Chapter 606

The air in the valley was different. It was thick, not with humidity, but with something else, something heavier, something that pressed down on Stefan's chest as he stepped off the bus.

The village sign read 'Willkommen in Schattenberg', shadows mountain. It was a fitting name. Mountains ringed the small collection of houses, their peaks lost in the low-hanging clouds even on what should have been a summer afternoon.

Stefan adjusted the strap of his backpack, the worn leather creaking softly. He was fifteen, and this small Swiss village, tucked away from the usual tourist trails, was supposed to be a break, a chance to explore somewhere new.

His parents, back in Bern, had spoken of scenic hikes and fresh air. But the air here felt stale, stagnant.

He walked down the main street, if you could call it that. A handful of buildings, mostly wood and stone, lined either side. A small shop with dusty windows, a gasthof with a sign depicting a leaping stag, and what looked like the village church, its spire dark and brooding against the grey sky.

There were very few people around. An old woman swept the doorstep of her cottage, her movements slow and deliberate. A man in overalls leaned against the gasthof wall, smoking a pipe, his eyes distant.

Stefan wanted to ask for directions to the hiking trails, but there was something about the silence of the village that held him back. It wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a deeper quiet, a stillness that felt expectant, watchful.

He walked towards the gasthof, the 'Zum Roten Hirsch' sign swinging gently in a breeze he couldn't feel. The man with the pipe turned his head as Stefan approached, his eyes, when they met Stefan's, were unsettlingly blank.

"Entschuldigung," Stefan started, then switched to English, remembering not everyone in these remote areas appreciated Swiss German, "Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to the hiking trails?"

The man took a slow drag from his pipe, the ember glowing orange in the gloom. He didn't answer at first, just kept looking at Stefan with those empty eyes. The silence grew uncomfortable, thick with unspoken things.

Finally, the man spoke, his voice raspy, like dry leaves rustling. "Trails are closed."

"Closed?" Stefan frowned. "Why?"

Another slow draw on the pipe. "Mountain's not safe."

"Not safe?" Stefan repeated, confused. "Is there a landslide or something?"

The man shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "Something else." He pointed with the stem of his pipe towards the highest peak, shrouded in mist. "Man of Yorg."

Stefan blinked. "Man of Yorg? What's that?" He'd never heard of it.

The man just shrugged, turning away, resuming his silent vigil. Stefan stood there for a moment, feeling a prickle of unease. Man of Yorg. It sounded like some old folk story.

He decided to try the gasthof. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he stepped inside. The air inside was dim and smelled of woodsmoke and something else, something faintly metallic and unpleasant. An older woman with tired eyes stood behind the bar, polishing glasses with a slow, deliberate cloth.

"Hello," Stefan said, trying to sound cheerful. "Could I get some information about hiking trails?"

The woman stopped polishing, looking at him with the same vacant expression as the man outside. "Trails closed." Her voice was flat, devoid of inflection.

"I know," Stefan said, a little exasperated. "The man outside said so too. But why? What's the problem?"

She put down the glass and cloth, her movements slow and heavy. "Man of Yorg," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Okay," Stefan said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Everyone keeps saying 'Man of Yorg'. What is it? Is it a person? An animal? Is it dangerous?"

The woman's eyes seemed to darken, the small light in them extinguished. "Very dangerous," she breathed. "Best stay inside."

Stefan felt a chill run down his spine, despite himself. "Inside? All day? I just arrived. I wanted to hike."

She didn't respond, just turned back to her polishing, her silence heavier than any words. Stefan realized he wasn't going to get anything useful from her.

He went outside again, the grey light seeming to press down on him. The man with the pipe was gone. The street was deserted.

It was only early afternoon, but the village felt like it was already in twilight, waiting for something unpleasant to happen.

He walked further down the street, drawn by the sight of the church. Maybe someone there would be more helpful, more… normal. The churchyard was overgrown, the stones tilted and moss-covered. The wooden doors of the church were heavy and creaked loudly as he pushed them open.

Inside, it was even darker, the air thick with the scent of old wood and damp stone. Dust motes danced in the faint rays of light that filtered through the stained-glass windows. Stefan could hear the faint drip of water somewhere, echoing in the silence.

He walked down the aisle, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. There were no people. The pews were empty, coated in dust.

He reached the front of the church, where a small altar stood, draped in faded velvet. Behind it, a large wooden carving of Christ on the cross, the figure gaunt and sorrowful in the dim light.

