“Intuition.”
“Because monsters think alike, more likely,” spat Aldrich. He was free now, on his feet again, and face-to-face with Drexler.
“Yes, monsters,” said Drexler, gesturing to the severed head. It gazed up at them dully. “Do you have any idea what precisely this monster is?”
“Precisely? No.”
“We were never looking for ruins, were we?”
Aldrich faltered for a moment, then said, “We were looking to glorify the Reich. That is all you need to know.”
“Very well.”
Aldrich spun on his heel and began marching toward camp. Drexler was bone tired. They broke camp in a chilly silence, salvaging what they needed from the dead men’s supplies. It wasn’t until they were mounted and prepared to leave that Drexler raised his pistol and shot Aldrich out of his saddle. Drexler set fire to the camp then, collected the scholar’s startled mount farther down the trail, and led the horses to Bucharest alone.
OCTOBER 1938
Lieutenant Drexler was summoned to Berchtesgaden, the market town in the Bavarian Alps that served as an outpost for the German Imperial Chancellery. After returning to Berlin alone and submitting his confidential report on the disastrous expedition to his commanding officer, he expected to be expelled from the Schutzstaffel. Or worse. It was only a mild surprise when he was ordered to Berchtesgaden; der Führer kept a home there that doubled as a headquarters, and many in his inner circle frequented it. These were busy men, carrying a nation on their backs, and it made more sense to go to the mountain than to have the mountain come to him, a disgraced officer. Had they sent for him from the middle of the Atlantic, he would have swum out. What had surprised Drexler was the envy in his commanding officer’s eyes when he gave Drexler the order.
After that, Drexler ceased making assumptions and concentrated only on what he could control. When he stepped off the train and into the chill autumn air of Berchtesgaden, his boots shone like dark mirrors. His all-black uniform was crisp and stripped of every scintilla of lint. His SS insignia and brass buckles gleamed. He held his head high. A junior section leader met him on the platform and escorted him to Obersalzberg, the retreat farther up the mountain where der Führer’s Berghof was perched.
The young soldier led Drexler through the grand chalet until they arrived in the Berghof’s open and airy great hall, where a solitary figure awaited them. The man had his back to them, facing a picture window with a breathtaking view of the snow-capped Alps. Both Drexler and the soldier offered crisp salutes. The soldier then announced Drexler’s name and rank, and was dismissed with a flick of the wrist from the man at the window.
Drexler stood at attention, waiting, but he took in the gorgeous mountains spread before him. If this was to be a punishment, it was a particularly cruel one, bringing him all the way up here to illustrate precisely how far he had fallen. Anger bloomed in his heart for a moment, but he stifled it.
Without turning around, Heinrich Himmler said, “We come from the same area, you and I, did you know that?”
“Waldtrudering?” asked Drexler.
“Your family farmed there as well, yes?”
“Yes, Reichsführer.”
Himmler turned to him finally, and Drexler got a proper look at the head of the SS and one of the most powerful men in Nazi Germany. Himmler’s uniform, perfectly tailored, was as immaculate as his own. He was framed by the picture window and the striking Austrian mountains behind him. Drexler realized in an instant the scene was intentional, designed to generate awe.
“Come,” said Himmler, “please join me.”
Drexler approached the window with caution.
“I read your report. Of course I am deeply sorry for the loss of your men and for what you must have suffered. Still, it is rather…astounding. I brought you up here so that I might hear your story firsthand.” Himmler gave him a sly smile. “One farm boy to another.”
Drexler recounted how they had found the mysterious chest in the Dacian ruins, how the scholar had been blinded when he opened it, and how, one by one, his party had been destroyed. It wasn’t until Drexler discovered Bruner’s gruesome remains that he realized it wasn’t a disease decimating his ranks, but, in fact, a predator walking among them. When he returned to the clearing after finding what was left of Bruner, Drexler discovered the creature had murdered the rest of the party and set fire to their camp.
“Such a clever creature…How on earth did you kill it?” asked Himmler. His imperiousness had slipped enough for Drexler to see the fascination behind it.
