Oskar Kraus had heard the stories. The widow Zeller, who had lived a few streets down, was dead. Supposedly, she was slaughtered by the monster, but Oskar had no doubt that the report was superstitious nonsense. The animal was a little kid’s story, something used to frighten the young away from the woods. It was like the Weihnachtsmann in his fur mantle, delivering gifts to the good little children. It was just a story.
He had never known Zeller, but had heard tales of her. She was the town’s crazy woman, the eccentric older lady that everyone treated as a sort of oddity. Her tales of the beast had no proof, no evidence; most of the people in the town ignored it as the ramblings of an old, confused woman. Only one person in the town believed her: Gustav, the local hermit. Oskar knew Gustav- he was a sort of friend, a friend that Oskar was visiting now at the local pub.
Gustav didn’t look like anything special. He had an average height, an average build, brown hair that wasn’t abnormally short or long, coffee-brown eyes like most of the town, and the plainest, most ordinary clothes one could imagine. His personality more than made up for the nondescript appearance, however.
“Kleine Oskar!” he shouted loudly, a glass in hand. “Oskar, boy! Heard the news, have you?”
Oskar nodded. “Yes, I have. D’you really think it was…?”
“Das Münster? I’ve not a doubt. You know well as I this was beyond anything… well, normal, I suppose.”
“Could it not have been a dog?”
“Teeth too big, Oskar.” Gustav took a long drink.
“Bear?”
Gustav shook his head, scattering snow out of his haggard beard and long hair onto the floor. “No, bear’s not going to get anywhere near us. They’re even further out than I.”
“It’s a hard winter. Perhaps they’re desperate.”
“Desperate enough to venture into the village, yet not enough to eat their kill? Take my word for it, that beast’s returned. I’d stake my oath on it, boy, it’s back.”
“The Mor-”
“That’s enough, lad. This isn’t a tale for a boy. Run along now, help your mother.”
Oskar knew better than to push him. Gustav was the only adult who would tell him anything; better for him not to lose his source of information. Instead, he did as he was told. Oskar found his mother across the cobbled street in the market. Else Kraus was escorting her youngest, Fritz, by the arm away from a group of merchants he had been bothering.
Oskar couldn’t pick up her exact words, but he knew Fritz would be very sorry he had even thought about crossing their mother- when truly angry, Else Kraus could make Napoleon’s whole army desert faster than any Russian winter. He fell in step behind her, not even looking at his brother. Much as he loved Fritz, Oskar knew his little brother had to learn his lesson. Again.
Once they reached the stone-brick house they called home, Else immediately proceeded to lecture her son, her voice reaching the highest volume Oskar had heard in a while. Five minutes passed before she stopped and pointed to the corner. No explanation was needed. Fritz, head lowered like a whipped dog, shuffled over to the corner and stood.
Else let out a huff, then dusted off her dress. She called for the other children, and Oskar’s two younger sisters ran out of their room, squealing. Agnes and Ida both took after Oskar’s father, with straight blond hair, shining brown eyes, and thin but tall builds. Agnes was the taller of the two as well as the elder; she taunted her sister with the fact every chance she got.
Oskar, on the other hand, was a blend of his two parents. He had his father’s blond hair straight nose, and above-average height, and his mother’s blue eyes, slight build, and thin lips. Fritz took almost entirely after Else, the only difference being his ears, which were larger than average.
“Mutti, Mutti,” Ida said, “listen!” She pulled the small violin from its place against the wall and immediately started on a sweet, slow melody. Ida’s one advantage over Agnes: Music came naturally to her, so while Agnes practiced and practiced at her violin, Ida learned with ease, and with that same ease, outplayed her older sister. The song sped up, and Agnes giggled, twirling in a circle and tapping her small foot to the beat.
Even Else and Oskar joined in, Oskar spinning Agnes around while his mother laughed and sang to the song. Just like that, her anger was absolved. It was her belief that life was too short for anger, especially towards family, and so it was often easy to charm her back into her usual cheerful mood. Even so, all four Kraus children, Fritz occasionally excepted, knew better than to provoke her; Else Kraus was not a woman to mess with.
As the song ended, Oskar twirled his sister one more time, then gave a small bow. Agnes laughed and curtsied back.
“Bitte, Mutti, can we do it again?” she pleaded.
Else laughed. “No, liebling. We’ve things to do today.”
“Like what?”
“I must teach you and Ida to sew. Between the two of you and your brother, I’ve always something to patch. So, come, Ida, put away your violin. We’ll leave Oskar to his chores and Fritz to his corner, and the three of us will have a grand time!”
Obediently, Ida placed her violin against the wall once more and scampered after her mother, Agnes close behind. Oskar watched them as they went up the stairs, Agnes skipping every other step. Shaking his head, he went back outside, grabbing the ax from its place.

