Chapter One: The Snow in Steinbruck
(From the journal of Father Benedikt Jurić)
The winter clung to the village of Steinbruck. Snow lay in thick blankets over the steep rooftops, pressing against shutters like a silencer's hand. The stone bell tower of St. Nikolaus Church pierced the leaden sky, its frozen spire catching the last light of a dying sun. Smoke curled from scattered chimneys below, lazy and relaxed, as if reluctant to rise above the treeline that loomed like jagged sentinels. Few dared to speak too loudly during this season, fewer still strayed into the forest. The wind carried more than frost; it carried voices mocking whispers that spoke with familiar tones, drawing men into darkness. In the stillness stood Father Benedikt Jurić. Cloaked in black and grey, he seemed to merge with the monastery walls as he gazed over the valley from the arched window of the bell tower. The wind tugged at the edges of his cassock, but he remained unmoving. He had seen many winters but none quite like this. Steinbruck was not empty. Not yet. But something had shifted. People spoke in whispers, crossed themselves more frequently, avoided their own reflections in water. The Jäger boy Severus had not been seen in over a week, though his traps still sprung in the woods. Old Faenlin was shouting again, calling names that hadn't been heard since before the duchy had sent soldiers to the borders. And yesterday, little Hans Götzinger swore he saw his dead grandmother tapping on the frost covered window. The truth, however, was more cunning. Father Benedikt knew. Because he had heard it too, a voice like his mother's.
Father Benedikt's Journal:
"God help me, I have seen the veil thin. The people of Steinbruck speak often of wolves in the mountains and pagan remnants in the woods, but they do not see. They do not know. Not as I do.
It began seven days past, as the last light of service extinguished itself behind the alpenglow. I was in the sanctuary, preparing the oil for Chrism, when I heard my name whispered, urgent, from the old confessional booth.
"Benedikt."
My blood turned to ice, not because of the voice itself, but because it was my father's voice. The man who bled out in our family chapel with his eyes open to the vaulted ceiling, forever staring.
I did not answer. I did not dare.
The silence that followed stretched so long I began to doubt what I heard. But when I opened the booth, the inside was wet with snowmelt, though the door had remained locked and sealed since All Saints' Day.
And then came the second voice gentler.
Mother.
I would burn the church to ash before I wrote down the things that voice said.
This valley has a memory. The trees remember blood. The wind knows the names of the dead. Something ancient stirs again, something older than the Church, older than the Duchy, older than even the Wurzelthron cult whose dark banners we burned in 1163.
I see it in the eyes of my flock.
Gundemar, the blacksmith's son, spat blood on the church floor three nights ago and laughed about it. He says he dreams of a white stag with seven legs and a mouth full of fire. He drank three bottles of mead and tried to hang himself from the bell rope. We cut him down, but he's different now. He stares too long at the mountains.
Young Brunhalt came to me for confession, his hands still stained with soil. He dug a hole, he said dug it for a bird, but kept digging. His voice trembled when he told me: "The earth whispered back. It said my name, Father. Over and over. It said it knew my mother."
God grant me wisdom there is more.
Ulrich Siegenthaler walked into the church this morning and dropped a fox's head on the altar. Said nothing. Left. His sister Hildegard came shortly after, begging for prayers. She fears her brother wanders the woods at night speaking to "our mother," though she's long dead. She did not know I saw the same dirt under Ulrich's nails that I saw on the grave behind the chapel, a grave disturbed.
What lives in these woods wears the voices of those we loved. It mimics them perfectly. I once read of such a creature in a text forbidden to even the Bishop "Nachzehrer," the soul-chewers. But this is worse. This is no revenant, it is a mockery. A parasite of memory.
I write these words not for comfort, but for record. If I disappear, let it be known that I did not go willingly. My heart, heavy though it may be, is not suicidal.
Not again.
And if you hear my voice, do not follow it.
It is not me."
Chapter Two: The Slavic Guest
From the journal of Father Benedikt Jurić
I first saw him on the southern path, just before dusk's final breath. He was hunched against the wind, a figure of fur and frost, leading a mule burdened with bundles of cloth and jars wrapped in leather. He walked like a man who had traveled farther than his boots were meant for.
