Infinisomnia

https://infinisomnia.de

Infinisomnia are free and open-source short stories

License:

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/

© Richard "Shred" Körber

Cover image description: An open terrace door to a garden. The wind blows white curtains. A young woman, barely visible in the backlight, stands at the door and looks out.

Online version of this eBook:

https://infinisomnia.de/en/story/

Tear of the Desert

Isn't our brain fantastic? In the evening, we lie down in bed and read a few lines until fatigue overwhelms us, and we can no longer follow the text. But as soon as we close our eyes and fall asleep, we become the main characters in a movie that our brain has conceived just for us. We dive into a world that doesn't exist. Sometimes it is beautiful, sometimes frightening. And every night, it is new.

It had been a long day in the workshop where I started working as a mechanic a few weeks ago. When it was finally time to leave, and I was about to say goodbye, my boss called me over.

“Dian, you've been working long and hard these past few days. Don't you have a family, a wife and kids?”

I shook my head. “No, I'm single. Why, are you interested?”

He laughed out loud. “You look tired, Dian. The weekend is around the corner. Take a proper rest. I don't want to see you in the workshop before 10 AM on Monday!”

I gratefully accepted the offer. It had indeed been a long week, and I was looking forward to nothing more than a huge kebab, a hot bath, some TV, and finally falling into bed. The plan almost worked, but saturated from the kebab and relaxed from the hot bath, I didn't fall asleep in my bed but rather in front of the TV.

A pungent smell woke me from my slumber. The smell of old urine and burnt wood. The room swayed gently to the sound of a steady clattering. The whistle of a steam locomotive howled.

Groggily, I opened my eyes and found myself sitting on a toilet. Daylight streamed through a frosted window into the narrow, plain cabin where I found myself. The furnishings were completely out of time. The walls were wood-paneled. Opposite the window, a simple, stained mirror hung on the wall. Below it was a small, enameled sink. A white-painted pipe led from the ceiling past the mirror and ended at a small faucet. Hanging on a hook on the door was the white jacket of a uniform along with the matching cap.

“This must be a dream,” I muttered. However, it didn't feel like one. My mind was clear, and I could see, hear, feel, and unfortunately even smell my surroundings.

Someone pounded loudly on the door. “Lacombe, what's going on? Did you fell asleep in there?” called an energetic male voice from outside. “We have guests waiting for you!”

“You must be mistaking me,” I replied.

“Don't get cheeky, Lacombe!” the voice snapped back. “I can hear it's you.”

The man didn't sound like he wanted to have a rational discussion with me about how I got here or why he was calling me Lacombe. He rattled the door handle. Fortunately, it was locked from the inside. He then pounded even harder. The lock was cracking and about to give way. So, I decided to play along.

“Alright, I'll be right out!” I called hastily. The man on the other side of the door calmed down and muttered a few unintelligible words before leaving.

I stood up, pulled up my pants, and flushed the toilet. Some water gurgled from the tank above and flowed through the bowl. At the sink, I washed my hands and looked in the mirror. The man in the reflection was unmistakably me with my brown hair, styled into a full side part, my hazel eyes, and my well-groomed three-day beard. However, the perfectly pressed and starched white shirt on my body couldn't possibly be mine.

I took the jacket off the hook and examined it. It was also white and had a row of gold buttons. The cut was not modern, but the clothing was new and of good quality. A small brass nameplate with my false name was pinned to the lapel. I put on the jacket and donned the cap, which bore the words “Wagon Restaurant” in shiny letters.

Cautiously, I opened the door. Behind it was the entryway, leading me to the next carriage. There, an older, corpulent man in a dark blue uniform was already waiting for me. His nameplate revealed that his name was Monsieur Moreau. A double row of buttons and the shape of his peaked cap indicated that he held a higher rank than I did. His choleric face was red with anger.

“There you are at last, Lacombe!” he thundered. “Guests are waiting for your service at the table. Hurry up!”

With his enormous hands, he ushered me into a narrow corridor paneled with elegant teak wood. I walked through it and reached the dining area. It was just as old-fashioned as everything else in this train. Deep red curtains hung at the windows, in front of which were set tables with white tablecloths, folded napkins, and small vases with colorful flowers. Heavy chairs upholstered in beige leather awaited guests.

At one of the tables sat a couple. He wore a classic suit, she a white blouse and a hat that was elegant but old-fashioned. When the man saw me, he waved me over impatiently and ordered two coffees and the daily newspaper.

Fortunately, during my apprenticeship as a mechanic, I had taken a summer job as a waiter in a café to boost my bank account. So, I quickly found my way into my new role. I went to the kitchen, ordered the requested coffee from the cook, and asked for the daily newspaper.

“We'll get them on board in Belgrade,” he told me as he placed two coffee cups on a tray and poured the desired beverage from a large pot.

“And when will we arrive there?”

“Around half past four.”

On my wrist, I found an old-fashioned, simple wristwatch showing four twenty-five.

“That's in just five minutes!” I noted.

The cook looked at his watch in surprise and then laughed. “Lacombe, your watch is still set to Eastern European Time. You should have set it back an hour when we left Sofia.”

I carried the tray to the table, served the coffee, and informed the gentleman that he would have to wait a good hour for his newspaper. He grunted briefly and, under the stern gaze of his wife, handed me a small coin as a tip.

The sun was already setting when the train pulled into Belgrade. We had a ten-minute stop there. Passengers got off and on, baggage and freight were loaded, and the locomotive was coupled to the other end of the train to pull us back out of the terminus.

As we continued our journey, preparations for dinner were already in full swing in the kitchen. I was serving aperitifs to a group of travelers when two gentlemen in plain clothes approached me and took me aside. They introduced themselves as Inspector Reynaud from the French Sûreté and Lieutenant Barnes from Scotland Yard and asked me to take them to the Chef de Brigade. I brought them to the kitchen where Moreau was discussing with the cook.

When he saw me with the two gentlemen, he puffed up in front of me. “Passengers have no business here, Lacombe!”

“These two gentlemen are from the police and wish to see the Chef de Brigade,” I explained. “Where can I find him?”

Moreau took a deep breath and struggled for words. “Lacombe,” he finally shouted, “who do you think is standing in front of you?”

Inspector Reynaud stepped forward, showed Moreau his badge, and introduced himself and his colleague. “We suspect that there is a thief on this train who stole a valuable aquamarine in Constantinople.”

I laughed out loud. “Constantinople? You mean Istanbul!”

The others fell silent and stared at me in confusion. Then Moreau grabbed my arm tightly and dragged me aside. “I don't know what's gotten into you today, Lacombe. But one more foolishness from you, and I will personally ensure that this is your last ride for the Compagnie.”

Reynaud cleared his throat and continued his speech. “Unfortunately, it is not known what the thief looks like. We ask the staff to report anything suspicious immediately and discreetly. The thief may be armed, so be careful and don't try to play the hero!”

Moreau promised to inform the rest of the staff. Reynaud thanked him, and I led the two policemen to a free table in the restaurant, where they could easily oversee the carriage.

My arm still hurt from Moreau's personal address. I initially found this dream amusing, but it had now lasted for hours, and Moreau's meanness was becoming increasingly unbearable. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't wake up. I seemed to be a prisoner of this strange reality.

A man in the railway company's uniform approached me. His nameplate revealed that he was Monsieur Charpentier, and his cap indicated that he was the Conducteur. His face was gaunt and deeply lined, and his broad gray mustache was carefully groomed. He looked at me seriously, and it almost seemed to me that this was his only facial expression.

“Lacombe,” he spoke slowly, “in the rear baggage car are the newspapers we received in Belgrade. Please distribute them to the passengers in the compartments and the restaurant.”

I nodded and immediately set to work.

The train consisted of a steam locomotive and five carriages, as I found out. My journey began in the baggage car, which was coupled to the locomotive in Belgrade and thus became the front carriage. It was followed by the restaurant car and two sleeping cars before the train ended with the rear baggage car. There, I indeed found a stack of newspapers carefully tied into a bundle. I removed the band, took the newspapers, and made my way to the compartments.

Most passengers were not interested or did not respond to my knocking. In compartment 10, I encountered the couple from this afternoon again.

“It's about time!” the man growled, snatching a copy of the Daily Telegraph from my hand.

“Darling,” his wife admonished him, “the serveur can't be blamed if the newspaper doesn't reach the train until Belgrade.”

He gave me a grim look, nodded briefly, and slammed the compartment door in my face.

I finally reached the other sleeping car and knocked on the door of compartment 3. A young woman opened it. She wore a simple yet elegantly embroidered blue blouse with long sleeves that accentuated her figure and transitioned into a wide, floor-length skirt. The small hat on her head matched the style of her outfit. However, her outfit looked like a theater costume to me, as her silvery-gray hair with light blue streaks and her short, cheeky pixie cut didn't fit with it. She was traveling alone, and I couldn't help but wonder what had brought her to this part of the world.

She looked at me expectantly. I realized I was staring at her and cleared my throat awkwardly. “Would you like the Daily Telegraph?”

“Is the newspaper from today?”

“That's a good question! What date is it?”

“It's March 16,” she replied, puzzled.

I looked for the date on the newspaper. It was from March 15, so from yesterday.

Next to it, I found the year. In black letters, still shining with fresh printer's ink, was the number 1909.

