The Heir
© 2020 by Walter Reimer


The inhabitants of the village of Westerhafen, if you pressed them on the issue, would cross themselves furtively and tell you to avoid the old house that loomed over the countryside like a harbinger of impending doom.


The bell attached to the door jangled merrily as the customer entered, and the gray-furred feline behind the counter at the Agip station said absently, “Grüss Gott.” She barely glanced up from the game app on her phone as the canine plucked something from the candy rack before studying what was on offer for cold drinks. She heard one of the glass doors open, then close, and she finally looked up as the man walked up to the counter with a chocolate bar and a bottle of soda.

“Guten Morgen,” the man said. He had a lean look about him, like he may have had some Doberman blood in his family tree once, but he had the mottled white and brown and tightly-curled fur of a terrier. Despite the chilly weather, he was dressed in slacks, a dress shirt open at the collar with no tie, and a light jacket. “Wieviel, bitte?” he asked.

His German sounded a bit odd, and the girl took a guess. “Seven Euro, thirty-five,” she said in the somewhat stilted English she recalled from school while she rang up the items. “You are American?”

The canine gave a soft chuckle as he tapped his credit card against the reader on the counter. “No,” he said. “Canada.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled. “It’s quite all right. Can you please tell me how to get to Number 53, Kuhgasse?” He gathered up his purchases as she gave him directions, listening closely. When she was finished he smiled at her and said, “Danke. Grüss Gott, Fraülein.”

“Grüss Gott,” the feline said cheerfully, craning her neck to see the canine leave the store and get behind the wheel of a late-model Skoda.

Kuhgasse wasn’t very far from the gas station, and after finding a space to park the Skoda the canine retraced his path. The skies were overcast, the weather chilly with a promise of rain, and the man resisted the urge to zip up his jacket. He’d experienced worse at his hometown outside Toronto.

Number 53 held the law office that had contacted him months ago, and the receptionist greeted him politely. “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” the pretty ewe asked.

The canine smiled. “Do you speak English?” The ewe nodded. “Yes. My name’s Joseph Westerhafen. I have an appointment with Herr Scharff.”

The ewe glanced at her computer before smiling up at him again. “Please have a seat, Herr Westerhafen. I’ll let Herr Scharff know you’re here.”

“Thank you.” She picked up the phone and began a low-voiced conversation. He took a seat in a leather-upholstered armchair and glanced around, noting two discreetly-mounted surveillance cameras where the walls joined the ceiling.

An age-stained portrait of a ram wearing a uniform in Prussian blue hung from one wood-paneled wall.

The phone’s buzz broke the silence. The ewe picked up the pawset, listened, and hung up. “Herr Scharff will see you now, sir,” and she gestured toward a door beside her desk.

“Thank you,” and Joseph stood and went into the inner office.

Herr Scharff was a ram who bore some resemblance to the portrait in the waiting room. His fleece was graying, but he showed he still had some spring in his step as he came out from behind his desk to shake paws. “Good morning, Herr Westerhafen!” he said. His English had less of an accent than his secretary’s. “Please, come, have a seat,” and he ushered the canine to a pair of chairs arranged around a small table. “Have you brought the documents I asked for?”

Joseph fished a small thumb drive from his trouser pocket. “Everything is on this,” and he laid it on the table, leaving his index finger pinning it down. “Birth certificates, baptismal records, marriage licenses, immigration records, family tree. Even the results of the genetic test you insisted upon.” His finger lifted away from the drive. “And like I said, I’m a little surprised that you wanted me to see you in person about this. Is it usual?”

Scharff scratched the side of his head where his fleece met his horn. “Not . . . ordinarily, sir. Foreign bequests can normally be handled by mail or email, to be sure. But the terms of this bequest made it essential.”

“I see.” Joseph smiled. “I saw the portrait in the outer office. Did your last name have a ‘von’ with it?”

The ram blinked before his muzzle split in a hearty laugh. “Heavens, no!” he finally managed to say. “My grandfather was only a captain in the Kaiser’s army. Lived through the first war, only to be felled by the influenza. My father survived the second war as well.” He picked up the thumb drive as he stood up and extended a paw. “I could sit and chat all day, you know, but there is business, ja? I shall look at this, and let you know by evening.”

“Good. You have my cell phone number.” Joseph shook hands with the ram and left.

He spent the remainder of the day finding a hotel and doing a bit of sightseeing, and was deciding on a restaurant when his phone rang. “Hello?”

“Herr Westerhafen? Herr Scharff here. Please come to my office, if you can.”

The canine said, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

The secretary had gone home for the day, but the ram was waiting at the door to let him in and ushered him into the inner office. As he settled behind his desk the canine asked, “I take it you have news for me, Herr Scharff.”

