Chapter 1: The Mimeographed Instructions

Chapter 1: The Mimeographed Instructions

The money was the only reason.

Maxwell Thorne repeated the mantra to himself as the ancient bus wheezed away, its red taillights swallowed by the thick, swirling snow. It left him utterly alone in the town square of Steinwald, a place that seemed carved from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale and then forgotten. Jagged Alpine peaks loomed like silent, judgmental gods, their slopes a uniform, oppressive white. The timber-framed houses, dusted with snow, looked less like homes and more like meticulously arranged tombstones under a bruised, leaden sky.

Silence. Not the peaceful quiet of the countryside, but a heavy, watchful silence that pressed in on him, muffling the crunch of his own boots. For a freelance translator specializing in archaic German dialects, a job offer of five thousand euros for a weekend’s work translating old land deeds was a godsend. It was the kind of money that would pay his rent for half a year and allow him to finally replace his dying laptop. But as he stood there, a solitary figure in the heart of this frozen stillness, a thread of unease began to unravel his pragmatic resolve. The online job posting had been vague, the client’s emails curt. "Come to Steinwald. Ask for Elsbeth Blatzer at the Gasthof. All will be explained."

He adjusted his rectangular glasses, his breath pluming in the frigid air. The inn, Gasthof Blatzer, was the largest building on the square, its dark wood imposing. A plume of smoke curled from its chimney, a lonely sign of life. Maxwell hoisted his duffel bag, the promise of warmth and a hot meal overriding the primal instinct screaming at him to turn back and chase the ghost of the departed bus.

The inn’s interior was a claustrophobic world of dark oak and flickering firelight. The air was thick with the scent of pine, roasting meat, and something else, something cloying and vaguely chemical, like old disinfectant. A woman stood behind the heavy wooden counter, polishing a glass with a slow, methodical rhythm.

“Maxwell Thorne?” she asked before he could even speak. Her voice was warm, melodic, but it held the same unsettling quality as the village—a practiced pleasantness that didn't quite feel real.

This had to be Elsbeth Blatzer. She was in her fifties, her face framed by laugh lines, but her green eyes were as cold and deep as an alpine lake. She wore a traditional dark shawl, and her hands, though never still, moved with a disquieting purpose.

“Yes, that’s me,” Maxwell said, forcing a smile. “It’s quite a journey up here.”

“The mountains keep us safe,” she replied, her own smile not quite reaching her eyes. “They keep the world out. And they keep us… in.” She placed the polished glass down with a soft click. “You must be tired. Your room is ready. We are all so grateful you could come on such short notice. It is a very important time for our family. For the whole village.”

“Of course,” Maxwell said, trying to steer the conversation back to familiar territory. “The documents—the deeds you need translating. I’m eager to get started.”

Elsbeth’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “All in due time, Herr Thorne. First, you must get settled. The work is for tonight. It is… part of the ceremony.”

A knot of ice formed in Maxwell’s stomach. “Ceremony? I was under the impression I was here to translate legal documents for an inheritance.”

“You are,” she said, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “The late Herr Hermann Blatzer—my father—was a man of tradition. His last will and testament are bound up in these traditions. You, as a master of the old words, are essential.”

She slid a single, flimsy sheet of paper across the polished counter. It wasn't the brittle, elegant parchment he’d expected. It was a cheap, mimeographed leaflet, the purple ink slightly smeared, the paper smelling faintly of that same chemical odor he’d noticed in the air.

“Your preparatory materials,” Elsbeth said, her gaze fixed on him. “It is very important you understand them before the proceedings begin at midnight.”

Maxwell picked up the paper. It felt unnervingly light, insignificant. At the top, in a blocky, severe font, were the words: Anweisungen zur Erweckung.

Instructions for the Awakening.

His academic mind immediately tried to categorize it. A local folk tradition? A quaint piece of funeral theater? He was a scholar, an observer of history, not a participant in it. This was just… color. Context for the job. He began to read, his skepticism a flimsy shield against the creeping dread. There were five numbered instructions.

1. At the Tolling of the Midnight Bell, All Present Must Maintain Absolute Silence. Sound is a Leash for the Lingering Spirit. Do Not Grant it Purchase.

Quaint, Maxwell thought, though the last sentence sent a shiver down his spine. He dismissed it as overly poetic dialect.

2. When the Elder Pokes the Flesh, You Must Whisper the Deceased’s Name Thrice. Address the Body, Not the Air. It Must Know it is Being Called.

A chill traced a path up his neck. Pokes the flesh? The visceral imagery was jarring. This was moving beyond quaint and into the territory of the deeply morbid. His eyes scanned down, his heart beginning to beat a little faster.

3. When the Choir Sings the Old Chant, Place Your Palm Flat Against the Deceased’s Forehead. Do Not Flinch from the Cold. It Must Feel the Warmth of the Living.

He swallowed hard. He was a translator. He dealt with dead words on dead paper. The thought of touching a corpse, of feeling that absolute, irreversible cold, made him feel physically ill. This was not in the job description. The five thousand euros suddenly felt like a pittance.

4. When the Rosemary is Burned, Recite the Passage Given to You. The Old Words are a Key. You are the Scribe. You Must Turn the Lock.

The Scribe. They had a name for him. A role. This wasn’t a simple translation job; it was a performance. He was a cast member in a play he hadn't auditioned for, and the script was making his blood run cold. He wanted to crumple the paper, to tell this unnervingly calm woman that there had been a terrible mistake. But his eyes, as if drawn by a morbid gravity, fell to the final instruction.

It was set apart from the others, underlined twice.

5. If the Awakened Speaks Your Name, Do Not Answer. Do Not Flinch. Do Not Acknowledge It. To Answer is to Accept the Inheritance. His Voice is a Hook, and Your Soul is the Bait.

The room seemed to tilt. The fire in the hearth shrank to a pinprick of light in a universe of oppressive shadows. If the Awakened speaks. Not if you hear a sound. Not if you think you hear a voice. The instruction was written with the absolute certainty that a dead man was going to open his mouth and talk.

Maxwell’s hands began to tremble, the mimeographed paper rattling softly in the dead quiet of the inn. All the rationalizations, all the academic dismissals, evaporated. This wasn't a tradition. This wasn't a play. This was a set of rules for a procedure, as grim and methodical as a surgeon’s checklist. A procedure for what, he couldn’t—or wouldn't—let himself believe.

He looked up at Elsbeth. Her welcoming smile was gone, replaced by a look of flat, cold assessment. She had seen the terror dawn in his eyes, and she didn't seem surprised. She seemed to expect it.

“Midnight, Herr Thorne,” she said, her voice no longer warm, but as crisp and cold as the snow outside. “Don’t be late. The ceremony cannot begin without the Scribe.”