The woods near the Kraus family home were dark and shadowed, the trees so thick they blocked out most of the light. This time of year, the needles on the trees were frosted over in white, the branches bent with snow, and the bark peeling from desperate animals searching for any source of food.
Oskar liked winter; everything was pure and clean, white as the wings of an angel and comforting in its monotone shades. He loved the trees too, because they were so simple yet could do so much: they provided homes, warmth, food, beauty.
However much he loved the trees, though, Oskar knew his job. Hefting the ax, he swung it into the trunk of a tall pine. Snow crashed from the branches as he swung a second time, then a third. Grunting, he struck the tree again, bringing the ax back and slicing into the trunk until with a groan, the tree shuddered and crashed into the surrounding white.
Oskar chopped the tree into manageable pieces, then heaved the logs to the back of the house. He placed them in a pile, stacking them neatly to keep them from falling. On his third trip back to the fallen tree, he heard a noise.
It was a long, echoing howl, one that immediately made him think, Wolf. But no wolf howled like that, not so close to humans, nor so… human. Because in that noise, Oskar could hear a very human-like tone of sadness and rage. Gustav had mentioned das Münster, but like most everyone in the town, Oskar believed the story to be just that: a story. Something meant to scare young children, to keep them from wandering into the woods alone. Just as he was now.
Don’t be a fool, he thought. It’s just a story. All the same, he hurried to bring in all the wood he had, not lingering in the forest for even a second.

When Oskar’s father came home, he seemed to be in foul spirits. Some of the townsfolk, he said, were panicking over the widow Zeller’s death. They were worried about their livestock, their children, themselves. Anything that could tear out the throat of the old woman and get away without leaving the faintest clue aroused fear in the more timid of the men in the town.
He sat, as was usual, at the head of the table. Cured meat, along with dried plums, sauerkraut, and Else’s fresh-baked bread sat on the plates of each family member. Fritz picked at his bread, knowing the lecture coming his way would happen sooner rather than later. Agnes was trying to steal the food from Ida’s plate, having finished her own, but Ida was having none of it. Else was pulling the two apart, leaving only Oskar and his father to hold a conversation.
Swallowing a bite of plum, Oskar asked, “Do you think there’s something out there, Vati?”
Hans Kraus scowled. “It’s naught but a coward’s tale, this monster. The old woman was addled; whatever fate she met had nothing to do with her story about the beast.”
Oskar wondered if he should mention the howl he had heard. On second thought, it probably wasn’t a good idea. His father was already in a foul mood and bringing up anything supporting the monster could end up with Oskar standing in the corner.
“The beast?” asked Agnes, leaving off tormenting her younger sister long enough to gaze at her father with wide eyes.
He gave her a smile. Hans doted on his daughters. “Yes, little sparrow. It’s but a myth, nothing that can hurt you.”
“Myth?” Agnes’s voice was hopeful; clearly she wished for a story.
“Yes,” Hans said, ready to indulge her. “It was years ago, perhaps close to forty, when it happened-”
“Hans,” Else interrupted, “is this really a tale for children?” Her voice was approaching danger level, which Oskar interpreted as, This is not a tale for children, and if you continue this story, you will face the full wrath of Else Kraus.
However, as only he could, Hans ignored the warning. It didn’t matter how angry Else was with him, she would never act upon her feelings. And so, the story was told.