My legs suddenly went weak and shaky. I would have collapsed, but the woman caught me just in time before I sank to the floor. She supported me with unexpected strength and led me to the seat in her compartment.

“What happened?” she asked worriedly. “You look like you've seen a ghost!”

“The year,” I stammered, “this train… None of this makes any sense!”

She looked at me with wide eyes. No doubt she must have thought I was crazy. I quickly apologized and tried to get up and leave the compartment, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me back onto the seat.

“Please show me your left wrist!” she demanded.

It was a strange request, but what wasn't strange about this dream? I rolled up my sleeve and presented my forearm to her. She reached for my wristwatch and removed it. Underneath were two parallel lines tattooed on my wrist. I don't really wear tattoos, but this one looked as if it had always been there.

“What does this mean?” I asked her, bewildered, as I unsuccessfully tried to rub it off.

“You think this is a dream you can't wake up from, don't you?”

“How do you know that?”

She rolled up her left sleeve. The same lines were tattooed on her wrist.

“It's nice not to be alone this time,” she said with relief. “My name is Miray. And you? I assume Lacombe is not your real name.”

“Dian,” I introduced myself. “What do you mean by 'this time'? Have you had dreams like this before?”

“Yes, a few. It started a few months ago. But so far, I've always been traveling alone.”

“How did you manage to wake up?”

“Oh, that only became possible after I solved a task.”

“A task? What kind of task?”

“It was different each time. The clues were hidden in the dreams. I had to find and piece them together.”

I looked at my wrist. Two lines and two dreaming people, there had to be a connection.

“Maybe your task was to find me?”

Miray shook her head and pointed to her tattoo. “When the task is completed, a green circle appears.”

I looked out the window. We were passing through a barren, Mediterranean landscape, alternating between fields, meadows, and small groves. The sun had already set behind a mountain range on the horizon, casting the clouds in the sky in a rich pink sunset glow.

“Where are we, anyway?” I asked my new companion.

“We are on a train of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, better known as the Orient Express, on the way from Constantinople to Paris. The last station was Zimony, before that we stopped in Belgrade. So, we must be traveling through the Kingdom of Serbia right now.”

I was amazed. She was obviously a good observer.

When I asked how she knew the date, she opened her handbag and handed me a small piece of paper. It was a ticket from the Compagnie, valid for a journey from Sofia to Paris and stamped on March 16, 1909.

She smirked. “Do you think I'm traveling without a ticket?”

“And now?” I asked. “How do we find out what task we need to complete?”

“I was hoping to find a clue in the newspaper.”

Miray took a Daily Telegraph from the stack and began skimming the headlines. Then she held an article up to my face.

“Famous Aquamarine Stolen!” I read aloud. “In a spectacular heist, the legendary aquamarine Tear of the Desert was stolen from the highly secured Topkapı Palace in Constantinople last Sunday. The thief is on the run to London, an international manhunt is underway. All routes out of the city are being monitored by the police.”

I nodded. “Right, two plainclothes policemen boarded in Belgrade who are looking for the thief.”

“A thief on the run, undercover policemen on the train, there we have our adventure! Do the policemen have a photo or description of him?”

“Unfortunately not. They said no one knows what he looks like.”

She sighed. “This won't be easy. The thief won't just reveal himself to us.”

We stared out the window together for a while. If we didn't want to be stuck here forever, we needed an idea, but I couldn't think of anything.

“I can't think on an empty stomach,” I growled.

“Same here,” she agreed. “Sooner or later the thief will get hungry too. We could wait in the dining car until someone suspicious shows up!”

The plan sounded good. My suggestion was for us to prepare for it. Then I took the newspapers and left the compartment.

It was around eight o'clock when the Express left the station in Subotica and shortly afterward crossed the border into Hungary. Our next stop would be Budapest, which we would reach in just over three hours. There was nothing for the passengers to do, so they enjoyed the luxury on board. The few travelers who had boarded at the last stop settled into their compartments, while others enjoyed an apéritif in the dining car salon or went to dinner.

Miray had dressed up for the evening and had taken a seat in a corner at a table for two.

I was tasked with discreetly escorting gentlemen who were traveling alone and could potentially be the thief to sit with her. Miray would then try to learn more about them through small talk. As it turned out, the gentlemen needed no excuse to keep her company. One even took me aside and discreetly stuffed a bill into my lapel pocket so I would bring him to her table.

I continued my work, taking orders and serving food and drinks. I almost forgot the strange situation I was in. Instead, I noticed a great advantage of my role. Most guests ignored the service staff and continued talking freely while I stood by their table, pretending not to listen.

After serving coffee to the two policemen, I remained at a discreet distance and eavesdropped on their conversation. They discussed the heist. The thief had taken advantage of construction work in the palace. He had bribed one of the guards to get in unnoticed. He did set off an alarm when he stole the gemstone, but when the guards arrived, they found nothing more than a smashed display case containing a fox-red right velvet glove instead of the stone. It was the trademark of the notorious English master thief Velvet Fox, who was already up to mischief in several major European cities and now seemed to be expanding his radius to the Orient. Scotland Yard had been trying to catch him for a long time, so far without success.

Two older ladies approached me and asked me to bring sandwiches to their compartment. I served the requested snack. On my way back to the dining car, I ran into Miray in the corridor. She looked tired.

“How did it go with your three gentlemen?” I asked curiously.

She sighed. “Not well. The first was a banker. He stinks of money and expensive cigars and certainly doesn't need to steal gemstones. Then I had a representative for machine parts at my table, who was on business in Belgrade and told me all about his patented camshafts. I don't think he's interested in anything else.”

“And the third?”

“He expects me to join him for an intimate tête-à-tête in his compartment later. It looks like he's already planning our wedding.”

“Well, congratulations,” I remarked sarcastically.

She smirked cheekily. “I can introduce him to you if you like! Maybe he has a sister who is just as ugly as he is.”

With that, she left me standing there.

Around ten o'clock, an older but athletic man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a mustache entered the restaurant. He was huge and had to tilt his head slightly to fit through the door. I greeted him and wanted to bring him to Miray's table, but he insisted on sitting alone. So, I led him to a single table and handed him the evening menu. He briefly glanced at it and nodded wordlessly.

I served him a consommé as the first course. As I was about to leave, I stepped on an object on the floor. It was a compartment key.

I picked it up and showed it to the guest. “Is this your key, Monsieur?”

He thanked me with a silent nod, took the key, and pocketed it. Then he looked at me. “Is there anything else?” he growled quietly. I shook my head, apologized, and wished him a good appetite.

On my way back to the kitchen, I stopped briefly at my companion's table.

“What a rude guy,” I complained in a hushed voice, while pretending to take her order.

She discreetly scanned the other tables. “The man at the other end of the car?”

“Yes. He's irritable and not very talkative. Also, his glasses bother me. They look like he's trying to hide his face behind them.”

Miray took a longer look at the man. “That could indeed be our thief! We should take the opportunity to look into his compartment while he's eating. Can you find out the number?”

I grinned. “It's compartment 14. He dropped his key at the table.”

She looked at me excitedly and held out her hand.

“Of course, I returned it to him.”

“Too bad! And you don't have access to the compartments?”

“I'm just a simple serveur, Mademoiselle,” I played indignantly. “But I know who can let us in. Let's meet in the rear sleeping car!”

I quietly left the restaurant. At the entrance to the rear sleeping car, I waited for Miray, who followed a few seconds later. I pointed to Charpentier, who was sitting on a folding seat at the other end of the corridor, staring out the window in boredom.

“Charpentier is the conducteur of the train,” I whispered to her. “He can unlock all the compartments.”

“But he'll hardly do it without a good reason,” she whispered back.

“Let me handle this,” I said and motioned for Miray to wait here. Then I approached Charpentier. When he noticed me, he sat up straight and adjusted his cap.

“What do you want, Lacombe?” he asked me annoyed.

“The Monsieur from number 14 left his wallet in the compartment and asked me to fetch it for him. Can you open the door for me?”

Charpentier took a small notebook from his pocket and looked inside. “That's Monsieur Martens' compartment,” he noted. “Didn't he give you his key?”

“No. And Monsieur Martens is not in a good mood. I don't want to return empty-handed and have to ask for it.”

Charpentier groaned and got up from his seat. He unlocked the compartment and let me in, but stayed at the door. I looked around. A trench coat was hanging on a coat hook and there was a small briefcase on the couch. There was nothing more to be found at first glance, but with the conducteur next to me, I couldn't search the compartment more thoroughly.

“How much longer will you need, Lacombe?” he urged.

“Strange! The Monsieur said his wallet would be on the table, but it's not.”

“Then he probably has it with him after all. Now come along!”

I had to find a way to get rid of my watchdog, but I couldn't think of anything.

Suddenly, Miray appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me,” she addressed Charpentier, “could you check the toilet at the back? The light isn't working.”

“This will have to wait,” he tried to dismiss her.

“It can't wait,” she protested indignantly.

“You see that I'm busy!”

Miray shrugged her shoulders. “Well, then I'll have to bother the Chef de Brigade with this little mishap.”

Charpentier sighed. “Close the door when you're done, Lacombe,” he said annoyed and raised his index finger in warning before leaving.

She watched him as he walked down the corridor. When he disappeared at the other end, she jumped into the compartment with me and quickly closed the door.

“He'll be back any moment,” I urged nervously.

