Chapter 2: The Hall of Whispers

Chapter 2: The Hall of Whispers

Sleep was an impossibility. For hours, Maxwell sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress in his room, the mimeographed paper held in a white-knuckled grip. He read the five instructions over and over, his analytical mind desperately searching for a loophole, a translation error, some cultural nuance that would render them harmless. But the German was stark and brutally clear. Pokes the flesh. Do not flinch from the cold. His voice is a hook. It was a litany of madness. He had considered barricading the door, but a glance out the window at the silent, snow-choked square told him all he needed to know. There was nowhere to run. Steinwald and its jagged peaks held him prisoner.

A sharp, single rap on his door shattered the silence. It wasn’t a polite knock; it was a summons. Maxwell’s heart hammered against his ribs. He opened the door to find a burly, grim-faced man whose features marked him as Elsbeth’s kin—perhaps a son or brother. The man said nothing, merely gesturing with his head toward the stairs. The message was as clear as the instructions on the paper: you will come now.

The walk across the square was a surreal, silent procession of two. The snow fell thicker now, deadening every sound, each flake a tiny speck of white in the oppressive darkness. The only light came from the windows of a large, long building that might have been a town hall or a converted barn. As they approached, a low, rhythmic sound began to seep through the thick wooden walls—not music, but a humming chant that seemed to vibrate in Maxwell’s bones.

The man pushed open the heavy doors, and the sensory assault was immediate and overwhelming. The air inside was thick, almost solid, with the sweet, waxy smell of a hundred burning candles and the sharp, herbal tang of rosemary. The communal hall was vast, its high-beamed ceiling lost in shadow. It was filled with villagers, at least fifty of them, all standing in silent, concentric circles. They were dressed in dark, formal attire, their faces pale and taut in the flickering candlelight, their expressions a uniform mask of grim expectation. They weren't mourning; they were waiting.

And in the center of it all, laid out on a great oak table that looked more like an altar, was the body of Hermann Blatzer.

He was dressed in a stark white ceremonial robe, his waxy, liver-spotted hands folded neatly over his chest. His face, in death, was serene, a placid mask of old age. But there was nothing peaceful about the scene. It felt charged, electric, like the air before a lightning strike.

Elsbeth Blatzer stood at the head of the table, her green eyes scanning the crowd until they found Maxwell. She gave a slight, commanding nod, indicating a space that had been left for him in the innermost circle, right beside the corpse. His escort gave him a firm nudge, propelling him forward. Every eye in the hall followed his stumbling progress. He felt like a sacrificial offering.

He took his place, the chemical smell from the mimeographed paper clinging to him, mingling with the wax and herbs. He was close enough to see the fine, papery texture of the dead man’s skin, the slight indentation where a wedding ring had once been. This was real. This was happening. His desire to flee was a physical ache, a screaming in his blood, but the ring of silent, watching villagers was a cage more effective than any iron bars.

Then, from the old clock tower in the village square, a single, deep bell began to toll.

Midnight.

As if a switch had been thrown, the humming chant ceased. A profound, absolute silence fell upon the hall, so deep Maxwell could hear the frantic drumming of his own heart. Rule 1: At the Tolling of the Midnight Bell, All Present Must Maintain Absolute Silence. The villagers stood perfectly still, their collective gaze fixed on the body.

Elsbeth moved with chilling deliberation. She picked up a long, sharpened wooden spindle from a small table laden with ceremonial objects. She held it up to the candlelight, its point gleaming. This, Maxwell realized with a surge of nausea, was for the poking.

She leaned over her father’s body, her expression unreadable. She chose a spot on the back of his hand and, with a firm, steady pressure, pushed the spindle into the dead flesh. It sank in with a soft, sickening give.

A collective, sharp intake of breath hissed through the room. Elsbeth’s cold green eyes locked onto Maxwell’s. It was his cue. The command was unspoken but absolute. Rule 2: When the Elder Pokes the Flesh, You Must Whisper the Deceased’s Name Thrice.

His throat was dry, his jaw locked tight. He couldn’t do it. But the pressure of fifty pairs of eyes, the sheer, oppressive weight of their expectation, was a physical force. He leaned forward, his lips trembling, the words feeling like poison on his tongue.

“Hermann Blatzer,” he whispered, the sound a ragged tear in the silence. The corpse, of course, did not react. He forced himself to say it again, louder this time. “Hermann Blatzer.” He glanced at Elsbeth. Her gaze was implacable. He took a shaky breath, the scent of rosemary filling his lungs. “Hermann Blatzer.”

As the third name left his lips, a choir of women at the back of the hall began to sing. It was the chant he had heard from outside, but now it was clear and haunting, a melody woven from sorrow and something far older, far darker. The words were in the archaic dialect he was here to translate, a language of forgotten gods and ancient pacts.

Elsbeth nodded at him again, her hand gesturing towards the corpse’s forehead. Rule 3: Place Your Palm Flat Against the Deceased’s Forehead. Do not Flinch from the Cold.

This was the point of no return. This was the line between observer and participant, and they were forcing him to cross it. His hand shook violently as he raised it. The singing swelled, the strange, guttural words filling the hall. He could feel the cold radiating from the body before he even made contact. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palm against the dead man’s skin.

The cold was absolute. It was not the simple absence of heat; it was an active, hungry cold that seemed to leech the life from his fingertips, a chilling void that traveled up his arm and settled deep in his chest. The skin felt like cold, waxy marble. He fought the overwhelming urge to recoil, to scream, to break the circle and run into the blizzard.

Just as he thought he couldn't bear it a second longer, a young man handed him a piece of aged parchment. On it, written in elegant, spidery ink, was a short passage. The words he was meant to recite. Rule 4: You are the Scribe. You Must Turn the Lock.

He pulled his freezing hand back, cradling it against his chest. He held the parchment up to the candlelight, his academic instincts a flimsy raft in this ocean of terror. The words were familiar—a complex variant of Old High German, full of legalistic terms for inheritance and property, but woven through with phrases about 'binding the shadow' and 'opening the final ledger'. It was a will and a curse, a legal document and a necromantic incantation rolled into one.

“Read,” Elsbeth commanded, her voice cutting through the chant.

Maxwell looked from the parchment to the serene face of the dead man, then to the hungry, expectant faces of the villagers. He was trapped. He was the key. And they were all waiting for him to turn the lock. Taking a ragged breath that felt like his last, he opened his mouth and began to read the dead man's words.

The ancient syllables felt heavy and alien in his mouth. As he spoke, the very air in the hall seemed to thicken, the candle flames wavering not from a draft, but as if in response to the power he was unleashing. The ritual was escalating, moving towards its unseen, horrifying conclusion. The line between bizarre custom and supernatural reality had not just blurred; it had been erased entirely. He was no longer translating words; he was casting a spell.