Psycho Thrill--Girl in the Well Page 3

  “Keep going?” Johanna asks. Henning nods.

  …… Did you hear that? Johanna stops the interview.

  “Hang on!” She rewinds the recording a bit, turns the volume up, and presses START. Both listen attentively. STOP. They look at each other.

  “Steps on the stairs,” Henning whispers, lighting another cigarette with trembling hands. Johanna swallows dryly.

  “I didn’t hear them during the interview.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Keep going?”

  Henning hesitates and then nods. START. They listen to the recording up to the point when the gust of wind sweeps through the office. And a voice that they didn’t hear earlier. Male. A voice that they don’t understand.

  Go! — Mrs. Falkner.

  Then an answer.

  I will descend upon your flesh, cunt!

  Mrs. Falkner flees from the office. STOP.

  Johanna and Henning stare at eachother in silence. Johanna considers listening to the recording again, but decides against it.

  “Okay,” Henning says slowly. “So we have our groundbreaking case. But the question is … what do we do with it, Jo?”

  She thinks it over. “Do you know what language that was?”

  Henning shakes his head.

  “Me neither,” she says.”It’s not Latin or Greek. It has to be something else, or older. We should ask the theologians, and when I have a translation, then I’ll transcribe everything.”

  “Yeah, man, I know we have to keep going. But I mean, what do we do then? If we assume that we are dealing with a … force here, something beyond our scientific comprehension, then what do we do?” His voice almost cracks and he tries to light another cigarette on the smoldering stub of the last one. Johanna briefly considers his question.

  “Then we’ll try to find out what this force wants. That’s our job.”

  *

  Another Two Days Later

  Response to an email request from the Theological Institute, Hamburg, Sender: Volker Strathmann, Subject: Translation Request

  Dear Johanna,

  Nice hearing from you again!

  Unfortunately, it took some time to open the attached midi-files, as we’re a bit behind the times here ;)

  Now, to your question. The voice is speaking ancient Hebrew and saying: “Thou shalt not seethe a young goat in its mother’s milk, whore! Get out (of) here!”

  The text appears in the following books of the Hebrew Bible: Exodus 23,19; Exodus 34,26; and Deuteronomy 14,21.

  These days, it’s the Jewish dietary regulation that requires milk and meat to be kept separate in the preparation of food. And like many other Bible texts, there’s something occultist about this one.

  I hope I was of some service to you and that you would permit me a question: What the hell is this about?

  I would be happy to see you again!

  Volker

  Response from Johanna Ebeling, about an hour later.

  Dear Volker,

  Thank you for your help.

  Of course we can meet up — just name the place, and I can tell you what the hell this is all about.

  Talk to you soon,

  Johanna

  *

  Late August

  The first thing they notice are the crickets. It hasn’t rained in the past few days. It’s muggy, though, and the chirps ring out from the dried grass of the meadow, which extends as far as the eye can see. Occasionally, the wind rustles the leaves of the trees that line the edge of the road, but otherwise it is silent. Even the traffic from the main road is muted.

  The Kreuziger Farm sits alone on a small country road, where Henning has parked the car.

  They have come unannounced. They made numerous efforts to call Mrs. Falkner, but no one ever picked up.

  They approach the farm as if sneaking up on a wild animal. The stalking movements were unconscious at first, and, even after they notice it, they can’t shake their cautious behavior. They know too much. The old farmhouse seems threatening. The old, dark shards of glass in the windows. The thatched roof. The green painted wooden gate that looks like the mouth of a predatory deep-sea fish hiding in the shadows. The overgrown lawn, through which a natural stone path winds up to the house door.

  It reminds Johanna of something sleeping, lying dormant under the surface. The doors and windows are closed despite the heat, there’s no car in the yard to indicate the presence of inhabitants.

  And crickets. There must be thousands in the grass here. Johanna and Henning stand there indecisively. Should they knock on the gate or go to the dilapidated front door? A curtain moves, a pale face disappears behind it.

  “That was her!” Henning hisses.

  “Yes, I think it was.”