Nigh upon forty years ago, there lived a man. A simple man, no different from any other in his village; no different in respects that he was pressed into Napoleon’s army with the rest of them. He led a long campaign, and was known for his cunning and often for his brutality. The Monster of Men, he was called.
He was dangerous, skilled, and intelligent, a fearsome enemy and a useful ally. But he had one particular flaw. The man was selfish. He was so haunted by the idea of his own death, that when it seemed imminent, he acted. The disaster at Moscow. Every soldier expected supplies left, food and medicines, as Napoleon had said there would be. Instead, their expectations were disappointed and they found nothing in Moscow. It was empty.
They could survive, they believed, on their own supplies, and decided to stay in the city, setting up their own quarters. Early the next morning, however, the Russians set fire to those quarters, which were soon destroyed in the blaze. Despite the loss, Napoleon stayed, waiting over a month for the surrender of the Russians that would never come. Eventually, his starving army was forced out of the city.
Their retreat was hurried by Russian Cossacks, raiders carrying lances and guns, and many of Napoleon’s men were killed. The man knew his odds of reaching home were slim; there were far too many dangers he would face. With a group of equally disgruntled Russians, the man deserted, disappearing into the wilderness to find his way home.
He lived in Alsace, a region bordering the land of France and the land of Germany, although the exact town in the region is not known today. It was a long, arduous trail, moving through the deep snows and cold temperatures of the harsh winter, but eventually, the man was close. He was still a fair distance from Alsace, but he had covered the majority of his journey home.
The men, exhausted from their trek, stopped in a small town in Wittlich. Wittlich was a neighboring region to Alsace, so the man was even closer than he knew. But one fateful event kept him from reaching home…
The men were bragging to each other; they survived while their other foolishly loyal compatriots had not. They were probably starving out in the snow, one said, if not dead already. Laughing, the men continued on the outskirts of town when they saw it: a small farmhouse, unlocked and unguarded.
The man knew there was likely food inside; he convinced his fellow deserters to look inside. They had a decent amount of supplies left, but with the winter being as hard as it was, it was entirely plausible to miss out on a minimum of a day from severe weather. In such a situation, the man wanted undiminished supplies.
The men were in luck. Cured meat, preserves, even fresh meat if they were willing to kill the animals in the barn. They gorged themselves on what they had found, putting only a portion of the food aside for the days ahead. They were laughing and swapping stories when the man heard it- a noise, growing ever closer to the barn.
He reached for the gun at his side, ready for any threat. The doors opened slowly. It was the owner of the barn, the farmer, with his three sons by his side. All four were shocked to see both the men and the mess they had made, and in their anger, hefted the axes and pitchforks they carried. The man was smart enough to know the punishment for thievery, and knew that it was either himself or the farmer and his sons.
He fired, and panicked, his fellow deserters followed suit. When the smoke and confusion died, the men saw among the carnage the bodies of the farmer and his sons. The men stood, staring at the ones they had killed, when a shrill wail interrupted them. While his compatriots were still gazing at the corpses, the man peered outside.
The farmer’s wife was there, hair turning white with snow, and she was gazing hatefully at the man. For a moment, the man simply stared back. Killing men, he thought, was one thing. Murdering a woman, and a grieving one at that, was simply unthinkable.
“Curse you, murderer,” the woman spat. “Let my Lord hear my wish and grant it true! From now on, at each full moon, you will change into a rabid wolf!”
The man snarled. She would curse him, this woman? She would try to bring down the wrath of her Lord on a starving soldier? Blinded by rage, the man lifted a dark chunk of rock from the snow and brought it crashing down on the woman’s head. He brought the rock down again and again and again, some feral part of him reveling in the crunch of bone.
His fellows, who had emerged from the barn, looked upon their companion with fear and disgust. His hands were stained red, lips drawn back in a savage grin. One of the men whispered that he reminded him of temny volk, the dark wolf that had terrorized his family’s farm in his childhood. The other men agreed, seeing the delight he took in seeing the woman’s body at his feet.
Still, they continued to Alsace with full packs on their backs and a leader lusting for blood. Although the man himself felt no change, his companions saw it clearly: the man had always been harsh, cunning, and ruthless, but there was something more… animalistic. As a man, he had been in control of his emotions; he could contain himself with ease. After the change, he was sporadic and wild, completely unpredictable in his episodes of rage and cruelty. Sometimes they saw him at full moons, standing over the corpse of a woodland creature, blood on his nails and teeth and no sign of a bullet in the poor animal.
The last straw was when they reached another small town. They stayed on the outskirts again, not wishing to draw attention. The men took turns on watch, excluding their savage companion, who was too unpredictable to be considered reliable. They all fell asleep, leaving a young man to watch over them. But he was as tired as the rest, and it wasn’t long until his head drooped onto his chest and his eyes closed. In the morning, the men rose to screams.
Murderer, the voices called, beast, butcher, fiend. The men hurried into the town, fearing what they would find. To their horror, but not surprise, their companion was snarling at the townsfolk like a wild dog, teeth and hands once more stained with blood. The body of a young woman lay at his feet. Without a word, they left, utterly repulsed by the man. They continued on alone, deserting him as they had once deserted their army.
The man joined with vagabonds, thieves, ruffians, and criminals alike, continuing on his quest of violence and bloodlust. Yet all his men left him sooner or later, after witnessing the monster within him. They were appalled by the measures the man was willing to go to, revolted by his cruel, awful deeds, and the man knew it. He saw the fear in their eyes, like cornered prey. He heard their whispers. The thought added bitterness to his rage, and alone, he fled into the woods.
The man grew increasingly violent. Instead of killing one animal here and there, he would slaughter as many as he could in one night. Instead of slaughtering people as he felt was needed, he tore open any he came across.  The men of nearby villages banded together to find the wolf-man, sending their best out after him. No traces of their men were found.
Finally, after tracking him day and night through the snow, they found the man huddled by a fire, the bones of animals scattered around him. The man fled, and they gave chase, for days following the murderer they had sought for so long.
Eventually, they cornered the man in another village… Morbach. As savagely as the man fought, he was no match for the villagers with their weapons and their fury. He was felled as quickly as he had killed his own quarries. The villagers buried him at a crossroads, not bothering to mark the grave of their enemy. Over his grave, they placed a shrine, and in the shrine, a candle. As long as the candle burns, he will not return.
The man’s name was Thomas Schwytzer. But when Schwytzer turned feral, he became known as the Monster. The Morbach Monster.

“And now, children, it is time for bed,” Else Kraus declared, sparing her husband an exasperated look. Agnes and Ida both looked wide-eyed and apprehensive; Else knew they would have difficulty sleeping. “Not you, Fritz,” she added sharply as the boy rose hopefully from the table. “You and your father need to have a word.”
Oskar stifled a laugh at the dejected look on his brother’s face and climbed up the stairs. Having heard the story before, it did not scare him as it did his sisters, therefore he had no trouble falling asleep after he said his prayers.

