Vaesen : Of Stone and Steel : 08
The Society stood atop the rain-slick hill where August’s body lay, his lifeless form lying unnaturally still on the sodden ground. Yet, strangely, the rain did not touch them. It fell in sheets all around—hissing against the rocks, running in rivulets down the slope—but an unseen boundary kept each drop from landing upon their clothes or skin. The air was thick, oppressive, and the only sound came from the slow, deliberate crunch of footsteps approaching through the trees.
From the shadow of the dripping branches emerged a small man clad entirely in grey, his wide-brimmed, floppy hat drooping over most of his face. All that could be seen was the curve of a smile—wide, amused, and somehow knowing.
“My friends,” Bergs-Erik greeted warmly, though each word felt edged with glass. “You have done me a great service here. I would have preferred to do the honours myself, but the result is… most satisfying. August was a disruptive force in my little experiment. I could not allow him to take Margareta away—not when she is so close to fulfilling her purpose.” His voice softened, and his smile deepened. “You’ve seen what she can create, haven’t you?”
Sebastian inclined his head, measured and polite. “She is quite gifted at the forge.”
“Indeed,” Bergs-Erik murmured, letting his gaze drift over them one by one. Celeste, still touched by the strange elation from earlier, felt the sensation beginning to fade, replaced by an undercurrent of unease.
“Such a curious little group,” he continued, his tone taking on a darker hue. “So much darkness in the hearts of men and women alike. So many secrets.”
His eyes settled on Gottfried. “A most accursed man. So learned, yet refusing to learn. Forever suffering—always by your own hand. Again. And again.”
He stepped closer to Sigrid. “Sigrid… haunted by sights unseen. I see the empty houses burned into your memory. The bodies. The death. Will you leave these sheep to their rightful shepherd, or provoke me and see another village suffer as before?”
Her answer was quiet, but resolute. “I hope never to see another.”
“No… that would be most distressing for you, wouldn’t it?”
Then he turned his attention to Sebastian. “Sebastian. That name suits you far better than the others. The footprints of your enemies loom large, yet they remain hard to find… or perhaps you never tried?” Sebastian coughed discreetly, keeping his gaze forward, though a flicker of tension passed across his face.
Finally, Bergs-Erik stood before Celeste. “So powerful, yet so unaware. If you embraced who you truly are, there would be no end to what you could do.”
“I’m scared of what that means,” she admitted, her voice quieter than she expected.
“You needn’t be afraid—not like them.” His gesture to the others was almost dismissive. “They are frail, fleeting. We stand like the mountain beneath their feet—undying, unyielding. You could stay here. I would welcome you. Do you not already suspect? What your father was… in many ways, very like me. There is no shame in bowing before those greater than you.”
Celeste shook her head firmly. “No. I’m staying with my friends.”
A soft chuckle escaped him, low and deliberate. “Not persuaded. Not yet. But you have done what I asked—you have cleared the path for me. And for that, I am grateful. Now, I would like you all… to leave.”
Sigrid’s shoulders squared, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “We’ll leave once we’ve finished in the town, and I’ve kept my promises to Margareta.”
Bergs-Erik’s smile thinned, the warmth vanishing from his tone. “You misunderstand. Leave this village. Now.”
Gottfried turned without another word. Sebastian followed, though he paused to ask, “And what of the people here once we’ve gone?”
“Nothing too bad, so long as they stay in line,” Bergs-Erik replied, his gaze sliding toward Sigrid again. “My interest is with Margareta. And I do not like my affairs being meddled with.”
Without further exchange, the party descended the hill. At the fork in the road, the right path led toward the mudslide; the left, back to the village. Sigrid chose left, the others falling in behind her. They passed the horses and goat cart, still waiting exactly as they had left them, and began the familiar walk back toward the village.
Minutes later, the air seemed heavier. They glanced up—and saw, impossibly, that they were approaching the mudslide again. Turning back did nothing; every direction brought them to the same place.
Sebastian was gone.
Sebastian’s world narrowed to a wall of thick, white mist as he followed the group. Each step was muffled, the sound of boots on wet earth swallowed into an uncanny silence. The air clung to his skin, cool and damp, until it seemed the world had shrunk to a circle no wider than his outstretched arms. Then, without warning, the haze thinned, and he stepped out into startling clarity. The others were gone.