  They decide to go to the door and ring the bell. Wait. Again. Nothing. Johanna tries one more time.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to us, Jo. We came here for nothing.” Henning turns to head back to the car. Johanna shakes her head and slams her fist on the door.

  “Mrs. Falkner! We know you’re in there. We need to talk to you!”

  “Jo, let it go!” Henning urges. Johanna beats on the door again until they hear the chain of a lock rattling behind it, and the door opens a crack.

  Mrs. Falkner. Pale. Her face looks like someone who is dying. Through the opening, they notice that she is clutching a wooden figure. Her statue of the Virgin Mary.

  “I don’t want to talk to you, thank you,” she says. She tries to pull the door shut, but Johanna pushes her foot in the crack.

  “Mrs. Falkner, we NEED to talk to you. We believe you.”

  “The … I … please take your foot out of my door. I … can’t talk to you.” The face disappears behind the door.

  “Mrs. Falkner, we heard the voice. I will descend upon your flesh, cunt. And also the part in Ancient Hebrew. Do you want to know what it said? We had it translated.” Johanna keeps her foot in the door, waiting. Henning stays. Seconds pass, but it feels like an eternity.

  “You heard the voice too?” A timid question from behind the door.

  “We brought the recording. You can listen to it too if you want.”

  It takes a few moments, but the haggard face reappears. As if someone had drained all the energy from it.

  “Come in.” She opens the chain and the door opens.

  It’s cold in the house. Mrs. Falkner is holding her Mary statue protectively in front of her. Johanna and Henning enter, Mrs. Falkner closes the door, the chirping from the crickets dies away and they are engulfed in silence. Silence and hopelessness.

  “I don’t know, you shouldn’t stay too long,” she says. “Please!” Her please can be understood as an invitation to follow her or as a plea for them to leave again quickly.

  Johanna and Henning follow her through the spacious hallway. Family pictures. Children growing over the years, the life of a family.

  “Do you think it could also come in here?” Henning asks.

  She stops and turns to him.

  “It’s already here.”

  Henning is speechless. That explains his intuitive fear of the building; that explains the atmosphere in the house.

  “You say it is here now. Can it hear us, Mrs. Falkner?” Johanna asks. She opens up her backpack and holds out her recorder.

  “I don’t know. I just know it’s here. So come. Quickly!” She opens a door and leads Johanna and Henning to the kitchen.

  “Please have a seat. Would you like to drink something?” Henning asks for juice, Johanna a glass of water. They sit down. Johanna puts the recording device on the table.

  “Would you like to hear it?” Johanna asks. Mrs. Falkner takes a moment to think about it.

  “No. Maybe later. You said we have to talk.” Is it a refusal or fear that is making Mrs. Falkner react with such reservation? Henning and Johanna look at each other.

  “We would love to help you, Mrs. Falkner. But we need to know more,” Henning explains.

  “We want
to ask you more questions and take some photos of the well. We would like to question your neighbors. About Marie,” Johanna lays it out. Mrs. Falkner doesn’t respond. Her face is stony.

  “Only if it doesn’t bother you and your family, of course,” Henning adds.

  She cringes ever so slightly and struggles to remain composed, with her hands clutching the statue.

  “My family,” she whispers and looks up.

  “I want to answer your questions, but I also want to warn you. You’re putting yourselves in danger. I want to make sure you know that!” She straightens herself up with a surprising inner strength. She is determined.

  “I want you to know what you’re getting into,” she fixes her eyes on Johanna and Henning. Both are thinking.

  “I know what I’m getting myself into, Mrs. Falkner,” Johanna replies first. Mrs. Falkner laughs dryly, but says nothing. Henning nods to her. Outwardly composed, inwardly torn.

  “Well. Where would you like to begin?”

  “First, we’d like to take photos of the well. Would that be possible?” Without a word, Mrs. Falkner gets up, pushes the chair under the table, and walks out the door. Johanna and Henning follow her out of the kitchen into the living room. Henning nods meaningfully to Johanna. There is flypaper dangling from the ceiling in every room. Not just one, but in the living room there are half a dozen strips. But they don’t see any flies. They go out to the terrace, then through the garden. Behind the extensive greenery, there is a small spruce and birch forest. They pass children’s toys lying around in the knee-high grass, a soccer goal, a little green tractor with a trailer, some weathered soccer balls. It smells like a wood in a hot summer, and like grass.

