Psycho Thrill--Girl in the Well Read online

  What is PSYCHO THRILL?

  PSYCHO THRILL is a series of horror novellas — from the classic ghost story to the modern psychological thriller and dark fantasy. Each of the novellas has been first published in German and has been translated into English for the first time. Among the writers are popular German authors, as well as newcomers to the scene. Each story is self-contained. PSYCHO THRILL is produced by Uwe Voehl.

  The Author

  During his studies in cultural science, Vincent Voss worked in a variety of professional fields. The many impressions he gained — as a nursing assistant at an acute psychiatric facility, quality manager, bodyguard, call center agent, gas station attendant, photographer’s assistant, undertaker, and as the manager of a travel agency — have all fed his writing.

  In 2009, he first successfully took part in a call for literary submissions, and made his start in a new artistic genre. Since then, Vincent Voss has published several horror novels. The author lives, as a happy father of three, in the countryside north of Hamburg.

  Girl in the Well

  VINCENT VOSS

  “I am evil.” The woman’s whispering voice explodes into the receiver. Controlled, emotionless, and still you can make out the struggle it was for her to take this step.

  Many turned to Johanna in this way, but they were rarely so direct. And even more rarely were they so … cool.

  “Hello, this is Johanna Ebeling with the witch archive at the Ethnological Institute in Hamburg. How can I help you?” Johanna asks, building trust, seriousness.

  There is a pause.

  Johanna hears breathing on the other end and sees her colleague Henning come out from behind the bookshelves. Calls are always something special.

  “I am evil. I need to come by. Can I come by?” Scared and demanding at the same time. And, again, Johanna feels the inner conflict in the stranger’s voice. How haunted. Maybe, as is so often the case, mental illness is the only reason for the call.

  “Of course you can. We are open every Tuesday and Thursday from eight to four. It would be best if you made an appointment with …”

  Click. Johanna looks at the handset.

  Even Henning can hear the dial tone in the quiet rooms of the Museum of Ethnology. He shrugs.

  Johanna shakes her head and hangs up. This is also not a rare occurrence, since they offer telephone consultations. It’s just one call among many, which Johanna and her colleague Henning Lambertz quickly forget.

  August. During the break between semesters, the quiet of the institute is overwhelming. Occasionally, they hear Mrs. Kramer clearing books from the shelves in the museum library next door and the sound of tennis balls being hit in the adjacent spaces for the sports academics at Rothenbaum. Henning has opened all the windows, but there’s still a stifling humidity, even within the otherwise relatively cool walls. Johanna is transcribing an interview with a tenant of the Grindle high-rises about a ghost sighting; Henning is entering the typed witches’ logs into the computer. A fan rests on top of a pile of books between the two screens, providing a cool breeze at head height, but without blowing around any loose pages. Johanna stops the playback, her fingers hover over the keyboard, but, instead of typing, she leans forward and sets the fan so that it only blows on Henning. She’s got a chill.

  “What’s going on?” Henning looks at her.

  “It somehow got kind of cold, don’t you think?” He looks up searchingly and shakes his head. Turns back to his manuscript and pauses.

  “Yes! I think you’re right.” He turns off the fan and looks at the window. Johanna looks at the door that leads to the hallway.

  “It’s coming from there.” She nods toward the door and feels the cold flowing toward her from there. Not the type of cold that’s caused by a gust of air. Another type of cold.

  “Yes,” Henning whispers. “It feels like … like …” He doesn’t have the words to describe it, his eyes lingering on the door as if he were expecting someone at any time. Or something. It’s the same for Johanna. And it gets worse. Her stomach is in knots, her heart pounding in her ears. This is fear, she thinks, but doesn’t know of what.

  “Johanna, what is it?”

  She can’t answer, the fear is choking her, the panic is rising, both of them stare at the door and feel surrounded by an icy coldness. The doorknob starts to turn, Johanna’s heart races. The door opens. A woman is standing there and looks around nervously.

