“Are all of these books written by Uncle Tomaz?”
“Yes. He was quite famous in his own way. Crazy stories of ghosts and mysteries.”
Jemima took the Deutsch Spukhäuser book to look at the cover. There was a dark mansion with a ghostly skull hovering over it. “Are they history or stories?”
Grandma made a little chuckle. “A little of both. That was his best-selling book. Can you read the title?”
“German, something, house. Is it spooky house?”
“Haunted Houses,” Grandmother helped. “Spukhäus means ghost house, haunted house. Uncle Tomaz researched the history of these old buildings and then wrote about them in a way that was entertaining. They even made a television programme from this book.”
Jemima put the book back on the shelf and continued scanning her eyes over the library. What she was looking for wasn’t here. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew she would feel it when she saw it. “Does Uncle Tomaz have more books or is this everything?”
“I think it’s everything. Why?”
Jemima shrugged. “It’s nice to see all of them together.” She headed for the stairs. Perhaps there were more books upstairs. “I’m going to get changed,” she said.
She made it to the top of the stairs and looked in the guest room. There were no books in this room. She came back out and walked the corridor. The farmhouse was long and there were eight bedrooms coming off the main landing. It was as big as a hotel. Most of the doors were open. She looked into the first room which was a woman’s bedroom. There were no books. She looked in the second…
“Aussteigen!” Uncle Tomaz shouted. He was sitting in a chair staring at the door. Jemima froze in fright as the old man leapt from his chair and ran at her. He grabbed the door and slammed it shut but not before Jemima saw a row of large old books on the bottom shelf of a bookcase.
These were the books. She knew it in a heartbeat. Old. Bound in leather. For some reason, just laying eyes on them gave her the same excitement as she’d felt with the stickman in the forest. She would have to come back when the old man was out. She had to.
----- X -----
Jemima took a fresh dress from her case and laid it out on the bed. She was wilfully trying to bring back the memory of the disrobing woman. Her guest room had a thin mirror in the wardrobe door and there was a chair for dressing. She positioned the chair to recreate the scene in the mystery room and tried to imagine the handsome man sitting on it, watching her.
She unzipped the dress and pushed it off her shoulders to let it fall.
She wore a pink cotton vest underneath which spoiled the erotic reveal and she lamented as she pulled it over her head to toss aside. She would put the dress on and disrobe again.
She had something...
She was wearing a necklace. A delicate gold chain was around her neck that ended in a pendant encrusted with a large red gemstone. “What is this?” she asked to herself. She stepped naked to the mirror and looked at the pendant in the reflection. It had a tiny latch to the side. She opened it and turned the jewellery towards the mirror to reveal its secret.
Photographs.
A man and a woman on either side of the clamshell.
The locket was no large than two centimetres, but it contained two tiny black and white photos. One was of the handsome man, the other was of a smiling woman. Neither looked to the camera, rather they stared wistfully to one side, the pendant arranging them so they looked towards one another.
The man and the woman were in love.
There wasn’t a moment’s doubt in Jemima’s mind. This couple were in love until the end of time and nothing would ever separate them.
“You gave me this locket?” she whispered to the spirit of the handsome man. “You must be real… because you gave this to me.”
She put her dress on and positioned the room. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the man seated in the chair then slipped the dress from her shoulders to step from it naked. She touched the necklace, feeling it against the skin between her tiny breasts then lowered to the floor to crawl on hands and knees to the chair.
It was almost there. The sensation was exquisite. The woman in the necklace had done this for real and it had excited her so much. Now, across an ocean of time Jemima relived the memory with all of its emotions and feelings. Crawling on the floor to an empty chair.
But it didn’t have to be an empty chair.
The stickman’s words echoed in her mind. “If you can take a book, you can call me away from here and we can be together… like we are supposed to be.”
His words in her ear were surely imagined, but they felt so real it stopped her in her tracks.
“This isn’t right,” Jemima said aloud. Now she found her nudity terrifying. She was naked and feeling a terrible sensation that she was being watched. Good, God! What the hell? Crawling around on the floor naked? She was here to bury her mother and…
She touched the locket…
She held it…
If she’d had the willpower she would have taken it off and thrown it away; but when you’re dealing with such powerful emotions as those conjured by the death of a parent, you will cling to anything that gives you hope.
She pressed the locket against her skin; and in her mind the words of the stickman repeated his softly spoken offer. “If you can take a book, you can call me away from here,” he said. “We can be together… like we are supposed to be.”
----- X -----
The funeral was subdued. The sleepy chapel was barely big enough for thirty people. The ceremony was all in German. She held her father’s hand throughout. At one point he drifted out and seemed to forget where he was. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” His head lowered. “I’m sorry, Jay,” he whispered. “I know I’m supposed to do something with… I don’t know what to do… Your Mum looked after you. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
His eyes looked dim and his cheeks had sunken into his face. It was barely a week yet he’d lost a lot of weight. Jemima lifted his hand to put it around the back of her shoulders and leaned into him, putting herself into his embrace. The priest spoke in soft German and his voice echoed in the chapel, but all Jemima could think about was the locket she was wearing. She lifted it out of her dress and held it in her hand, feeling it give her strength.