The road behind him lay open and dry—no trace of mist remained. Below, the village rested in the stillness of early morning. The sun crept over the rooftops, laying a wash of gold across the cobbles. The rain had vanished, replaced by the crisp scent of damp soil after a storm. In the square, a small crowd worked together to hoist a newly cast bell into the chapel’s tower, their voices carrying on the cool air.
Sebastian lingered a moment, scanning the streets, but no familiar faces appeared. With a small adjustment to his coat, he started down the hill toward the inn.
Back on the hill, the rest of the Society still stood in relentless rain, the mudslide looming ahead like a wall of earth and ruin. Sebastian was gone. Sigrid pressed on without hesitation, her boots squelching in sodden ground, but Celeste and Gottfried slowed as she suddenly vanished into a coil of swirling mist—only to reappear on the opposite side of them, facing the path out of the village.
A low voice drifted through the fog, deep and steady. “I have also seen that you will not stop. That is good.”
Celeste narrowed her eyes into the shifting vapour, catching a massive, indistinct shape moving within. Sigrid recognised the outline instantly: tall, long-limbed, wreathed in shadow—the same figure she had glimpsed in the vision at the cabin.
“Hello, Hilma,” Sigrid said, her voice steady. “It is nice to meet you finally.”
“I wish it was in better circumstances.” The reply was a whisper, as if breathed by the fog itself.
Sebastian entered the warmth of the inn, greeted by the mingled scents of wood polish and fresh bread. Ida stood behind the counter, ledger in hand, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Mr Sebastian! I almost thought you’d left. You didn’t return last night.”
“Last night? Yes… my apologies, Lady Ida. We were delayed by certain activities.”
“Yes, well… there’s been a lot happening in the village. They’re preparing for the funeral now—for the director. Will you stay and attend?”
“As much as I’d be honoured, my group must be leaving. I’ve only come to collect our things.”
“Oh… I see.” Her expression faltered, quickly masked with a polite smile. “Of course. You big city people have such busy lives.” She stepped from behind the counter. “I’ll show you up.”
“And don’t worry—I’ll tidy the mess left by the Professor before I leave.”
“Oh, I appreciate that. It’s none of my business, but when I came to change the sheets, there were so many jars. Thank you.”
Back in the woods, Hilma’s voice wrapped around them, the fog thickening with every word.
“I cannot do much for you. But I have a duty to protect my daughter. I see now I was gravely mistaken. Eighteen years ago, I overheard your conversation with Bergs-Erik on the mountain. I thought he was looking out for me… and for her.”
“He’s using her,” Sigrid said, the words edged with steel.
“I see that now. But you don’t understand the full scope of what he is doing. I don’t think she’ll survive whatever he has planned. I cannot let that happen.”
“Can you help us?” Celeste asked.
“I can’t do much… but I can get you to a place where you can learn what you need. It may use the last of what he gave me. If he finds out—and he will—it may be the last thing I ever do.”
“You need to protect your daughter. Is it the old church? Can we reach it ourselves?”
“Yes. You must go to the old church. But you don’t understand how long you’ve been trapped here. Hours… soon days. Weeks. Years. Your friend made it out, but he’s confused. He’s alone. I can send you all there—together.”
Hilma turned toward Celeste. “You are the key. One foot in his world, one in the real. You must uncover what lies within the church. Then you can walk to his home. If he is driven from it, he will have to leave. I don’t know if he can be destroyed… but we can weaken him enough to send him away. I would have done this myself… but I’ve lost too much of what made me human. I cannot enter that place any more.”
“Do you know what I am?” Celeste asked quietly.
“You are special. It is what you do that defines you—not your parentage. Or so I hope. For Margareta’s sake.”
“Thank you.”
“Just know… the two of you are very much alike.”
Hilma’s silhouette thinned into the mist, fading until nothing remained but the cold vapour curling at their feet. The fog rose higher, wrapping the Society in its chill embrace.
