Kopfkino

Rothenburg ob der Tauber is said to be a quiet and quaint town surrounded by ample viridescent landscapes and rolling hills. A place pulled straight out of a fairytale with its impressively preserved medieval architecture; smoothed cobblestone streets from centuries of steps, vibrantly colored half-timbered homes, and bountiful, vigorous walls.

Under that pretense, I expected to see something brilliant standing before the entryway as a sort-of greeting for when we passed through, yet there is no such thing. Some stray cloud had draped over the town, shrouding its walls and walkways in dense fog.

Nothing seemed as apparent, for the outlines of homes and storefronts had been distorted by a spell of indistinction. The enclosed area had lost all sense of its depicted vibrance and charm with the muted murk stalking overhead.

If it weren’t for the faint glow of the gaslights to guide the Opel onto its designated path, Fritz would’ve rammed straight into a building—if not a child first. The locals seemed to be out and about without a care, roaming its streets aimlessly as if no such obscuration existed.

Through hushed tones, he remarks, “You’d figure they’d stay inside with such bad weather. Can’t even see a damn thing out here.”

“Careful, Fritz. You might run someone over.”

“If I did, they’d have it coming.”

A mischievous glint dashes across his eye, one that I’ve grown accustomed to over the course of our travels. I would’ve rather not taken him along with his primitive nature, but he had one too many Opels to spare for a quick trip, and it was only under the condition that he drove.

The wheels come to a slow stop as a voice calls out from the distance. Through the streets’ haze, Fritz spots another local scurrying across the pathway with an arm out, waving down the vehicle. As they further approach, the thick, dark fabric of a police coat unveils. A pair of leather boots scrape across the cobblestone as he comes to a halt.

“Good day,” the officer greets. “Might I ask what brings you two fine gentlemen to our humble town? Not every day you see someone strolling through in an Opel.”

Fritz dips his cap with one hand, throwing the other on my shoulder as he returns the welcome. “Ah, pardon the intrusion. This here is Johann Schaffer, the architect sent from Rüsselsheim’s firm. I believe there’s been a problem with your church.”

“St. James,” I interject.

The officer raises a questionable eyebrow as if he harbored doubts. I don’t blame him; in such dreary weather, it’s hard to believe anyone would leave the comfort of their home to travel a long way for work.

“The St. James church. They’ve sent me to consult its restoration. My friend here, Fritz Faust,” I return the hand onto his shoulder, “is simply my means of transportation.”

It takes a moment for the tense features of his face to mellow down into one of recognition. The officer slaps a hand onto the truck’s hood and laughs,

“A damn quick one at that! I was told to expect company later tonight!”

“Ah, well, Rothenburg’s weather was quite the talk earlier. We left a few hours prior. I hope that isn’t much of a problem,” Fritz says.

“Not at all! The fog gets pretty dense down here. If you allow me to ride along, I can show you to the church.”

“That would be wonderful, officer…”

“Albitz. Bruno Albitz.” He nods his head and makes haste of himself jumping into the back, remarking, “Quite the Opel you’ve got here. I’ve always wanted to ride one of these.”

Fritz smiles at the man through the mirror. “I own a factory back in Rüsselsheim. Perhaps I’ll gift you one to show my appreciation.”

The two share a hearty laugh. I’m not quite sure what they found funny about the exchange, but it doesn’t last long enough to ponder. Fritz continues down the path at a comfortable speed as Officer Albitz provides the promised directory towards the church.

Amongst the quaintness of its surrounding buildings, St. James stands out for its peculiar Gothic architecture only a trained eye could see on a good day. It’s nearly impossible to make out the adorning meticulous details and carvings on the exterior in such obscure weather. The sublime rise of the façade against the sky could only partially be witnessed through squinted eyes; the awe-stuck twin spires were dealt with a similarly unfortunate fate.

Upon entering, St. James captivates a polished and pristine interior. The open space is tainted with grandiosity by the heightened ceilings and tall windows—stained glass, no less, that would have blessed the sunlight so beautifully had there been any to shine through. Without the outside mist to plague the details into distortion, the complex tracery and carvings are astonishingly apparent; majestic pillars and arches are entranced.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The sound of Officer Albitz’s voice echoes throughout the vast space, with Fritz chiming in no sooner.

“Despairingly devoid, as well. How long—”

The nudge to his arm is only gentle enough in capturing his attention. Fritz joins me on the floor, kneeling, as we observe the length of a crack wedged within the polished flooring.

I look up to ask, “How long has this crack been here?

“We’ve only noticed it about a week ago. No one’s got a clue how it came to be, although it hasn’t been the first.”

“What do you mean?”

The officer inches closer, adding, “The priest here said that it happened some centuries ago. I bet you’d find something about it in the crypt. There’s some old journals down there from the reverend; other stuff about its construction, too.”

“If you could show me, I would greatly appreciate it.”

At Albitz’s nod, I make haste to stand and straighten down my coat. Fritz sits firmly on the floor now, tracing his fingers along the crack as if to pry it open further.

“You two go on ahead. I think I’ll stay for a little nap. Driving’s worn me out,” he says.

