When he reached the entrance to the forest, the pale lights had receded into pinpricks barely visible through the mist. Dorian put one foot in front of the other and, before he knew it, the shadows of the forest had engulfed him. Behind him, Seaview seemed very far away.
Nothing could have induced Irene to fall asleep that night. Finally, around midnight, she gave up trying and switched on the small lamp on her bedside table. Alma Maltisse’s diary lay next to the tiny pendant in the shape of a silver angel her father had given her years ago. Irene picked up the diary and opened it again at the first page.
The slanted handwriting welcomed her. Slowly, as her eyes caressed line after line, Irene was drawn once more into the secret world of Alma Maltisse . . .
Last night I heard them quarrelling in the library. He was shouting, begging it to leave him in peace, to abandon the house for ever. He said it had no right to do what it was doing to our lives. I’ll never forget the sound of its laughter, like the howl of an animal, full of anger and hatred; the noise sent thousands of books crashing off the shelves, reverberating throughout the house. Its fury grows with every passing day. From the moment I freed that beast from its prison, it has been gaining in strength.
He stands guard at the foot of my bed every night. He’s afraid, I know, that if he leaves me alone for even a moment, the shadow will come and take me. For days now he hasn’t told me what is occupying his mind, but there’s no need. He hasn’t slept in weeks. Every night has become an endless and terrible vigil. He places hundreds of candles all over the house, trying to light every corner, so that there is no refuge in the darkness for the shadow. His face has aged ten years in barely a month.
Sometimes I think it’s all my fault; that if I disappeared, the curse would vanish with me. Perhaps that is what I should do, leave him and face my inevitable meeting with the shadow. It’s the only way we’ll ever find peace. The only thing that stops me is the thought of abandoning him. I couldn’t bear it. Without him, nothing makes sense. Neither life nor death . . .
Irene looked up from the diary. The maze of Alma Maltisse’s doubts and fears was disconcerting, but she couldn’t distance herself from it. The line between guilt and the need to survive was as sharp as a poisoned blade. Irene turned off the light. She could not get that image out of her mind. A poisoned blade.
Dorian walked deeper into the forest, following the lights he could see shining through the bushes. It was impossible to tell where they might be coming from. Each footstep sounded like an anguished recrimination. Dorian took a deep breath and reminded himself of his objective: he was not going to leave the forest until he had discovered what was hiding there. That was all there was to it.
He paused at the entrance to the clearing where he’d seen the footprints the day before. The trail was blurred now, almost unrecognisable. He walked over to the slashed tree trunk and put his hand on the cuts. Deep. Vicious. He wondered what kind of animal could have inflicted such damage. Certainly not the kind you want to run into in the middle of the night. Two seconds later, there was a cracking noise behind him – someone was approaching. Someone or something.
Dorian hid in the undergrowth. The needle-sharp prickles of the bushes bit into his skin. He held his breath, praying that whoever was approaching wouldn’t hear the hammering of his heart. Soon the flickering lights he had seen in the distance became a steady beam, opening a pathway through the floating patches of mist.
He heard footsteps. Dorian closed his eyes, still as a statue. The footsteps stopped. He was desperate to take a gulp of air, but he felt like holding his breath for the next ten years. Finally, when he thought his lungs were about to burst, two hands pushed aside the branches behind which he was hiding. Dorian’s knees turned to jelly. The light from a lamp blinded him. After a moment that seemed endless, the stranger placed the lamp on the ground and knelt down in front of him. The face was vaguely familiar, but in his panicked state Dorian didn’t recognise who it was. The stranger smiled.
‘Let’s see. Can you tell me what you’re doing out here?’ said a kind voice.
Dorian suddenly realised that the person in front of him was Lazarus Jann. Only then did he allow himself to breathe again.
It was a good ten minutes before Dorian’s hands stopped shaking, when Lazarus placed a welcome cup of hot chocolate in them. He’d taken Dorian to the outhouse next to the toy factory.
They both sipped their drinks and gazed at one another over their cups.
Lazarus laughed. ‘You gave me the fright of my life, boy.’