Sebastian was upstairs now, methodically packing the Society’s belongings. Every coat was folded, every case latched shut with precision. Morning sunlight streamed across the floorboards, warming his back. Then, from the gaps between the boards, thin tendrils of mist began to seep through, curling toward his boots. More spilled silently from the ceiling, and the golden light drained away, replaced by a flat, lifeless grey.
Within moments, the room—and everything in it—was swallowed whole by fog.
Wednesday 2nd November 1859
The mist peeled away reluctantly, as though loath to release its hold, until the members of the Society stood reunited before the crumbling silhouette of a ruined church. Rain poured once more from a leaden sky, cold and unforgiving, seeping into their clothes and settling deep into their bones. The air carried October’s sharp bite, heavy with the scent of wet stone and earth.
The church was a hollow shell of its former self. The roof had long since collapsed, leaving jagged stone walls open to the elements. A rusted iron gate barred the way, its hinges locked in place by decades of corrosion. Above it, a weathered sign dangled from twisted wire, swaying faintly in the wind:
DANGER: FALLING STONES – DO NOT ENTER
Sebastian adjusted his hold on the neatly stacked luggage at his feet, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild irritation. “Sirs, madams… where did you go?”
“We went nowhere,” Sigrid replied evenly, rain dripping from her hair. “I see you were more successful.”
“Yes. I made it back into the village,” Sebastian said, casting a glance at the ruin. “It seems more time passed than we thought.”
“Hilma said as much. How much more time?”
“They’re preparing for the Director’s funeral. I believe it’s the morning after we left.”
Sigrid frowned slightly. “Then perhaps we can resolve this in time to attend.”
The cold and heavy clouds made it difficult to judge the hour, but the dim light suggested late morning, perhaps approaching noon. Sebastian checked his pocket watch. The hands had stopped at the moment he thought they’d reached the mountaintop—whether that was yesterday or only half an hour ago was impossible to say. Sigrid produced her own watch; it, too, was frozen at the same time, its ticking stilled.
Sebastian broke the silence. “So… where are we?”
“We’re at the old church Hilma was told never to visit,” Sigrid said. “You did bring the journals, right?”
“I don’t believe his power came from here,” Gottfried murmured, his voice low and thoughtful, “but perhaps there is something we can learn. Even a ruin may hold answers.” He drew a flask from his jacket and took a heavy drink.
Sigrid moved under a crumbling arch for partial shelter, pulling the journal from her satchel. Turning the pages with care, she found the relevant entry:
The little I’ve been able to get out of him is that I must never go to the church ruin outside Stora Tuna. I was there once as a child, and I had many nightmares about it. I’ve not returned.
No further details followed. Beyond the rain-slicked walls, smoke rose faintly from rooftops in the north-northeast—the current village, likely Stora Tuna, relocated some distance away from the church.
“Not very helpful,” Sigrid said with a sigh. “If we need more, perhaps someone in the village remembers what happened here. Though it was so long ago…” By Margareta’s age, the church had already been abandoned in Hilma’s childhood.
“Let’s go,” Sebastian said with finality.
Sigrid scanned the gate. “Rather not break it down. I know Sebastian’s fond of punching doors, but…”
“It’s my raison d’être,” Sebastian replied with a smirk. “I punch, therefore I am.”
“It’s what he does,” Gottfried added without looking up.
Circling the building, Sigrid found a door leading into the altar section. The wood was warped and brittle, nails loosened by years of damp. Ivy and moss crept through the gaps. She paused, met Sebastian’s eyes, and then shoved hard. The boards splintered and collapsed inward.
Meanwhile, Celeste wandered among the graves. The stones were weather-worn, their inscriptions long erased. She felt certain that whatever they hunted would not rest in consecrated ground—it didn’t feel like something that had ever truly been human.
Inside, the ruin was stark. Charred stone walls enclosed a space stripped of roof and rafters. The altar stone and baptismal font remained, the latter filled with dirty rainwater. Sebastian’s gaze caught a metallic glint beneath rubble: a small, cracked church bell, about thirty centimetres across, embedded in the floor. With no bell tower in sight, it must have hung inside, perhaps as a ward.