I would’ve rather pestered him into coming along to aid my search, but he yawns all too dramatically and falls flat onto his back. Officer Albitz takes a moment to laugh before turning on his heel and starting down the hall. He takes to a rhythmic whistle when stepping down the stairway; the metal clanks of the key he swings around his finger only further the harsh melody.

As he fumbles with the door, I feel the thumps of my heart pick up in my chest. There have always been rumors floating about the topic of crypts. Not that I believe in ghosts, but any place with dead and old things has got to have some kind of unsettling atmosphere.

The officer doesn’t notice my unease until after he’s pushed through the door. With wry amusement, he asks, “First time in one of these?”

“Fortunately,” I nod. The bookcase he leads me to is overwhelmed with dust and spider webs. It takes plenty of effort to blow one off clean. I flip through the pages carefully, musing, “These look ancient.”

“Medieval if we’re speaking accuracy here. But please, don’t be bash! Help yourself to whatever seems necessary. I’ll be right upstairs in case anyone sneaks in. You know how desperate worshippers can get,” he laughs.

“Yes, thank you.”

The sound of heavy steps bounces amongst the barren walls as he retreats back down the hall; the whistling tune dispersing alongside his presence. I waste no time in flipping through the old pages. Despite the layers of dust, the papers themselves are incredibly well preserved. Not a single tear or smudge, although the letters still proved difficult to read under the faint glow of candlelights.

Through my reading, I discover that the architectural problem must lie within the foundation of the church. A few journals described similar instances of random cracks and fissures wedged between the flooring. Over time, the shifting ground beneath

Rothenburg ob der Tauber had caused the church's foundation to become unstable. Hence, subsidence and uneven settling that had created a structural weakness, which forced authorities to close it off to the public.

There were even a few documentations of worshippers and their presumable descents into insanity with denied access into St. James’ magnificence. With such horrid depictions, I decided to conclude my search and not venture further. As I set the book back into place, a peculiar cover catches my eye. Unlike the others, it's made of thick, scaly leather that nearly gleams beneath the glow of candlelights.

With mild curiosity, I tore it off the shelf and found great surprise in its hefty weight. The front cover is blank, with nothing to depict besides its tender touch against the tips of my fingers. I flip through and find that the pages are just as astonishingly preserved, although the German dialect is far older than what I’ve been taught to decipher. It seems to be some tense of Middle High German, but oddly enough, there are stray papers crammed between the pages.

They look to be notes of translations. It isn’t the nicest handwriting to gloat over, but it’s comprehensible enough to read. I read aloud one particular page towards the end:

“Da die Gemeinde in eine dichte Atmosphäre gehüllt ist, werden Erscheinungen an der Oberfläche herrschen. Man wird sich fragen, ob jemals mit den wahren Seelen gesprochen wurde, oder ob alles nur eine Farce war.

Falsche Symbole der Hoffnung werden sich zerstreuen, verdammt. Orte der Anbetung werden zerfallen, und neues Leben wird aus ihren Fundamenten sprießen. Die Augen werden von Blindheit getrübt sein, denn sie können den Untergang, den sie für sich selbst bestimmt haben, nicht sehen.

Sie werden für immer in der Verleugnung verharren und predigen, dass es nichts geben wird, was über den Wolken an Macht steht, und doch steht es da.

Seht, ein mittelalterliches Ungeheuer.”

The entry describes a monstrous creature that will overtake a town, which I can only assume to be Rothenburg ob der Tauber, as it is shrouded in fog. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. The depiction seems like something straight out of a fairytale, but so is this peculiar town. In an effort not to ponder, I shut the book and tuck it back into the shelf.

But then there’s a sound that echoes throughout the narrow hallway; a flat hum with no harmonic tune. The candlelight hanging overhead diffuses for a brief moment before stifling altogether, extinguished. A faint stream of smoke travels down the hall, towards the sound.

“Fritz? Is that you?”

There isn’t a response. The crypt’s confined air runs stiff, and all so suddenly, my knees begin to quake beneath the weight of my body. The rest of my limbs follow, trembling, as some subtle sense of unease wavers at my heart.

I call out once more in a desperate attempt, “If your first thought from waking is to mess around, it isn’t at all funny.”

But the reverberation of my voice only recoils off the walls, striking a chime in my head. Try as I might not to panic, I watch my labored breaths collect into clouds right before me. Is that why I was shaking so much, because it had gotten so cold? When did—

“What’s this about fun, now?”

The voice stalks no further than an inch behind. I spin around swiftly and find fortunate familiarity in the uniform standing so close.

“Ah—Officer Albitz… You startled me.”

“My apologies. I truly meant no harm,” he smiles. “Have you found anything?”

I nod, “The issue is said to be within the foundation of St. James. The journals detailed a continuous shift in the ground beneath Rothenburg ob der Tauber, which explains the sudden, reappearing cracks and instability.”

“I see… Well, then, I believe it’s best we pass along this information as soon as possible. We can’t have that beautiful roof toppling over, now, can we?”

“Of course not.”

