Fibers

It is the last Thursday before Christmas, and tonight, we shall see who will still be here come then.

Frau Perchta will come, a witch of cleanliness that chooses our fates each winter. The things which we can do to please her are to have all of our fiber spinning finished before year’s end, and a spotless home and porridge when she arrives.

With shaking hands, Mama sets out the hot bowl of porridge beside a trio of stout candles.

We want Frau Perchta to see how tidy our home is so she will be pleased.

“All right.” She wipes her hands on her apron and clasps them together to stop the tremoring. She looks at me and my much younger sister, Greta. “Schnell, quick - go get into bed. I’ll tuck you in.”

I take Greta’s warm little hand, and glance back at Mama, who is shifting her gaze between the kitchen door and the sprigs of lavender tucked above it.

We know it’s useless, but it’s worth the try.

However, the two locked latches on both the kitchen and the main doors are as necessary as ever. Frau Perchta can still get in even with that, but there are other things out there we would like to keep out.

“When will we know she’s here?” Greta whispers to me as we step into our room.

“Oh.” My heart pounds to recall the last several years.

This will be the first one that Greta remembers.

“Well… You’ll know. She taps her cane on the floor.”

“Does that mean she’s mad?” Concern creeps into Greta's voice.

“No, she always does it. If she’s mad… Well, you’ll know then too.” I assure her once more.

We are finally tucked in beneath our patchwork quilt, Mama's hands carefully folding in the corners.

“Mama,” I whisper to her as Greta’s eyes close.

“Hmm?” Mama tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.

“I’m so worried.” I curl my fingers around the edge of the blanket.

“It will be all right. You know how well we cleaned, and-”

“No, that’s not it.” I drop my voice.

Mama tilts her head and waits for me to finish.

Of course, I am afraid of the witch still. But I only need to fear her for one night. There are worse things to terrorize you endlessly, day and night.

“When will they catch that man?” I whisper even softer.

Mama looks away from me for a moment.

There has been someone roaming the villages around us since the end of summer. A daughter of a woman my mother trades fabric with was taken in the night. And she is only one of almost a dozen now.

Verschollen; we do not know what happened to them, the young people that he takes. All we know of him is the large scar that crosses the middle of his face.

“Soon, Frieda. I hope it is soon.” Mama presses a kiss to my brow before she leaves.

I face away from the window. I’m relieved that Greta is asleep, and also facing away from the window.

Frau Perchta’s horned companions like to circle houses while their mistress pokes around inside. I know I saw one pass by the window last year. Taller than a man, like a bear standing on its hind legs, with the head and horns of an enormous goat.

They’re more than happy to eat the innards of disobedient people that Frau Perchta throws to them afterwards.

My eyes snap open at the creak in the kitchen.

My chest expands and the panic begins to fill in my stomach. But I stay still.

We have nothing to worry about. Our entire house is completely spotless.

But the sound of her cane on the wood floor conjures dread.

She sweeps through the kitchen and the main room. She is in the hall now, and I throw the blanket over my head.

The door opens, and I see the candlelight spill in under Greta’s bed.

Suddenly, the main door bangs open, and Greta is awake, but she stays still.

I hear Frau Perchta turn around to look at whatever just broke in. She floats back down the hall.

“Unsauber.”

Unclean.

Her voice is shattering glass, and not a breath later, there is a man letting out a hellish scream.

I am frozen solid, and I can see Frau Perchta’s silhouette on the wall from the candlelight, her antlers stretching to the ceiling.

She thrusts her arm back and drives the carving knife into the man again, and there is ripping and tearing.

He collapses onto the ground.

Frau Perchta opens the main door, and I can feel the chill of air reach its icy hand inside.

She whistles, a haunting thing that reminds me of a lonesome elk in the night.

There is a thrashing outside as the demons rush to the front of the house, their hunger palpable even when I cannot see them.

The guttural growls when she tosses the innards to the pack are far worse than even rabid dogs tearing each other apart.

I am still frozen.

We all heard everything, but no one will move.

It’s like that even after the soft whoosh of the Frau moving on to the next house.

When morning comes, I see Mama pass our door as she goes into the main room.

She shrieks, and I and Greta both rush out.

And there, on the floor, holding his haphazardly stitched gut and breathing in agony, is a man with an old scar that stretches from ear to ear across his face.