As he looked at the carving, Stefan felt an inexplicable wave of sadness wash over him. It wasn't just the sorrow of the figure depicted; it was something else, something deeper, something that resonated with the oppressive quiet of the village.

He turned to leave, feeling increasingly uneasy. As he turned, he saw something in the corner of his eye. A movement, near the back of the church, in the deepest shadows.

He stopped, heart pounding. "Hello?" he called out, his voice sounding thin and weak in the vast space.

Silence. Only the dripping water, and the faint sound of his own breath.

He took a step back, his eyes straining to pierce the gloom. There was something there, in the shadows. He could feel it, a presence, watching him.

He took another step back, then another, slowly retreating towards the doors. He didn't know what it was, but he didn't want to find out. The feeling of unease had turned into something sharper, something like fear.

He reached the doors, his hand fumbling for the latch. He pulled them open and practically stumbled out into the churchyard, gasping for breath. The grey light seemed almost welcoming after the oppressive darkness of the church.

He leaned against a gravestone, trying to calm his racing heart. What was that in the church? Just shadows playing tricks on his eyes? Or was it something more?

He looked back at the church, its dark spire pointing accusingly at the sky. Man of Yorg. The words echoed in his mind. What did it mean?

He decided to go back to the gasthof, to at least get a room for the night. Maybe in the daylight, things would seem less… menacing.

The woman was still behind the bar when he went back in. He asked for a room, and she nodded silently, pushing a key across the counter without a word.

The room was small and spartan, with a narrow bed, a wooden chair, and a washbasin in the corner. The window looked out onto the back of the gasthof, a dark and overgrown yard that sloped down towards the trees.

Stefan dropped his backpack on the floor and sat on the bed, trying to collect his thoughts. The village was strange, unsettling.

The people were… off. And this Man of Yorg thing… it was clearly more than just a story. There was a real fear in the way they spoke of it.

He got up and went to the window, looking out at the yard. The trees were close, their branches gnarled and twisted, reaching towards the gasthof like skeletal fingers. The air was still, heavy. He felt trapped, isolated.

As dusk began to settle, the village grew even quieter, the shadows lengthening and deepening. Stefan stayed in his room, the silence pressing in on him. He tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. Every creak of the old building, every rustle of leaves outside the window, made him jump.

He tried to rationalize it, to tell himself it was just the atmosphere of a remote mountain village, that he was being overly sensitive. But the feeling of unease wouldn't go away. It was growing, intensifying, like a slow, insidious poison.

Later, when it was fully dark, he heard sounds outside. Not the usual night sounds of crickets or owls, but something else. Soft footfalls, almost like padding, moving around in the yard below his window.

He went to the window, peering out into the darkness. He couldn't see anything clearly, but he could hear it now, the faint rustling in the leaves, the soft thud of something heavy moving on the ground. It was circling the gasthof, slowly, deliberately.

Fear, cold and sharp, gripped him. He backed away from the window, heart hammering against his ribs. He locked the door of his room, even though he knew it was a flimsy defense.

He sat on the bed, huddled in the corner, listening. The sounds continued, circling, closer now. He could almost feel the presence outside, something unseen, something… waiting.

Then, he heard a new sound. A scraping, scratching sound, coming from the wall beside his bed. It was low at first, almost imperceptible, then grew louder, more insistent. Like claws, scraping against wood.

Stefan froze, his breath catching in his throat. The scratching continued, moving up the wall, closer to the window. He could hear the wood splintering, cracking.

He squeezed his eyes shut, covering his ears, trying to block out the sound. But it was no use. It was inside his head now, a terrifying, visceral sound that resonated with the primal fear deep within him.

The scratching stopped. Silence again, but a different silence now. A silence pregnant with menace, with anticipation. He felt like something was holding its breath, waiting for him to move.

Slowly, hesitantly, he opened his eyes. He didn't dare look at the wall. He kept his eyes fixed on the door, willing it to stay closed, willing whatever was outside to just go away.

Then, he heard a whisper. Faint, barely audible, but undeniably a whisper, coming from just outside his window.

"Stefan…"

His blood ran cold. His name. It knew his name.

He didn't move, didn't breathe. He felt like if he made the slightest sound, it would… what? He didn't know, but he didn't want to find out.

The whisper came again, closer this time, more insistent. "Stefan… come out."

