What happened 5 days ago...

West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
31 November 1898, 9:04 pm.

This year's All Hallows Eve began with such a cloudy evening that even the red of the setting sun turned a pale grey. In the narrow alleys, in front of the fences as well as along the streets, lights glowed and flickered behind the grinning faces of pumpkins and turnips. Meanwhile, the children had already finished their rounds through the village from door to door and had returned home satisfied with honey sweets and toffee.

At the Skirrid Inn, the celebration did not begin until after the sun had set. People gathered in the village tavern, taking every opportunity to escape the monotonous duties for a short while. The small room had been festively decorated. Small dolls made of straw or ghosts made of cones and white sheets hung on the walls and from the ceiling. Numerous candles flickered in the parlor, most of them in hand-carved turnips and lanterns with the eerie grimaces of Jack- 'O -Lanterns and other creepy characters.

While the womenfolk had gathered in the town hall as guests of the mayor's wife to predict the marital luck of the unmarried ladies with all sorts of traditional games, the parlor in the Skirrid Inn was filled with bawling and drunken men. Here they did not peel apples in front of mirrors or eat cakes with thimbles or rings baked into the pieces. Some of the men had thrown on black cloaks for the feast and lightened their faces with chalk or white powder to appear as sinister as possible, in keeping with the traditions of this festival. Far from female giggling, it was more due to the alcohol here that many already had a noticeable blush on their cheeks and around their noses. Instead of sweet cakes, they had feasted on Elly's pumpkin soup, pumpkin bread, and pumpkin pies before egging each other on to drink.

Young Elly balanced herself among the wavering ghostly figures, trying not to spill too much when some prankster thought to frighten her that evening. Arabella Andrews had been helping in the kitchen until the evening, washing up and passing bowls and pieces of pies to Vorn for a while. But a few hours ago she had finally gone to bed because of a headache. So his wife lay lazing upstairs in the parlor while Walter Andrews and Elly slaved. It would have been a lie to say that this did not make him bitter. Ever since she had failed the last time to give them a child, she was hardly good for anything. And he was quite happy about it. The brats were nothing but trouble anyway. Tonight, the little Jäger child had even dared to knock on his door and ask for sweets.

Arabella's migraine attacks were becoming more and more frequent, but as long as Elly was helping diligently, he didn't want to complain. After all, his young, pretty waitress appealed to the clientele more than his wife did. Elly scurried around like a dervish tonight, yet there was always a call for supplies in every corner. So Walter took care of the bar. Of course, part of these evenings was to get the guests to drink as much as possible. After all, these were the festivities where he earned the most as a landlord. As was the tradition, the village headman would provide the refreshments on this night. And not only because it had been the custom since time immemorial, but also because on this evening he escaped from his house full of women and took shelter himself in the Skirrid Inn.

Admittedly, Walter had already had a little too much to drink today. Taking advantage of the free drinks and food for them, the first villagers had already gathered in the pub early in the morning and he had of course not turned down every invitation, after all, it encouraged others to drink a little more. Now, towards evening, the level became more noticeable, as the mood loosened but so did tongues.

Laughter flooded over those present after he had grabbed the cheeky, drunken Hopkins under the arm like a sack of flour and carried him out the door. Laughing darkly, he watched the young fool stagger away. He would not tolerate brawling and bickering in his parlor today. Later he would get the echo of his wife because he had drunk too much again. Quickly Walter returned behind the counter, grabbed the stained tea towel, and wiped it over the mugs swilled out in dishwater.

"Mr. Andrews." Urged the voice beside him to his ear and torn from his thoughts, the burly innkeeper turned his head.

"We need new wine. We're out of it." Elly explained, pointing to a row of empty bottles that stood stretching their necks, clustered together. Dull light from the numerous candles made the glass shimmer as if they were pines in the moonlight.

The grin on Walter's features grew. This was the second time today he had had to fetch new wine and ale! He would be able to charge the mayor a tidy sum. "I'll get some new ones." he, therefore, declared good-humouredly and threw the damp cloth on the shelf behind the counter. The innkeeper hurried through the passageway into the kitchen. Wooden countertops were filled here with prepared and already covered or uncovered pies, bowls filled with the pulp of pumpkins, minced meat, and rolls of dough. The tangy smell of the pumpkin pies currently baking emanated from the oven. Bubbling, a simmering stew made the lid on a large pot clatter softly over and over again. Steam rose, filling the kitchen with heavy air swollen with aromas. Walter crossed the kitchen area with long strides to approach the stairs that led behind the wooden door into the storage room. The curved metal handle squeaked under the pressure of his hands as he pushed it open inwards. The light from the kitchen spilled into the dark room. Still, he decided it would be sufficient for his brief venture.