  A small path leads into the woods. They are facing a thicket. It has long been left to grow wild.

  “I haven’t been down here for a long time,” Mrs. Falkner explains flatly and slows her steps. A circle of pines at eye level partially blocks the view of the red brick well.

  “That’s it.” Mrs. Falkner stops and points. Henning takes out his camera, Johanna her recorder.

  They can hear the crickets here in the woods. Henning checks the lighting, Johanna circles the well. The brittle wooden cover is split in two and rusty nails pierce upwards through the top. Johanna carefully pushes on a board, which groans under the pressure. Through the hole, she peers into the shaft of the well — an inky spot of black from which a coldness emanates.

  “Do you happen to know how old the well is?” Johanna asks.

  “No.”

  Henning starts shooting the first pictures. The whole well from different perspectives, as far as the surrounding flora will allow. Then details. Individual stones in the wall, the rim, the destroyed cover. Johanna stands next to him.

  “The age of the well can’t be determined. Question: are wells on record? Can anyone have a well? Is there a registry?”

  STOP.

  “Can you help me take off the cover?” Henning asks. They grab both sides and put it on the ground. Henning gets his camera flash out of his bag, looks for a place on the edge of the wall to set himself up and light up the shaft. Johanna leans forward, squints, and peers into the depths. It smells salty and is cool. Cold. Too cold? Johanna shivers.

  “How do you feel?” she asks Henning.

  “What?”

  “How do you feel?” She looks into the well, he looks at Mrs. Falkner.

  “I don’t know, Jo. Something’s not right with all this,” he whispers.

  “And now? Here? At the well?”

  He sets down the flash and hooks up a manual trigger.

  “Well, I still can’t say anything about the well. I’m just too … .” He tests out the flash. Henning stumbles two steps.

  “Johanna, get away from there!” It sounds like a gasp. Johanna steps back from the edge of the well. Henning holds up the camera, presses the shutter release like a racecar driver pressing a gas pedal, and cautiously approaches the well.

  “Henning, what is it?”

  “There was something. In the well. I’m sure of it. A face.”

  In the distance, a dog is barking, Mrs. Falkner shoos away a fly.

  “Henning, don’t go any closer to it!” Johanna shouts at him sternly. But he stays there, shooting more photos.

  “Maybe we’d better go back to the house now,” Mrs. Falkner warns.

  “Shit, Johanna, there was really something. Deep down below. Shit, I hope we have it.” He clicks through the pictures, but they’re too dark. Maybe he can still tease something from them later, on the computer.

  “Come now, please. Just leave the cover and I’ll take care of it later.” Mrs. Falkner shoos away something in the air and turns back to the house. Johanna and Henning follow her.

  A dog barks again, on a neighboring farm. A hoard of flies burst out of the well; they collect into a swarm and die immediately. Then the forest is quiet again. Except for the chirping of crickets.

  “So, what else do you need to know?” Mrs. Falkner asks when they are sitting in the kitchen again. Henning looks at the flypaper, where a fly is now struggling. The hum of its wings cuts through the silence, while they think about their response and about what they’ve seen.

  “We don’t have much time, do we?” Johanna asks. Her voice is soft. And, with her directness, she reaches Mrs. Falkner.

  “Yes,” she whispers. “And it’s dangerous for you. It could kill you. Believe me.”

  Johanna nods.

  “What about your family? Where are your sons? Your husband?”

  Johanna and Mrs. Falkner look at each other for a long time.

  “What happened after that? After your older son fell into the well?” Johanna puts the recorder on the table, hooks up a microphone, and points it into the room. Henning puts a digital thermometer next to it. It indicates that it’s 73.7° F. START. She nods to Mrs. Falkner, who takes a deep breath, clutches her statue of Mary, and begins.