“I staked some…live game into the ground to lure it, a trick I imagined the Reichsführer would have used in Waldtrudering to lure wolves away from his chickens.”
Himmler beamed. “Yes, yes. A solid stratagem. Wolves were a problem. But this was no ordinary wolf…”
“Very true, sir. I set additional traps in the event the beast was clever enough to forgo my bait in favor of me, which, in the end, turned out to be a solid course.”
“Incredible. And the chest?”
Dietrich Drexler was a decisive man. As he regarded his Reichsführer, he made a choice. Up close, Himmler’s crisp, tailored uniform could not hide the man’s weak chin or his spectacles or his paunch or the fact that Drexler stood a full head taller than him. The great hall they stood inside, the mountains in the distance, were transparent attempts to impress Drexler—to cow him—but these grand props served only to make Himmler himself seem feebler by comparison. A little boy playing soldier. All Drexler had ever needed to impress anyone were his cunning and his own two hands. He had a fleeting impulse to reach out and wrap those hands around Himmler’s throat—the same sort of anarchic impulse that urges a man to push the person next to him from a train platform onto the tracks. Drexler had seen the indiscriminate carnage the chest had produced. He listened to his instincts, which had gotten him this far, and in that instant he chose the mountains, the beauty in the distance, and the rest of humanity, over this bookish man and his ilk.
“My deepest apologies, Reichsführer,” he said, lowering his gaze to his boots. “The devil burned it with the camp.”
“I see,” said Himmler. “Naturally, I sent a squad to the location to corroborate your report.”
He said it offhand but locked eyes with Drexler. A cold wind blew in from the windows as the sun set behind Himmler. Drexler kept his face still, radiating deference and sincerity. If nothing else, thought Drexler, this man would not have risen to such heights in the Nazi Party without being clever himself. The lieutenant had anticipated Himmler’s suspicions, however, and had staged the camp accordingly before leaving, going so far as to dig the bullets out of Aldrich’s body before setting it on fire.
Himmler must have found in Drexler’s gaze what he was looking for. After a few moments, he smiled and clapped his hand on Drexler’s arm.
“You have done very well. Der Führer himself is very interested to hear your story. Which is why I believe he will be receptive to my proposition.”
“Proposition, sir?”
“You are clearly a clever, capable man. Not only does the SS need you, the Ahnenerbe needs you. I have decided to establish a new institute under the Social Sciences Divisions: Volkserzählung, Märchen, und Sagenkunde. I would like you to lead it.”
Folktales, Fairy Tales, and Myths.
Once again, Drexler was stunned. Before he could stop himself, he said, “I am humbled, Reichsführer, but I am no scholar.”
“Allow me to share something with you. This Berghof is magnificent, yes? Nevertheless, we are building another retreat, the Kehlsteinhaus, on this very mountain as a gift to der Führer for his fiftieth birthday. It will be larger, more beautiful, and most important, farther up the peak. We are always pushing toward the peak. And for that we need men of purity and iron will. We have plenty of scholars. Well, fewer now perhaps, but I need a man to lead them. On the face of it, you will be seeking evidence of the Aryan influence in folklore and such, but your tr
ue directive is to collect information, artifacts, and, where possible, live specimens that we may use as weapons against our enemies. So, will you help the Reich drive toward the peak, Obersturmführer Drexler?”
“My honor is my loyalty,” Drexler replied.
Hearing the SS oath made Himmler smile.
“I am very pleased to hear it. Hauptsturmführer Drexler.”
Lieutenant Drexler, now Captain Drexler, had not anticipated a promotion, either.
“There is much work to be done,” continued Himmler. “You will have resources and freedom to operate; your first trip commences in the morning. But that is tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate. The others should be gathered in the dining hall by now.”
Drexler snuck one last look at the Alps. He would need to proceed with caution. If the last expedition was any indication, his work would be deadly, but deadlier still would be deciding how much of it he would share with his “superiors.” Nonetheless, Drexler found himself smiling. As always, he was confident he would find the right balance.