The next day, when Oskar ventured out into the village, everyone was hushed. For Morbach, this was unusual. Typically, people were always talking, yelling, singing, and laughing, not to mention the noise the children around town made. There were always men at the bars and women at the market, always children running around underfoot, tripping up those in their path.
Uneasily, he made his way to the knot of people standing solemnly in front of the tavern. The owner, a bulky man named Karl Seidel, had one massive arm around his shaking wife, who was quietly sobbing into a handkerchief. Tears ran down the face of the big man, and Oskar felt a pang of shock: Karl was notoriously emotionless; he even had earned the name of Steinherz, stone-heart, for his lack of a reaction to any occurrence.
Whatever had caused the man to cry had to be devastating.
When he reached the crowd, he noticed that there was a gap in the mass of people, right in front of the Seidels. Not wanting to cause a disturbance, Oskar stood in silence. Perhaps he’d ask Gustav later. One of the women from the crowd led Karl’s wife away, murmuring into her ear and patting her back. A moment later, Karl followed, a loud sniff audible from the big man as he disappeared into the tavern.
As soon as they passed into the bar, everyone around Oskar started whispering. He only caught pieces: Did you see… poor Gertrud and Karl… what do you think it was… what will happen next… His suspicions were confirmed; something awful had happened. But what?
One of the adults, who Oskar recognized as Gustav once he had turned, led him away. Gustav’s face was sorrowful, and his eyes downcast as he steered Oskar away from the crowd.
“Go on, Oskar,” he said, “go on. This isn’t something for children.”
“What happened, Gustav?”
Gustav sighed and shook his head. “You won’t let it alone, will you? No, I can see in your eyes you won’t. Ah, boy, you’ll wish you had. You remember the widow Zeller, yes?”
Oskar nodded.
“Karl’s son Johann is dead. And while there’s no proof, it looks like the same thing that got her, got him. And one of the men went up ‘round Zeller’s home before dawn, said the candle’s out.”
“The… candle? From the shrine? People think das Münster is the cause of this? It’s a story, Gustav, a tale meant for children!”
“No tale I’ve ever seen could tear out the throat of an old woman.”
“But even if the tale is true, that beast is dead, isn’t it?”
“No dead beast I’ve even seen could rip a boy’s chest to shreds.”
“Herrgott, Gustav…”
“Listen to me, boy, and listen close. I don’t care if it’s das Münster or if it’s my great-aunt Olga’s vengeful spirit, you take your family and you keep your head down. Keep an eye on those little sisters of yours, and your brother, too. Someone or something has already killed two people and we’re no closer to finding it than we are to growing wings and flying. Watch your back, kleine Oskar, lest this beast tear your spine out.”
Feeling sick, Oskar nodded and went home.

Else Kraus did not take the news well. She immediately gathered her children together, and was considering whether or not to drag Hans home, but then decided against it. She gave each child a strict talking-to, especially Fritz, and impressed upon them the importance of caution. When Fritz started to stare off into space, she slapped him hard across the face.
Oskar, who had been on the receiving end of Else’s hand before, winced in sympathy. However, he knew she was right: Now, of all times, was not the time to daydream, not after two people had been killed. Perhaps the message was going over Fritz’s head. He was only seven, three years younger than Ida, four younger than Agnes, and eight younger than Oskar; like all young children, he believed himself immortal and would likely ignore the warning if it were not drilled into his head.
“I’m going to kill it,” he declared. “I’m going to find it and kill it. And then I’ll be a hero!”
“Foolish boy,” Else said with exasperation. “Das Münster would make ribbons out of you. You listen to me, Fritz Kraus, and you listen well: If you even go near that door, I’ll take a switch to your backside until it hurts too much to even crawl, verstehen?”
As an over-protective mother, Else wasn’t letting any of her children go anywhere, not even Oskar. Arbeit werden verdammt, she told him, which he took to mean: You’re not putting a foot out of this house, Oskar Kraus, even if I have to slap you silly to get that across.
The supplies they had would only last a week and a half at most, with four hungry children in the house, so Oskar knew that even if his mother forbade him from so much as laying a finger on the door, he would have to go out eventually. The thought made him nervous, especially after the howl he had heard in the woods. He wondered if the next body they found would be his.
He watched his sisters, who were staring at the door as if das Münster was going to burst through it that instant and eat them. His brother, who had finally gotten the message and now looked like Else had slapped him more than once. His mother, who was glaring fiercely at all her children, determined to keep them safe.
There’s no keeping us safe, Mutti, from a beast who won’t stay dead. Oskar wondered if it were actually possible to stop something that could not die. And even if it could be stopped, what was to keep it from returning?

Wilhelm Kunkel was not afraid. He was not afraid of the thieves that occasionally targeted Morbach men, he was not afraid of the biting cold, and he was not afraid of this beast, this so-called man-wolf that was reportedly behind the two murders. He believed it to be a ridiculous legend; no old woman’s curse could even knock over a bucket of water, much less turn a man into a ravening beast.
The old Zeller widow was a stubborn fool. She would be exactly the type to adamantly refuse a robber or attack an animal that had wandered onto her property. Honestly, Wilhelm didn’t see what the fuss was about her- they were better off anyway with that loon gone. She probably would’ve kicked the bucket soon as it was, so perhaps whatever killed her had done her and Morbach a favor.
As for the Seidel boy, Wilhelm knew he was simple. Couldn’t figure out how to pour water out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel, that one. Any kid around his age who spent his time daydreaming in the forest instead of hanging around the tavern with friends was a kid who clearly had more than a few issues.
Both of them would be easy targets for the creature, assuming it even existed. All the poor fools in town, so panicked about this fearsome, frightening monster that was nothing but a child’s story.
Chuckling, Wilhelm made his way outside the town. He and his sweetheart, Gertrud, had plans to meet by the banks of the Klingbach River. She, like him, thought the idea of the beast laughable, and so to prove the rumor false, she and Wilhelm made plans to stay out all night and see if this alleged Morbach Monster would attack. At first, he was a bit resigned at the idea of staying out for an entire night in the middle of winter, but then brightened when he realized he’d have plenty to do…
“Gertrud!” he called, laughing. “Gertrud, my love!”
There was no sound from the trees.
“Gertrud?”
Wilhelm pushed past the branches, seeking her out. She had promised to meet him here. Did she get cold feet? Was she angry at him? He thought back to see if there were any cause for her to be angry at him. He couldn’t think of anything… then again, he was never very cautious in his replies to things, so perhaps he had angered her and just couldn’t recall it. That had to be it. Just a misunderstanding.
Shaking his head, Wilhelm turned back. If Gertrud wasn’t going to show, then he wasn’t going to stay out all night. A few steps later, he tripped on something sticking out of a bush. Angrily, he kicked at it. His foot connected with something that did not feel like a branch. Wilhelm had been in plenty of fights; he’d won and lost and tied like any other fighter, but in general, he gave as good as he got. He’d been kicked plenty of times and he had kicked people in return just as much. He knew what a leg felt like under his foot. For some reason, a leg was sticking out of this bush.
Kneeling, he pulled it, trying to get it out of the bushes. A woman’s leg, something else he could tell just by feeling. He was Wilhelm- he had more than his fair share of experience. Tugging hard, he fell backwards, the leg coming with him.
He choked back a scream, because one would think a body was attached to the leg, but there was nothing but ragged flesh and splintered bone at the top. Scrambling away from the detached limb, Wilhelm’s chest heaved with shock and fear. Being an avid hunter as well as fighter, he knew that animals didn’t tend to come near Morbach; there were too many people. The biggest animals in the village were the occasional stray dogs, although usually it was rodents that one saw.
Trembling, he craned his neck to peer into the bushes. He wasn’t sure, but… were those fingers tangled up in the branches? So busy was Wilhelm in examining the corpse, he did not hear the slight rustle of leaves behind him, nor did he feel the movement of the air as a large animal sailed through the air and landed on his back.
Wilhelm only had time for one scream before his throat was slashed wide open.

