**CHAPTER FOUR

  “Whispers in the Snow”**

  Anna did not remember leaving the square. She only remembered the sound of Lena crying into her cloak, Lukas clinging to her sleeve, and the bells — those sacred bells — ringing out of rhythm as the crowd broke apart.

  Faschnat had never ended like this.

  Never in silence. Never in fear. Never with a man collapsing at the fire’s edge like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  The night had lost its meaning the moment Hans Adler reached for the flames.

  Anna hurried the children along the snowy path toward their cabin. Lanterns swayed from porches as doors slammed shut across the village. Voices carried through the cold — anxious, hushed, disbelieving.

  “Fever doesn’t do that.” “He should’ve burned!” “God help us, did you see his eyes?” “It’s a curse on the valley.” “No — something’s come down from the mountains.”

  Anna tightened her jaw. She didn’t want the twins hearing any of it.

  She ushered them inside and barred the door. The room felt colder than it had a few hours earlier, as if the warmth had slipped out through cracks she hadn’t noticed before. She lit the lantern and stoked the stove until the flames flared, painting the room in flickering gold.

  Lena sank onto the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. Lukas stood near the window, peering out through the frost.

  “Mama,” he said quietly, “was that really Hans?”

  Anna removed her cloak, hanging it by the fire. “He’s very sick, Lukas. Sometimes illness makes people act strangely.”

  “Not like that,” he whispered.

  Anna crossed the room and knelt in front of him. “You are safe. Both of you. Whatever is happening, we face it together.”

  He looked up at her, searching for a steadiness she hoped she still possessed. After a moment, he nodded. Lena crawled to Anna’s side, burying her face against her shoulder. Anna held them both for a long time, listening to the crackle of the fire and the relentless hush of snow outside.

  Eventually, the children drifted to sleep.

  But Anna could not.

  When the cabin finally fell quiet, she sat at the window, watching the village. Lanterns still burned in many homes, glowing like embers clinging to life. A few figures hurried between houses, their silhouettes blurred in the drifting flakes.

  She saw Frau Bischof rush toward the infirmary with blankets. A moment later, Elder Dietrich followed, cane sinking deep into the snow as he moved unsteadily. Another figure — young Johann Ries — ran past, shouting something Anna couldn’t hear.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The fear spreading through Helvetia was almost visible, like smoke rising from every roof.

  Anna pressed her hand to the cold glass.

  The valley had held many winters, but none had ever felt like this one.

  A distant shout broke the silence.

  Then another.

  Anna stiffened, leaning closer to the window.

  From the direction of the infirmary came a sound that did not fit the night — a low, throaty moan that rose and fell in a strange, wavering pitch. She had heard dying men before. She had heard fevered babbling.

  But she had never heard anything like that.

  She reached instinctively for the latch on the window, as if securing it would make the noise go away.

  Footsteps pounded past her cabin. Someone yelled, “Hold him! Hold him back!” Another voice answered with pure panic: “He shouldn’t be standing—!”

  Anna recoiled.

  She shoved a piece of firewood into the door handles, bracing them tighter. Her breath misted the air as she stepped away, heart hammering against her ribs.

  Behind her, the twins stirred.

  “Mama?” Lena’s voice was small, frightened. “What’s happening?”

  Anna turned, forcing calm into her voice. “Nothing you need to fear, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.”

  She lowered herself beside them on the bed, pulling the quilt up around their shoulders. Her arms wrapped around both children as she listened to the sounds outside.

  The shouting. The confusion. The fear. And beneath it all—

  A dragging sound. Slow. Uneven. Like feet being pulled through snow without lifting.

  “Don’t listen,” she whispered, more to herself than to the children.

  She closed her eyes.

  Near dawn, the noise faded at last. A heavy silence settled over the village, oppressive and unnatural. The air felt brittle as the sky lightened into a muted gray.

  Anna rose quietly from the bed.

  She cracked the door open just enough to peer outside.

  Only one figure stood in the square — Elder Dietrich. He leaned heavily on his cane, staring toward the infirmary. Snow clung to his coat and beard. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion and something deeper — dread.

  Anna stepped out onto the porch.

  “Elder?” she called softly.

  He looked up, eyes hollow.

  “It’s begun,” he said.

  The wind cut between them, carrying the scent of ash.

  “Is Hans…?” she whispered.

  Dietrich shook his head slowly.

  “He died before midnight.”

  Anna’s breath caught.

  “Then what was happening in the night—?”

  “That,” Dietrich said, voice cracking, “is what I cannot explain.”

  He lifted a trembling hand and pointed toward the infirmary door, which hung broken in its frame.

  Tracks led away from it through the snow.

  Not footprints.

  Drag marks.

  As if someone had left without using their legs.

  Anna felt her knees weaken.

  Dietrich met her eyes, and in the paling light of dawn, she saw an old man stripped of certainty.

  “The dead,” he whispered, “do not rest easily this winter.”