  “I called. I said I am evil,” she introduces herself.

  Johanna and Henning remember.

  She sits stiffly upright on a chair in front of them, puts her purse on her knees, and clasps her hands together on top of it in her lap. Her eyes scan the room before landing on Johanna. She pushes her hair out of her face, a nervous gesture, but one that doesn’t help any with the cold and uneasiness surrounding her. Johanna feels it. Henning feels it.

  “I couldn’t make an appointment, please excuse me. I had to see when it … would work.” Henning is the first to free himself from the invisible grip and stands up.

  “Henning Lambertz, associate at the witch archive. May I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?” He circles the desk on the way to the kitchen.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Johanna, you?”

  “Coffee, please.”

  “We spoke on the phone, Mrs. …” Johanna begins the conversation.

  “Falkner. Sabine Falkner.” She mechanically puts out her hand, realizes that they are sitting too far apart, and puts it back in her lap.

  “Johanna Ebeling. That’s all right,” she comments on the attempted handshake.

  “Before we discuss your problem, I have to mention a few things. My colleague and I, we’ve been taking care of the witch archive for four years now. At first, it was purely to go along with an extensive research project about new belief in witches and witchcraft in Northern Germany. That led to the so-called ‘witch hotline,’ which we made available for people to call and tell us about their phenomena. Well, the research has long been finished, but the calls never stopped.” Mrs. Falkner listens attentively. To Johanna, it seems as if she is absorbing every single word. Evil, Johanna writes in a notebook, and continues.

  “As you can see, you are not alone with your … situation. But, in many cases, we advise people to seek out help from a psychologist, since the phenomena they have perceived are usually of an inner nature.” Johanna watches to see how the words affect Mrs. Falkner and waits. Nothing. They drip off of her. Mrs. Falkner smiles slightly and shyly. Johanna still feels uneasy and underlines the word she just wrote down.

  “Good. In the other cases … .”

  “It’s fine that you bring it up,” Mrs. Falkner interrupts. Once again, with the smile that has been slowly making Johanna nervous.

  “I mean, at first, I also asked myself if … well, if I was going insane. But there’s proof. And I think you feel it too, don’t you?” Johanna considers it for a moment, as Henning returns from the kitchen with two cups of coffee and sits down with them.

  “Yes, I think we feel it too, right, Henning?”

  “You mean the coldness?” Johanna nods, Mrs. Falkner feels vindicated.

  “Well, my colleague and I are both under the assumption that you want to tell us something about external causes. In such cases … Henning, do you want to explain?”

  “Yes, sure. In such cases, Mrs. Falkner, we first take a good look at the whole thing. We will ask you questions, maybe even ones that are unpleasant. About your family, your friends, your habits. Sometimes something completely banal can be the answer to your problem. The devil is in the details, so to speak.” Johanna is the only one who notices how Mrs. Falkner briefly flinches. How her controlled
facade crumbles and a glimpse at her soul opens up. A scared, tormented soul, an abyss. Then the curtain returns, and she smiles.

  “We do home visits when it’s necessary. But only when we receive a detailed log of an incident, stating exactly what events have taken place in what location and at what time. It should be documented for at least three weeks.”

  “That is, unless someone is on the brink of a nervous breakdown and simply can’t log three weeks,” Johanna adds.

  “Exactly. Then, of course not, but that almost never happens.” Henning pauses, takes a sip of coffee, the sound of a tennis ball being hit can be heard through the window.

  “But first, we’ll begin with an interview, so you can tell us what exactly has happened so far, which we would like to record and then evaluate,” Henning finishes his explanation.

  “Can I maybe have a glass of water, please?” Mrs. Falkner asks.

  “Of course!” Henning rises and returns to the kitchen.

  “Then you agree to the interview?” Johanna reaches for the audio recorder and connects it to the computer.

