Curse o' The Beast

Curse o’ The Beast

BY HB HARRISON

The hamlet known as Ewigstadt was not pretty. It was not pretty below the sun and shine, and it was not pretty beneath the stormy clouds. Nestled unceremoniously in the German countryside, few knew of the town. When Father Leopold Hoffman, a Münchner, received a letter to visit this fishing village, he had to deliberate with his colleagues as to its whereabouts. That is how unknown it was. One Mr. Strauss wrote this letter, asking for the priest’s assistance. It seemed intentionally vague to him, though. The letter did not ask for any sort of particular help, instead choosing to remain broad. Hoffman leaned back in the chair that sat in his study, unfolding the letter to read it again:

“Dear Father Leopold Hoffman, 

I am writing to you in need of great help from a man of faith, such as yourself. Our small little town has come under a horrible plague - a curse! A madness! Oh, Please Father, we must ask for your assistance. Our lovely village does not deserve a cruel happening to her. The name is Ewigstadt.

Please, you must hurry.

 Mr. Strauss.”

🕇🕇🕇

Father Hoffman and his protege, the young Father Thomas, arrived at the burg on the dusty morning of a late Autumn. Father Thomas kept the demeanor of someone easygoing and calm - but one does not enter the priesthood without being afraid of… Something.

 Ewigstadt was indeed nestled into the mountainside, following the rocks as they rose, houses partially made of stone. Father Hoffman looked around the scenery. The ground was damp and mucky, the wooden buildings seemed only seconds away from collapsing into the swampy terrain. The looming mountain above shrouded the pair in shadow. They were greeted by an elderly man, dressed finely in a dark woolen suit and wide-brimmed hat, accompanied by a walking stick. Fine wood leading up to a silver grip. “Good morning to you, Fathers,” said he, his voice wispy. The man was old - not a visible hair on his head that was not grey. His wrinkle-covered visage and eyes squinted behind eyeglasses. Father Thomas gave a curt, polite nod in reply, draped in a dark overcoat to combat the cold air. 

The two men - Hoffman and the elder - exchanged greetings and indeed, the old man was Mr. Strauss who had written to Father Hoffman personally.

Thomas glanced around the gloomy scene, his eyes taking focus on the grey skies - the dark clouds swirling behind the mountain, peeking into view. “Looks to be a storm, sir,” he remarked aloud.

Strauss nodded, facing the younger priest. “Aye, these days we get a lot of ‘em.”

Hoffman cleared his throat, folding his hands. “Mr. Strauss, may we speak of the issue you wrote to me about?”

Strauss ushered the two further into the fishing hamlet, down a winding trail. The Fathers could see children running around, playing, seemingly unaware of the ‘plague’ that befell the burg. A gaggle of elderly women sat on a porch, their judging eyes following the two outsiders.

“Friendly town,” muttered Thomas, to a smack on his arm by Hoffman. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Strauss,” began Hoffman, “do you have a religious order in this town?”

Strauss continued to walk, though he shot a glance behind at the question. “Nay, we do not.”

“You do not?”

“Nay, we do not.”
Hoffman nodded. “I understand. That must be why you called for us in Munich?”

“That is a half-truth, Father,” Strauss said. “There are various religious orders in neighboring towns.”

Hoffman glanced to his right at the stoic Thomas. “I see.” That did not answer his question.

Strauss stopped outside of a tall wooden shack, retrieving a large ring of keys from his wool jacket. He adjusted the brim of his hat, “however, as of late, some of our people have grown to be more… religiously inclined.”

The old man did not elaborate on that. Hoffman hummed, folding his hands behind his back. Strauss unlocked the door, leading the two inside a large room. Inside the room was a small table in the center, with exactly three chairs surrounding it. An oil-painted composition was framed and hung on the back wall - it seemed to depict some sort of battle, but Hoffman wasn’t familiar with it. The three sat at a roundtable, removing their jackets - and Strauss his hat.

“A drink, Fathers?” Asked Strauss, despite already beginning to pour glasses for his guests, “I always forget, can priests drink?”

“Indeed we can,” Hoffman replied with a warm smile, taking a glass and gingerly sipping from it.

Thomas followed, though he did not speak nor smile as he drank. It was one of the worst drinks he had ever tasted, it attacked his gums with a sourness, though he, remarkably, did not show this on his young face.  

“You two must have had a long trip on the way, no? A drink will go a long way before we begin to discuss business.” Strauss sat across from the two, resting his cane on the table.

“I believe we should discuss it now,” Spoke Thomas.

“Now, now, Father,” Hoffman cleared his throat, “let’s not be too hasty. We should allow for Mr. Strauss to divulge when he is ready.”

Thomas nodded stiffly, seemingly he had wanted to remonstrate, however he held his tongue. Instead, he took another sip from the orange poison.

