been years since he has heard an adult utter these words. After Ralf, he would only ever hear it whispered in conversations in the classroom: the other children casting furtive glances in his direction, and at the empty chair next to his own. Conversations that stopped as soon as he looked over, to be replaced with looks of guilt and pity. As he walks along the rural dirt road that cuts a long and winding path through the middle of the collection of small farmsteads that make up his large rural neighbourhood, Markus begins to kick a stone along in front of him, and strains to remember the rhyme the children used to sing:
Alone in the woods
You’d better run
For those in hoods
Are sure to come
You’d better race
If the shadows are long
For those with no face
Will soon be along…
As he remembers each verse, his pace continues to pick up, and he begins to cast nervous glances all around him, and at the shadows that are beginning to stretch out towards him; fed by the sun that continues to drop ever lower in the sky. There is a third verse, but try as he might he cannot remember it, and just as the shape of the words waver within reach he sees his house in the distance, slows down to catch his breath and the last cold whispers of fear leave him as he makes out the familiar figure of his father leaning against the gate in front of the house.
As Markus approaches, his father does his utmost to act nonchalant, as if he were not waiting to see his son return safely at all, but was just out in front of the house to enjoy the view. As Markus draws near, his father tips his wide-brimmed hat towards him and calls out merrily: “Ho, Markus! Nice for you to finally join us!” Motioning with his head he indicates towards the house “get inside boy, your Mutter has your dinner on the table”. Markus grins sheepishly in apology and starts past him towards the door. As he gets halfway, his father calls out again. “Markus, where have you been?” Markus turns around, starts to answer, and then hesitates; his father knows already. For a split second his father’s face registers displeasure, or is it concern? And then he walks forward and puts a hand around Markus’ shoulder and walks with him towards the house. “Tell me you at least saved us some of her biscuits?” Marcus grins, and shakes his head, “I didn’t eat any! She burnt them”. His father looks at him askance, but doesn’t comment on this, and instead just gives him a gentle push towards the door. “Hurry in now boy and get your food, and then saddle up Trisky for me, I’m going out on a call soon”. Markus nods in response and skips through the door and out of sight.
For the rest of the week, Markus is kept busy with school and chores. He has little time to think of the old lady’s warnings, but each night they return to him. In his dreams he walks in a pale, ghostly moonlight along the edge of the forest. Following an arc, and kept at bay somehow by an invisible force that forbids him from straying too close to the trees, he circles the tree line until he reaches a path that stretches away into the forest itself. Here he stops. As he peers inwards to the gloom a familiar voice rings out, faintly, from within, calling him closer. “Markus!” “Markus!” It takes him a moment to place both the voice and the source, but finally he realises it is Ralf, and at that moment sees a figure within beckoning him. “Come and play Markus, you still haven’t found me!” A relief surges through him, and Markus takes a few steps up the path. The cry is repeated, but each time Markus walks nearer to the forest the figure fades further away into the gloom. Markus wavers at the forest boundary, fighting against his fear and the invisible force that keeps him from entering. Finally he commands his legs to move, and no sooner has he stepped forwards into the forest itself but he sees the figure clearly in front of him, and beckoning him closer still. The figure is hooded, its face shrouded in shadow, and as he strains to make out its features he calls out softly; “Ralf, I have found you, the game is up now!” There is no response, the figure merely steps forward closer towards him, and a terrible fear grips hold. All of a sudden it feels as if the same force that kept Markus from entering is now preventing him from leaving, and he watches in mute terror as the figure raises its hands towards his hood and begins to draw it back. The last thing he hears before he wakes is a voice screaming far behind him, the old lady’s, shouting “run!” At the top of her voice, before the hood is wrenched back and he wakes, shaking, in a cold sweat.
That Saturday, for the first time in months, Markus stays away from Ralf’s Oma. His father hasn’t forbidden him from visiting, but his mother has provided him with enough chores to ensure he is too busy to go. After lunchtime he takes his basket and heads out to the far meadow to look for mushrooms. It’s the end of the season and the pickings are slim; after an hour he has only a small handful of ceps covering the bottom of his basket. He knows only too well where he will find more, and eventually, reluctantly, he forces himself to walk towards the patches of trees that dot the end of the meadow; less than a stones throw from the dark forest. As he stalks along the edge of the copse, his senses are on high alert, his skin bristling at each and every noise that he hears. Whenever he glances towards the forest he fancies that each shadow contains the dark figure from his dreams, and then, out of nowhere, a story returns to him, long forgotten, from years ago. A story he heard at school; concerning a Romany group who came to the area and stayed in these very fields to help out with the fruit harvest. He remembers the wicked delight on the face of the older boys as they told him and Ralf the story. Told of how one child had strayed ever deeper into the forest in search of fruit, of how he became lost, of how he was found by Them, and of how his body was found, laid out in a clearing in the forest; no marks anywhere on his body apart from his face, which had been stripped away, neatly, clinically, clear down to the bone. What scared Markus the most was not the story itself, which he had claimed at the time not to believe at all, but rather the reaction of one of the older boys at the edge of the group. That boy hadn’t said a word, but had just sat and listened, white as a sheet, fists clenched tight, and staring away into the distance as if lost in remembrance. Markus found out later that the boy was the son of the fruit farmer who had supposedly employed the Romany.