Miray grinned. “I don't think so.” She took a handkerchief from her handbag and showed me a light bulb wrapped in it. “Hopefully, it will keep him busy for a while to find a replacement. Still, we should hurry.”

While she searched the pockets of his coat, I took Martens' baggage. He had a small brown leather suitcase with three buckles. The outer ones were easy to open, but the middle lock was firmly secured.

“Strange,” I heard my companion say, “there was nothing in his coat except a single glove in the inner pocket.”

My ears perked up. “Is it a fox-red velvet glove? Perhaps even a left one?”

“How did you know that?” she asked, astonished, and handed me the find.

“Gotcha!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “That's his calling card! The policemen said the other glove of the Velvet Fox was found in the display case.”

“So, Martens is indeed our thief!” Miray rejoiced. “The aquamarine might be in his suitcase. Can you open it?”

“Unfortunately not. It's locked, and the lock is very sturdy.”

“We'll need help,” she said in frustration. “Please bring the two policemen. I'll continue searching the compartment in the meantime.”

When I returned to the dining car, Martens was still sitting at his place, eating unsuspectingly. I went to the table of the two policemen. “We've found the thief,” I whispered proudly to them and pointed inconspicuously at the passenger. “It's that man over there.”

Lieutenant Barnes laughed dismissively. “How do you know that?”

I took the evidence from my pocket and placed it on the table. Inspector Reynaud picked it up and looked at it with wide eyes. “How do you know about the velvet glove? This information wasn't released to the press!”

“I overheard you at the table earlier when you were discussing the case,” I admitted, embarrassed.

Reynaud and Barnes looked at each other. Then Barnes took over. “To the kitchen,” he commanded, “now!”

The policemen stood up and escorted me to the rear of the dining car. Moreau was already waiting for me there. “Where have you been, Lacombe?” he barked at me. “Have you forgotten that guests are waiting for you?”

The policemen ignored him. They had more important questions. “How the hell did you get this glove?” Barnes barked.

I had expected more gratitude and realized at that moment that the conversation was about to take an unpleasant turn. I swallowed.

“The man seemed suspicious to us. So, we gained access to his compartment and searched his belongings.”

Moreau slammed his fist on the sink, making the dishes clatter. His face had taken on an unhealthy, purplish hue. “What did you do, Lacombe? You broke into his compartment?” he roared at the top of his lungs. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Reynaud tried to calm Moreau. “We'll deal with this transgression later,” he suggested. “But why do you say ‘we’? Who are you working with?”

“With the woman from compartment 3.”

“A passenger?” Reynaud marveled. “How do you know the Madame?”

“We met on the train today,” I answered truthfully. It was only at that moment that I realized how naive and reckless my story must have sounded.

“You'll have to explain that to me in detail later,” Reynaud announced. “The glove is indeed a strong piece of evidence. We should follow the trail and search the compartment.”

Together, we made our way, but when we entered the dining car, Martens was no longer at his place. His food was still there, and it looked like he had left the table in a hurry.

“He's gone!” I shouted in panic. “Miray is waiting for us in his compartment. He'll surprise her!”

We rushed to the rear sleeping car, where Charpentier was standing in front of compartment 14, waving us over excitedly as he saw us coming.

“The door was open, and a suitcase is missing. That must have been that Mademoiselle who lured me away after I had to unlock Monsieur Martens' compartment for Lacombe,” he speculated.

Moreau used the policemen's distraction to grab me by my collar and pull me to him. “You helped a stranger break into this compartment, and now a suitcase is missing?” he roared at me, and I was surprised that he could still increase his volume. “That's enough, Lacombe! You've caused enough trouble; it's over. You're fired! Pack your things, you'll leave the train in Budapest. I don't want to see you again.”

Inspector Reynaud took Moreau aside. “We must find his accomplice first! She must still be on the train, so she'll have fled to the rear baggage car. Otherwise we would have met her.”

“Also, the suspect is missing,” added Lieutenant Barnes, “he's probably with her.”

Moreau nodded reluctantly and let go of me.

“When will we reach Budapest?” Barnes asked.

Moreau looked at his watch. “In about 30 minutes.”

“We must catch them by then! If they get off there, we'll lose their trail.”

Barnes twisted my arm painfully behind my back and forced me to come along. We were just crossing over to the rear baggage car when the train passed a switch and threw us to the side. A moment later, we heard a shot.

“Miray!” I shouted in horror.

Reynaud immediately drew his service weapon and stormed into the baggage car. I broke free from Barnes and ran after him, the others following us. In the baggage compartment, Martens lay unconscious on the floor, holding a small revolver in his right hand. His glasses were lying next to him, instead a gash on his left temple was bleeding profusely. My companion stood about two meters away from him, clutching his suitcase.

When Reynaud saw that she posed no threat, he lowered his gun. Then he took the opportunity, while the suspect was unconscious on the floor, to take his weapon.

“What happened here?” Barnes asked Miray.

“I asked Dian, I mean Lacombe, to call you for help,” she explained. “Then I saw Martens in the corridor, so I grabbed the suitcase and ran. He pulled his gun and chased me. Here, he intended to get rid of me. Luckily, the train made a sudden movement. He stumbled and hit his head on a crate, causing the gun to fire.”

“She's lying,” Martens groaned, dazed. He sat up, rubbed the wound on his head, and stared at the blood on his hand. “I ran after her because she stole my suitcase. She ambushed me behind the door and knocked me out.”

Reynaud looked around. “With what did Mademoiselle knock you out?” he finally asked. “I don't see anything suitable.”

“I don't know,” Martens replied sullenly as he sat on the crate and retied his high-heeled black leather shoes. Then he stood up and brushed the dirt off his clothes. “Maybe with the suitcase or her fists.”

Barnes looked at Miray. Then he looked at the man, who was clearly larger and had a strong build. “The Miss doesn't exactly look like a prizefighter to me,” he noted and laughed out loud.

Martens glared at the policemen and growled, “Who are you anyway?”

“Sûreté,” Reynaud replied briefly, showing his badge. Then he took out the velvet glove and turned to Miray. “Is it true that you found the glove, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, it was in his coat pocket,” she explained.

“I have never seen this glove before,” Martens protested vehemently. “The lady is trying to frame me!”

Lieutenant Barnes turned to me. “Can you confirm that the glove was in his coat?”

I looked at Miray in horror. I was busy with the suitcase when she searched the trench coat. Suddenly she was holding the evidence in her hand. I assumed she had found it there, but I hadn't seen it.

“No,” I admitted, “it's also possible that it belongs to her.”

Miray wasn't deterred. “The aquamarine is in the suitcase, right?”

“That's easy to check,” said Reynaud. “Would you be so kind as to open it, Monsieur Martens?”

The man groaned in annoyance. He took a small key from his pocket, unlocked the suitcase, and handed it to Reynaud. The inspector placed the baggage on the crate and searched it, but found nothing but clothes, a toiletry bag with travel utensils, and an old newspaper. There was no secret compartment or false bottom. Nothing suitable for hiding a large diamond.

Barnes had meanwhile searched the man's pockets, but there was no stolen goods to be found there either.

“I think that settles the matter,” Martens declared, glaring at Miray before taking his suitcase. “May I also have my weapon back?”

Reynaud shook his head. “You can collect the weapon from me once you leave the train. Just as a precaution.”

“Very well. Gentlemen, Madam,” Martens bid farewell in annoyance and left the baggage car.

Inspector Reynaud looked at us silently for a long time before quietly consulting with his colleague. He then announced his verdict. “Mademoiselle Miray, Monsieur Lacombe, we don't know what roles you play in this matter, but your behavior seems very suspicious to us. We will lock you in the Mademoiselle's compartment until we reach Paris. There, I will take you to the Sûreté for questioning.”

It would be pointless to resist armed policemen, so we let them escort us to the compartment, where Reynaud took the key and locked the door from the outside.

As soon as we were alone, Miray roughly pushed me onto the seat, leaned over me, and looked at me angrily. “You really stabbed me in the back there! Do you honestly believe I'm a thief?”

“I don't know what to believe,” I admitted awkwardly. “Barnes unsettled me. I didn't actually see if you found the glove in the coat pocket or brought it yourself.”

“Why, you're a loyal companion to me. I hope it will be a dog next time. A dog wouldn't let me down.”

“I just want to finally wake up from this damn dream and be home again,” I burst out. “You can keep this whole adventure. I'm so done with it.”

We sat sulking next to each other and stared out of the window. I really couldn't tell which side Miray was on. Did she want to catch the Velvet Fox, or was she trying to divert attention from herself? Did her journey really start in Sofia, or was she just covering her tracks? I didn't know.

But I did know that she had the same strange tattoo. Also, she was the one who recognized me as a dream traveler. She undoubtedly didn't belong in this place any more than I did.

“Miray,” I spoke cautiously, “I realize that we can only make it out of this dream together. Let's be friends again and work as a team.”

She nodded, still hurt. For a while, she stared at the air thoughtfully. Then she said, “I don't get it. It must be Martens, but we searched his things thoroughly and found no aquamarine.”

“Maybe he hid the stone somewhere on the train?”

“I don't think so. If I were the thief, I would always carry the gem with me. There's too much risk that someone will find it, or that you won't be able to get to it unnoticed later.”