Oskar was not looking forward to a day stuck inside the house. As much as he loved his siblings, being stuck listening to Agnes and Ida argue and watching Fritz get into trouble again was not terribly appealing to him. Therefore, he decided to teach his brother how to play the cello. It was past time Fritz learned an instrument; besides, an instrument required dedication and practice, two things that could keep him out of trouble.
Oskar knew how to play the cello because it was one of his father’s favorite pastimes. Oskar, he would say, of all the arts, there’s only one that speaks directly to the soul, and that is music. From a young age, he had been taught the cello, and Hans Kraus was delighted to see his son practicing every day, mastering new techniques and songs. Oskar didn’t play as much now, as he was often busy, but he would play Stille Nacht on Weihnachten, and on his family’s birthdays, he would perform their favorite song.
Fritz was asleep when Oskar peeked into his room. It wasn’t uncommon for Fritz to try to sleep late, even if he got a rousing wake-up shout from Else every morning. Trying to wake the young boy, though, was like trying to wake the dead. It sometimes took physical pain to roust him out of bed.
“Fritz, wake up,” he said. He shook him. “Come on, little brother, get up.”
Fritz didn’t move. Oskar shook him again. The younger boy didn’t stir, just continued to snore. Sighing, Oskar slapped his brother. Fritz’s eyes flew open.
“What was that for?” he demanded. “I was having a really good dream, too…”
“Come on, Fritz, you can’t sleep all day. It’s already close to noon.”
Grumbling, Fritz stretched and got up. He shooed Oskar from the room grumpily, but emerged a couple minutes later, dressed in his reefer jacket and breeches. He didn’t look at all happy to be woken up at what he considered an early time.
“What’d you wake me up for?” he complained. “It’s too early.”
“Mutti was about to come slap you awake herself. Besides, I thought it might be nice if I taught you to play the cello today, seeing as we’ve all the time we need. We can’t leave the house, remember?” he added as Fritz gave him a confused look.
To his surprise, Fritz agreed to learn without a single complaint or argument. Oskar showed him where to place his fingers, how to use the bow, all the basic terms he needed to know. He started off teaching a basic melody his father had taught him when he was first learning: short, simple, easy to play, and a beautiful tune. Fritz only messed up once.
As the time passed, Oskar taught him more complex tunes, like Greensleeves, a favorite of his mother’s, and even one of Bach’s pieces. Fritz was a quick study; like Ida, music seemed to come naturally to him. By suppertime, he could play the entire song of Stille Nacht without a single error, although he did protest good-naturedly about his aching fingers. Oskar was proud: Fritz had learned five songs in one day, and although he would need to practice to remember them, he seemed to genuinely want to do so.
Once he finished the song, he set down the cello and gave his older brother a hug. Surprised but pleased, Oskar hugged him back.

When Hans Kraus came home, he was once more in a poor mood. The panic over the Seidel boy and that drunk who was constantly in the tavern, Kunkel, had caused a riot near his store, and he had spent the whole day listening to people shout and scream over what he believed to be a fairy tale. As far as Hans was concerned, it was a human murderer, and although that hardly relaxed him, it removed the supernatural element he despised so much.
He softened considerably as he watched his youngest son play Greensleeves. He had always wanted Fritz to learn music, too, but feared he had neither the determination nor the patience to learn. When the song was finished, he praised his wayward son enthusiastically, eyes bright with pride. Else was pleased as well, and applauded at the end of the song. She made sure to also praise Oskar for doing a thorough teaching job.
When they sat down for supper that night, Else brought out a sizeable portion for everyone. The plates were loaded with bacon, dumplings, potatoes, lentils, and a thick slice each of Else’s plum kuchen. Everyone tucked in, and as usual, Agnes bolted hers down like a wild dog and tried to sneak some off her sister’s plate. Ida slapped her hand away.
After supper, Else sent all four to bed, having no child to scold this time. She much preferred it that way. Before he retired for the night, Oskar helped his mother with the dishes. He knew she had enough to worry about and could use the help. She washed, he dried and put away. It took a while, but Oskar didn’t mind. He didn’t want to go to bed anyway.
He finished drying his last dish, then put it away in the cabinet. Bidding both parents good night, he climbed up the stairs and into his bed. He stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows move as the branches of trees outside swayed in the wind. Shaking his head, Oskar realized he had forgotten his prayers for the night. He sat up, closed his eyes, and prayed.
Dear Lord, he thought, I apologize for my forgetfulness. I pray for the safety of Morbach, especially for that of my family. Please deliver us from this threat, whether it be mortal or supernatural, human or beast. All this I pray in Your good name. Amen.
He really hoped his prayers would be answered.