Sigrid traced blackened stone, noting that the fire had started at the back and swept forward. Near the altar, a pale glint beneath the ash caught her eye. She dug carefully, uncovering a skull. Further excavation revealed a full skeleton, curled beneath collapsed masonry, a golden priest’s cross lying near its ribs.
“Well, we’ve found the priest,” she said. “Holy enough ground for him to remain. But where did that bell come from? There shouldn’t be a bell.”
Sebastian called to Gottfried. “Sir, I found this bell. Its placement seems rather strange. Any thoughts?”
Gottfried crouched to inspect it. The bell weighed perhaps twenty to thirty pounds, dulled with grime and fractured by a long crack. Likely mounted to the roof, it had fallen with the collapse. A light tap produced a muted tone, dislodging dirt to reveal an engraved brass surface.
With Sigrid assisting, Gottfried began cross-referencing the engravings in his books. The work was taxing, leaving him visibly drained, but the results were clear: Christian crosses, fish symbols, Latin scripture from the Lord’s Prayer, and ancient Nordic runes of protection—every warding mark he knew, carved both inside and out. The craftsmanship was deliberate, the work of a skilled artisan.
Sigrid remained doubtful. “It didn’t work for the church. Why would it work for us? And now it’s broken.”
Still, Gottfried suggested they take it.
Celeste stepped forward with another plan. Carefully, she gathered the priest’s remains onto the altar, arranging the cross and other belongings around him. “Let’s see if he can tell us himself,” she said.
The group formed a seated circle as rain pattered through the open roof. Sebastian held the bell close against his chest. Celeste closed her eyes, her voice low at first, then rising into a steady chant, the rhythm drawing the ritual into being as the storm whispered overhead and the shadows within the ruined church seemed to lean closer.
The sound of rain softened until it became little more than a distant murmur. Around them, the ruined church began to blur and shift, its edges melting into shadow. Stones, beams, and even the ragged hole of the sky faded into a vast twilight haze, as though the world itself were holding its breath.
From that gathering gloom, a figure emerged—a spectral priest in his mid-to-late thirties, his robes worn from long years of service yet still carrying a quiet dignity. His clerical collar glimmered faintly, a sliver of light against the surrounding dark. His eyes moved quickly, searching for walls, altar, and congregation that were no longer there.
“Who—who summoned me? Where am I?” His voice seemed to travel from a great distance, layered with the hush of an unseen audience. His gaze fixed on Celeste as though drawn by some unseen thread.
Celeste inclined her head with measured composure. “Hello, I’m Madame Celeste. You are at your church. We’re hoping you might know something about Bergs-Erik—and what happened here?”
The priest’s brow furrowed as memories stirred. “I… I remember the fire. The roof collapsing. I remember trying to get Sven out. I think I did. I hope he made it…”
At first his words faltered, but they grew steadier as the recollections settled into place. He told of an elderly villager, bowed beneath the grief of losing his wife, who had come to him seeking help. Together they had worked tirelessly to protect the village from harm, their vigilance and combined strength culminating in the driving away of a troll.
Sigrid’s eyes narrowed. “Bergs-Erik.”
The priest gave a solemn nod. “Yes… that’s what he called himself. But yes, the troll.”
“My assistant was Sven—Sven Brundell. I pray he survived. And that his wife… recovered.” His voice softened, weighted with longing.
His form wavered like candlelight caught in a draft, and the world around them sank into darkness.
The church was whole again, warm candlelight spilling across whitewashed stone and filling the space with a welcoming glow. Incense drifted in slow, fragrant curls through the air. The congregation murmured their farewells, footsteps echoing softly on the flagstones as they departed. The priest closed his Bible with deliberate care, and when the last of the faithful had gone, only one man remained—Sven Brundell.
“My wife, Stina, hasn’t returned from her sister’s,” Sven said, urgency sharpening his voice. “Two days now.” He held up a silver cross, the metal catching the candlelight. “She dropped this on the road. I fear she’s been taken—by what, not by whom.”
The priest’s jaw tightened. “Mr Brundell, I will not have sacrilege in my chapel.”
The scene shifted with disorienting suddenness. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden patterns on the floor. Sven stood before the priest again.