“Tell me of Ewigstadt, sir,” said Hoffman, leaning back casually in his chair.

Strauss smiled and did the same with his form. “Ewigstadt is a lovely little hamlet. It was founded many years ago by a fisherman named Johannes Ewig, and it has grown into a community of care and family. We thrive on the lakes and rivers that decorate the surrounding land, providing us with fish and water.”

Thomas heard but did not listen to this drivel. He found Strauss to be an unnerving man, one he did not trust for reasons he could not exactly formulate even within his own mind. He felt that the old man was specious and furtive. 

Hoffman, on the other hand, took in Strauss’ tale with no doubts. “A wonderful story, Mr. Strauss.”
Strauss chuckled, waving his hand dismissively, “Oh, please. Now, Father, tell me of yourself.”

Hoffman hummed, glancing again at Thomas. “My name is Leopold Hoffman, I’m a priest, and this is my protege Hans Thomas. He is serving as an adjutant for this mission,” he stopped, but was encouraged by Strauss to continue, so he did, “I was born in 1834, and I decided to pursue priesthood at age fifteen. I studied in Munich, where I was born. I’ve lived a rather placid life, Mr. Strauss, I will admit.”

“Nonsense,” Strauss sighed, “no life lived is a placid one.”

Hoffman gave a polite smile, “I disagree, but I see no cause to argue.”

“Allow me to rephrase, then: A placid life is a good life.”

“I can agree to that.”

Strauss finished his drink with a large swig, slamming it down on the table with a rather unpleasant groan, “I apologise to have kept you waiting, Fathers,” he said, “I shall now inform you of your being here.”

Thomas now leaned forward, eager to hear of their purpose in Ewigstadt. Hoffman too, though not with as much lively vigor, removed himself from his casual position. Strauss picked his cane up, holding it in his withered hand. 

“Fathers, the recent events surrounding this town have become so very disturbing. So much so that it pains me to recount them aloud, nor even to think of them in my mind,” he said, bringing his unused hand to rub the perspiration on his forehead, the cane thudded against the wood every few words.

The priests glanced at one another.

“Mr. Strauss, what has happened?” Hoffman asked hesitantly. 

Mr. Strauss glanced up at the young man, his beady eyes dark. A tremoring hand removed his eyeglasses, placing them on the wooden table. “Bloodshed.”

“Bloodshed?”

“Aye. Bloodshed.”

“Of what sort?”

Strauss seemed to compose himself. “Womenfolk - found in the village, slaughtered, killed, ravaged!”

Thomas swallowed thickly, and though he had not drunk much, his stomach swirled and churned. “Ravaged?”

Hoffman bore a hole into the roundtable, his hand coming up to absently rub at his face. “I- I see.”

“Nay, you don’t see, not yet. Not until you’ve looked at ‘em.” Cried Strauss.

The two priests glanced again at one another. Hoffman could see the expression on Thomas’s wan face - all vigor had been ripped away, his cheeks appearing gaunt, and his eyes staring off somewhere far away. The elder priest then looked over at Strauss. “Show me.”

🕇🕇🕇

The storm raged hard. Rain poured down on the village, rotting wood, and washing mud. The wind attacked each of the men’s efforts to protect themselves - hats were blown off, and hoods were ripped down. Now Hoffman stood in front of the trio, standing outside a crooked barn on the outskirts of the burg. The doorway to the side of the barn was narrow, almost trapping. He approached the door, reaching out to grasp the handle. He looked back at the unnerved men, then thrust it open with held breath. There they were, his fears manifested. Two women lay in the haystacks, their bodies strewn about unnaturally, their visages frozen in horror as though forced to gaze at their killers for eternity. Hoffman gritted his teeth, his brows furrowing as he felt inclined to continue looking. The doleful sight caused his stomach to bubble, his throat tightening with an acute lump. “Who are these women?”

“They’re simple maidens from the town Father. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do their families know of this?”

“Of course Father.”

Hoffman swallowed but the lump did not dissipate. “Father Thomas, please assist me.” The young priest entered the barn, avoiding the sight as carefully as he could.

“Yes Father, what do you need?” He asked, lacking the alacrity he held earlier. 

Hoffman couldn’t answer yet. He worked up the courage to advance upon the corpses, kneeling next to them. The rain beat down on the wooden roof above, drumming an ambience that mirrored his beating heart. The women's gowns were stained in dark, inky blood forming around their middles. They indeed were young, and Hoffman found himself not wanting to investigate further, but he pushed on. The first woman, who was blonde, was lying on top of the other, who had dark hair. Hoffman slowly, and gently, as if not to disturb her corpse, grasped the gown of the blonde woman and lifted it, to discover horrid, jagged, and primal slash marks across her stomach. He slammed his eyes shut, muttering a prayer beneath his breath.

Thomas darted over, his eyes wide despite not having seen what the Father had.”What? What has happened?”