She got up and paced excitedly. “We must unmask Martens before we reach Paris. Otherwise, he'll be gone, and we'll be in real trouble. Instead, we're stuck in this cursed compartment.”

It was almost midnight when we stopped at Budapest West Station. During our stay, Lieutenant Barnes positioned himself on the platform in front of our window to ensure we didn't escape. Right on time at one o'clock, we continued our journey. According to the schedule, the next stop was Bratislava, where we would arrive at five thirty-nine. We had a long, uneventful night ahead.

“I can't keep my eyes open,” I told my companion. “I'll get some sleep. We can't do anything anyway.”

“If you hope to fall asleep here and wake up at home,” she guessed my thoughts, “I must disappoint you. That won't happen.”

Grumbling, I took off my shoes and lay down on my couch. “This feels good,” I moaned silently. “These old-fashioned leather shoes are really uncomfortable.”

“That's it!” Miray suddenly exclaimed, jumping up. “Dian, we must get out of this compartment! Come on, pretend to be unconscious!”

I closed my eyes and lay my head to the side, motionless.

“Good, don't move!” she said and began pounding loudly on the door. After a while, Charpentier responded from the other side, asking what was going on.

“Come quickly,” she shouted, “Lacombe is unwell!”

“I'd better get one of the policemen,” he replied through the door.

“Then it'll be too late! Come on, you must help him!”

Several seconds passed before Charpentier unlocked the door and entered. He came to me and shook me.

At that moment, the trap snapped shut. Miray closed the compartment door, fixed the gaunt old man from behind, and covered his mouth. He had no chance against her.

“If you don't resist, nothing will happen to you,” she whispered to him. “But unfortunately, we need to catch a thief before we reach Paris, and we can't waste any time.”

She asked me to take the curtain cords from the window. We tied his arms and legs with the strings. Then she gagged him with a handkerchief from her handbag and took his key ring.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she finally said, taking the light bulb from her bag and placing it on the table in front of Charpentier's eyes. “I think this is yours.”

After making sure no one was in the corridor, we sneaked to Martens' compartment.

“What are you planning?” I asked Miray.

“Stealing his shoes,” she replied curtly.

She took Charpentier's key ring. The first key didn't fit into the lock. The second key did, though. She quietly unlocked the door and opened it carefully.

In the compartment, Martens was sleeping on his couch, which had been converted into a bed. He had taken off his shoes and placed them near the window. Miray knelt on the floor, crawled on all fours to the shoes, and took them. As she made her way back, Martens suddenly sprang up, knocked her over, and pressed her neck to the floor with his strong hands.

“There they are!” I heard Charpentier's voice at that moment. He had freed himself and was running towards us with Inspector Reynaud and Lieutenant Barnes.

“This is enough!” Barnes shouted angrily. “You've just gotten yourself into a lot of trouble.” He grabbed me roughly and pinned me against the wall.

“How much more do I have to put up with these lunatics?” Martens protested loudly. He pressed Miray to the floor with his knee on her back, trying to take his shoes from her. But she lay on them and clutched them tightly.

“Let her stand up,” Reynaud instructed the man. “We'll take care of her.”

“Good,” he shouted, “but this time, do your job properly!” He then released her. She jumped to her feet, holding his shoes in her hands, and looked at him threateningly.

“Give me back my shoes,” Martens ordered.

“You'll have to come and get them,” she challenged, “but this time, you won't catch me off guard.”

“What is this nonsense?” Reynaud asked, annoyed.

She turned the shoes upside down. “Isn't it strange that a giant like Monsieur Martens wears high heels?”

Reynaud's eyes widened. Then he took the shoes and examined them. Indeed, he found a small, hidden latch on the right sole. When he flipped it, the heel slid aside.

The inspector reached inside in astonishment, pulled out a blue gemstone, and held it up to the light. It was undoubtedly the Tear of the Desert.

“Arrest Monsieur Martens, Lieutenant!” he instructed his colleague.

“With pleasure, Inspector!” he replied.

While Barnes took the captured suspect away, Reynaud thanked us profusely. “The Velvet Fox's journey will end in Paris, and the stone will find its way back to the palace. A handsome reward awaits you.”

Miray waved it off. “What would I do with it?” she asked the bewildered inspector. We left him standing and returned to her compartment.

“That was brave of you to confront Martens,” I remarked.

She shrugged. “Do you think so? That had little to do with courage.”

I was about to ask what she meant by that, but she pointed to her wrist. A green circle enclosed the two lines.

I took off my wristwatch and found a circle beneath it as well.

“Does that mean we can finally wake up?” I asked.

She nodded. “It does. Provided you're ready to part with your exciting job as a service staff.”

“That is passé. Moreau fired me.”

“He doesn't appreciate heroes,” she remarked dryly. “Maybe you'd have more success as a porter at the Gare de l'Est.”

“I like my actual job as a mechanic,” I waved off. Then I held out a handful of coins to her. “At least I collected plenty of tips. These could be worth a fortune as collectibles back home.”

“This is a dream,” Miray reminded me. “I'm afraid you won't be able to take anything material with you.”

She was right, and that explained why she had so generously refused the reward.

Sadly, I put my collection back in my pocket and asked, “Do you think we'll meet again?”

“I don't know. This is the first time I've had the company of another dream traveler.”

I felt a lump in my throat. I wasn't sad about finally being able to leave this dream. But I would miss my smart and confident companion. “Take care, Miray,” I bid her farewell.

I stretched out my arms. She hesitated for a moment, then we hugged each other goodbye.

“Are you ready?” she asked. I nodded.

She placed her hand on her tattoo. Nothing happened.

“It looks like we need to do this together,” she instructed me.

I looked at her one last time before placing my hand on my tattoo. At the same moment, everything around me went black, and I fell into an endless void before losing consciousness.

The sound of machine guns startled me. Was I still dreaming? I opened my eyes wide. A tank rolled through the image on my TV. I was lying on the couch, covered in a pile of potato chips from an overturned bag.

I quickly turned off the TV, freed myself from the chips, and made my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and spend the rest of the night in my bed.

Was it really just a dream that I had experienced? It seemed so, but I could remember it as vividly as a journey from which I had recently returned. I still heard the clattering of the train in my ears, and the smell of the locomotive seemed to linger in my living room.

Was it all a product of my brain, an illusion? Or was there somewhere else in the world a woman who had just woken up from a strange dream that also wouldn't end?

Elodie's Curse

I was curious whether I would dream of Miray again the next night. In the evening, I went to bed very early and managed to fall asleep quickly. But I slept dreamlessly until morning.

The evening after that, I recreated the situation from back then. I devoured a huge döner from my favorite kebab shop, took a hot bath, and sat in front of the TV until I fell asleep. That night I dreamed that I was sharing my flat with a talking goat. After that, I gave up trying.

In the following nights, I could only remember my usual dreams. I was late for work. I was hungry, but all the food was spoiled. After two weeks, I realized that my adventure with Miray was probably an exception.

My boss had sent me and two colleagues to a training session. After a long day, my head and stomach were well-filled, and we were on the highway heading home. Satisfied and content, I sat in the back seat of the company car, listened to the steady sound of the wind rushing by, and watched the landscape slowly disappear into the twilight through the window. My eyes grew heavy, and since I had nothing else to do, I allowed myself a nap.

The car suddenly swerved sharply, and my head hit something hard.

“Ow! Damn it!” cried a familiar voice next to me.

“Miray?” I muttered sleepily, holding my aching temple. I opened my eyes. It was broad daylight, and I was in the back seat of an old limousine. The driver was about 30 years old, wearing chauffeur clothes and short-cropped black hair. Next to me sat Miray with squinted eyes, rubbing her head.

“Dian?” she asked, dazed. “Fancy bumping into you! Where are we?”

I looked outside. The sun was high in the blue sky, but in the distance, clouds were already piling up into an anvil, announcing a storm. The car was driving along a country road that ran between a forest and a field. There was nothing distinctive that could provide a more precise clue about the location.

However, I found an indication. “I think we're in France in the late 1930s.”

She looked at me, puzzled, and I explained my reasoning. “The car is a beautiful Citroën Traction Avant, a classic that was produced in France from 1934 if I'm not mistaken. But this car looks almost brand new. You can still smell the leather.”

My companion tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. “Where are we going?”

“To Madame and Monsieur Vignaud, Mademoiselle,” he replied emotionlessly.

“And who are they?”

“Your aunt and uncle, Mademoiselle.”

She looked at me, surprised. “It seems I have relatives here.”

We reached a long wall, drove through a large iron gate, and passed through a small forest. At the end of it, a mansion could already be seen, with its ornate facade and a tower on the side, looking more like a castle.

The closer we got, the more details became visible. In front of the house lay a large semicircular square with a fountain in the middle, which was not in operation and looked neglected. Part of the house was covered with scaffolding, the rest of the facade was still waiting for restoration. I looked up at the roof and noticed a huge clock built into a dormer window above the main entrance, drawing all eyes to it. One would expect a clock of this kind on a church or school, but it looked out of place on this house. Moreover, it was missing its hands. Only twelve strokes for the hours and an axis in the middle indicated that it once showed the time.

Our hosts were already waiting for us at the main entrance. A man and a woman in elegant clothing, whom I estimated to be in their 40s, waved to us. Beside them stood two teenage boys, obviously twins, nicely dressed in their best Sunday clothes. A butler and three maids were waiting aside.