Oskar woke to his mother’s screams. Not bothering to change into his normal clothes, he ran down the stairs, almost knocking his father over as he reached the bottom. Where is she? Where is Mutti? He scanned the room frantically, finally seeing the back door ajar. Nausea rising in his gut, he sprinted to the door and stood barefoot in the snow as he saw what his mother had screamed about.
The body of a young boy lay in the snow, which was stained crimson from the blood that had pulsed out of the gruesome wounds in his face, neck, and chest. The blood looked black in the moonlight, and to his horror and disgust, shone. Fresh. The boy himself had been shredded, his chest ripped into ribbons, his neck gaping open, and his face almost unrecognizable. Viscera spilled out of each tear in his flesh.
Twisting, Oskar retched into the snow. The boy was Fritz.
Verdammt du, Fritz. Why? Why would you leave? You stupid boy! Oskar screamed in his head, since no sound would come out. A lump as big as a chicken egg had lodged in his throat, and he could feel his tears freezing against his cheeks. His toes were starting to go numb, and his hands were bleeding from digging his fingernails into his skin, but he didn’t even notice. He was staring at the corpse of what had been his brother.
Oskar felt an arm rest on his shoulder. His father had come outside, and like Oskar, he was sobbing. “My boy,” he whispered hoarsely. “My son…”
Else screamed and buried her face in Hans’s chest.

An hour later, the family was sitting on the cold wooden floor of their house, staring at the wall. None of them actually saw the wall. They were too haunted by the image of a young boy in their heads, a son, a brother, a loved one.
“Why, Hans?” Else moaned. “Why was I so hard on him? Why didn’t I watch him more closely?”
“It was not your fault, meine Engel,” he replied bitterly. “It was mine. I pushed him. I always told him to be brave, be tough, and he sought to prove himself by catching das Münster. I should have known better.”
“No, Hans,” she said softly, but he didn’t respond.
Oskar felt frozen inside, like the river in the woods. All that was living would not move again until the thaw, and Oskar’s only thaw was the miraculous return of his brother. Lord, I did not mean ‘safe’ as in ‘with you in Heaven’. Why have you taken my brother from me? Why have you taken a brother from Agnes and Ida? Why have you taken a son from my parents? Why have you taken a young boy from the world he loved so much?
He saw the snow outside and felt a pang of grief and rage. Winter had been Fritz’s favorite season too, if only because it was the season in which he had been born. He was one and a half weeks shy of turning eight. But now he would never turn eight. He would never play the cello again, or be scolded by his mother again, or play jokes on Ida or Agnes again. He would never really see his family again until they died and joined him in the afterlife.
Letting out a shout of rage, Oskar stalked upstairs and slammed the door shut, the fierce movement causing his muscles to burn. He buried his face in his pillow and cried for the little brother he had lost.

For a whole day, the Kraus family did not leave their home. Their fellow townsfolk came by to offer condolences and help, only to be almost completely ignored by the shell-shocked family. Understandingly, they took no offense at the lack of response.
Of the family of now-five, Else had taken the death of Fritz the worst. While the rest ate mechanically, not even tasting the food that went past their lips, she refused to eat at all. While the rest of the family sat and stared, stood and stared, and crouched and stared, she didn’t leave her bed. Oskar cared for her; it helped him to have something on his mind other than the news of his brother, even if the thing on his mind was depressing as well.
Else was devastated. Hans was hollow and numb. Agnes and Ida spent their days sobbing, and after their tears had dried, they found yet another thing that reminded them of Fritz and began to cry once more. Oskar was more than desolate. He was angry. He was filled with rage, against Fritz for being fool enough to try and tackle the beast, against his Lord for taking his brother away, against his family and himself for not stopping it, and most of all, against the Morbach Monster.
If it had been human once, Oskar didn’t understand how it could be so selfish. It had been in war, it had seen its compatriots fall; why would it, knowing the devastation death caused, be so cruel as to take away the lives of humans for no cause? Didn’t it know what the deaths were doing to the families? Hadn’t it seen the despondence and fury and sense of hopelessness firsthand?
Oskar knew the beast had, which was why he was going to do something equally selfish: he was going to find this monster, and he was going to kill it. He was going to tear it apart and leave its corpse to rot in the snow, just as it had done to Fritz. He knew the grief his family would feel if he didn’t come back, to lose two sons so soon would crush them. But the weight of his own guilt was crushing him- he knew the kind of boy his brother was, and knew Fritz was exactly the kind of boy that would strike off after the beast for the sake of his pride and glory. Oskar knew, and yet he didn’t watch out for his brother like he ought to have.
He waited until his family was asleep, which, given that they had not slept for a day, was relatively soon. The moon had just risen when Oskar ducked outside, grabbing the ax he had used to chop trees just a few days ago. In addition to the ax, he had a blade. It was a misericord, and had been in the family for a long time, but his grandfather had told him before he died: It’s a tool, not an ornament, boy. It wasn’t meant to sit on the shelf as a decoration, it was meant to serve its owner, and that’s you now.
He had never had cause to use it, and so the blade had ended up as a decoration. The hilt was a bright silver, slightly lighter in color than the blade, and the scabbard was decorated with silver as well, although it was primarily made of polished wood lacquered navy blue. The blade itself was a decent length and keen, almost the length of Oskar’s forearm, and it was thin, too, hence the name. His grandfather had said ‘misericord’ was based off of a Latin word, misericordia, which meant ‘act of mercy’. It was used to pierce the armor of an enemy and deliver a death blow, and was one of the few weapons thin enough to get in through the tiny gaps between armor plates.
It seemed a prudent and useful weapon to him, but since he had never used it before, he was more comfortable with his ax. He had the misericord stuck in his belt in case he needed it.
Oskar knew he would have to be careful; he was neither foolish nor arrogant enough to believe he could defeat das Münster through any particular skill of his own. He would just have to be smart and wary in his quest for the beast. He would have to be smart, wary, and extremely lucky. Unfortunately, Oskar didn’t believe in luck. He believed in working hard and fighting hard to make sure he achieved his goals.
Well, he would have to fight hard for sure to make his latest goal a possibility.