  “Yes. Yes, now that I am here, I want to talk.”

  “Good. Very good. Usually that’s already a big help.” Johanna straightens the microphone and looks over at her conversation partner. Mrs. Falkner doesn’t seem convinced that talking will help. Johanna can see it behind her smile. Henning comes back and puts her glass of water and the open bottle on the table. He looks at the calendar to check if there are any other appointments today. There aren’t. He sits down and nods to Johanna. Both are eager to hear what this woman has to tell them. To hear what is creating the cold and uneasiness.

  “Please tell us your story!” Johanna says to Mrs. Falkner, whose eyes widen as she looks out at the lush green trees, then at the flowers on the table in front of them, astrantias and zinnias. Nice memories, Johanna thinks and makes a note of it; Henning takes a sip from his cup. The air is still cold. Johanna clears her throat and presses the start button. And Mrs. Falkner tells her story.

  *

  The Kreuziger Farm. That’s what it was called. It was over a hundred and fifty years old and had been vacant. That was all they knew. But they didn’t ask, since they were … in love. Yes, love is the best way to describe it.

  In November, shortly after they had moved and were living between boxes and randomly placed furniture, it began to snow. Everything looked so picturesque: the little forest, the branches of the pines and firs bending under the snow, the icicles growing on the eaves and gables. It was particularly beautiful on clear evenings and they could look out from their sofa by the fireplace and see the whole countryside sparkle in the moonlight. They had never seen anything so beautiful before and Sabine hadn’t felt this safe and secure since her childhood.

  But, soon after, “it” began. Robert had taken time off, and they wanted to renovate room by room. On the second floor, first the two kids’ rooms, then the bedroom and living room, and then the kitchen and both bathrooms. All the other rooms could then be done gradually, after.

  They stored some furniture and moving boxes in the attic, among the countless things that the previous owner had left behind. The kids’ rooms were completely empty, so Lukas and Ben were crashing for the time being on a mattress in their parents’ room.

  It had started with footsteps, which woke Sabine. From Lukas’s room. At first she thought that Lukas or Ben had gone to the bathroom, but then she saw them sleeping peacefully in the moonlight that filtered in through the window. Robert lay beside her.

  But, since the noise had stopped so suddenly, she assumed that a small avalanche of snow had slid from the roof or that an animal, a cat perhaps, had knocked something over in the attic. She nestled back under the covers.

  THUMP! She heard it again, and this time it didn’t stop. Footsteps. As if someone with heavy shoes or boots were walking up and down the room. One step, almost quietly, so that only the floorboards creaked. And then a heavier step.

  She woke up her husband, but when he opened his eyes, the sound suddenly stopped and Robert fell back to sleep.

  She lay awake for a while, but the steps were gone and it was quiet.

  The next morning, she found a few dead flies in Lukas’s empty room. She was sure that the room had previously been entirely empty and swept clean, because she had wanted to paint. But the carcasses were totally dry, and the flies fell apart when picked up, as if they had been lying there for a long time.

  She shook it off. She didn’t mention it to Robert, and, eventually, she simply forgot about the footsteps and the flies.

  Until the thing with the door started. It was early December. They had already renovated and fixed up the children’s rooms. They had turned out quite lovely: Ben’s room had two small dormers, with windows overlooking the garden, and Lukas’s room was large and spacious — a proper bedroom for a young man.

  Sabine had just cleaned the antique kitchen cabinet, which she and Robert had purchased at an antique shop, when she heard a bang from upstairs.

  “Lukas? Ben?” she called, because she thought they were both actually in the garden, but maybe they had fought and gone to their rooms. But no one answered, and, even though she had really forgotten all about it, she flashed back to the footsteps in the night and wished that Robert were home.

  She went to the stairs and called their names again. No answer. Instead, she heard a door slam. Ben’s bedroom door. She nearly fainted with fright.