As we got out, the lady of the house came running towards us with open arms. “Miray, my favorite niece!” she called, hugging her tightly and giving her a hearty kiss on both cheeks. The host followed and greeted his niece a bit stiffly and distantly.

“Hello, Auntie! Hello, Uncle!” Miray responded, confused. For her, the people in this dream world were just as strange as they were to me, and I admired how she tried to hide that fact.

“What joyful news you wrote us!” exclaimed the aunt enthusiastically.

Miray gave me a puzzled look. I shrugged cautiously.

The aunt scrutinized me, then turned back to her niece. “He looks nice! Don't you want to finally introduce us to your fiancé?”

Miray looked at me, surprised. I grinned back. There were worse fates, at least from my perspective.

My fiancée forced herself to smile, extended her hand to me, and pulled me to her. “Of course! Where have I left my manners? This is Dian, my fiancé!”

She looked at me and continued, “Dian, these are my aunt, Madame Vignaud, and my uncle, Monsieur Vignaud.”

“Parbleu, please not so formal!” protested the aunt. “You may call us Zoé and Henri!” She hugged me and gave me a kiss on both cheeks, while her heavy perfume almost knocked me out. “After all, you will soon be part of the family.”

First, Zoé introduced me to her sons, named Éric and Frédéric. They shook our hands reluctantly. It was obvious they had better things to do than greet their cousin and her fiancé.

Next was the staff. The butler, who always stood discreetly nearby waiting for instructions, was named Jérôme and was an older but still spry gentleman. When Zoé introduced him, he nodded and greeted us formally. The three maids, who were currently behind the Citroën struggling to unload our luggage from the trunk, were named Agnès, Denise, and Paule. We had already met the chauffeur, Laurent, during the ride. He leaned against the car, chewing on a toothpick, watching the maids at work.

Our hostess took us by the hand. “My niece is engaged, how romantic!” she gushed. “You must tell us all about how you met during dîner!”

“Oh, it's actually a rather boring story,” said Miray. Zoé ignored that and invited us into the house, where she left us with the butler.

Jérôme led us up the grand staircase to the upper floor and into a drab corridor. Numerous doors on both sides led to the bedrooms of the residents and their guests. The sight reminded me of a government office or a hotel, less of a mansion.

We were first shown into Miray's room, where Agnès was already waiting with the suitcase. It met all the clichés one could have of a bedroom in a mansion. The crimson wallpaper and dark carpet were almost overwhelming. On one side stood a four-poster bed, whose white curtain was decoratively tied to its pillars. Opposite stood a heavy oak wardrobe next to a second door and a closed secretary between the two windows. The room felt comfortable yet unreal, almost like a stage set.

Jérôme pointed to the door to the adjacent room. “Madame has instructed me to lock this door since Monsieur and Mademoiselle are not yet married,” he explained. Then he cleared his throat and added discreetly, “I'm afraid, however, that I am becoming forgetful.”

For a brief moment, he grinned self-satisfiedly before resuming his posture and leading me into the neighboring room. It was almost identically furnished. Paule was already waiting for me. She curtsied briefly and shyly when she saw me.

“Agnès and Paule will be at your disposal at any time,” explained Jérôme. Then he excused himself and left us to take care of the dîner.

“Would you like me to help you unpack, Monsieur?” Paule asked. I declined with thanks. I didn't know what would be in my suitcase and preferred to find out alone. Paule curtsied again, left the room, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Someone knocked on the other door. “Dian?” I heard my companion's voice. I invited her in.

“Is your maid gone?”

“Yes. I preferred to unpack my things without her.”

“I also sent Agnès away. But there was nothing unusual in my suitcase, just clothes and what one needs for such a trip. Hopefully, we'll find a clue in yours as to why we're here.”

I opened my luggage but found only an elegant suit, nightwear, a robe, period-appropriate casual clothes, and toiletries.

I looked at Miray questioningly. “What task do you think we'll have to solve this time?”

She shrugged. “I'm sure we'll find out soon enough. What worries me more right now is dinner. Auntie will ask us about our engagement. We can hardly tell her we first met about 30 years ago on the Orient Express.”

“We'll surely come up with something spontaneous when the time comes,” I tried to reassure her.

There was a knock on the room door. Before we could answer, it was flung open and the twins stormed in.

“Maman says we should show your fiancé the house and the garden,” Éric called excitedly.

“Maybe you can also help us solve the case,” added Frédéric.

Miray had been waiting for that cue. “What case?” she asked eagerly.

“Three bags of cement were stolen from the construction site.”

“Cement!” she sighed. “We're here to find missing cement bags.”

I had to laugh. “Then show us the crime scene.”

The twins led us to the back of the house. The building looked even more dilapidated from the rear. The plaster was partially missing, revealing the bare brick wall. Part of it was scaffolded. Stones, cement bags, and other materials lay nearby.

We looked around. The house bordered a park that seemed severely neglected. Parts were overgrown with bushes and weeds. Beyond that was a small forest that must have once been a pleasant place for walks. A thicket of ivy, bushes, and dead wood now made that impossible.

Between the forest and the house lay a large pond. A few ducks had strayed here and watched us suspiciously.

Behind a side wing of the building, I noticed a secluded shed that had also seen better days.

“That used to be a stable for horses,” explained Éric, who had noticed my curious look. “Now our car is parked there.”

“Laurent also has a small workshop there,” Frédéric added. “He is very skilled.”

Miray couldn't let go of the theft. “Who could be interested in stealing cement?” she asked the twins.

“No idea,” Frédéric replied, “maybe the dead girl?”

His brother gave him a nudge. “Maman says we shouldn't talk about her when we have guests.”

Now my curiosity was piqued. “What dead girl?” I asked.

The twins hesitated a bit until Frédéric finally spoke up. “She drowned in the pond many years ago.”

“And now she's stealing cement?” Miray asked. “Why would she do that?”

Frédéric looked down, embarrassed. “Because we stole her lion.”

“Her lion?”

Éric nodded. “A few weeks ago, we found a small, rusty lion by the pond.”

“And where is it now?”

“We brought it to Laurent. He promised to make it beautiful again.”

Jérôme approached us. “Dîner will begin in two hours. The gentlemen and lady would surely like to freshen up first.”

That suited me well, as I was very hungry.

We returned to the house. Miray went to her room to prepare for the evening. I needed to use the restroom first, and Jérôme directed me to an inconspicuous door at the end of the corridor.

The bathroom was as strange as the rest of the building. I felt for the light switch and turned it on. A single large bulb on the ceiling bathed the room in a dim, warm light. Plain white tiles covered the windowless room up to the ceiling. I noticed four sinks on one side and a proud six toilet stalls on the other. Behind a drawn curtain stood two bathtubs on old-fashioned feet. I would have expected such a washroom in a youth hostel. In this mansion, it seemed completely out of place.

I quickly did my business and returned to my room to change. In my suitcase, I found an elegant suit that seemed appropriate for dinner. It fit as if tailor-made.

When everything was in place, I knocked on my fiancée's door. “I'll be right there!” she called. A few moments later, she opened the door and stood before me. She wore an elegant midnight blue evening gown that sparkled splendidly. The sleeves reached her wrists, and a deep neckline left room for a small diamond necklace. Her short hair was festively styled, and her face discreetly made up. Seeing her like that, I regretted that we weren't really engaged. She looked beautiful.

“Will you accompany me to dinner, mon cher?” she asked, gallantly holding out her hand to me. I nodded, and she hooked her arm under mine. Together, we went down the grand staircase and entered the dining room, where the Vignaud family was already seated at the table. Their conversation stopped as we entered. All eyes were on us.

Zoé finally broke the silence. “You truly make a wonderful couple!” she exclaimed, applauding. We thanked her and took our seats opposite her at the table.

The three maids served the first course, a deliciously fragrant onion soup, in the middle of which floated a slice of bread topped with a thick layer of cheese. While we hungrily devoured it, Jérôme filled our glasses with wine.

We began the table conversation with small talk about the weather and our journey, but Zoé watched us continuously and curiously. It was obvious that she would soon ask us the inevitable question. I had to beat her to the punch with a topic that forced our hosts into a lengthy monologue.

“Zoé, forgive my curiosity, but I noticed that this mansion is a bit unusual.”

“In what way?”

“For example, there is this clock on the roof which is unusual for a country house. Or the corridor with many bedrooms and the huge bathroom at the end.”

“You've observed well, Dian,” our hostess praised me. “The building was originally a boarding school for girls from the upper class.”

“Why was it closed?” Miray asked. “Does it have to do with the drowned girl?”

Zoé cast a grim look at her sons. “As I hear, two chatterboxes couldn't keep their mouths shut.”

Then she continued, “Yes, that's true! The girl had sneaked out of her room one night. The next morning, she was found dead in the pond.”

Frédéric couldn't resist continuing the story: “It was in all the newspapers! The police considered it an accident. Yet, shortly thereafter, the parents came by and picked up their daughters.”

Zoé scowled at her loud-mouthed son and he fell silent, embarrassed. Now it was her husband Henri who continued the story. “The school's reputation never recovered. A few months later, it had to close. The building stood empty for many years and slowly fell into disrepair.”

“Henri bought it four years ago,” Zoé continued proudly. “We christened it Manoir de Vignaud and began restoring it. The roof had to be sealed. Some rooms have already been redesigned to be worthy of a Manoir. Currently, we are having the facade and the rest of the upper floor renovated. But there is still so much to do, as you surely noticed.”