Hoffman did not reply, he instead revealed the wound to his protege, who gasped and covered his mouth, unable to speak at the sight of the disgusting laceration. 

“She was not simply slain - she was destroyed,” Hoffman uttered. Strauss cried out from the doorway, clutching at his chest, his spindly fingers gripping the fabric of his coat.

Hoffman moved the blonde woman, to examine the corpse of the second victim, where her body had met the same wounds as the other. In his fifty-two years belonging to life -  and the thirty or so belonging to the priesthood - he had never seen such a grotesque, horrific display of depravity and wretchedness. “We must dispose of these bodies honorably,” Hoffman said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. 

Strauss spoke up, “Fathers, it is almost past curfew. We must go.”

“What? Past curfew? Are you mad?” Thomas scoffed, facing the older man. “We cannot simply abandon these women because of a… Curfew!”

“I must agree with the young man,” said Hoffman, standing to his full height, “these women deserve a proper burial.”

The elderly man took on a sour expression beneath his hat. “Very well, but do not say I haven’t warned you.”

Despite the ominous words, the two priests carried the bodies out to a wagon, covering them with a tarp to protect them from ignominy. Mr. Strauss had briefly left but now returned with two well-built men, who wheeled the wagon off into the hamlet, and out of view.

“Now, Fathers, I must insist that we go to your lodgings,” Strauss said, glancing at a pocket watch. The priests agreed and followed their guide to the small inn they would be staying at.

It was surprisingly cozy inside. Well-furnished and warmly lit by tall candles. Hoffman changed into his bedwear, but he could not stop himself from thinking of the two women. Their mangled and disfigured corpses - what sort of man could do a horrible thing? Perhaps it wasn’t as far-fetched as he had thought, not for these country folk… He caught himself. What a horrible thing to think, even for a moment. 

He sat on the stiff bed in the corner of his room. The letter he had received was placed on the small bedside table, and he looked at it. Mr. Strauss had sounded so distressed in his writing - and yet now he did not seem to be so thrown off. He had returned to that same anguish when discussing the deaths while they drank, but he seemed regular until witnessing the sight again, crying out and clutching at himself. This perplexed Hoffman. He did not understand how Strauss could jump so often and without effort between calm and panicked. Ah! Even after his grief at the sight of the corpses, he had returned to that calmness whilst discussing the curfew. His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. 

Hoffman stood from the bed and opened the door to reveal an unsettled Thomas on the other side. “Father,” he began but could not finish.

Hoffman invited him in wordlessly. What a terrible first mission for the young man. “What’s on your mind, Thomas?”

Thomas’ once young face had suddenly aged a dozen years, his eyes had gone cold, and his features permanently sketched into worry and anxiety. “What we saw out there tonight was-”

“Unholy,” Hoffman finished. He sat and invited his protege to do the same. “It was a horrific sight, I’m aware Thomas.”

Thomas sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What- What does he want us to do? I mean does he want us to stop this? How? How do we stop this - whatever this is?”

Hoffman rubbed at his chin, his creased eyes trained on Thomas. “I’m not sure what this is, Thomas. However, my faith in the Lord remains strong. And I’m certain he will prevail, even in the face of this evil.”

Thomas was silent for a moment, before speaking, “Sir, I noticed something strange about the two women in the barn.”

The older man raised a brow, “how so?”

“Well, I noticed they were both wearing a sort of … crucifix.”

“A crucifix?”

“Yes sir, a crucifix. Isn’t it strange? Mr. Strauss said they had no religious orders in the town.”

“That means little, Thomas. He mentioned that some citizens had become religious. Who’s to say these girls weren’t a part of those few?” Hoffman retorted.

Thomas nodded in reply. “I suppose you’re correct. I’m just a little shaken.”

“Between you and I, Thomas,” Hoffman began, “I don’t exactly trust Mr. Strauss.”

Thomas’ eyes lit up. “Me neither, sir.”

“He does not seem to be disclosing the whole truth to us,” Hoffman said. His eyes fell towards the window, where the storm had failed to abate. “We should get some rest. I will keep your observation in the forefront of my mind.”

Thomas left the room, and Hoffman attended to his evening affairs. He thought of the crucifix that Thomas had seen; though he had not seen it himself. If it were true, what would it mean? The two victims were religious. But what significance does this have? Strauss lied about a religious order? Not necessarily - and even if he had, what did that mean? And why did Strauss call for two city-dwelling priests specifically if neighboring towns had religious bodies? But the most important question fell on Hoffman lastly. What sort of creature could do such a thing to a person?

🕇🕇🕇

The next night, Strauss had gathered Hoffman and Thomas with the news of another incident. He was careful not to say murder, Hoffman noted. Townfolk decorated the streets, their faces in horror and grief as they lamented the loss of another villager. The old man led the priests up the hillside to a large, decrepit hall house. The storm had not relaxed, striking down at the world below as if furious. 

