The Strangers on Tier Hill

It is by sheer fortune or even by some miraculous intervention that I, and my wife, are alive to tell the story of that one fateful night in Berlin. As I recant, please allow no apprehensions or surrenderings to assumptions merit here. For the story that I am about to tell you has not been fabricated, nor has it deviated from the truth in any way.

On a crisp September afternoon we left our tour of the castle Stadtschloss to return to our room at the Kronsprinz hotel for a brief rest. It was nearing the end of our honeymoon and we felt it fitting to return by means of horse and carriage. Though the light of day was at its peak, we felt its desire for rest behind the distant hills it stood watch over. As we rode along a street of ancient stone, strange, wonderous aromas rose from fresh-baked delicacies that the shops along our route boasted. The air, too, was permeated by strange dialects foreign to our ears and tongues that eventually dissipated as we advanced into more rural regions.

“Giddy up.” The driver slapped the leather reigns across the horse’s hindquarters.

“Schneller, Schneller.”

The carriage picked up pace only slightly, my love and I still cradled comfortably inside. Eventually, the sounds of birds and rustling of leaves replaced the sound of the commotion of townsfolk and iron upon aged stone. As well, the irresistible scents of fresh pastries were now replaced by the perfumes of aging oak trees that towered above us, nearly banishing the sunlight that spotted the dirt road below. These elements combined nearly lulled us both to sleep when the horse’s whinny and the carriage’s abrupt halt recaptured our attention.

“Okay. We here,” the driver said as he lowered the steps and swung the carriage’s door open.

I gladly paid the gentleman for his time and our experience and my wife and I walked up the steps to the Kronsprinz’s doors.

“Willkommen,” the hotel hand said. “Welcome!” He tipped his hat and opened the door for us to enter. We returned his courteous gesture and crossed the threshold.

Once inside our hotel room we had not even an hour’s quiet when the phone rang. My wife picked it up and I could hear the faint voice of a man on the other end. The call lasted not a minute. She hung up, and turned to me.

“That was the front desk. Apparently there is some mail down in the lobby for us.”

“Well,” I replied, looking strangely at her. “Shall we go see what it is?”

My wife nodded and we exited the room and headed down the wooden staircase at the end of the hall that twisted and ended abruptly in the lobby. We walked up to the desk and my wife gently rang the bell mounted on the countertop. Within moments a man appeared from behind a wooden island wall.

“May I help you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “We received a call up in room 202. We were told we have some mail waiting for us here in the lobby.”

“What is your name, sir,” the front desk clerk questioned.

“Hudson. William Hudson.”

After a minute’s search, the clerk lifted an 8 x 5 card and handed it to me.

“Sir, there is also a piece of mail like that one under the name of Hudson as well.” The clerk held it up.

“What’s the name?”

“Mary Hudson,” he replied.

“That’s me,” my wife chirped.

He handed it over to her and we both looked at the mail, perplexed.

Herr William Hudson,

Sie sind von Herr Fuchs eingeladen in Huntersvilla für ein Ernennungfestmahl.

Datum: 5. September

Die Zeit: 20:00 Uhr

Adresse: Aussenstrasse 3, 10413 Berlin

My wife looked at hers. It said the same thing

“Sir,” I asked. “What does this say? My German isn’t skilled enough to read all of this.”

“Well, sir, it says ‘You are invited on behalf of Mr. Fuchs to Hunter mansion for an honorary feast,’” The clerk replied. His eyes grew wide.

“Honorary feast. Really,” the clerk repeated.

“Is that a good thing?”

“I’d think so.” “Mr. Fuchs’ family is very well known around here. They come from a very wealthy family line.”

“Hmm. We don’t know of this Mr. Fuchs. We don’t even know why we received these,” I stated.

“We’re just here in Berlin on our honeymoon,” my wife added. “What’s this symbol mean, anyway?” She pointed to the crest that had been stamped on the bottom of each invitation.

“Well, ma’am,” the clerk replied. “It is the seal of the family Fuchs. It is the way that people signed their correspondences in older times.

“I don’t know anyone in this family or know anyone who does,” my wife informed.

“Well,” the clerk said. “It’s a privilege even today to be invited to one of these events. They don’t happen in this style much anymore.”

“Should we go?” My wife looked up at me and I stood there thinking for a moment. I looked at the date. It was today. The time read twenty o’ clock, eight by our standard. It was five.

“Could you show us the way there?” I pointed to the address so the clerk could guide us.

EIGHT o’ CLOCK

We arrived at the mansion, known as Hunter’s Villa, by automobile.

The mansion resided on the border of Berlin in a most secretive place. It rested a few miles within a forest of ancient oaks, which completely blocked any traces of its existence from a curious world. Indeed it was a place that could only be found by invitation. Those looking for it by some other manner could never do so without explicit directions as to its whereabouts. How, then, had we been so lucky as to have been granted this honor? Who was this Mr. Fuchs? The curiosity to answer these questions, I admit, replaced the rational need for concern. My wife, too, was driven in the very same way.