She sighed.

“It is said,” Éric exclaimed excitedly, “that the ghost of the dead girl haunts this place.”

Zoé slammed her hand on the table. “Enough now, Éric, Frédéric! You're scaring your cousin with such stories.”

The first course was finished. Agnès and Denise cleared the dirty dishes while Paule rolled in the next course on a serving cart.

“A specialty of our cook,” Zoé announced with pleasure, “homemade boudin noir!”

Paule placed a plate in front of me with several slices of dark-fried sausage, a portion of mashed potatoes with fried onions and caramelized apple slices. I had never eaten a dish like this before, but it tasted so delicious that Denise had to serve me another portion.

Zoé took advantage of our moment of inattention. “Miray, Dian, you must finally tell us how you met! And when the wedding will take place! I assume we are invited?”

Miray took a large sip of wine and looked around, embarrassed. Then she cleared her throat and began. “We met in London, at…”

She gave me a helpless look. I understood the cue and continued the story: “At a poker tournament. We won round after round against opponents from all over the world until fate brought us together in the quarterfinals, where we had to compete against each other. We had a hard duel, and at first, things went very well for Miray.”

“But then?” Zoé asked excitedly. She hung on our every word.

“Then,” said Miray, pausing dramatically, “then I got reckless, bet too high, and Dian called.” She looked deeply into my eyes. “I lost everything. But what does money mean when I could win his heart that night?”

She smiled at me mischievously. I almost burst out laughing, nearly exposing the fairy tale we had so shamelessly spun for our hosts. We looked at Zoé. She made a strange face, revealing both emotion and a certain disbelief. Finally, she smiled contentedly.

“These are the stories that only life can tell, aren't they, Henri?” she asked her husband. As he was about to respond, a sharp scream echoed through the house.

We looked at each other, startled. “That was Paule!” Denise exclaimed, dropped the dirty plates on her serving cart, and ran out. We jumped up from our seats and followed her.

Paule had collapsed by the window of the salon. Her face had lost all color. When we arrived, Denise was already kneeling beside her, fanning her with air.

Jérôme approached the two maids. “What's the meaning of this drama?” he asked harshly.

Paule pointed outside with a trembling hand. “The ghost!” she cried. “By the pond! The ghost of the dead girl!”

We ran to the windows and stared out. In the moonlight, one could clearly see a figure by the pond. It wore a tattered white dress and walked slowly along the shore. When it reached the trees, a cloud darkened the scene. A moment later, the apparition was gone.

Henri was as pale as a sheet. “This cannot be!” he finally stammered. Zoé also looked out into the garden in disbelief.

The twins, on the other hand, were visibly delighted. “Didn't I tell you, Cousin?” Éric triumphed, nudging Miray, while Frédéric kept his eyes on the pond, hoping for an encore.

Then we saw the butler rush to the pond and look around. Finally, he looked up at the house and threw his hands in the air in resignation before returning to us.

The rest of the evening we spent in silence. Everyone was lost in thought. Paule stood apathetically in a corner of the dining room until Jérôme could no longer bear the sight and sent her to the kitchen. He and the other two maids quietly served the last course, a crème brûlée. The tension in the room was palpable. When I dropped my spoon, everyone flinched and looked at me reproachfully.

After we finished eating, we decided to end the evening. The festive mood had left us all.

I lay in my bed and couldn't sleep. Dense clouds had covered the moon, plunging the room into total darkness. The house was unfamiliar and old, and its structure creaked and cracked as it cooled down from the hot day. My thoughts circled around the question of what our task might be. Undoubtedly, the haunting by the pond was part of it. Was it really the ghost of the drowned girl that we had seen there?

For a while, I dozed off until I was awakened by a freshening wind whistling through the window cracks and rattling the panes. A deep rumble announced the thunderstorm that had been lurking on the horizon all day. It approached quickly. In the bright light of a flash, I caught a glimpse of a silhouette in the room from the corner of my eye. My blood froze in my veins. Rooted to the spot, I stared into the corner until another flash revealed that it was just my bathrobe.

“Pull yourself together,” I scolded myself. “You're acting like a little child afraid of thunderstorms.”

I turned to the other side and tried to fall asleep.

The large grandfather clock in the salon struck one. A few seconds later, a loud, dull thud shook the whole house. I sat up in bed, my heart racing wildly. More thuds followed in a slow, rough rhythm. They sounded like the steps of a giant.

I turned on the bedside light and jumped out of bed. My knees buckled, they were as weak as rubber. I supported myself on the nightstand, forced myself back on my feet, and ran into the corridor. Zoé was already standing at her door, wearing her nightgown, and looked at me with wide-open eyes. Behind her stood Henri, just pulling his robe over his nightwear.

The door next to me opened, and Miray looked around. “Someone knocked?” she tried to joke.

The next dull thud shook the structure and echoed deeply through the whole house.

Éric and Frédéric appeared at their room doors. “What's that noise?” one of them asked sleepily.

“Are you behind this?” Zoé interrogated her sons. They shook their heads vigorously.

Another thud jolted the house.

Now we heard footsteps coming towards us. It was the three maids, followed by a panting butler and the chauffeur. They must have left their attic rooms in panic, as they all wore their nightclothes.

“What is it?” Zoé asked around.

“I don't know, Madame,” Jérôme replied anxiously.

“The noise seems to come from everywhere, Madame,” Laurent added. “You can hear it throughout the house.”

“It's surely the ghost!” Frédéric exclaimed excitedly. Paule screamed at the thought and fell into Denise's arms, who held her comfortingly and gave the boy a reproachful look.

Miray and I went to the grand staircase, followed by Jérôme and Laurent. We waited there for the next tremor, which promptly came.

“It seems louder here,” Miray noted. “Let's split up. Jérôme and Laurent, you go downstairs! We'll search this floor.” They nodded and hurried down the stairs.

We opened a makeshift lattice door and entered the part of the building under renovation. Miray felt for a light switch. When she found it and turned it on, a few dim light bulbs hanging from simple wires illuminated the construction site. The workers had stripped the old plaster from the walls, exposing the underlying brickwork. The floor was bare wooden boards, covered in a thick layer of dust and rubble. Another tremor shook the house, causing some plaster to fall. I got goosebumps.

Cautiously, we moved through the construction site. The noise seemed louder the closer we got to the tower. Then there was one last tremor before silence returned. In the distance, one could hear the rumbling of the departing storm.

We waited a while to see if the haunting was really over. Then we returned to the Vignauds, who were already waiting for us with worried faces. The butler and chauffeur followed shortly after.

“There was nothing downstairs, Mademoiselle,” Laurent reported. “How about you?”

“Nothing here either,” Miray reported, puzzled. “We should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow we will get to the bottom of this.”

We returned to our rooms. I lay in my bed, turned off the light, and stared at the canopy. After this eerie event, sleep was out of the question. When I turned my head to the side, I saw through the gap under the adjoining door that the light in Miray's room was still on. I knocked quietly and was invited in.

Miray sat in her bed and looked at me. She had thrown her robe over the chair of the secretary. Now she wore a white nightgown. For the first time, I saw her in short sleeves, and I immediately noticed her strong arm muscles. I also saw a scar on her left upper arm from an old injury.

“Dian, I guess this is not the right time for a hanky-panky between fiancés,” she said with a cheeky grin.

I agreed with her. “What do you think that was?”

“No idea! But there must be a rational explanation. Or do you believe in ghosts?”

“Not really, but these dream worlds have nothing rational about them.”

Miray nodded and yawned heartily. “Hopefully, the witching hour is over now. I'm dead tired. Let's continue tomorrow.”

Embarrassed, I looked at her bed. I was afraid to sleep alone, but I couldn't possibly ask my companion if she would let me crawl under her blanket. So I wished her goodnight, went back to my room, and quietly closed the door. From the bed, I stared at the light gap for a while until it went out. Shortly after, I fell asleep.

The next morning, the sun shone into my room, making the events of the previous night feel like the memory of a bad dream. I looked out my window and saw that my fiancée was already awake and jogging in the garden in improvised sportswear. She repeatedly had to dodge the large puddles left by the nighttime thunderstorm.

My stomach growled, so I freshened up and went downstairs for breakfast. In the salon, I met Jérôme, who looked at me with dark circles under his eyes. “Breakfast is served on the terrace, Monsieur,” he said, pointing to an open veranda door. There, Henri and Zoé were already seated at the table and greeted me with scratchy voices. Paule curtsied awkwardly and helped me to my chair while Denise took a coffee pot from a serving cart. As she did so, she knocked over a cup, which fell and shattered. Agnès looked at her reproachfully and went to get a dustpan.

A few minutes later, Miray entered the terrace and sat down next to me. “I hope you've left me something,” she said cheerfully, taking a croissant. Of all of us, she seemed to have survived the night the best, perhaps apart from the twins, who were still sleeping.

Laurent came running from the side wing. “Monsieur! Madame!” he called excitedly. “Come quickly! You must see this!”

We jumped up and followed him. He led us to the far side of the wing. There, he pointed to the wall of the house. In large, red letters, the name ELODIE was smeared on the plaster.

Henri turned pale. “Is this supposed to be a bad joke?” he shouted angrily and stomped back into the house.