‘If it’s any consolation, that’s nothing compared to the fright you gave me,’ Dorian replied, as he felt the calming effects of the hot chocolate.
‘I don’t doubt that,’ said Lazarus. ‘Now, tell me, what were you doing in the forest?’
‘I saw lights.’
‘You saw my lamp. Is that why you went into the woods in the middle of the night? Have you forgotten what happened to Hannah?’
Dorian felt as if there was a very large marble in his throat.
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, don’t forget it. It’s dangerous to wander around there in the dark. For days I’ve had a strange feeling that someone is prowling around those woods.’
‘Did you see the tracks too?’
‘What tracks?’
Dorian told him that he too had sensed a strange presence in the forest. At first he thought he wouldn’t be able to come out with his fears, but in Lazarus’s company he felt confident enough to speak freely. Lazarus listened attentively to his story, not hiding his surprise and even the occasional smile at the more fantastical elements of his tale.
‘You saw a shadow?’ Lazarus suddenly asked, his tone serious.
‘You don’t believe a word I’ve said.’
‘No, I do believe you. At least, I’m trying to. You must realise that what you’re telling me is rather . . . peculiar,’ said Lazarus.
‘But you’ve seen something too. That’s why you were in the wood.’
Lazarus smiled.
‘Yes. I thought I saw something, but my impressions are much more vague.’
Dorian downed the remainder of his hot chocolate.
‘More?’ offered Lazarus.
The boy nodded. He was enjoying the toymaker’s company and it was exciting to be sitting sharing a cup of cocoa with him in the middle of the night. Looking around the workshop, Dorian noticed a large, powerful-looking shape on one of the tables, covered with a cloth.
‘Are you working on something new?’
Lazarus nodded. ‘Would you like to see it?’
Dorian’s eyes opened wide.
‘Bear in mind that it’s an unfinished project . . .’ said Lazarus.
‘Is it an automaton?’ asked the boy.
‘In a way, yes. To be honest, I suppose it’s quite an extravagant piece. The idea has been going round in my head for years. In fact, it was first suggested to me by someone of about your age, a long time ago.’
‘A friend of yours?’
Lazarus smiled at the memory.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
Dorian nodded vigorously. Lazarus removed the cloth covering the figure and the boy took a step back in shock.
‘It’s only a machine, Dorian. Don’t let it frighten you . . .’
Dorian stared at the impressive sight. Lazarus had created a metal angel, a colossus about two metres high, with huge wings. Its chiselled steel face was shrouded by a hood and its hands were enormous, large enough to surround Dorian’s head with a single fist.
Lazarus pressed a button at the base of the angel’s neck and the creature opened its eyes – two rubies that glowed like burning coals. They were staring straight at Dorian.
The boy felt his insides twist into a knot.
‘Please, stop it . . .’ he begged.
Noticing the boy’s terror, Lazarus quickly covered the creature again.
Dorian breathed a sigh of relief.
‘I’m sorry,
’ said Lazarus. ‘I shouldn’t have shown it to you. It’s only a machine. Don’t let its appearance scare you. It’s just a toy.’
Dorian didn’t seem convinced.
Lazarus hurried off to pour him another hot chocolate. When he’d drunk half the cup, Dorian looked up at Lazarus and finally seemed to relax.
‘What a fright, eh?’
Dorian giggled nervously. ‘You must think I’m a coward.’
‘On the contrary. Not many people would dare to start searching the woods at midnight after what happened to Hannah.’
‘What do you think happened?’
Lazarus shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. I suppose we’ll have to wait for the police to finish their investigation.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But . . . ?’
‘What if there really is something in the forest?’
‘The shadow?’
Dorian nodded gravely.
‘Have you ever heard of a doppelgänger?’ asked Lazarus.
Dorian shook his head.
‘It’s a German term,’ Lazarus explained. ‘It’s like the shadow of a person which, for some reason, has become separated from its owner. Would you like to hear a strange story?’
‘Please . . .’