Unlike the cooking room, the cool, clammy air of the pantry welcomed him here. Shelves upon shelves lined the walls, filled with all kinds of food or bottles, jars, and wheels of cheese. There were even two pieces of cured bacon hanging from the ceiling, pieces of which he regularly cut down and sometimes sold at good prices to old Mrs. Jäger. Since the old woman got nothing from the grocer, she got what she needed from him or a few other gracious villagers, so the higher price he could charge for it was well worth it for him.

Dull light filtered into the room, casting dancing shadows and spots on bundles of herbs, bottles, and wooden shelves. The typical smell of a cold, damp cellar mingled with that of swollen wood and straw, which had been laid out in some corners and on the floor. Next to the round colossi of some barrels, wine bottles made of dark glass were stacked on a shelf. For a moment he considered perhaps opening a better vintage. What was wrong with enjoying himself a little today and then indulging later to round off the evening? His grin widened a little as rough, calloused fingers settled on one of the dusty glass bottles. He pulled out the top of one bottle, then decided to go for the better wine. He bent down and his gaze fell on the wooden legs of the wine rack. The scattered candlelight met a tangle of... there.

"Wool?" Walter furrowed his sweaty brow. The light flickered fitfully outside the cellar and for a moment he thought he might have been mistaken. Then he reached out to reassure himself that he hadn't already drunk more than he thought. Rough wool scratched his palm as he picked up the found object. The roughly wound roll of red yarn was larger than the palm of his hand. A pointed knitting needle poked through the round lump and a long thread trailed at his feet, past the edge of the shelves to the stairs and from there back to the kitchen. The expression around his lips hardened as he reached a little harder for two bottles, tucked them under his arm, and followed the trail of knitting yarn. He hadn't even noticed it on the way down here. "Bloody hell."

Grumbled the innkeeper as he wound up the thread. Now it had become dirty and dusty.

With angry steps, he came back into the parlor. The red path led past the counter and to the shelf that stood there. With a biting expression, the innkeeper set the bottles down on the counter and continued to wind the thread in round movements around the unclean ball. "Elly!" he bluffed, casting a searching glance around the parlor as he took the next step. "What a stupid prank this is supposed to be!" he whistled as the girl approached. "You know Arabella hates to death to have her embroidery thread touched! Look at it! It's completely filthy! She'll spank you for it so you won't be able to sit down!" he snapped at the girl, who blinked in confusion with the tray in her hands.

"But I didn't..." she murmured, and big brown doe eyes gazed uncomprehendingly at the red twine that tightened unattractive tabs around the bundle in the host's fingers.

Walter seethed with anger. His wife had deteriorated noticeably of late. But there were a couple of rules that had to be followed at all times, and she still reacted like a hound dog when they were broken. Arabella embroidered and knitted every day and didn't like people touching her things. She tidied every button and the yarn itself she sometimes even had brought in from Plymouth or Exeter. "Who else would it have been!" he grumbled at the young girl.

"YOU can figure out how you're going to explain that to her tomorrow!" he continued to grumble as he pushed past the maid. Then something at the window caught his eye. Only briefly, as if candlelight was reflected in the pane. Even as he looked, he stumbled all at once and lost his footing.

His body fell forward like a sandbag, it rumbled as he hit the tabletop and then went down after all. Walter let out a shriek as the tip of the knitting needle dug deep into the ball of his hand. Unyieldingly, the iron piece penetrated skin and tissue and sank several inches into his beefy left hand. Heads turned in his direction as the hunky host immediately scrambled hastily to his feet and reached for the needle, pulling it from his hand in one swift jerk. Blood gushed forth and a flurry of activity entered the taproom.

"What happened?!"

"Holy shit!"

All sorts of exclamations rolled out in confusion. Most just gaped stupidly. Walter cursed like a sailor while the dancing light of the candles crept over the red blood spreading on the floor, his hand, and his clothes.

"Don't stand there, get a cloth already!" the innkeeper ruled the maid ironically, closing his fingers around the injury.

"That looks bad," remarked Lloyd Walsh, the village hunter, like the last idiot. As if he couldn't see it for himself!