“Doch. Based on all the information that I have, you, sir, are the oldest right-line claimant. You are the heir. Congratulations,” and the two shook paws. The ram removed a packet of papers bound in red ribbon. “These papers declare your status, and there is also the title to the ancestral property.” He suddenly chuckled. “You may find that there was a ‘von’ in your ancestry.”

“Really?”

The ram nodded. “It had been dropped before Napoleon came through, but the land’s been in your family since 1648. The nearest town is named for your family, but you have no ownership claim. Of course, the family home includes the family curse,” and he chuckled again.

Joseph chuckled with him. “’Curse,’ eh?”

Scharff grinned before taking off his glasses, wiping them, and putting them back on. “Well, old houses do seem to attract scary stories. As the trustee – which I’m happy to give up, now that you’re the heir – I’ve heard quite a few. We even had one of those ‘ghost hunter’ groups come from America.”

“What did they find?” Joseph asked.

“No one knows.” The ram grinned. “They were there one night, packed up and left the very next morning. Probably found nothing,” he added with a shrug. “Will you be going out to look at the property?”

“Yes, tomorrow. I was planning on getting a good night’s sleep.” His stomach growled, and both men laughed. “After dinner, of course.”


***


The directions were fairly simple, and he set out shortly after breakfast. The village of Westerhafen was located deep in a forested area marked by rolling hills, some hours away from the city. As he drove, the weather began getting colder, and long spikes of rain started to appear on the rented Skoda’s windshield.

The paperwork included far more than the deed and the confirmation that he was the heir. Some of it confirmed certain things he’d been told by his grandfather and father before they died.

The contact that Scharff had included in the paperwork was the house’s caretaker, a certain Kaspar Hermelin. The man lived with his family near the estate, but Joseph stopped for lunch and called ahead before going to meet with him.

Hermelin was a short but heavily-built weasel, who hawked and spat to one side before taking Joseph’s paw. “So you’re the new one,” he grumbled, his breath misting in the chilly air. He looked like a wizened stump of a fur, but had a grip like iron. “Scharff called last night, but good of you to call today.”

“I didn’t want to show up unannounced,” Joseph said.

“You’re not,” came the cryptic rejoinder. He jammed a meaty paw into his pocket, and produced several large keys strung together on a short chain. “You’re not cutting my pay, are you?”

“Of course not,” Joseph said.

“Good, good,” and the weasel turned around and retreated to his house, leaving Joseph standing there. The canine watched as the front door closed, glanced at the keys in his paw, and shrugged before walking back to his car. Before getting in, he paused and turned around.

Gazing at him from one of the front windows was a pale-furred young face. As they looked at each other, the figure raised a paw and traced a cross on the window pane before withdrawing and letting the curtain fall back into place.


***


The rain had turned to sleet and was beginning to turn to snow as Joseph pulled the Skoda to a stop at the front gate to his newly-acquired property. He got out of the warm haven of the car, zipping up his jacket as he looked around. The iron fence was rusted, with large flakes of metal starting to peel back from the posts and rails, and rust stained where the fence was connected to the two brick gateposts. The brickwork needed repointing, but what he guessed was the family’s coat of arms was still attached to one of the structures. The only relatively new thing in sight was the lock holding the gate shut.

The house itself could be glimpsed, just beyond a screen of leafless trees that reached up at the gray sky with skeletal branches.

The lock opened easily, the gates less so, but after a few moments’ struggle with the protesting hinges the Skoda entered the grounds and headed up the drive. Joseph stopped the car maybe ten yards from the front door and got out again, this time bringing with him a small bag of items he’d bought at the Aldi in town.

He spent a few minutes looking up at the house, feeling that the house was looking back at him, assessing him.

Judging him.

The snow was falling faster, drifting on the breeze as the sky gradually began to darken. The house was a four-story edifice, darkened windows resembling eyeless sockets or mouths gaping in unvoiced screams, looking down on Joseph.

The canine thought back to things that his father had told him before the cancer took him, things that his father had told him on his deathbed. As Joseph looked up at the silent house, those things came back to him.

He swallowed hard. Once he began, he could not stop.

Joseph walked to face the front door of the mansion, feeling snowflakes touching his face fur as he said in German, “Ich bin zuhause.”

The house loomed over him, the wind freshening, causing the tree branches to rustle and a soft howl to rise as the air flowed around and past and over the chimney-pots.

He pivoted to his right and began to walk, back to and past the waiting car, around the corner of the house, describing a circle around the building.

The stone bore a patina of age, the hedges untrimmed and wild. The house sat upon a hill, overlooking the woods and the village in the distance.