“She’s back,” he said quietly. “But she’s… different. Withdrawn. She stares into the forest. She tried to climb out the window.”
“I will speak to her,” the priest replied, his tone firm and unyielding.
He moved quickly—throwing on his cloak, tucking his Bible under one arm, filling a flask at the font, and hiding a crucifix inside his coat.
The vision shifted again. A woman knelt at the altar, her shoulders trembling with sobs. Mrs Felt.
“Clara is missing,” she cried.
“I just saw your husband with the child,” the priest answered, confusion mingling with concern.
“That’s not my child,” she whispered, her voice raw. “It’s a changeling.”
The church dissolved into darkness, reforming as an underground vault lit by the weak glow of a single oil lamp. The priest was older now, his frame gaunt, his temples streaked with grey. He bent over a heavy tome, the pages yellowed and brittle—Malleus Maleficarum.
Evening fell once more upon the church. The priest knelt before the altar, deep in prayer. Moonlight slid into place where sunlight had been. In the doorway, a figure stood—an old man wearing a grey hat.
“I know who you are,” the priest said, rising to his feet. “Spawn of the devil.”
The figure’s shadow stretched unnaturally, twisting into a monstrous silhouette.
“I come only with friendly intentions… though complaints as well,” the figure said smoothly. “You’ve been arming your flock against me.”
“I am a shepherd protecting my flock,” the priest replied.
“And what is the shepherd, if not a greedy butcher? At least the wolf is honest.”
The figure stepped inside, its presence looming.
“Now!” the priest shouted. “We must do it now!”
A bell rang out from a back room. The figure screamed, clutching its ears as if in agony.
The priest’s voice rose in Latin: Pater Noster… With each toll of the bell, the creature recoiled further, thunder rumbling above in mounting fury.
On the seventh toll, lightning cleaved the sky, striking with a blinding flash. The creature vanished.
“It is done,” the priest whispered, his voice barely audible over the sudden stillness.
Then, as if in answer, the forest beyond the church erupted into flames.
Smoke filled the vision, thick and choking, curling upward into impenetrable blackness.
The Society found themselves once more in the ruined church, rain drumming steadily against the fractured stones. The priest’s ghost had gone, leaving only the damp air and the echo of his story.
“That book was Malleus Maleficarum—The Witch Hammer,” Gottfried said, his voice low.
“And the Latin?” Sebastian asked.
“The Lord’s Prayer,” Gottfried confirmed with a curt nod.
Piece by piece, they reconstructed the truth. Bergs-Erik had once preyed upon the village, feeding on its fear and frailty. The priest, unwilling to surrender his flock, had crafted a bell etched with every protective mark he knew, using it to banish the creature. But in retaliation, the church was set ablaze, its destruction a grim testament to Bergs-Erik’s vengeance.
Their theories took shape in slow, deliberate words. Bergs-Erik had survived that night and returned, working now through Margareta—not by possession, but bound to her by blood. He sought to strip from her the immunity to iron she possessed, a theft that could cost her life.
“If her immunity is tied to her life, taking it could kill her,” Gottfried warned gravely. “Hilma said Celeste may be the only one to stop him.”
Attention turned to the bell. The Christian engravings were meticulous, the Nordic runes rougher, as if added in haste. Every protective sign Gottfried recognised was present—even carved into the bell’s inner surface. It weighed far more than it looked, close to fifty pounds.
“Why did it work for him and not for us?” Celeste wondered aloud.
“They were installing a bell in the village when we passed through—just before the rest of you vanished,” Sebastian replied.
No records or ledgers had survived in the ruin. The Society laid the priest’s remains to rest, and Gottfried spoke a quiet prayer over them.
Later research revealed that troll lairs remain hidden unless shown by the trolls themselves. Carrying a cross bars entry, but turning one’s clothes inside out and walking backward could fool the ward.
They resolved to find the lair, with Celeste tasked to seek the crack. All agreed to carry iron.
Gottfried took a long drink. Sigrid plucked the empty bottle from his hand and passed it to Sebastian, who met Gottfried’s gaze.
“We’ll deal with that later,” Sebastian said quietly.