"Shall we have a doctor called?" suggested Farmer Jenkins the smart-aleck fool, while the latter looked anxiously at the rivulets of blood flowing down the stout arm and dripping from Walter's elbow. The innkeeper screwed up his face and then wrapped the linen cloth he had brought in tightly around his hand. He would have liked to lash out and smack the brat in anger! Damn it all. He would make the girl pay for that stupid prank later!

The flashing eyes stared angrily at his hand. Checking, he moved his fingers and opened and closed them once. Pain dragged unpleasantly in his knuckles. But it gnawed at the host's pride that he had tripped like a fool and hurt himself. "Nonsense. Been through worse." he irritably returned to Jenkins.

If they'd had the time and the look, maybe they would have noticed. Amid innocent wood, the blood felt its way through grooves and shapes, filling them and choosing a new one. There, the red was brushed like careful handwriting on the boards of the floor. Drops scattered, the rivers so clear in contrast, the narrow course pulled apart, fanned out, and tapered again. A curved, blood-streaked red feather. Undiscovered and unseen, over which only the candlelight fell.

Elly was already hurrying to bring some water and soap to wipe up the blood before it soaked into the floorboards. One of the men handed her the needle so that she could clean it too. Carefully, John Davis the tailor then slid the devastating household item into the basket with the others where it belonged.

"Where is the ball of twine?" asked the eager maid, her eyes gliding searchingly over the floor. But no one could discover him.

"Fuck this stupid yarn!" grumbled the innkeeper at once. He wrinkled his lips and nose. The cheerfulness had taken on an oppressive bend that needed to be quickly corrected. "Better get something on that scare! A local round!" after the fright that had dragged down the mood, cheers now broke out again. At first hesitantly, then more lightheartedly and not long later, they clinked their mugs noisily together. Walter ignored the pulling throb that tingled in his fingers. It was nothing new for him, at least that's what he told himself. Once he had cut himself terribly deep. It throbbed for days before it healed.

He poured a round of cider, wine, and ale behind the bar with stiff movements. The mood picked up again. But his movements became increasingly strenuous. Pain now pressed up to his elbows and made his fingers stiffen.

An hour later, cold sweat stood on his forehead. Meanwhile, a throbbing headache plagued him. Maybe all the drinking on top of an injury and the long day had just not been a good idea. Even Elly noticed that Walter was paler around the nose by now.

Shortly before 11 pm, the innkeeper said goodbye to his guests.

"Be diligent and don't let anyone leave until all the barrels are empty!" he slurred in a heavy voice to Elly and gave the young thing a flat laughing slap on the butt. Elly pressed her lips together as he made his way to the stairs. Laughter followed him, then he shut out the noise behind the door. The sharp shapes blurred in the semi-darkness and groaning, Walter ran his hands over his eyes. The way to the bedroom seemed incredibly long and laborious to him. His wife was already sleeping so deeply that she didn't even wake when he finally let himself sink into the springs beside her.

His heartbeat throbbed droningly behind his eyes and burning pain cut from his palm to his whole arm. His body was heavy as lead as if someone had wrapped him in a cloak and filled his pockets with stones. His mind slipped away, and his thoughts lost form. He blinked against his heavy eyelids as a movement in the corner of his eye made his heart lurch. He was about to scold her, but he was too exhausted for that. What did his wife want next to him? Wasn't she just lying in bed? No... it wasn't Arabella...

Walter tried to turn his head, but his body would not obey. Everything was so numb, so heavy. Who was it, there at his bedside? "Who...?" he pressed out with difficulty. No more than a hoarse whisper. The silhouette seemed to lean over him. Walter thought he saw lips twist into a wide grin. Sneering and mocking. A dancing flame blinded his tired eyes. Couldn't they dim the damned light?! Walter blinked hard. His eyelids were heavy, sinking lower and lower. He fought in vain against the merciless sleep. He was tired. So incredibly tired.

When his wife awoke the next morning, her husband lay pale as death at her left. His eyes were sunken and dark shadows lay beneath them. He looked haggard as if he had been lying in a sick bed for many days or even weeks. Barely visible, his chest rose and fell. His body was cold and sweaty. He did not respond to any shaking or calling. Even when Elly and Arabella brought water and cold compresses, he hardly reacted. When they guilelessly threw back the blanket to cool him, they let out a startled cry. 

It was a gruesome sight that presented itself: blood had stained the mattress and sheets red and completely soaked them. The wound had not stopped bleeding and blackish veins protruded from under his skin like inky rivers. They laboriously tended to the host, herbal ointments and cold water were brought in. But when the doctor from Exeter finally arrived, Walter Andrews had long since closed his eyes forever.