Deep in thought, Markus continues on down to the edge of the meadow. Occasionally he stoops to collect a mushroom from the ground and add it to his basket. After a spell he comes to and realises with a start where he is. He recognises the broken gate, the tumbledown wall, and the distinctive oak tree beyond. And can remember clearly the feel of the tree’s rough bark on his forearms as he had leant against it all those years before; counting slowly down from one hundred as Ralf ran to hide in the woods behind him. He remembers searching all around, the frustration he felt as he realised Ralf had bested him, and the enveloping panic that had sprouted from this frustration after first one hour had passed, and then two, without Ralf emerging from his hiding place. He remembers the look on his fathers face as he realised the boy was lost. He remembers the search; fifty men spread out in a line, each careful not to stray out of sight from the next. And, he remembers, other things that made no sense to him. He can remember wondering why the men were armed so, and wondering why they called the search of when they did, at the first sign of night drawing in. He remembers imploring his father to go back out again, to search all night, as they had when the village’s prize bull had been lost on the hills, and his father’s curt reply that this was different. He remembers that his father had never explained why. Mostly now he remembers the men returning home, ashen face, after the search had resumed the next day. Ralf’s father staggering forward unspeaking, unseeing, a bundle in his arms, covered with a linen cloth. Ralf’s shoe swinging free of the bundle. His tears. His anger, and then his father pulling him away without a word of what had happened to his friend. Not then, not ever.
Markus is so lost in thought that he does not notice at first the darkening of the sky, and the first fat raindrops that catch his bare arms and legs. Only the ominous peal of thunder that claps loudly overhead brings him back suddenly to his senses, and a moment later he is running at full pace back to the house as a terrific downfall soaks him quickly to the skin. As he approaches the wall at the edge of his property he sees two figures through the rain: his father and another man, standing in urgent conversation at the gate. Closer still, he recognises the other figure: Ralf’s father. As the two men see Markus approach, Ralf’s father nods at him, and then grips his father’s arm, speaks a last few urgent words and then turns, runs towards his horse which is tethered a short distance beyond, and is riding away before Markus has even reached the gate. The look of concern on his father’s face is enough; Markus reads his face like a book, he knows what has happened before his father says a word. Ralf’s Oma has had a fall. It is touch and go. His father does not need to tell Markus what to do. In the time it takes his father to fetch his medical bag and don his waterproof cloak, Markus has already grabbed the tackle and is heading out towards the barn to ready the horse. But the storm continues to worsen, and no amount of pleading and cajoling will convince Trisky to go out in it. Each time he raises the bridle up to her head, she lifts her nose high and away out of his reach. In desperation he begs her, attempts to bribe her with apples and promises of all the sugar she can eat, but she is terrified, and it is all he can do to avoid injury as she stamps her feet in fear at each fresh round of thunder from outside. After five minutes his father appears at the stable door, takes one look at the horse and shakes his head. “Leave her be Markus, I must go now”. His father strides back to the house; Markus close behind him, and grabs his stick from by the front door. As he turns to leave he places a reassuring hand on Markus’ shoulder, looks into his eyes, then turns, steps out into the storm and draws his hood over his head as he strides down the path and is lost in the rain. Markus watches him go until he can no longer make out his figure, and then turns to head back inside. In his distracted, worried state, he almost doesn’t notice the single item out of place inside, and then his heart is gripped by a panic, as he realises his father’s medical bag is still sitting, forgotten, by the door. For a moment he hesitates, and then he grabs hold of the leather handle and plunges out the house and down the path in pursuit.
Markus reaches the end of the path and pauses. For a moment he looks left and right, and squints into the rain, unsure which direction to go, and then a bolt of lighting briefly illuminates the road ahead and he sees his father away in the distance. “Father!” He shouts, at the top of his lungs, but his voice is lost amidst the swirling storm, and he is forced to set off in pursuit. His lungs soon hurt as he pounds down the middle of the track, his panicked breathe caught in his throat. As he reaches the spot in which he had seen his father, he looks on, confused that he can no longer see him. Just as he is about to push on through the rain as he looks to his right, just in time to see his father’s hooded figure disappear away up the path and into the forest. Markus pauses in horror, takes a few stuttering steps towards the trees and then stops; the same invisible force he has felt in his dreams seemingly preventing him from going any further, but then the thought of his father getting further and further away from him in the woods spurs him on and he sets off after him once again.