  “At first, nothing happened. We celebrated Christmas and were all very careful with each other. I was so happy to have Lukas back. But there was still something threatening hanging over us. I think everyone imagined that something horrible would happen if we talked about it. Even Ben was silent.” She looks out of the kitchen window and sighs.

  “The winter ended, spring began. We created an ideal world for ourselves and glossed over the obvious. Do you understand what I mean? Ben and Lukas didn’t complain about not having friends in kindergarten or at school. But they also never brought home visitors. We, or rather just me, since Robert was working a lot then, explained it to myself as because of the isolated location. They didn’t come because we lived too far out in the country, I told myself. In reality, I knew it was the Kreuziger Farm itself that the others feared. You know, I checked out other houses and calculated whether we could manage without selling the house and with a second salary if I went back to work, but we had invested too much in the house at that point. And I didn’t expect to sell the farm very quickly. It was hopeless.” She shakes her head, lowers her eyes, and looks at the figure in her hands.

  Henning nudges Johanna under the table with his foot and nods to the thermometer. It indicates that it’s 73.2° F. With another gesture, he asks her if they should let Mrs. Falkner know about the temperature change. Johanna shakes her head.

  “Then what happened, Mrs. Falkner?” She looks up. Despair is written all over her face — her memories trouble her. From the corner of her eye, Johanna notices another drop in the temperature to 73° F. She thinks she can feel it. Henning shifts in his chair uncomfortably, his eyes drift around the kitchen.

  “Robert’s brother Jochen came to visit over Easter with his family. His children and ours got along well, and I liked his wife, Christa, very much. Nothing, absolutely nothing, even hinted at what was going to happen. They arrived on Holy Thursday, we took trips to Hamburg and went on walks to the nearby bog. They wanted to leave on Easter Sunday, and we sat down to breakfast together in the living room. As usual, Jochen beg
an to say grace with his family. It wasn’t Robert’s thing, but it didn’t bother us either. We found it funny — I could see Ben grinning and rolling his eyes. But Lukas … he was suddenly unrecognizable. I saw the whites of his eyes, his whole body was tensed in an unnatural way, and he began to throw his head back and forth.

  “’Lukas!’ Robert hissed, but Lukas couldn’t hear him. His body shot up, the chair fell over, the cups and glasses rattled. He pointed to Jochen and said … something. But it wasn’t his own voice!”

  Mrs. Falkner is breathing faster; Henning sees the temperature dropping. Johanna is now sure she can feel it. The temperature has fallen several degrees.

  “And he spoke in a foreign language, while pointing at his uncle Jochen. My husband jumped up and yelled at Lukas, but Lukas didn’t stop. Jochen and his family were shocked. Ben and I were too. Ben slid onto my lap and begged Lukas to stop. Everyone was screaming, Robert rushed to Lukas, but then Lukas began to speak coherently. It was still in a different voice, but we could understand him.”

  Mrs. Falkner pauses. It’s difficult for her to recount.

  “He said: Fuck your resurrection. Fuck your holy mother and jizz in her womb. Robert slapped Lukas at that point, but Lukas just laughed and … Robert lost control and kept hitting Lukas. Then Robert eventually stopped.

  Your big brother Jochen was always jealous of your cock, Robert. Because he only has such a tiny one. That’s why he stuck his tongue down the throat and in the pussy of your first great love when you were on a school trip. Lukas said that just before he simply collapsed and fainted.”

  Mrs. Falkner swallows, tears well up in her eyes, the fingers on her left hand are bloody because she keeps scratching her nails against the nail beds.

  “And then?” Johanna pushes the interview onward. Because it’s steadily getting colder, because Henning looks more and more worried.

  “Robert fought with his brother, they left with wild insults being thrown back and forth. Anyway, it was clear that Lukas had told the truth. Even if neither of them … spoke openly on the subject. Then Lukas wouldn’t eat for three days, and chanted to himself. We took Lukas to a psychologist, but that didn’t help. Lukas couldn’t remember anything. He was tested for Tourette’s and epilepsy. We even let ourselves be talked into a family consultation, but nothing helped. Robert distanced himself from us more and more; he hid away with his work and avoided his sons. Ben and Lukas felt … .”