“She’s in there,” Strauss choked out, his long finger trembling in its point. The two priests slowly but surely approached the house, its shoddy build looming over them as it sagged into the muddy ground. The door did not budge, so Thomas threw his shoulder into it, knocking it from its hinges. The wail of a female could be heard inside the foyer - a horrid, inhuman cry. Hoffman retrieved a small crucifix from his coat.

“Thomas, get your Bible,” he ordered, a serious expression settling on his old face.

Thomas nodded, gripping the book close to his chest. His eyes darted around the interior, at the creaky, rotten wood, and the disgusting, swampy mass building up on the floor. Their footsteps sloshed as they moved around the house, the smell of fish forcing its way into their nostrils. They made their way up the damaged stairs, the rain burning holes into the ceiling, and allowing for a contrasting-ly beautiful view of the night sky, moonlight shining down through the opening. As the pair approached the source of the crying, Hoffman’s mind raced. What would he witness? An act of the Devil? A depraved murderer? 

Thomas however did not doubt that he would see something truly horrific upon opening the other side of the door. He felt nauseous, his stomach churning and bubbling, even as he clutched the comforting leather Bible in his arms.

Hoffman placed his hand on the doorknob belonging to the door of which behind it he could hear the screaming and groaning of a woman in serious pain. He shoved the door open with a gasp, as his eyes settled on the sights in front of him. A young woman - dressed in a nun’s habit - lay on the damp floor, convulsing and wailing, her milky white eyes leaking mushy swamp water.

“Madam!” Hoffman cried, diving to her side, “What is wrong with you?”

“She has been bitten,” Strauss said, appearing behind Thomas. The young priest spun around and backed into the small room. 

“Bitten? By who?” 

“By the werewolf.” 

Hoffman turned, an expression of disbelief on his face, “What?”

Strauss scoffed, “The werewolf has bitten her, and soon she will turn into one.”

Thomas exchanged glances with Hoffman, “You’re mistaken, sir. There is no such thing as a werewolf.”

Strauss chuckled, “You believe in demons but not werewolves?”

Hoffman held the woman in his arms, but his eyes did not leave Strauss. “Explain yourself at once, Mr. Strauss.”

The old man stepped forward, the moonlight shining through the hole in the ceiling onto his face. “The werewolf has been terrorising our village for years, Father Hoffman. We did not know what it wanted. But, a young nun on a trip from a neighboring village took a rest here and was attacked. She died, unlike this young lady before us. But the werewolf ceased its attacks for a while, longer than ever before. We can only assume, of course, that it is satiated by religious blood. That is why I have called for you, Fathers. You are bait of the highest degree.”

The fatally wounded woman croaked, her body jerking like a fish on a hook. 

Hoffman released her from his grip, standing up. “This is sickening, Mr. Strauss.”

Thomas was silent.

In an instant, the sound of a howl erupted nearby, to Strauss’ delight. “Oh, yes! It is coming!”

The house shook as though a large force had just clambered in. The howling was unbearably loud - the smell of meat and iron filled the home, overpowering even the fishy murk from earlier. Strauss rejoiced, the plan to free his town from the curse of this werewolf falling into place. Hoffman lifted the crucifix, pointing it at the doorway in a desperate effort. The house continued to shake as the rustling of long, unnatural limbs could be heard shuffling around downstairs. Thomas was frozen in fear, he could not believe this was happening.

The stairs rumbled as the large being emerged from the top of the way. It was grotesque and spindly. It moved like a spider whose limbs were too long for itself. It moved slower now, towards the doorway. Drool slobbered from its mouth, its body heaving with each large, hungry breath. In a sudden movement, it struck! The beast had flung itself towards Strauss, piercing his torso with its sharp, twisting claws.

Strauss cried out, dropping his cane and being lifted off the ground. “You… Fool!” He gasped, as the creature clawed at his chest. Thomas dove for the cane on the floor, and in one slick movement, he pulled the silver handle from the wooden cane, revealing a sharpened edge, which he drove through the side of the beast. A sickening howl erupted from the creature as it was stabbed. It fell to the ground, and Thomas pulled the silver from its body, preparing to pierce it again when-

“Stop!” Hoffman ordered. Thomas paused, turning to his mentor. “It’s already dying Thomas, you needn’t attack it more.”

The beast was indeed dying, the silvery blade had proved fatal. Strauss too, lay dead next to the beast. The nun stopped convulsing, her body growing still, and her eyes ceased its gross leaking. Hoffman assumed she had passed peacefully with the death of the werewolf. 

Author's Note

feel free to critique everything, dialogue, pacing, prose, diction, syntax, etc. I wanted to write in the style of 19th-century gothic horror, though, so maybe keep that in mind.