Ethereal Chronicles

It was on a cold Christmas Eve when tragedy crept into a snow coated town. Amongst the quiet kisses in homes that flickered with laughter, the clink of cutlery at family dinners, one house stood silent. No sound came from within, only the shuddering gasps of Elsa as she cradled her daughter, Anneliese, in her arms.

Scarlet fever had swept town weeks prior, though Anneliese appeared untouched by the disease, the quiet onset of symptoms bubbling silent until it was too late to treat them.

Elsa had intended for her daughter to be buried in the early hours of Boxing Day. But the ground was frozen solid, and an illness amongst the clergy rendered her efforts futile. The funeral was thus delayed until after the New Year.

By then, the corpse had begun to moulder. A foul stench filled the house, and maggots writhed through the soft rot creeping across Anneliese’s body.

The people in town who did come to pay their respects at the funeral cast Elsa withering looks, muttering amongst themselves that an improper burial invited evil, that Elsa was better off leaving her daughter unburied than laying her to rest in such an unclean state. Perhaps they were right.

That night Elsa dreamed of Anneliese, who stood just beyond the window of their home, pleading with softness to be let back inside.

As winter deepened in her darkness and cold, lingering caress, the Church bells began to ring nightly; once at midnight, then again at one, and two in the morning. Yet the priest was long asleep by then, the bell tower locked tight and the key resting safely by his bedside.

Somewhere between the strangeness of the nights and her scattered dreams, Elsa began to weaken, though she could not say why. Her eyes remained bloodshot throughout the day, symptomatic of something beyond mere exhaustion. At night, her dreams turned to feverish visions of Anneliese, pale and pleading, begging her mother to lay down with her, if only for a little while.

When Elsa finally found the strength to face the death of her daughter, she paid a visit to Anneliese’s grave. But she discovered the grave disturbed, the coffin pried open.

A low sob caught in her throat as she stepped closer, bracing herself for the sight – or worse still the absence – of her daughter’s body. Instead, Anneliese lay inside looking almost healthy, and strangely beautiful. Her skin was smooth, cheeks flushed with colour. The rot on her body had disappeared, and her lips, plump and red, were parted as if caught in a gentle exhale.

Once Anneliese was reburied, Elsa sought solace from the priest. But even he had little to offer, urging Elsa only to pray and begin her attempts to move on.

When Elsa turned to leave, an old widow seated on a nearby pew grasped her by the wrist and leaned towards her, whispering a single word into her ear.

“Nachzehrer.”

She pressed something into Elsa’s palm; a coin, wrapped tightly in a piece of ragged cloth to “keep in your mouth”.

Elsa’s dreams grew more and more vivid with each passing week, no matter how often or how earnestly she prayed. Wet, smacking sounds of chewing filled her ears night after night, and she woke each morning feeling a little more drained than the last.

She seldom visited the grave, but when she did she found it too quiet, too lonely, and never stayed long.

During one visit, Elsa arrived to find the grave once more disturbed. A faint rustling rose from the coffin below. Then came the sound of chewing, and the unmistakable grating of teeth.

Anneliese lay in the casket as she had been before, but she was no longer immobile. The bloody stump of her arm pressed against her face as she took famished bites out of herself, tearing flesh from bone with a savage hunger. At Elsa’s scream of terror, Anneliese paused to hiss at her mother through bloodstained teeth and inky eyes before leaping from the grave and vanishing into the shadowed trees.

The acrid stench of blood and rotten flesh filled the air thickly, and Elsa swayed on unsteady legs for a few moments before her body gave way.

When she awoke again she was in complete darkness. She yawned, hoping – praying – it had all been a terrible nightmare. But as she moved to rise from her bed, her head struck something hard.

Dizzy from the sudden pain, Elsa slowly stretched her arms out before her. Her fingers brushed against cold, unyielding wood.

Elsa’s heart began to pound as she struggled to breathe the scarce pockets of air trapped inside the coffin. She twisted, desperate for space in the cramped darkness, only to realise she was lying atop Anneliese’s cold body.

Anneliese’s eyes that were once tightly shut now opened, blinking black irises. She smiled.

“It’s your turn, Mama. I’m full.”

Outside, the Church bell tolled once. Then twice. Then three times.

It was too late for Elsa to hear the warning.

In German folklore, the Nachzehrer is a vampire-like creature said to drag the living into death with it.

A Nachzehrer typically arises from improper burial, or a violent and immoral death. It targets those who were closest to it in life, draining their life force from afar as opposed to biting or bloodsucking.

Unlike most vampires, a Nachzehrer does not feed on the blood of others to survive. Instead it consumes parts of its own body to sustain itself.

By night, the Nachzehrer is able to move from its grave to stalk its victims, returning to rest by daybreak. It possesses shapeshifting abilities, allowing it to alter in form and even pass through objects.

Common signs of a Nachzehrer include open eyes or an open mouth while resting in the coffin, or red lips.