Lazarus settled in a chair opposite Dorian and closed his eyes briefly, as if he were trying to conjure a long-lost memory.
‘A colleague of mine told me this story a long time ago. The year is 1915. The place, the city of Berlin . . .
‘Of all the watchmakers in Berlin, none was more conscientious or more of a perfectionist than Hermann Blöcklin. In fact, his fixation with the precision of the mechanisms he created had led him to develop a theory regarding the relationship between time and the speed at which light travels through the universe. Blöcklin spent his life surrounded by watches in the small living quarters at the back of his shop on Oranienburger Strasse. He was a solitary man. He had no family. No friends. His only companion was an old cat, Salman, who spent hours sitting quietly beside him in his workshop while Blöcklin devoted his time to science. As the years went by, his interest turned into an obsession. It wasn’t unusual for him to close his shop for days on end. He would spend twenty-four hours without a break, working on his dream project: the perfect clock, a universal machine for measuring time, perhaps even for capturing it.
‘One of those days, in the middle of one of the snowstorms that had been pummelling Berlin for two weeks, the watchmaker received a visit from a distinguished-looking gentleman called Andreas Corelli. Corelli wore an expensive white suit and had long, silvery hair. His eyes were hidden behind two dark lenses. Blöcklin told him that the shop was closed, but Corelli insisted on coming in, saying that he’d travelled a long way with the sole purpose of paying him a visit. Corelli explained that he’d heard about the watchmaker’s technical achievements and even described them to him in detail. Blöcklin was intrigued, as he had believed, until that day, that the rest of the world was ignorant of his discoveries.
‘Corelli’s request intrigued him even more. He wanted Blöcklin to make him a watch, but a special one – its hands were to turn backwards. Corelli explained that the reason behind this commission was that he was suffering from a fatal illness that was going to end his life in a matter of months, so he wanted to possess a watch that would show him the hours, the minutes and the seconds he had left.
‘The strange request came with a more than generous financial reward. Corelli guaranteed to provide Blöcklin with enough funds so that he could work on his research for the rest of his life. In exchange, all he had to do was spend a few weeks creating this device.
‘Needless to say, Blöcklin agreed to the deal. He spent the next two weeks working intensively. Blöcklin was still busy in his workshop when Andreas Corelli knocked on his door once more. The watch was ready. Corelli smiled as he examined it, and after praising the watchmaker’s skill told him that he’d certainly earned his reward. Blöcklin, who was exhausted, confessed that he’d put his entire soul into the project. Corelli nodded in agreement. Then he wound the watch and the mechanism began to turn. He handed Blöcklin a sack of gold coins and bade him goodbye.
‘Beside himself with joy, the watchmaker was greedily counting his coins when he noticed his face in the mirror. He looked older, gaunt. He’d been working too hard. Having decided to take a few days off, he went to bed.
‘The following day, bright sunlight poured in through the window. Still feeling tired, Blöcklin walked over to the sink to wash his face. When he caught sight of his reflection once more, it sent a shiver down his spine. The night before, when he’d gone to bed, his face had been that of a forty-one-year-old: worn out, exhausted, but still young. Today he saw the image of a man closer to his sixtieth birthday. Terrified, he went out to the park to get some fresh air. When he returned to the shop he looked in the mirror again. An old man was staring back at him. He panicked. As he rushed out into the street he bumped into a neighbour who asked him whether he’d seen Blöcklin, the watchmaker. Hysterical, Hermann fled.
‘He spent that evening in the corner of a filthy tavern, surrounded by criminals and other shady characters. Anything rather than being alone. He could feel his skin shrinking by the minute. His bones felt brittle and he was finding it hard to breathe.
‘It was almost midnight when a stranger asked whether he could sit down next to him. Blöcklin stared at him. He was a good-looking young man of about twenty. His face did not seem familiar, but he recognised the lenses that covered the man’s eyes. Blöcklin’s heart missed a beat. Corelli . . .