By the time Oskar reached the shrine near the widow Zeller’s home, it was close to eleven at night. He had roughly five hours before his family noticed his disappearance, assuming they didn’t wake up before that. He doubted they would, considering their lack of sleep over the last day. It was one of the reasons Oskar had made sure to get some sleep: so that he wouldn’t have to face the Morbach Monster as a stumbling, exhausted wreck.
Oskar stood near the shrine. He figured that if he stood out in the open, the beast couldn’t sneak up on him. He had considered trying to sneak up on it, but it was a wolf- well, kind of- with superior senses in both hearing and smelling. He wouldn’t get anywhere close. Besides, the shrine was close to the house, meaning he could make a run for it and barricade himself inside if he had to.
Don’t delude yourself, he thought. If das Münster comes, you won’t have a chance to get back to that house. It’s an animal. It runs much faster than you. The thought was not reassuring at all.
Tired of waiting, he shouted, “Come on, you stupid beast! Common mutt! Are you going to let a boy escape the so-called legend?” He didn’t think animals responded to taunts, but if any of them did, it would be the one that was human once.
It was five minutes later when he yelled out again, “Where are you, Münster? Are you hiding?”
A low growl that almost sounded like a chuckle made its way through the air to Oskar’s ears. Nervously, he hefted his ax, scanning the trees for any sign of the beast. All he saw were the shadows of leaves against the snow, revealed by the bright moon.
Another animalistic noise sounded, this time behind him. Oskar whirled, ax ready. The monster of legend stood before him.
Having seen wolves before, Oskar knew that this animal was much bigger than the wild ones out in the woods. It was perhaps seven feet long, three feet tall, with dark grey fur and burning amber eyes full of both feral cunning and human intelligence. It was a powerfully built animal, with massive shoulders and powerful legs that, to Oskar’s surprise, weren’t preparing to spring at him. Its mouth was open, revealing long, sharp canines that were startlingly white.
For a moment, boy and beast just stared at one another. The boy was surprised at the humanity he could see shining in the beast’s eyes, and the beast was surprised at the nerve of the boy. No one but the foolhardy and rash approached it, and they were so full of bravado that there was no fear behind their features. The boy looked afraid.
Shaken from the monster’s stare, Oskar let out a scream and swung his ax. The monster hardly seemed to move. It lunged in retaliation, aiming for the boy’s throat. Oskar swung again, this time in a downward slice that would have cleaved an average animal in two. But the beast was faster than the average animal, and dodged away from the ax as it buried itself in the snow.
Lunging again, it knocked Oskar over, once more exposing the long fangs that were about to be piercing his jugular. He shoved the beast away, grabbing the ax from the ground and holding it sideways to block the monster. It collided with the wooden ax haft, snarling as it raised a paw to its nose in a very human gesture.
Lashing out with one powerful paw, it knocked the ax out of Oskar’s hands, scratching his left one in the process and slamming the ax haft into his chest. Oskar let out a hiss of pain. Baring its teeth, the beast crept forward, brilliant amber eyes focused on its prey.
Oskar had a cousin, Hermann, that was currently learning biological science at Berlin University. On occasion, he came to Morbach to visit his family, and spent time talking about his time there. One of the facts he had shared, the one running through Oskar’s head, was that wolves had a bite pressure of 1,500 pounds per square inch. Oskar had never experienced 1,500 pounds of pressure anywhere, but Hermann had told him it was enough to split bone.
As it drew nearer and nearer, a sort of dark amusement in its fierce gaze, he couldn’t help but think of how all that pressure would feel around his arms, legs, or throat. He was a fool, he knew, for ever daring to think up this venture. And this time tomorrow, his parents and sisters would be mourning the loss of not one son, but two.
Selfish was the word that twisted around and around in his head. Selfish, selfish, selfish. Vindictive, rash. But it was too late to go back, and he knew it.
The beast sprang forward, and in desperation, Oskar yelled, “Thomas Schwytzer!”
It stopped in its tracks, clearly bewildered at the mention of its old name.
And with those few precious seconds, Oskar drew the misericord from his belt and threw, watching the fly end over end until it sank into the Morbach Monster’s chest.

