[DE GERMAN WATTYS GRAND PRIZE WINNER & TOP 25 HISTORICAL AWARD 2023] *The perfect first mission for two inexperienced seekers: a small village in the middle of dark forests. Gruesome deaths and mysterious events. Kyle is a self-proclaimed Master of...
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West Coast Devonshire, Exeter Central Station 3 November 1898, 5:54 pm
The tiny carriage was just big enough to seat four people. But that was already plenty of room. The benches were anything but comfortable, the upholstery sagged, and the musty smell of many years lingered in the carriage like some perfume. On the solid, rectangular roof above the side windows of the doors, the surly coachman had merely secured the luggage between two iron retaining bars with ropes, causing Kyle more than a bit of concern. Not only because he didn't like his baggage being carelessly thrown and lashed down like a stubborn mule, but also because his fancy suitcase contained some fragile things whose integrity was essential to him, to top it all off, Kyle had to realize that, moreover, they would not be making the journey in just the two of them. With washy, looped turns of words that met with hard-rolled R's that seeped under the tones, the coachman told them in a typical Jenna accent that they would have to wait for another passenger.
Since there were obviously three passengers, there was some possibility of positioning their legs so that they did not bump their knees during the entire journey, but there would definitely have been no space for his luggage. But that didn't change the fact that he had never had to sit in such a tiny, uncomfortable means of transport. The only thing that lifted his spirits was the view from the dirty windows.
He had to admit that the view on this journey offered some variety. From Exeter, they had set off in a south-westerly direction. The landscape had quickly taken them over and enveloped them in autumnal colors. It was fascinating how the death of nature could look so beautiful as the trees dressed in colorful robes and strewn a carpet of brightly painted foliage across the meadows. After less than half an hour, the interesting field system of the countryside finally caught his attention. He had already read that these endless streams, like a patchwork quilt of fields separated by scrub and another overgrowth, had been laid out in the Bronze Age and so preserved. Among other things, there were also correspondingly old dwellings from this period on Dartmoor.
Traveling to an area that had inspired numerous writers with its dark and mysterious scenery was exciting. But all that still interested him far less than the stone circles that could be found everywhere in the area. Unfortunately, their first assignment did not take them to one of those ancient sites to research or investigate related events. Of course, he knew not to expect too much. Many cases were nothing but humbug and, in the end, attributable to the superstition of the people who were too quick to recognize a ghost in the shadows of a sheet in the wind.
Deep forests, endless like labyrinths. Anyone lost could be lost forever, for nature was not merciful. Craggy, rocky slopes, dangerous heights, and pitch-black nights with only the stars twinkling down. Far from any major towns, the sleepy villages found themselves embraced and enclosed in equal measure. In deceptive safety and, at the same time, damning loneliness. They grew up hearing tales of dire wolves, ghostly figures in old walls, or the undead rising from graves. In the darkness, everything was more sinister. The otherwise familiar took on new forms, and sounds that were otherwise lost in the din of daily sounds suddenly stood out so much more succinctly in the stillness of the night. Then the wood groaned, the stove's metal creaked, a curtain blew in a little breeze, or a tree branch knocked unexpectedly on the upper floor windows.