Himmler guided Drexler away from the window. “Tell me, have you ever met the Führer?”
Snow Shadows
Mick Garris
Winter fell softly but relentlessly outside the rippled old glass of the windows, frosting the edges with snowflake crystals. Sheer curtains hung like whispers, half closed, as the fireplace radiated copper heat against the dappled gray sky outdoors. Counterpoint, thought Nicholas. That’s what life seems to be: up versus down, cheer versus anger, warmth versus chill. The stops in between were not worth noting.
He stood in front of the scarred, heavy old oak wardrobe, trying to choose which of the starched white shirts he would put on for class today, not that it would matter to eighteen quiet, supernaturally well-behaved prepubescent students. He would do his best to inspire them, but he couldn’t tell if he was doing any good. They were so damned reserved. Could ten-year-olds truly appreciate art, the creative muse, the subtlety of a brushstroke as opposed to the fingertip slide across a capacitive screen? Maybe some of them, surely some of them, but he’d yet to meet one.
Fresh young faces crossed the schoolyard outside the window of his apartment, their risen-cream skin painted with chilly pink winter cheeks. Back home in Phoenix, the quad would be filled with raucous cries and roughhousing, but here in Twombley-on-Ravensbrooke, one of those alarmingly charming, all-stone medieval little towns you might stumble across on the motorway en route to your Lake District holiday, the children were quiet, serious, even inscrutable. Not that they were humorless, mind you. He’d seen them laughing with one another but rarely in his class, despite his attempts to lighten the mood. In Phoenix, he was the funny, eccentric art teacher who was generous with an easy A. At the Ravensbrooke Youth Academy for the Arts, he was at sea. He wanted to feel clever and charming and make the kids like him but had not yet found his way. Maybe it was the difference between teaching public high school students in the U.S. and teaching ten-year-old supposedly gifted kids at a private academy in the U.K., but it was starting to get to him.
Even though the light outside was dim, the light in the apartment was dimmer; he was invisible to the children making their way to their first morning classes. Nicholas was still not used to the jacket-and-tie requirements for instructors at Ravensbrooke, and he pulled his shirt out of the wardrobe and over his shoulders.
The sudden, gentle touch of a warm hand at the base of his bare back startled him, made him jump a little. But when it began to slide slowly over the curve of his rump and its mate started at his stomach and slowly worked its way up into the curls of the hair on his chest, he relaxed into the arms that surrounded him. He felt the light, wet kiss at the base of his neck and was surprised, though not disappointed, at the warmth that held him.
It was a rare event when Rose initiated intimacy, even more so in the morning before classes. The decision to come and work at Ravensbrooke had been a mutual one, but he knew it had been harder on his wife than it had been on him. He knew that she agreed to it for him, not for her…nor even for them. Her moods had been all over the place but mostly hovered at the lower end of the emotional spectrum. And for her to come to him with an embrace, to turn him toward her and kiss him so deeply before pulling away with the wickedest of smiles was, well, unheard of since they had come here. Hell, it had been pretty much unheard of in Arizona, too.
She slipped her hands under his unbuttoned shirt and slid it off him, letting it drop to the floor. When he bent to pick it up, she kicked it away and shook her head.
Well, this was different.
He glanced over his shoulder to see the children still scurrying about the yard, clouds of misty breath huffing, still completely oblivious to what was going on on the other side of the distorted glass.
“They can’t see anything,” Rose said.
“What if they can?”
Her smile was atypically salacious. “Well, they’re here for an education, aren’t they?”
She wrapped her arms around Nicholas and backed him to the sturdy old bed of massive mahogany posts and lumpy marshmallow mattress, then eased him onto the rumpled sheets.