“Is that the name of the dead girl?” Miray asked.

Zoé looked worriedly after her husband. Then she shook her head. “No, the dead girl was named Claire. Elodie means nothing to me.”

We returned to the breakfast table and ate our food thoughtfully. After that, Miray and I went to my room, where she silently looked out the window.

“What an adventure,” I sighed. “We have a ghost by the pond, this bone-chilling thumping in the night, and now this name on the wall.”

“The wrong name, not the girl who drowned in the pond. None of this makes any sense!”

She flopped onto my bed, and I sat beside her. Together, we stared into space.

“Miray?” I finally asked. “What will happen if we fail to solve the task? Will we be trapped in this dream forever?”

She looked at me with her icy blue eyes and seemed to carefully consider her answer. Then she suddenly jumped up. “We're not there yet, Dian! I'm sure we'll find an explanation for this haunting.”

We went down the grand staircase to the entrance hall when the doorbell rang. Agnès hurried over and opened the door to a man, about 40 years old, well-dressed, of sturdy build, with a puffy red face. He took his cigar out of his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into the maid's face.

“You took your sweet time, girl!” he growled. “Come on, take me to your master, he's expecting me.”

“Who shall I announce?”

“Who shall you announce? My name is Farges!”

Agnès curtsied and led the visitor into the salon before leaving. We went down the stairs and watched him from a safe distance. He strutted around the room like a rooster in a henhouse.

When Paule entered, he rudely ordered her to bring him a cognac and gave her a slap on the rear. She curtsied obediently and hurried off. “And bring the good stuff,” Farges called after her, “not that swill Henri serves his guests!”

Then he noticed us. When he saw Miray, he grinned broadly, laid his cigar in an ashtray, and smoothed his thinning hair.

“I don't think we've had the pleasure yet!” he exclaimed delightedly, walking towards her. “Antoine Farges, broker, but you may call me Antoine. And what is your charming name, Mademoiselle?”

“Miray,” she introduced herself unenthusiastically, “I am the niece of Madame and Monsieur Vignaud.”

“Enchanté,” he purred, grabbing her hand and giving it a mock kiss. He then gave me a short, disdainful look. “That's your brother, I assume?”

“No, that's Dian, my fiancé.”

The oily grin instantly fell from his face.

At that moment, Paule returned with a tray holding a well-filled cognac snifter. Farges took it, sipped it, and grumbled, “Well, it's acceptable.”

The maid curtsied and stood discreetly in a corner, waiting for new instructions.

Farges took another sip and looked me up and down. “Your fiancé, huh? He looks like a pauper, Mademoiselle Miray. Don't waste yourself on such a good-for-nothing! You deserve better.”

“You're probably thinking of yourself?”

Farges nodded patronizingly. “Why should you settle for less?”

“What a generous offer,” Miray thanked him, taking a step towards Farges. “But there's a problem. I don't associate with bullies who lack respect, intelligence, and good manners.”

That hit the mark. Farges's face turned red with anger. He raised his hand threateningly, but Miray didn't move and looked him straight in the eye. She seemed to almost hope that he would slap her. His hand trembled, then he capitulated, downed the cognac, and shouted at Paule, “Is there nothing to drink in this damn house? Girl, fetch me the whole bottle!”

At that moment, Agnès entered the salon and led Farges into Henri's study. We looked at each other, surprised by the scene that had just unfolded before us.

“That was very brave of you, Mademoiselle,” Paule whispered from her corner. She was trembling all over. “It seemed as if you weren't afraid of Monsieur at all!”

Miray chuckled briefly. “Afraid of that blowhard, Paule? His authority is all he has. Getting backtalk was surely a new experience for him.”

We went into the garden to search for clues. We started with the pond. It looked as neglected as the rest of the estate. The water was murky and largely overgrown with reeds and bulrushes. A narrow footpath, completely overgrown, ran along the shore.

“If there were any tracks, they've been washed away by the thunderstorm,” Miray noted resignedly. “We're getting nowhere here. Let's examine the house wall.”

On the side wing, the name was still smeared on the wall in large letters. The writing, which seemed deep red in the morning, now had a brownish hue. My companion moistened her finger and wiped it through the color. Then she looked at the result and finally murmured, “This doesn't really help us either.”

I had a different opinion. Miray had become so fixated on her search for clues that she had apparently missed an important trait of our unpleasant visitor. “It can only be Farges,” I voiced my suspicion aloud.

“Farges? How do you figure?”

“He said earlier he's a broker. He surely has an interested buyer for the house and is trying to drive the price down with the haunting. Maybe he even wants it for himself.”

“You think he played the ghost by the pond?”

I nodded. “And he smeared a random name on the wall. It did not fail to have an effect.”

“The name was written with animal blood, I suspect. That could only have come from the kitchen.”

“From the kitchen? Why do you think that?”

“The homemade boudin noir last night, remember?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“That's fried blood sausage!”

“Yuck!” I exclaimed, looking at her in horror. “You let me eat that?”

“It seemed to taste excellent to you, the way you wolfed it down and even asked for seconds.”

She pounded her fist against the wall, but it was competely unimpressed. “What about the tremors? They definitely came from inside the house.”

“We'll figure that out too.”

When we searched for the source of the thumping last night, we had the impression it got louder the closer we got to the tower. So we decided to start our search there. Inside the tower was a stone spiral staircase. We climbed it and found an old wooden ladder at its end, leading to the top.

Miray suddenly turned pale and stared fearfully at the hatch at the top. “Dian,” she said in a trembling voice, “please be kind and go up the ladder alone. Will you do that?”

I looked at her, surprised. Where had the brave Miray gone who had just confronted a strong man?

“You're afraid of heights?” I asked, concerned.

She nodded, embarrassed.

“Then let me handle this.”

I climbed the ladder and reached a circular, unused room under the open beams of the conical roof. A row of windows provided a panoramic view of the pond and the park. Some panes were weathered and broken. Shards and droppings from pigeons and bats lay on the floor. The intense smell of excrement and dust almost took my breath away.

“Nobody has been up here for a long time,” I called down, coughing. “Let's get out of here.”

I climbed back down the ladder. Next to it was an old wooden door that creaked and groaned open, revealing the attic. We searched for a light switch, but the attic wasn't electrified. A bit of light filtered through a few oval dormer windows with foggy panes. Old, rusty bed frames, blackboards, school desks, and other furniture from the school days were stored there. We could faintly hear the ticking of the roof clock's mechanism, slow and steady.

“There's nothing here but junk,” Miray observed. “Maybe the tremors came from the cellar.”

We closed the door and descended the spiral staircase to the cellar. It was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers filled with supplies and wine bottles. Cables and pipes ran along the walls and ceilings like veins. But we found nothing that could have caused the night's noise.

Through an iron door that could only be opened from the inside, we reached the garden on a remote side of the building. Frustrated, we sat on the edge of the fountain.

“We're getting nowhere,” Miray sighed.

I nodded. “Do you think Jérôme could bring us some coffee and cake for refreshment?”

“Don't tell me you're hungry again!”

She looked at the roof clock, then grumbled, “That stupid clock without hands is driving me crazy.”

Suddenly, she jumped up and stared at the roof.

“Damn it! We're such idiots!” she exclaimed. “Who goes to the trouble of winding a clock that has no hands?”

We hurried back up the tower, entered the attic, and found the clock mechanism in a dark corner. It was an open metal frame with numerous gears that moved almost imperceptibly slowly. A long pendulum swung back and forth, and a small dial showed the time.

Next to the clock was a makeshift wooden frame equipped with boards that looked like flaps at the top. On the boards lay large chunks of cement. Each flap was held by a latch. Gears and chains connected these latches to the clock.

“There's our ghost!” I cheered. “The clockwork was tampered with. It operates the flaps, and the weights fall one by one.”

“And everything is already prepared for another ghostly hour tonight,” Miray added. “Now look there!”

She pointed to a corner next to the clockwork. Someone had left an old, tattered dress, a brush in a bowl of dried blood, and a few empty cement bags.

“Looks like we found our ghost's hideout, Dian. Can you disable the mechanism somehow?”

I pointed to a small lever on the clock. “I could just turn off the chimes, that should do it.”

“It would be better if our ghost doesn't find out that we discovered his secret.”

I thought for a moment. “I could take the chain off the gear. Then it looks like it slipped off.”

Miray nodded. “Very good! Looks like we have a plan. Tonight, we'll prepare everything and then lie in wait.”

I wasn't thrilled about the idea of spending the night in the dark attic, but it was indeed the simplest way to catch the person behind the haunting.

After dîner, we retreated to our rooms early on the pretext of being tired from the previous night which had been far too short, and under Aunt Zoé's smug grin, who didn't buy this excuse.

Unfortunately, we had no flashlight in our luggage. So we used the twilight to sneak through the construction site to the tower and then to the attic.

In the poor light conditions, it wasn't easy to disable the mechanism. I took the chain off the gear and arranged it to look like a defect. Meanwhile, Miray had pushed an old bed frame into a corner, placed a mattress on it, and camouflaged it with two school desks.

“Now we wait,” she said, brushing the dust from her clothes. We took off our shoes and lay down side by side on the creaking bed.

The sun had already set, and only a little pale moonlight came through the oval dormer windows. The steady ticking of the clockwork had an almost hypnotic effect on me. Occasionally, I heard the faint scratching and scurrying of a mouse.