Our driver stopped us in front of the front doors. Great strips of iron supported the thick timber that composed it and sturdy pillars of stone secured them. The driver opened our door and let us out.

“Welcome. Have a goot time.” He tipped his hat.

We acknowledged him and proceeded up steps of blackened stone. When we reached the doors at the top of the stairs we pulled the knocker back and released it, returning a metallic reverb that shattered the stillness of the night air. Within moments the door creaked open. A young man in a tuxedo stood in the open space. He was most likely the butler.

“May I help you?”

“Well, I replied. “We were invited here by a Mr. Fuchs for a dinner.” I showed him the invitations. He examined them for a moment then opened the door wider.

“Right this way, Herr and Frau Hudson.” The butler grabbed a lit candelabra and led us down the hallway.

The strangest thing about this hallway is how dark it was and how little the four lit candles teetering in the candelabra did to illuminate it. It also seemed long; too long for a house like this as we walked for what seemed to be up to five minutes, perhaps more. We caught glimpses of strange paintings, too. Eerie and unnerving portraits of strangers dressed prominently, yet hosting distorted faces. Some had but a touch of this hideousness, others looked barely human in their afflictions. My wife squeezed my hand tightly at the sight of these. At last we finally reached the end of the hall and were led into what appeared to be the living quarters of some remnants of a commons. Unlike the hallway, it was well lit. Sconces held burning candles and lamps placed upon antique end tables and the occasional desk illuminated the room’s perimeters. A fireplace, too, was lit and crackled and popped as if it spoke. And just above our heads hung a great chandelier of woven antlers and assorted horns of a variety of beasts. Placed within them, as well, were candles whose light cast sharp, angular shadows at our feet.

“Excuse me sir, but…” I turned around to address the butler but he had gone.

I jogged over to the hallway and turned the corner to look down it. It was pitch black. There was not even the slightest speck of light. I walked back into the room where my wife stood.

“Do you know where he went,” she asked me.

“No. He just disappeared.”

“Well, where is everyone? This is supposed to be a party or banquet of some sort, right?”

“I don’t know, let’s just sit down and wait for a minute and see if anyone comes out. The butler probably went to let Mr. Fuchs know we are here.”

“I hope so,” my wife replied. “This place is not the kind that I would like be alone in.”

She looked around at one more gruesome detail. Animal trophies of various beasts hung before us, frozen in differing degrees of decay; their glassy eyes leering downwards as if watching, waiting. After an unnerving moment, we sat down on an adjacent couch to wait as well. However, it wasn’t long before a door that seemed to have been hidden opened and a young gentleman entered the room to address us.

“Herr and Frau Hudson, I presume?” The man extended his hand and each of us shook it.

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you,” I said. “And, what is your name, sir?”

“My name is Herr Lang,” he replied. “Please, come this way. Herr Fuchs is expecting you.”

He held the door open and motioned for us to enter. He then took the lead. Just ahead of the brief landing on which we advanced was a stairwell that too ascended into darkness and, much like the hallway that we first ventured down, displayed grotesque oddities immortalized on canvas. And like our initial entrance to that hall, there was an end table that hosted a brightly burning candelabra. Herr Lang grabbed it and we followed him up the stairs, which twisted and spiraled in geometrically unsound angles. And though it seemed like ages before we broke the illusion of perpetual ascension, we finally came to a door, hidden like the first until Herr Lang gently applied pressure, allowing it to slide open. He stepped into the room and we followed. To our surprise, it was a bit brighter in there, but not much.

“Wait here a moment, please.”

We complied.

Soon, the darkness before us retreated. Herr Lang lit some additional candles. As they came to life and grew to potential, they revealed a room of an expansive and impressive measure. And, as the candles reached their peaks, a phonograph came to life, playing haunting melodies of a time soon forgotten. A female German opera singer and strings serenaded us and welcomed us home. At that moment couples emerged from panels in the walls. Hidden doors we had not yet considered revealed their secrets. As each panel confessed, a couple emerged from the open wall. Women of such beauty followed men of different degrees of age and prominence. As the phonograph’s song echoed through the room, so did the tapping of feet in rhythm as each couple joined hands to dance.

“Please, enjoy yourselves tonight,” Herr Lang assured and excused his presence to join hands with his lady, a daintfully statuesque beauty of exquisite composure, who came to life at her lover’s sight.

“Shall we?” I offered my arm to my wife.

It was then that we, too, fell under the phonograph’s charm and joined in with the others. So entranced were we that we didn’t even realize the only tapping of feet upon the ballroom floor was ours. Broken of the singer’s spell, we looked over to see seven couples standing aside the phonograph diligently watching our waltz. Startled, we stopped as the room filled with a brief, awkward silence. For we had danced for one song too long, it seemed. But instead of scowling or whispering to one another, the couples applauded and filled the room with German praise.

“ Bravo! Wundervoll! Herrlich!”

We just stood there for a brief moment, wondering what to do. Finally, we waved and took a bow. At this time the couples approached us and introduced themselves.