The funeral moved to the private burial plot where her grandfather and other relatives were buried. They had been a wealthy family until Germany divided in 1949 and Erbeswalde fell behind the Iron Curtain. The family had manufactured farm equipment but the business was seized by the communists who let the enterprise fall into ruin. The family had all left for the West except for Great Uncle Tomaz who lived here even when the place was a derelict shell. When East and West Germany reunified the family were officially given back their home and their burial plot.
She had to get into Uncle Tomaz’s room and look for that book.
Her mother’s coffin was laid at the bottom of the grave and the family were invited to cast some dirt into the hole. She had to find that book. It was more important than anything and as she cast the dirt onto the coffin she felt the warmth of the handsome man. How rewarding it would feel to help him. How nice it would be. How pleasurable. The very thought of finding it excited her in a way she didn’t fully understand.
Burying your mother was hell. Helping the stickman brought comfort.
----- X -----
Tomaz was watching her warily as they arrived back at the house. Everybody was in a dour and sombre mood and there were many guests and visitors who had come to the service and interment. Everybody wanted to talk with her father, often with Grandma translating. “Hallo, are you Jemima?” A woman asked.
She nodded. “Yes?”
“I am Steffi, your mother and I were at school together.” Then the woman started crying.
“Uh hu…” This was misery. “Would you excuse me, I need the bathroom.” Jemima went for the stairs and caug
ht sight of Tomaz talking with his brother Fritz. Now was her chance. She ran up the stairs and went straight for the old man’s room. There was a small table and a single chair by the window. A single bed. Pale walls and dark wooden furniture. Her eyes turned to the bookcase.
The books seemed to glow with a radiated energy. Twelve of them.
Footsteps on the stairs… No!
She rushed out of the room to see Tomaz making his way to the top of the stairs. He must have followed her. He halted when he saw her and stared fiercely. He hadn’t seen her in his room, but she was in the wrong part of the house to be here by chance.
The old man walked towards her. Jemima bit her finger as he passed, his glare intense. He never dropped his gaze. He entered his room walking backwards, keeping her in his sight. Then closed the door to shut her out.
This would be difficult.
----- X -----
Jemima lay in bed unable to sleep. The house made a lot of noise overnight. Creaking floorboards and the wind. She had awoken to the ticking of a bedside clock. It was very old and needed to be wound every night, but once wound it tick-tick-ticked in the darkness.
She had dreamed of the handsome man and had awoken from the dream of a boy kissing her stomach. She sat in bed knowing she had to search for the book in Uncle Tomaz’s room; but how? They were returning to London in a few hours.
“Take a book,” she heard as a whisper. “Take one or destroy one. Do it now.”
Jemima got out of bed and crept to the door in her bare feet and pyjamas. She looked out into the corridor. Every door was closed. At the far end the window was covered only in net curtain which cast silvery moonlight along the passageway.
It was now or never.
She ventured into the corridor. Even in bare feet she was making noise. The whole house seemed to creak with each footstep and her breathing was, to her, far too loud.
She stopped at Tomaz’s room and rested her fingers on the handle. She could hear nothing inside the room. As gently as possible, she pressed the handle down until it clicked and the door moved.
This was stupid. What would she say if she were caught?
The door opened to a tiny crack and Jemima heard the soft snoring of her uncle. There she waited, ready to run back if he stirred or moved, but for minute after minute he snored softly in the deepest sleep.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” a voice spoke in her mind. She opened the door wider to look at the old man and the voice spoke again. “He is a horrible man.” It said. It was true. He was a horrible man. He wanted to stop her doing things, he was a nasty man with an old man smell of soap and sandalwood. He snored horribly. He was a pervert. He was disgusting. “Don’t be afraid,” the voice whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”
Jemima lowered herself to hands and knees, crawling delicately. It was almost black against black in the room. She moved one limb at a time. Hand, then knee, then hand, then knee, edging closer.
“Take your time,” the voice whispered.
As carefully as she could she moved to the bookcase and reached forward to touch one. Behind her, Great Uncle Tomaz stirred in his sleep and snorted as he rolled in bed. Jemima froze, waiting with breath held for him to settle.
The whispering voice returned to her. “Let me help you,” it said. For the first time, Jemima noticed that the whispering voice had a timbre and accent. It was the handsome man’s voice as it really was. Until now it had felt like her own voice, her own inner monologue. The increased clarity gave her the sudden feeling of another person in the room.