Gottfried gave a slow nod. For now, the matter was set aside—but the weight of it lingered.
The party lingered in the cold rain outside the ruined church, their breaths misting in the frigid air as they weighed their next steps. Stora Tuna lay only a ten-minute walk away—close enough to offer shelter, warmth, and perhaps the supplies they needed. From there, they might arrange transport, though the thought of trudging directly to their destination through mud, hills, and relentless rain promised hours of misery.
“Pity Hilma couldn’t transport the horses as well,” Sebastian remarked, tightening his damp coat with a sardonic smirk.
“They weren’t ours,” Sigrid replied, matter-of-fact. “They belonged to the Director. And I doubt it would look good to ride into his funeral on his own horses.”
That ended the matter. Stora Tuna would be their next stop.
“Coffee first,” Gottfried muttered, already envisioning a steaming mug.
“And bread,” perked up Celeste, the word echoing through the group until it became an odd sort of refrain.
The road was little used, its edges overgrown with grass, but the paving beneath held firm. The mist thickened around them, only to part at last, revealing the modest sprawl of Stora Tuna: a tall-spired church dominating the centre, flanked by scattered farmhouses and cottages huddled against the weather. Smoke curled from chimneys, the scent of peat fires mingling with the damp air.
They followed the main road until a small, weathered inn appeared by the village green, its warped sign swaying gently in the wind. Inside, dim light pooled on dark-stained timber walls. The barkeep—a broad-shouldered man with heavy-lidded eyes—was polishing a glass with a cloth that looked as weary as he did.
Orders came quickly. Gottfried asked for soup; Sigrid and Sebastian chose soup, bread, and tea. The barkeep mentioned a meat stew with potatoes, which Celeste promptly claimed before slipping briefly into the back. The hearth crackled faintly, and Sigrid drew close to its heat, thin trails of steam rising from her damp clothes.
When the barkeep returned, he pointed to a chest in the corner brimming with woollen blankets. Sigrid handed them out without hesitation. Sebastian eased Gottfried into the best chair near the fire, then coaxed reluctant sparks into his damp cigar until it caught.
The tea was bitter and thin, but the bread, butter, and cheese softened the blow. Before long, the barkeep drifted away, leaving the group to the low hum of the flames.
“Zebastian!” Gottfried leaned forward, his eyes bright. “You studied logistics and planning at university. What would you suggest?”
Sebastian considered. “First… we need to know how one truly destroys a Vaesen.”
They reviewed what they knew: iron and Christian symbols inflicted harm but could not finish the creature. The ancient ritual once performed in the church had protected the village—until now. Hilma’s warning was clear: Celeste alone could find “the crack” into Bergs-Erik’s domain.
Gottfried thumbed through his notes until he found a passage on troll lairs. They could never be located without a troll to guide you—unless, as one tale suggested, you turned your clothes inside out and walked backwards into the cave.
Their plan crystallised. They would find the lair and perform the full ritual within, banishing Bergs-Erik for good. That meant securing a proper church bell, seven tolls accompanied by the Lord’s Prayer, and the use of iron and protective symbols.
“Do we just… ask the local church for their bell?” Celeste asked.
Sebastian allowed a half-smile. “We ask for forgiveness rather than permission.”
“Would a stolen bell still be holy?”
“Only if it hasn’t been desanctified,” Gottfried explained.
They laughed off the idea of a church heist—though none ruled it out entirely. Celeste asked if a smaller bell might work; Sebastian recalled the priest in Granshammer begrudgingly ringing a handbell. Celeste shook her head. “Too small.”
The cracked bell from the ruined church was their best lead. Gottfried joked about punching it back into shape, but they knew it would require a forge and skilled hands. The inscriptions were right, though age had weathered them. If reforged in iron, it might yet serve. Perhaps Stora Tuna’s forge could help.
Celeste preferred the idea of restoration over theft, though she kept the latter in reserve.
They sat in the warmth, their plans unfolding between mouthfuls of bread and sips of poor tea, when a single church bell tolled in the distance. Its deep note hung in the damp air like a solemn warning. A heartbeat later, thunder rolled over the village, answering in kind.