As soon as he passes the forests edge the temperature seems to plummet, and for the first time he is aware of his bare skin and begins to shiver with the cold. After the first bend, he expects to see his father just in front of him, but the path ahead is empty. As his pace begins to slow, he becomes aware of just how loud his footsteps sound in the oppressive silence of the forest, and he slows to a fast walk, his eyes darting from side to side as he goes. Around another bend, and he exhales with relief as he finally makes out his father up ahead, and picks up his pace again, moving into a jog. Still his footsteps ring out loudly, and he is amazed now that his father hasn’t heard him. He calls out again: “father!” But still he doesn’t slow up. It is not until Markus draws within fifty yards that he realises something is wrong; his father is not carrying his stick. He was sure he had seen him leave the house with it, how could he have lost it so soon? Markus’ pace has slowed again now, and as he continues to appraise the figure ahead a cold sweat grips him, as he realises how strangely his father is walking. Not with his characteristic long stride, but rather with a strange, stalking gait that causes the bottom of his cloak to rise up and down with each step. Markus stops still, and holds his breath. His eyes follow the hem of the cloak as it lifts up and now at last he sees the pair of thin, spindly legs atop caprine hooves concealed beneath, and feels a pronounced shiver run through him as the figure also stops and begins to turn toward him. It faces him now, and whatever is hidden in the darkness beneath the hood tilts its head slowly as it appraises him. For a long moment they face each other, Markus stuck fast to the spot with fear, and then he is away, his legs transporting him away at breakneck pace back down the path and away. Every few paces he looks back and is gripped anew by a terrible fear as he sees the hooded figure, seemingly still standing in place, staring straight at him. As fast as he runs, he finds he can never make any ground on the creature, as each time it seems it is the same distance away, seemingly without ever running itself. Desperately he flees, dodging roots and slipping and sliding on the wet leaves plastered across the forest track. Finally, after what seems an eternity, he sees the light of the end of the path ahead of him, and no sooner has he seen this than he looks back and realises that the hooded figure is nowhere to be seen. His heart jumps, but it is in this moment of euphoria that he makes his mistake. So focused is he now on escaping the forest that he forgets, just for a moment, to watch the ground, and a moment later he feels something catch under his foot and send him tumbling forward in slow motion, he sees the forest floor rushing up towards him, feels his head strike against something hard and then his world cuts to black.
As Markus comes to, he is filled with a fog of confusion. He opens his eyes a crack and grimaces at the bright light that floods in. With one hand he reaches up and gingerly presses at the painful, sticky matted spot at the top of his head and winces at the sharp pain he finds there. Opening his eyes further, he finds himself in a clearing in the forest. At first he sees only trees, and then, looking forward, he sees the hooded figure standing six feet away from him; its shadowy face still concealed from view. He cries out in fear and struggles to a seated position. Desperately, he begins to drag himself away; his hands struggling for purchase in the mud. As he moves further away, the figure stays where it is. As Markus backtracks, he glances to the left and sees another figure identical to the first, head tilted in his direction. Markus stops where he is. With a sixth sense, he knows now, without turning, that there is another behind him. As panicked tears begin to roll down his cheeks he forces himself to turn around and look up at the figure closest to him. He sees its long, bony, clawed hands appear from the sleeves of its cloak and raise up towards its head, and before it even pulls back its hood he knows what he will see; his friend’s face, stretched tightly and stitched neatly onto a bony frame and distorted almost beyond recognition; with two inhuman black eyes staring back emotionlessly at him from within. “Ralf” he croaks, almost inaudibly, and a choking sob rises up within him. Out of the corner of his eye he now sees the second figure draw back its cowl, and as he turns he makes out through his tears the defiled features of the Romany child, misshapen and contorted. As he watches, he sees these two figures look away and towards the third, still hooded, figure. He sees their skin-masks lengthen unnaturally as something close to a twisted smile appears on each of their horrific faces, and sees their hands come together as each begins to rhythmically click their claws in time. As Markus draws back to the third figure, his breath is held in his throat, and he watches, paralysed, as it starts to walk towards him. As it gets to within touching distance, Markus whimpers and draws himself together into a ball. As hard as he tries though he cannot bring himself to close his eyes, and so he sees as it draw back its own hood. He sees the featureless expanse of bone that lies beneath. He sees as it unfurls an especially long, razor-sharp claw from one hand and holds it up in the air with a flourish. And, as the clicking of the other creature’s claws reach a fever pitch, then abruptly stop, and the black claw slashes down toward the edge of his face, he finally remembers, with an abstract clarity, the third verse of the rhyme.
Alone in the woods
You’d better run
For those in hoods
Are sure to come
You’d better race
If the shadows are long
For those with no face
Will soon be along
On the night of the storm
Stay away from the trees
For those with no form
Will take whom they please
[bctt tweet=”OCTOBER TERROR 2018 Short Story Award – Entry #47 ‘Die Gesichtsdiebe’ by Thom Lanchbery – Enjoy all this terrific, disturbing material you have in your hands, lots of horror stories at your disposal for your dark delight and vote!” username=”theboldmom”]
On October 23rd we’ll close submissions and open a poll for the readers to choose their favourite one! You’ll have a week to make your choice and on October 31st we’ll announce the winner!!!