It wasn't a human whisper. It was too low, too guttural, with a strange, unsettling resonance. It sounded like the rustling of dry leaves, like the scraping of claws on wood, all woven together into something… inhuman.

He stayed frozen, paralyzed by fear. The whispering continued, circling his room now, coming from different directions, as if it was all around him. "Stefan… Stefan… come out… we're waiting…"

The 'we' sent a fresh wave of terror through him. It wasn't alone. There were others. Waiting.

Suddenly, the door to his room creaked open. Slowly, silently, it swung inward, revealing the dark hallway outside. He hadn't unlocked it. He was sure he had locked it.

He stared at the open door, his mind blank with terror. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even scream. He was utterly, completely paralyzed.

A figure appeared in the doorway. Tall, gaunt, silhouetted against the dim light from the hallway. It was vaguely human-shaped, but distorted, elongated, with limbs that seemed too long, too thin. Its head was in shadow, but he could sense eyes, burning eyes, fixed on him in the darkness.

It took a step into the room, and Stefan could smell it then. A stench, like rotting meat, like decay, mingled with something earthy, something… fungal. It was sickening, overpowering.

The figure moved again, closer now, its form slowly resolving in the dim light. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched tight over bone. Its eyes were large, black, and utterly devoid of light, like empty sockets staring into his soul. Its mouth was a thin, cruel line, drawn back in a parody of a smile, revealing teeth that were too long, too sharp, like fangs.

This was the Man of Yorg. Not a story, not a legend. Real. And it was here, in his room, coming for him.

It reached out a hand, long, skeletal fingers extending towards him. "Stefan…" it whispered again, the sound like dry leaves crumbling. "Come with us."

Stefan finally found his voice, or at least a sound that was something like a voice. A choked gasp, a whimper of terror. He scrambled back on the bed, trying to get away, to put distance between himself and that… thing.

But there was nowhere to go. The wall was behind him. The Man of Yorg was in front of him, reaching, closer, closer.

He closed his eyes, bracing for the touch, for whatever horror it was going to inflict on him. He waited for pain, for claws, for teeth.

But it didn't come. Instead, he felt a cold pressure on his forehead, like a hand resting there. And then, he heard a different sound. Not the whisper, but a voice. A voice in his head, not spoken aloud, but directly in his mind.

You are chosen.

The voice was cold, ancient, powerful. It resonated deep within him, vibrating in his bones. He couldn't resist it, couldn't fight it.

You will be one of us.

He opened his eyes. The Man of Yorg was still there, its black eyes staring into him. But now, there was something different in those eyes. Not just emptiness, but… recognition. Acceptance.

And in his own mind, he felt something changing. Something shifting, distorting. His thoughts, his memories, his very self, were starting to… unravel.

He looked down at his hands. They were paler now, thinner, the veins more prominent. He could feel his skin tightening, stretching. His bones felt lighter, hollower.

He looked back at the Man of Yorg, and for the first time, he saw not a monster, but… a reflection. A distorted, horrifying reflection, of what he was becoming.

He felt a strange calmness settle over him, a resignation. The fear was still there, but it was receding, replaced by something else. Something… cold. Empty.

Welcome, brother. The voice in his head echoed again, and this time, it was joined by others. A chorus of voices, whispering, rustling, scraping, all speaking as one.

He nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. He understood now. He was one of them. He was the new Man of Yorg.

He stood up from the bed, his movements stiff, unnatural. He walked towards the figure in the doorway, and it stepped aside, allowing him to pass.

He walked out of the room, into the dark hallway, and then out of the gasthof, into the silent village. The other figures were waiting for him outside, emerging from the shadows. Tall, gaunt, pale figures, their black eyes burning in the darkness.

They surrounded him, welcoming him into their fold. He was no longer Stefan, the fifteen-year-old boy from Switzerland. He was something else now. Something… more. Something… less.

They walked together, as one, towards the mountains, towards the shrouded peak, towards the place where the Man of Yorg belonged.

Leaving behind the village of Schattenberg, and all trace of the boy who had once been Stefan, swallowed by the shadows, and becoming a part of them, forever bound to the mountain, forever the Man of Yorg.

His youthful adventure had ended not in scenic views or fresh air, but in a brutal, irreversible transformation, a tragic merging with the very horror he sought to understand, leaving no hope of return, only the cold, eternal existence of the legend he had become.