Nicholas wasn’t sure how long it had been since last they had made love. Or even fucked. Two weeks? Three? She had been dark, quiet, detached for months. Though she tried to hide them behind the bathroom door, he knew that her crying jags were frequent, would wrack her body with violent sobbing. So…though he knew that he might be late to his first-period class, which was a pretty highfalutin offense at Ravensbrooke, he was not about to push Rose away. She was a beautiful woman when she let herself be so, and most men would find her hard to resist when she was approachable. Her hormones had been his best friend and his worst enemy, with way more of the latter of late; he was not about to discourage this sudden burst of passion.
So when she had him on his back and tasted his neck, his eyes couldn’t help but close. And when her hands began to unfasten his newly belted pants, how could he object? He reached up, gripped her head in both his hands, and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply. He pulled away to look into her slate-gray eyes, which drilled into him. She was taking control here. When he started to speak, she put her hand over his mouth to shut him up. She slowly lowered his pants and shrugged out of her silk robe.
A knot in one of the fireplace logs suddenly exploded with a bang, tossing a cinder onto the bed, just missing them. It burned out immediately but not before breaking the moment.
“It’s okay,” Rose told him. “It’s out. But I’m not.”
Neither was Nicholas. But he was facing the window, and there was activity outside. He wondered what it was, but knew the fragility of the moment was not worth risking. Rose, though, saw the flash in his eyes.
“What is it?”
He shook his head but peered out the glass from the bed. It seemed that the students were all headed in a single direction, which was odd. Something was going on out there. Now naked, he moved from the bed to the window, curiosity overwhelming lust. He stood at the edge of the wispy curtain to see the children move across the now-white lawn, thick clusters of snow drifting in slow motion around them. They were all looking up. Across the quad was the highest structure in the village, a four-hundred-year-old spire that reached high into the sky, its masonry long gone black and mossy. It had a giant golden clock face, a clock that still was as accurate as any chronometer, but that is not what held the gathering young crowd in its thrall.
Rose stayed put on the bed. He was certain she was getting angry. When she put her robe back on, he took that as proof. It would be a long day.
The imperfections of the glass made it difficult to see clearly all the way across the schoolyard, but he could see there was a figure all the way up at the top of the clock tower spire: almost certainly a woman. He knew immediately who it must be.
Rose came up behind him, holding her robe tightly around her.
“What’s going on?”
—
The Ravensbrooke Aca
demy was sturdy, ancient, had withstood battles and burnings, having served many lives before its current incarnation as a training ground for artistic but otherwise socially incompatible youngsters. It had only been designated thus for just over the last century: barely a tick of the clock in Twombley-on-Ravensbrooke terms. Its grounds were expansive, breathtakingly beautiful, and, despite the heavy drifting snowfall and chilly gray stone walls, was surprisingly welcoming. In spring the trees were lush and full, but now their skeletons held up armloads of thick snow, which offered its own amount of picturesque appeal. The annual fees were dear, though there were scholarships for children of extraordinary talent and promise.
David Sutcliffe was one of those extraordinary children. He was the Odd Boy, even by Ravensbrooke’s standards, which is odd, indeed. Always quiet, seemingly friendless by choice, David’s command of the English language was masterful but rarely exercised. When he did deign to speak, his utterances were brief but almost always complex, even confusing, not just to his nine-year-old peers but particularly to his elders. His look, when he bothered to look you in the eye, was piercing, as if he were measuring you, judging you, figuring you out. Though he was quiet and strange, he was not unkind. His manners were impeccable and old-fashioned. His lineage was uncertain: As a baby, he’d been abandoned on the steps of the constabulary, his little eyes blacked, his left arm broken, and it never did set properly. It looked like his arm had two joints, though only one of them bent. He’d been adopted by a working-class couple on the east end of London, and had proven a bit of a handful. He seemed born with a frightening intelligence, speaking sentences not long after he was a year old and arguing about the merits of the Classicists vs. the Impressionists by the time he was eight. The Sutcliffes knew David was special and loved him with all of their hearts, but they also knew that he was not like them, which made them nervous. When his school principal came to them with news of a possible space opening up at such a prestigious institution as Ravensbrooke, they did all they could to deliver such an opportunity to their quiet, gifted, strange young son.
Dark Screams, Volume 7 Page 13