As he completed the circle to stand before the front door again, Joseph began to regret not wearing a heavier coat. Still, there were things to do, and it fell to him to do them. After a short pause facing the front door, the canine mounted the steps and selected the oldest key on the ring that Kaspar had given him. He unlocked the door and stepped in, closing the door behind him.

Dim light streamed in through the windows and his footsteps echoed as he stepped further into the main hall of the house. If he recalled what he’d been told, and what he’d read from the papers Scharff had given him . . . yes, the right spot was just there, illuminated by light coming from four windows in the central tower.

It was getting colder, but he moved quickly and stripped down to his fur before taking the items he’d bought from the shopping bag and stepping into the lighted area. He took a small bite from the loaf of bread before placing it on the floor, a lick of salt before pouring the remainder in a rough circle around the bread, and opened the bottle of brandy.

He took a fortifying sip of the liquor before pouring a circle that enclosed him, the bread and the salt, setting the nearly-empty bottle beside the loaf.

Now he knew why his father had always insisted that he learn German. Joseph straightened up, his tail hanging slackly, and he said haltingly, “Ich bin Joseph Westerhafen. Ich bin der Erbe, . . . und ich bin gekommen, um zu be . . . behaupten, was mir gehört.“

He waited, the words “I have come to claim what is mine“ hanging in the air.

The wait wasn’t long. His nostrils twitched as an odor reached his nose, a musty smell of ash and graveyard soil, and he felt the air in the house begin to move.

Canine ears flicked at the whispered word “Erbe.”

Heir.

A bare glimmer of motion caught his eye, and he looked down to see wisps of darkness, black as night and evanescent as smoke, seeping up through the floorboards to pool around the bread, the salt, the spilled brandy, and his feet.

It felt warm.

The dark vapor thickened around his feet, spilling out of the circle he’d poured and spreading across the floor. As it spread it grew thicker and deeper, rising to his ankles and eclipsing his white fur.

Much as he wanted to, he didn’t move, but stood there as the darkness outside grew to match the darkness creeping up his calves.

“Erbe.”

He was no longer alone in the room.

Shapes began to move among the shadows, canine shapes but androgynous, sexless; they moved toward him, stepping forward, figures of pure bone white with white eyes.

One, with wide hips and a small bust that inferred a female shape, moved to face him. She gazed at him with sightless, pure white eyes, and she smiled.

Her lips parted and her tongue, an oily black appendage, slipped out slowly and teasingly caressed her lips, painting them with inky darkness; she then pursed her lips in a kiss and the darkness on her lips turned to vapor, adding to the miasma that was filling the room. She did it again, and this time the wisp of ebon black drifted toward him.

Joseph opened his mouth, and breathed in.

It felt warm, warm like the swallow of brandy he’d taken, like a sip of cocoa after a chilly winter day’s sledding.

Warm like a loving kiss.

The figure before him smiled again, and now he heard words forming in his mind, in English. “You are the Heir. Do you claim the obligation of your blood?”

Joseph took another breath, suddenly realizing that he’d stopped breathing for a moment. It had been a family secret, a ghost story that his grandfather and father had told him, a ghost story that had been confirmed by the papers that the ram had given him after he had confirmed his bona fides. The family had been in danger of extinction centuries ago, caught between rival faiths, when a supposed witch had come to the head of the family with an offer: You protect us, we protect you.

Some of his family counseled no, saying that it was an affront to consort with demons and monsters; others counseled yes, not wishing to be burned or hanged or shot. Both sides deferred to the head of the family, who called the witch to him and made his decision known.

They chose the monsters.

The pact had been sealed, with bread and salt and alcohol, and succeeding generations had kept it. War and disease and come and gone, but neither had touched the family; in return, the Westerhafens had possessed the land on which the agreement had been made. The spot he stood on was the exact spot on which his ancestors had stood.

The scope of it was, actually, a little breathtaking.

“I live in a country far from here,” he said, “but I will keep this place for as long as I can.”

“You honor the pact, so shall we honor the pact,” the figure said. She gave him a reassuring smile as the figures began to recede into the shadows. Slowly they vanished and the miasma dissipated, leaving him alone in the fading light.

The things he had placed on the floor were gone.

Groping about in the dark, Joseph got dressed and left the house, remembering to lock up. The snow was falling faster, and as soon as he started the car he cranked up the heater. The canine hunched over the wheel, suddenly possessed with a bout of shivering at what had just happened. Still, they’d accepted him, and agreed to abide by the pact made so long ago.

After several minutes he put the car in gear and drove to the front gate. Getting out and locking the gate behind him, Joseph thought about the trust fund that maintained the property and paid Kaspar.

He wondered how much it would take to restore the property, and whether Lisa would mind moving.



end