Chapter 3: The Spectre in the Rafters

Chapter 3: The Spectre in the Rafters

“It’s empty.”

The whispered words from Mr. Baumann were a key turning a lock in Thomas’s chest. He opened his eyes. A wave of giddy, hysterical relief washed over him, so potent it almost buckled his knees. The coffin, its dark wood gaping like a wound in the moonlight, was indeed empty. The silk lining was yellowed and shredded, a testament to the decades it had lain vacant.

It was over. The monster was a myth, a ghost story that had died long ago. The branded man in the basement was just a lunatic, the last follower of a long-dead cult. They had found the tomb, and the god had crumbled to dust. Thomas wanted to laugh, to sob, to run from this cold, dead place and never look back.

“He’s gone,” Thomas gasped, the words tumbling out. “See? It’s been empty for years! We can go now. We can just go!”

But Klaus Baumann wasn’t celebrating. He hadn’t lowered the stake and mallet. His entire body was coiled like a spring, his head tilted back, his sharp eyes scanning not the coffin, but the cavernous darkness of the rafters high above. The old man’s fear, a palpable, radiating cold, was a thousand times more terrifying than the empty box.

“He is not gone,” Baumann rasped, his voice a blade of ice. “He is here.”

As if summoned by the words, the unnatural chill in the attic intensified. It was no longer a passive cold but an active, biting presence that sank its teeth into Thomas’s skin and settled deep in his marrow. A faint sound drifted down from the oppressive blackness above—a dry, slithering scrape, like old leather on splintered wood.

Thomas’s gaze followed the old man’s, snapping upward into the web of beams and shadows. At first, he saw nothing. Then, a patch of darkness, blacker than the rest, detached itself from the gloom. It didn’t fall. It flowed. A figure descended from the rafters with the silent, boneless grace of a hunting spider lowering itself on a strand of silk. It landed on the dusty floorboards without a sound, not ten feet from the coffin, its form coalescing in the pale moonlight.

It was a man, impossibly tall and slender, dressed in a tailored suit that, even coated in a fine layer of dust, looked as if it had been woven from shadow. Long, silver hair framed a face of aristocratic perfection, unnaturally pale, as if carved from marble. But it was the eyes that held Thomas captive. They were a piercing, luminous blue, glowing with a faint, internal light that was utterly inhuman. And they were fixed on Mr. Baumann.

A cruel, knowing smile played on the man’s lips, revealing the tips of elongated canines. On the lapel of his vintage 1940s suit, a small, silver pin glinted in the moonlight—a deaths-head skull of the SS.

This was him. This was Ulrich von Strauss.

The moment their eyes met, Thomas’s world collapsed. It wasn't just fear that seized him; it was something else, something elemental. A supernatural weight pressed down on him, crushing the air from his lungs, locking his joints, and turning his blood to ice. He tried to scream, but his throat was paralyzed. He tried to run, but his legs were leaden anchors bolted to the floor. He was a bug pinned to a board, aware and terrified but utterly incapable of movement. The bite on his arm throbbed in rhythm with his hammering heart, a hot brand of ownership that echoed the cold one on the dead Diener downstairs.

“Jäger,” the creature named Ulrich said. His voice was not a monster’s roar, but a cultured, resonant baritone with a faint German accent, smooth as aged poison. It slid into Thomas’s ears and coiled in his gut. “How persistent your bloodline is. Like cockroaches. I crushed your father’s father under my heel outside Warsaw, yet still you crawl from the woodwork.”

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze never leaving the old man. He spared only a passing, dismissive glance for Thomas. “And you’ve brought a foal with you. How… sentimental.”

Klaus Baumann did not flinch. While Thomas was drowning in a sea of pure terror, the old man stood his ground. His face was a mask of grim resolve, his knuckles white around the wooden stake. The fear was in his eyes, yes, but it was overshadowed by a lifetime of hatred and duty.

“Your reign of filth ends tonight, von Strauss,” Baumann bit out, his voice shaking with effort but unwavering in its conviction.

Ulrich laughed, a soft, chilling sound devoid of all humor. “It is not a reign. It is simply my nature. As it is your nature to be the cattle I feed upon.” He tilted his head, his glowing eyes narrowing. “You have grown old, Jäger. The fire in you is little more than embers. A pity. I was hoping for a better sport.”

That was when Baumann moved. With a speed that defied his age, he dropped the stake and mallet and snatched the silver-inlaid pistol from his belt. The heavy gun came up, steady and sure, aimed directly at the vampire’s heart.

“For my family,” Baumann roared, and the world exploded in fire and sound.

The first shot was a deafening cannon blast in the dead-silent attic. The muzzle flash lit Ulrich’s pale face in a demonic strobe, his smile never faltering. The bullet struck him squarely in the chest. Thomas saw the fabric of the suit rip, saw a puff of dust and dried flesh explode outward.

But Ulrich didn’t fall. He didn’t even stumble. He simply looked down at the new hole in his suit with an expression of mild annoyance, as if a moth had eaten his favorite coat.

Bang! The second shot. This one took him in the shoulder, spinning him slightly. A flicker of irritation crossed Ulrich’s perfect features.

Bang! Bang! Two more shots in quick succession. The heavy silver slugs tore through the vampire’s torso, leaving dark, ragged holes from which no blood flowed.

Thomas could only watch, paralyzed, his mind screaming. It wasn’t working. The silver pistol, the old man’s final weapon, was no more effective than a child’s toy.

Ulrich straightened up, brushing a speck of dust from his lapel, his movements unhurried and fluid despite the four bullet holes in his body. His smile returned, wider now, predatory and filled with a terrible promise.

“You have always relied on such crude implements,” he purred, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper that still carried to every corner of the attic. “Faith and silver. So… predictable.”

Then he moved.

He didn't run. He didn't lunge. He simply crossed the distance between them in less time than it took Thomas to blink, a blur of motion that the human eye couldn't properly track. One moment he was by the coffin, the next he was before Mr. Baumann, his hand clamped around the barrel of the pistol, twisting it.

There was a sharp snap of breaking bones and a strangled cry of agony from the old man. The pistol clattered to the floor. Ulrich’s other hand shot out, not in a punch, but in a casual, open-palmed strike to Baumann’s chest. The sound was a sickening, wet crunch, like a boot stomping on a pumpkin.

Mr. Baumann flew backwards, his body ragdolling through the air to slam into the far wall with enough force to crack the thick wooden planks. He slid to the floor in a broken heap, gasping for air, his chest caved in.

The fight for their lives had begun. And in the space of five seconds, it was already over. Thomas was no participant. He wasn't even a spectator. He was just a fly, stuck fast in the spider’s web, watching the inevitable approach of the fangs.