"Zdravo," he said, raising one gloved hand. He has a thick Slavic accent. I felt something familiar stir, something I could not name.
"Welcome to Steinbruck," I replied, though I could not say I meant it. Few newcomers ever came this deep into the valley. Fewer still left again.
He gave his name simply: Yuri Vladimovich Patsov. From the north-east, near the Carpathian crest. Said he was a trader and herbalist by craft, though I noticed no potions among his goods, only preserved roots, carved icons, and a dagger with strange carving I did not recognize. He asked for shelter, not coin, and I offered him Brunhalt Kolgerson's barn, knowing the boy would agree. Brunhalt was always too eager to please.
The villagers met Yuri with the cautiousness and politeness they gave to strangers. Helmrich Siegenthaler invited him to the hearth briefly, asking polite questions over black bread. Hildegard smiled and blessed the girl but Ulrich did not. He circled the man like a hound sniffing for poison.
I watched them from the chapel steps. Something about Yuri unsettled me, though he spoke gently, laughed softly, and never once looked toward the forest with the fear the others had begun to show.
But the first night, God forgive me, that is when it began.
Brunhalt's Farmstead at Midnight
Yuri lay beneath the rafters of the Kolgerson barn, wrapped in wool and the scent of hay. The fire in the stone hearth had dimmed to an orange eye, barely blinking. Snow tapped against the shutters like skeletal fingers. He had just begun to drift into the hollow sleep of the travel-weary when he heard it
"Yura…"
The voice.
His eyes opened. Stillness. The kind that held its breath. He knew that voice.
"Yura, darling. Yura, it's me… come home. The snow is too deep for the little one…"
The voice of his wife. Not the woman he left behind in Volkovac a decade ago, crying as he rode for Krakow, but the wife long dead. Five winters ago, devoured by fever. Along with their daughter.
He bolted upright, with watery eyes.
"Come see her, Yura. Come see Anichka."
No footsteps. No door creaked. Yet the voice, that voice, slid through the seams of the barn like breath through cracked lips.
He stepped outside.
The snow was untouched, pristine. But in the distance, beneath the treeline, he saw a light. Flickering. Moving.
A lantern?
And beside it, the smallest shape. A girl. Pale and barefoot in the snow. Holding a doll he thought long rotted in the grave beside his wife.
"Tata," the little girl said, "why did you let me drown?"
He staggered. She turned and ran into the trees.
Yuri followed.
I awoke before Matins with dread clutching my chest like something unpleasant might happen. Something had pulled me from my dreams, not with sound but with absence. A coldness that felt like a wound.
I lit no lamp. I simply dressed and went out into the snow, knowing exactly where I would find it.
The treeline.
Near the old boundary stone the one with the rune carved into its base, long since weathered smooth by wind and moss.
Yuri was there. Unconscious, half-buried in snow. His hands curled inward like a child's in fear.
I brought him back to the chapel. Washed the blood from his brow. It wasn't until the water turned red that I saw it.
The mark.
A scar, carve not by knife or flame, but by something older. A symbol burned into his flesh just above his brow, like it had chosen him.
It was the Vermis Dei sigil. Twisted Latin. Worm of God. A forbidden brand in old demonological texts. No priest uses it. Not even the heretical monks of Krain.
And yet… it was there.
He awoke screaming.
"I heard her, Father," Yuri whispered. "My Mila. And Anichka. She had her doll. The one with the green ribbon. I buried it with her, I did."
I nodded but said nothing.
"She ran into the woods. She… she blamed me. She said I let her drown."
"And did you?" I asked.
He wept. "I wasn't fast enough. The river took her before I reached the bank."
His fingers clawed at the bandages on his brow.
"What is this?" he asked.
"A scar," I said. "Best not to pick at it."
"Did you mark me?"
"No," I said quietly. "But something did."
The forest has grown bolder. It does not just call now it touches. Brands. Marks. I fear Yuri's presence was not a chance, but an invitation. Something ancient watches the borders of Steinbruck.
I have prayed, but the silence grows heavier.
If you see a light in the trees, do not follow it.
If you hear a voice like someone you love, do not answer.
It is not them.
It is never them.
And if you wake with a mark on your head,
then it is already too late.
— Father Benedikt Jurić
St. Nikolaus, Steinbruck