The men of the village found Oskar, his lips beginning to turn blue, passed out in the snow next to the body of the beast. His parents wept, at first with relief and then with sheer joy at the fact that they had a son still, that their boy, their Oskar, still lived.
It took Oskar a solid week to recover, from the scratches and bruises and the cracked rib he didn’t know he had from where the beast had knocked the ax haft into his chest. During that time, he had faced a veritable storm of lectures from Else, who, as she told him, had half a mind to ignore his ‘recovery’ and slap some sense into him. He knew her well enough to know it was no joke.
Around town, Oskar had gained fame for being both the brother of a victim and the killer of das Münster, although neither pleased him. He wanted Fritz back desperately, wanted to listen to him play the cello one more time and hear him argue with Else again, but it wasn’t to be. He had made his peace with God, praying him to watch over the soul of his younger brother, even if every part of him still ached for the loved one he had lost.
The notoriety he received for his defeat of das Münster didn’t make him happy either. There was something so human in the eyes, more than intelligence- bitterness, loneliness, and sadness that haunted Oskar, who could not shake the knowledge that even though it had been wearing the guise of a beast, it was a man he had killed with that misericord. It was a man’s life he had taken.
The only one to understand, oddly enough, was Gustav. The rest of the people he had confided in told him he was brave, he had gotten rid of a terrible threat, he was a hero, but not Gustav.
He had said, “Ah, kleine Oskar, a life is a life. Whether it be hen or human, it’s not an easy task to watch the light leave their eyes.”
And Oskar remembered, how the intense fire in the beast’s ochre eyes had gone out as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. He wondered, every now and again, where the soul of Thomas Schwytzer had gone. Had he repented before he died? Was his a soul in Heaven? Or had he been condemned to the fires of Hell? Oskar didn’t know which one he hoped for, Heaven for the poor lonely beast he had seen, or Hell for the raging beast who had slaughtered his brother.
The townsfolk had burned its corpse, then buried the ashes by the shrine. No beast, they said, could recover from that, legend or not.
And Oskar agreed, and lived out the rest of his life in peace.

The man and his wife were the keepers of the shrine. They had heard, as their parents had heard, and theirs before them, of the beast contained by it; the importance of never letting the candle go out. Yet it had been over a century and a half, with no sign of issue and no sign of monsters.
The man said it was folklore, that really the beast was no more than a serial killer they didn’t want to call human because of the monstrous things he had done. The woman agreed, and added that the shrine was nothing but a memorial for the lives that had been taken. Neither of them believed in das Münster, but tradition kept them watching the old shrine.
The heavy wind picked up, causing the flame to flicker and sputter. The man nudged his wife and laughed. “Look!” he said. “It’s coming for us all, eh?”
His wife laughed, too. “Beware! Das Münster! It comes for you and your children!”
They were still laughing as the flame was snuffed out. Neither the man nor the woman noticed, for they were too entertained by the idea of the rabid monster of their ancestor’s legends. What nonsense, they thought, what utter nonsense. A man turned wolf, hunting down villagers like a tiger after an antelope. The very idea was pure drivel.
If they had watched the edge of the woods, they would have noticed a dark paw emerge from the trees. If they had listened to anything but the laughter of the other, they would have heard a low, almost excited growl. If they had paused for a single moment to take in their surroundings, they might have lived.
Instead, they continued to chuckle, oblivious to the legend-come-to-life, blind to the fact that the candle’s flame had long been out.
It was the woman who heard it first: the crunch of snow coming from behind them. She looked and saw nothing, catching out of the corner of her eye the unlit candle. She pointed the candle out to her husband, shaking her head, creasing up at the fact that her ancestors put their fate in the metaphorical hands of a candle. A candle.
Another sound reached the woman’s ears, and this time, she decided to investigate. She knew she wasn’t imagining it; the doctor told her she had very keen hearing, something that she was oddly proud of. Perhaps she had just picked up on something her husband had not. Hands shoved in her pockets, the woman walked around to the back of the house, searching for a fallen branch or a small animal.
The animal that burst out of the snow banks was not small. She didn’t have time for a scream before it was on her, tearing at her with long, sharp teeth that gleamed white like the frost on the roof, and watching her struggles with eyes as merciless as the Reaper’s itself.
Before the woman could make a noise, the beast slashed her throat wide and sprang away, a low noise like a laugh emerging from its throat. It knew she wasn’t the only one; it had seen the man, could smell the man, could hear the man now. It looked forward to tasting the man.
With the patience of a skilled predator, it waited. It was but three minutes until the man wandered to the back of the house, calling for the woman. In the monster’s mind, the man was a fool. He knew the legend, he knew of the beast, yet he still stomped in the snow and shouted loudly, as if trying to attract a predator’s attention. It was not his aim, but he succeeded.
When the man caught sight of the woman’s body, he let out a cry and ran forward, kneeling in the snow next to her.
“Annika!” he said with a sob. “My Annika, what did this to you?”
The answer to his question slunk through the snow, eyes focused on the back of the man’s neck. When he finally heard, he turned, an astonished and fearful expression on his face at the sight of the beast. It was the last thing he saw. The beast let out a long, keening howl.
The Morbach Monster was back.