The Changeling

There are sometimes tales that you can't believe really happened.

It was on a mild Saturday afternoon that I heard one such tale.

My dad had tasked me to mow the lawn and to clean up the old shack next to our house. It had taken me most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon.

When I finally closed the door of the shack, I noticed our neighbor, Mister Kunze. The old man was sitting outside on a bench in front of his house. He was reading from what I assumed to be his bible.

He had always been very religious and a devoted Christian. In the last years though, he'd been drawn more and more to the Holy Scripture. I often wondered if it was because of his old age and if death was an ever-present, impending shadow.

I'd always liked the old man. When I was younger, he'd often watch over me when my parents weren't around. I had spent so many afternoons talking with him. He was one of the nicest people I knew. So, of course, I went over to greet him.

When I was there, I found him trembling.

"Mister Kunze, is everything alright?"

When I saw the tears running down his cheeks, I asked again, this time louder, more alarmed.

It took the old man a few more moments to realize that I was there, but then he smiled and shook his head.

"It's nothing, Martin."

"But you were crying!" I protested.

"Everything is fine. I am just an old man and I remembered something."

He gave me another weak smile, but I could see that he was still shaking.

"Nothing is fine, you are shaking! What did you remember? Was it something bad?"

The old man looked at me while clutching the Bible and pressing it to his body.

"It's something that happened a long time ago, in my home village. It was back when I was still a boy."

"Isn't this your home? I thought you told me you grew up and lived here your whole life?"

The old man laughed a little and started to cough right away. When it was over, he continued talking.

"No Martin, I didn't grow up here. I was born in a Catholic village in southern Bavaria. It was a small, remote place, up in the mountains. Never told anyone about it."

"Why didn't you?"

The old man didn't answer my question. He was quiet for a while, reminiscing before he continued talking. This is the story he told me:

When I was a young boy, there were lots of strange local myths and legends in my home village. I guess it was due to the remoteness.

There were stories about beings who entered a person's house via the chimney to steal valuables. Others talked about mischievous fairies or tiny creatures that lived in the forest. One of them was about the so-called Changeling.

A Changeling is a child that starts acting strange and shows inconspicuous behavior. They overeat, break things or tire out their parents by screaming all the time. Simply said, they behave much, much worse than other children.

They are the child's of witches, left behind instead of the real, human child, to create mischief.

Stories like that were frequent back in the day. I can imagine that in some remote regions they are even now.

When a young boy in the village began to act strange, gossip started. I don't remember how old he was, but I am sure he wasn't even ten yet.

He had moved to the village with his mother about half a year ago. They lived in one of the cabins near the edge of the forest. They led a somewhat secluded lifestyle and the woman and her son were rarely seen in the village.