  “Ben?” she called out timidly and imagined him in a rage of anger at his brother and sulking in his room. He didn’t answer. Maybe he was really upset. She climbed the stairs and looked up at the hall. She saw the door opening inward. Slowly. Very slowly … .

  She was about to tell Ben to stop this little game when the door slammed shut in front of her. With such force … Ben would have never been able to slam it like that.

  The ensuing silence seemed threatening, as the door opened again. The handle slowly moved downward and the door opened, as if being pushed by a light breeze. It creaked softly.

  Sabine summoned all of her courage and took a step into Ben’s room.

  Through the dormer window, she caught sight of Lukas in the yard and Ben at the edge of the woods building a snow fort.

  Who had slammed the door?

  Despite her fear, she brought herself to peer behind the door.

  And what she saw there was no less terrifying.

  There was no one. Nothing. The room was empty.

  *

  She takes a sip of water, starts to put the glass down, but then drinks the entire glass in one gulp.

  “Are you following me?” she asks.

  “Yes, I think so,” Henning answers. “You doubted your own mind. This fear, coupled with the previous fear of what had already happened … .” He nods and purses his lips. Mrs. Falkner takes a breath.

  “Yes. Yes, exactly. I stood there in the room for a while. Completely unable to move, I stared at the door and waited. Waited for it to move, but nothing happened except that I was cold. And I saw a fly lying on the floor by the door. It was dead. And, again, I said nothing to Robert because I was afraid that something was wrong with me.”

  The fact that something else was wrong occurred to Sabine a few nights later. She tossed and turned in her sleep and woke up. She immediately groped around for Robert, but the bed was empty, the sheets cold.

  She quietly ran out of the bedroom, listened, and peered into the darkness.

  An old house makes a lot of noise, glass rattles, wood creaks, but she still heard an extremely quiet voice coming from the children’s rooms.

  “Robert?” she whispered.

  “Shhh!” she heard him answer from upstairs. But it wasn’t his voice she heard speaking. It was a child’s voice, modulating louder and softer, which resonated throughout the house. As if a child were talking to someone. She crept up the stairs and only saw Robert as a shadow beside Ben’s door.

  “Ben is talking to that Marie again,” h
e whispered to her. She didn’t understand, and Robert told her that Ben had often been in his room talking in the last few nights.

  Talking to someone. First, Robert thought that Ben was just having bad dreams and talking to himself, but then he listened in and realized that Ben was talking to someone. Marie.

  Sabine put an ear up to the door and also tried to understand something. She could clearly make out Ben’s voice:

  “I told Lukas. He thinks I’m stupid, and that it’s not right.” She heard Ben with his blanket rustling and the creaking of the bed frame and could picture him sitting on his bed under his reading lamp. The light was visible from under the door.

  “You already said it, I’m not stupid, Marie. But they won’t believe it”

  —

  “No. Why?”

  —

  “He’s already here? Right now? Marie? No, don’t go!”

  Sabine wanted to ask Robert something when she was hit by a cold draft blowing down the hall from Ben’s room. A coldness that she immediately knew she had never felt before.

  “Robert, something here is not …” They both heard Ben as he got up from he bed, ran to the door, threw it open, and screamed in terror. He was way too fast for them: they’d been discovered.

  “Mom, Dad, what are you doing here?”

  “We heard you talking, Ben. What’s going on?”

  “Can I sleep in your room tonight?” His question immediately turned into sobbing and he fell into Sabine’s arms.

  Before Robert could argue, she firmly said, “Yes, of course, darling.”

  She left Ben with Robert and went into his room to turn off the lamp. It was still cold. On her way out, she closed the door behind her, and a shiver ran down her back.

  Later, she and Robert questioned Ben about Marie. Robert told her he’d already listened at Ben’s door three times and heard Ben talking to his imaginary friend, Marie, every time. Ben was seven now. About three or four years earlier, he had had an imaginary friend named Banscho. At that age it was normal, but at seven?