It was too dark to see, but there was definitely someone else in this room with her. Perhaps calling it a ghost way the best way she could describe it to herself, but she never would have imagined a ghost being like this. It was a man, here with her in the darkness. She was on all fours with her hand reaching forward to touch a book and it suddenly felt as though the ghost was pressed right up against her, his hips against her hips. She felt fingers on her wrist, pressing her hand forward.
“We are almost there, my Darling,” it whispered. “Let me help you.”
The ghost held her close and breathed gently against her cheek. There was moisture to his breath and an almost imperceptible scent of alcohol and tobacco.
The feeling of the ghost was wonderful. He felt calming and peaceful. Her body felt as though she were being lowered into a bath of warm milk as the seducer breathed against her. Jemima was momentarily surprised to see her hands were sliding along the spines of the books to find one in particular.
“Take it,” the ghost whispered as his hands let go of her wrist.
Jemima pulled the book from the shelf. It was too dark to see clearly, but she could feel the texture of its leather cover and found it to have metal corner protectors.
She began the crawl back.
Her heart was beating like a hummingbird.
She closed Tomaz’s door.
She tiptoed back to her room with the book under her arm and hid it in her suitcase under clothes. Getting the book was only the first step, she had to get it off the farm and back to London, but she was so excited and thrilled she could barely keep still. The handsome man, the ghost man or the stick man or whoever he was had helped her. He had been beside her and had held her in his arms.
She wouldn’t be able to sleep now. She was too exhilarated. Climbing back into bed she removed her pyjama bottoms so that she could touch herself, holding the locket in one hand whilst self-pleasuring with the other. Hoping, wishing that the handsome man would come back to her and fill her being with his radiance.
The ghost was wonderful.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” came the whispered German voice. Under the covers she felt another presence. A man’s hand stroked across her stomach and she took hold of it, guiding it between her legs. The sensation was so real. There was a man here, in her bedroom with his hand under the covers, touching her most intimate parts.
Jemima knew it was a ghost of some kind, but she had never imagined that ghosts could be so erotic. That they could be so romantic. Bringing gifts of jewellery. How lucky she was that a grown man came to her room at night and touched her under the covers.
CHAPTER TWO
The Bavarian home bequeathed to Adalbert was of monstrous size, almost palatial. At eighteen years old he had finances beyond what any young man could conceivably spend in a lifetime. The November Revolution was about to unsettle Germany and lead to the ruinous Weimar Republic; in the coming years wealth would be destroyed on an almost industrial scale and the Nazi Party would come to the fore, but for the young Adalbert, his only concern was the young women he could procure for a few pfennigs. In his diaries, Adalbert expressed his love of coercing destitute young girls into sexual acts. In one entry he wrote, “It is the ultimate pleasure of wealth to lure a beautiful creature to her shame. To have it crawl and beg the opportunity to debauch itself. There is no fruit more arousing than the helpless; no sexual release more rewarding than when it fills their eyes with tears. Pleasure is at its height when desperation drives an exchange that offers them barely the money to buy an apple.”
Die Dunkle Handshake (The Dark Handshake)
by Tomaz Karner
Published by ‘Shwarze Tinte’, 1963
--- CHAPTER TWO ---
Jemima was slow to fasten her school tie. She stood looking at herself in the mirror, holding open her shirt to look at the locket. The handsome man had a name that seemed just out of reach. She knew that she should know it, but it was frustratingly out of her grasp. It was Martinez, or Mariuz, or some other exotic sounding name. Maxwell, perhaps. Sometimes she thought it was Albert, but that seemed too English sounding.
On her desk was the book she had secreted away from Erbeswalde. She hadn’t looked at it yet. She wanted to, but something was niggling her. Like a voice that demanded she be patient and only do it once she had enough time to look at it properly.
The do
orbell rang. It would be Danesha.
Jemima opened the locket to look at the handsome man and the woman, she kissed the tiny photographs then dropped the locket back against her skin and ran down the stairs. She opened the door and said, “Just a second,” without even looking at her school friend. She turned back to the hallway mirror. “Sorry, Danesha. Let me just fix my tie.” Once done she felt the urge to slip her fingers between her shirt buttons to touch the locket again. Maxwell? Maywell? Aldridge? She snapped herself away from the mirror before becoming completely hypnotised to find her best friend standing on the doorstep and looking as though she was about to cry. “What’s wrong?”
Chocolate skinned with long thin legs and frizzy hair pulled to a ponytail, Danesha Pierce was standing silently with tears in her eyes. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Jemima and gave a sob, then broke away and wafted her hands ahead of her face to clear her eyes.
“It’s alright,” Jemima said. “I’m okay.”
“But… your mum?” Danesha’s voice went high as she spoke.
Jemima looked down to her shoes and her hand went back into her shirt to touch the locket… It was okay. When she touched the locket, she was okay.
----- X -----
“Four stitches. That’s all I needed… and Daddy wasn’t injured at all.” Danesha cried a little as Jemima recounted the story. “You look more upset than me.”
Slenderman, Slenderman, Take this Child Page 4