As the night progressed, the attic grew colder. We cuddled together to keep each other warm. It gave me a cozy feeling of security to feel Miray so close to me. As eerie as the situation we were in was, I still hoped it wouldn't end too soon.

Finally, at one o'clock, the clockwork started to rattle loudly. The mechanism with the weights remained motionless.

“No haunting tonight,” Miray whispered to me.

“Yeah, our ghost won't like that,” I whispered back. “I'm curious to see who will come to check.”

But no one came. At some point, I heard Miray snoring softly. I decided to let her sleep until I heard something. Then I too fell into a dreamless sleep.

A shaking woke me, and I opened my eyes. The soft light of dawn filtered through the windows into the dusty air of the attic.

“Wake up, Dian!” my companion whispered. “I don't think our ghost will come now. Let's go back downstairs.”

I got up, stretched, and went to the clockwork. The chain still lay next to the gear, and the weights were on the wooden frame. Whoever had constructed this had undoubtedly mechanical skills and craftsmanship.

On my way back to the bed, I stepped on something sharp and screamed loudly.

“What's wrong?” Miray asked, startled.

“It was foolish of me to walk around here in socks,” I scolded and pulled a small, round splinter of wood from my foot. “Luckily, it wasn't a rusty nail.”

“Let me see that,” she asked. I gave her the splinter, and she examined it closely. Then she grinned broadly. “You just found the missing piece of the puzzle. Now I know who our ghost is.”

“Because of the splinter?”

“That's no splinter! It's a broken toothpick that was chewed on.”

“It's Laurent!” I exclaimed, surprised. “He was chewing on a toothpick while the maids were unloading our luggage.”

“Right! He wasn't present when the ghost appeared by the pond. He has access to the tower and the kitchen without arousing suspicion. And he is strong and skilled enough to build such an infernal machine.”

“Finally, we have a hot lead! What do we do now?”

“Now we take advantage of the early hour and search the old stable before Laurent shows up. Maybe we'll find more clues.”

We left the attic and reached the garden through the cellar. As we approached the stable, we noticed the door was open. It led to a small workshop. Next to a massive bench drill that drew the eye, tools hung neatly arranged on the wall. Various woods, stones, and other materials were stored on a shelf. Across from it, a desk stood by a window, and Laurent sat at the desk, asleep.

His head rested on the desktop. Then I noticed the bloody stone next to him. A red puddle slowly spread out and dripped from the desk.

“The secret seems bigger than I thought,” Miray sighed. She briefly examined the lifeless chauffeur before opening a drawer in the desk, rummaging through it, and pulling out a small necklace with a medallion. Inside the locket were two photos, on the left a picture of Laurent and on the right a young woman. The initials EC were engraved on the outside.

Next, she took out a small metal figure and examined it from all sides.

“That's probably the lion the twins found by the pond. What do you think?”

She handed me the figure. It was a small lion made of cast iron, standing on a metal plate and roaring. I immediately recognized what it was.

“That's the hood ornament of an old Peugeot! What a beautiful piece. Unfortunately, it's badly oxidized, and the left front paw is broken off.”

In the meantime, Miray had found a folder with newspaper clippings in the drawer and read the first snippet. She showed it to me and pointed to a photo.

“Do you recognize her? That's the young woman from the locket. She was hit by a car and killed, and the driver fled. Now guess what her name was!”

“Elodie?”

“Bingo! She was Elodie Collard. She must have been very close to Laurent.”

“We can no longer ask him who she was.”

Miray nodded before continuing. “Another article states that Henri's Peugeot was stolen the same evening while he was at a souper with friends. The police suspect a connection between the accident and the theft and ask witnesses to come forward.”

She looked sadly at the motionless victim.

“That he is now lying here is surely no coincidence. Laurent had probably suspected from the start that Henri was the driver in the accident. But suspicion wasn't enough, so he took the job as chauffeur to find evidence.”

“And then the twins brought him the hood ornament!”

“Yes. Laurent must have recognized it immediately, just as you did. Now he had the proof that the Peugeot wasn't stolen but disposed of in the pond.”

It all made sense.

“Why did Laurent stage the haunting?” I asked.

“Maybe to make Henri nervous. He walked around the pond as a ghost to show that he knew where the Peugeot was. He smeared Elodie's name on the wall because he knew Henri would understand the message. With the loud thumping in the night, he wanted to increase the pressure on him.”

“And his goal? Did he want Henri to turn himself in to the police?”

“No,” boomed a powerful voice behind us, “the bastard wanted to blackmail him.”

We turned around and saw Farges. He stood in the door, pointing a gun at us. Behind him was Henri, pale and intimidated.

“What's your role in this story, Monsieur Farges?” Miray asked. But then she understood. “I assume Henri let you go for a drunken joyride in his Peugeot. You were the one driving when Elodie was killed! You then threatened Henri. If he didn't help you, you would tell the police he was the driver. So you invented the story of the stolen car and gave each other an alibi, saying you were at the souper the whole time.”

“You're a smart girl,” Farges nodded. “After the haunted night, Henri called me over. He found a blackmail letter on his desk and asked for my help. Well, I took care of it, just as I will take care of this problem here.”

“What are you planning?” Henri asked anxiously.

“I knew these two would only cause trouble! We'll tie them up and gag them. Then I'll set fire to the stable. By the time the fire department arrives, everything that could incriminate us will be a pile of ashes.”

Farges pointed his gun at Miray. “Come on, take a rope and tie up your fiancé. It will be my pleasure to tie you up personally.”

“Give it up, Farges,” Miray said calmly. “I don't want to hurt you.”

Farges laughed loudly. “You misunderstand the situation, Mademoiselle. I'm the one with the gun.”

Then everything happened very quickly. With a swift move, Miray grabbed Farges's arm and pushed it aside so that the gun was no longer pointed at us. A shot was fired, shattering a window. She then twisted into her opponent and disarmed him. The gun fell to the floor, and she kicked it to me. Next, she threw Farges with a hip throw, sending him crashing loudly to the ground in front of her. She kept his arm twisted and pinned his body with her foot. Helplessly, Farges writhed under her control. He tried to break free, but she twisted his arm until he finally gave up.

“And what good is your gun now, Monsieur Farges?” Miray asked her defeated opponent, who lay motionless before her.

I picked up the revolver and pointed it at Farges while Miray helped him up. We then led him and Henri to the house, where Jérôme, alerted by the shot, came running towards us. He was surprised by the sight but immediately returned to call the police.

As we reached the house and Zoé saw her husband, she ran to him, hugged him, and asked what this was all about. He remained silent until the police arrived. Then he confessed the whole story of Elodie, Farges, and the chauffeur. He and Farges were arrested and taken away.

“With that, Elodie's curse should have come to an end,” Miray noted, pointing to the green circle on her wrist. “Let's pack. I think our presence is neither required nor desired anymore. After all, I just handed my uncle over to the police.”

“Though it wasn't him who drove the car,” I noted as we went to our rooms.

She nodded. “That's true. I hope he can prove that in court. Farges will try every trick in the book to save his own neck.”

After I packed my things, I stood with my suitcase in Miray's room, watching her pack her last items. Something was bothering me, and finally, I found the courage to ask her.

“How did you deal with Farges? It looked like martial arts.”

She nodded, embarrassed. “It was. Just don't ask me which kind.”

Even though I had noticed that Miray was strong and kept herself fit, this new side of her surprised me.

“That's why you weren't afraid of Farges in the salon yesterday when he wanted to hit you.”

“I almost wished he had,” she said sadly. “Then I would have broken his bones yesterday, and Laurent might still be alive now.”

“In any case, I find it very impressive!”

“Do you? Actually, I detest violence.”

The contradiction puzzled me. “Then why did you learn it?” I asked her.

She made a serious face. “I didn't ask for it. Two dreams before we met, I found myself as the only woman in a martial arts school somewhere deep in Asia. The school was in total seclusion, like a monastery in the middle of a vast wasteland. My task was to defeat the master in combat. I was stuck in that nightmare for almost ten months until I finally succeeded.”

I was shocked. So far, the dreams had lasted at most a few days and were mostly fun. That they could last for months was unexpected.

“What about your scar on your upper arm?”

“Looks like someone's been looking at me very closely,” she remarked, and I blushed.

Then she smiled briefly and nodded. “The scar is from a fight at that school. My opponent had a torch and burned me there. I've had it in my dream journeys ever since.”

“Does that mean if a shot from Farge's weapon had hit us, we could have died?” I asked, horrified.

She shrugged. “Let me know when you find out.”

As Agnès and Paule carried our luggage to the car, we said goodbye to Aunt Zoé and the twins. We then shook hands with the maids before Jérôme opened the door of the Citroën for us. “I'm afraid our chauffeur is currently indisposed,” he said formally, “so you will have to make do with me.”

As the car started, we looked back one last time and waved goodbye until the house disappeared behind the trees. The car passed through the large gate and turned onto the country road.

“Are you ready?” Miray asked, extending her arm.

I nodded. “Until the next dream, Miray.”

Then we touched our wrists, and everything went black.

Versions

This eBook was generated on 2024-09-04 and contains these short story versions:

1: Tear of the Desert V1.4.1 (2024-07-13)

2: Elodie's Curse V1.1 (2024-07-11)

Latest versions are available at https://infinisomnia.de