‘Andreas Corelli sat down opposite him and pulled out the watch Blöcklin had created only a few days earlier. The watchmaker, in despair, asked what was happening to him. Why was he growing older with each passing second? Corelli showed him the watch, its hands turning slowly counter-clockwise. Corelli reminded Blöcklin of what he’d said, about putting his whole soul into the watch. That was why, with every minute that went by, his body and soul were progressively ageing.
‘Blind with terror, Blöcklin begged Corelli for help. He told him he would do anything he asked if it meant he would recover his youth and his soul. Corelli grinned and asked him whether he was sure of that. The watchmaker reiterated what he’d said: he’d do anything.
‘Corelli then said that he was prepared to give Blöcklin back the watch, and his soul along with it, in exchange for something which, in fact, was no use to the watchmaker: his shadow. Disconcerted, Blöcklin asked him whether this was the only price he had to pay, his shadow. Yes, said Corelli. So, again, Blöcklin accepted Corelli’s deal.
‘Corelli then pulled out a glass flask, removed the top and placed it on the table. In a split second, Blöcklin saw his shadow enter the flask like a whirlwind of vapour. Corelli closed the bottle and, taking his leave of Blöcklin, walked out into the night. As soon as he’d disappeared through the door of the tavern, the hands on the watch Blöcklin was holding began to turn clockwise.
‘When Blöcklin arrived home in the small hours, his face was once again that of a young man. The watchmaker heaved a sigh of relief. But another surprise awaited him. His cat, Salman, was nowhere to be seen. Blöcklin looked all over the house and when at last he found it, he was filled with horror. The animal was hanging by its neck from a cable attached to one of the workshop lights. The watchmaker’s table had been knocked over and his tools were scattered around the room. It looked as if a tornado had hit the place. But there was something else. Someone had scrawled an incomprehensible word on the wall: “Nilkcolb”.
‘The watchmaker studied the crude writing. It took him a moment to understand what the word meant. It was his own name, written backwards. Nilkcolb. Blöcklin. A voice whispered behind his back, and when Blöcklin turned around, he found he was standing face to face with a dark reflection of himself, a diabolical mirage bearing his own features.
‘Then the watchmaker understood. It was his shadow watching him. His own defiant shadow. He tried
to catch it, but the shadow laughed and spread itself across the walls. Blöcklin, terrified, watched as his shadow seized a long knife and ran out through the door, vanishing into the darkness.
‘The first crime on Oranienburger Strasse took place that same night. There were witnesses who declared they’d seen Blöcklin cold-bloodedly stab a soldier who was strolling along the road just before daybreak. The police arrested the watchmaker and interrogated him for hours. The following night, while Blöcklin was still locked up in his prison cell, two new deaths took place. People began to talk about a mysterious murderer who moved through the shadows of the Berlin night. Blöcklin tried to explain to the authorities what was happening, but no one would listen to him. Newspapers speculated about the mysterious assassin who, night after night, managed to escape from his high-security cell and perpetrate the most horrific crimes Berlin had ever witnessed.
‘The shadow’s reign of terror lasted exactly twenty-five days. The end of the story was as unexpected and inexplicable as its beginning. In the early hours of 12 January 1916, the shadow of Hermann Blöcklin entered the dismal prison where the watchmaker was being held. A prison guard who was keeping watch swore he’d seen Blöcklin struggling with a shadow and stabbing it during the fight. At dawn, the guard who took over from the night watch found Blöcklin dead in his cell, with a wound to his heart.
‘A few days later, a stranger called Andreas Corelli offered to cover the cost of Blöcklin’s burial in an unmarked grave in Berlin Cemetery. Nobody, except the gravedigger and a strange individual wearing glasses with black lenses, was present at the ceremony.
‘The case of the Oranienburger Strasse murders is still classed as unsolved in the archives of the Berlin Police . . .’
‘Wow,’ murmured Dorian as Lazarus ended his story. ‘And did this really happen?’
The toymaker smiled. ‘No. But I knew you’d love the story.’
Dorian looked down into his cup. He realised that Lazarus had made up the tale to make him forget the fright he’d received on seeing the mechanical angel. A clever trick, but a trick all the same. Lazarus patted his shoulder.