Despite the earlier scare, I find it in me to return his smile, courteous. Officer Albitz turns on his heel and guides me back to the surface. Although I can’t seem to shake the feeling of paranoia as we proceed up the stairway. There’s a cold blow of air that brushes against the nape of my neck. It takes great effort to convince myself that it’s not the breath of some apparition.

To scour away speculations, I turn to Albitz. “If I may ask, officer… Have you ever heard of a medieval monster?”

“A medieval monster?” His tone is heightened with some sense of uncertainty. He goes on to further question, “Here, in Rothenburg ob der Tauber? No, I can’t say that I have. Why do you ask?”

“Another journal spoke of such a thing. It piqued my curiosity, that’s all.”

“Careful, then. Curiosity killed the cat. Or was it ignorance? Hmm, I can’t seem to remember. Either way—”

“Did you see Fritz leave?”

Upon reaching the surface, I notice that my friend’s form is no longer sprawled out onto the flooring, nor anywhere in sight, for that matter. My eyes scan across the space, now alarmed, in some senseless search for recognition of his awful cap. But there is no such thing. The officer halts in his steps and stares straight through me, an eyebrow raised in doubt.

“Can’t say I’ve seen much of anyone today besides you, Mr. Schaffer.”

The features of my face wrinkle in bemusement. “What do you mean? That’s impossible… He drove me here. You spoke to him—remember, the Opel?”

“You drove here alone,” he states, sure of himself. “…Do you know the date, sir?”

“I might have sat down there longer than expected, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours. I don’t understand what you’re trying to get at here.”

“Well—”

Before Albitz could reason any further, the ground takes to a tremor. The sudden shift beneath my feet sets my balance uneasy; with a dull thud, I find myself on the floor, propped up by an elbow with an ache in my lower body. The officer had quickly gathered a firm grip on the handle of a nearby bench to keep him steady.

I had been too occupied with the perplexing exchange with Albitz to register the low rumbling sound that had seeped through the cracks and into the open space. St. James’ marvelous tracery that had once adorned the ceiling is now disrupted along all sense of delicacy. Within a matter of seconds, the malicious form of cracks begin to spread all throughout the vaulted ceiling. The priorly pristine surfaces now bear fractures of all lengths, spreading towards the windows and shattering the stained glass in horrid harmony.

Debris rains down from above, disrupting the once-still air with clouds of dust and murk. For a moment, I lose myself in the confounding calamity stirring right before me; all sense of respiration had run off someplace, too. It isn’t until a hand crumbles the fabric of my coat and begins to tug, that I finally regain partial recognition.

“Looks like you took a week too long, Mr. Schaffer. The roof’s toppling over!”

With my limbs resting loosely, Officer Albitz drags me out of the church in just enough time to watch a pointed arch from the outer structure cave in. It isn’t a moment later that the rest of the building follows in similar fate with a thunderous crash.

Panicked, I begin to muse, “I don’t understand—that crack couldn’t have knocked down the entire church!”

Nothing seemed at all sensical anymore. If it weren’t for the officer at my side, helping me back onto my feet, I would’ve doubted anything that had happened to be apparent. He stands there and stares at me with mild concern, but that’s as much of what I can see. In the few seconds that I look past his gaze, a crevice forms inside the cobblestone walkways that sit before the church.

“Officer, look! The ground… Something isn’t right!”

Either something about my expression that contorts continuously, or the tone in which I speak so desperately sets Albitz astray. A tendril-like figure propels through the open cracks and curls amongst the thick fog, obscure.

“What are you going on about? It’s just a little earthquake. Stay calm, I’ll see to the townfolk and their safety,” he nods as if to reassure.

In a haste attempt to reason, I grab his arms and keep him firm in place. The trembles of my limbs reflect onto his own. He stares, wide-eyed with much confusion, as I shout mindlessly.

“No, you don’t understand! Something is sprouting from beneath! Can’t you see?”

“Mr. Schaffer… With all due respect, I believe sitting in that crypt for so long really got to your head.”

Comprehension is beyond my capabilities. I try to reason further, now with the image of a peculiar book cover in mind. “No—the crypt! Remember what I asked when we were leaving? It must be here!”

Albitz does nothing but stare. For a moment, I question if he could truly see me at all. His eyes—my reflection doesn’t linger within. It’s as if the mist had somehow leaked through and clouded his vision. Two, four, eight, tendrils sprout straight through the ground. The fallen debris that had scattered all throughout the walkways now trembles, breaking down even further.

As the colossal form of some creature begins to rise beneath the very ground I stood upon, Albitz finally blinks and parts his lips to speak.

“Oh, that monster?” He smiles, “There’s no such thing.”

Limb-like appendages swirling amongst the storm, lunging through the half-timbered homes, the vibrant storefronts, the town and all its vigor, a woman, her child, through the mist and all it shrouds. Not a single scream befalls the canal of my ears, for they are blind, ignorant, and unassuming. Even the good officer, who now flies across the air, dismembered.

But there it stands, imposingly present. A thing that instills fear within the very ground it walks upon in domination. Without a single regard for substantial sensibility, it roams throughout the town, terrorizing its blind, baseless people in a way only such a monstrosity could.

Behold, ein mittelalterliches Ungeheuer.