A damp mist coils between fir trunks, the forest's cold breath tangling the air as moonlight slices the canopy. In Eichenruh the air tastes of moss and unease; even the dogs fall silent. Tonight, an old terror brushes the village—an unseen weight on sleeping chests, a hush like a held breath.
Mist seeps between the trunks of ancient firs, and the Black Forest grows restless beneath a moon that can barely pierce the tangled canopy. In these woods, where the air tastes of moss and secrets, the villagers of Eichenruh have always whispered of things best left unnamed. It’s a land where stories are currency, and none are traded more cautiously than those about the Drude—a witch or spirit, some say, who comes at night to ride the chests of sleepers, stealing their breath and twisting their dreams into nightmares. Some claim to have seen her: a gaunt woman with tangled hair, her face more shadow than flesh, moving through the mists as silent as the grave. Others insist she’s nothing but a legend, a tale to frighten children and explain the night terrors that occasionally grip the most pious men.
But as dusk stretches into an uneasy night and an unnatural cold settles over Eichenruh, old fears awaken. Children wake screaming, elders mutter prayers, and even the bravest find their beds less comforting than before. For in this season, the boundary between myth and reality is thin as a spider’s thread.
At the heart of the village, a healer named Grete suspects there is more to these nightmares than mere superstition. Her own dreams have grown troubled, haunted by a suffocating presence and the echo of ancient songs. As the Drude’s shadow lengthens over the Black Forest, Grete must unravel truth from fable before fear tears Eichenruh apart, or the witch’s curse claims them all.
Nightmare's Embrace: The First Victim
The terror began with a single, terrible night. It was the first new moon of winter, when Eichenruh seemed to shrink beneath the weight of darkness. Smoke curled from chimney stacks, and families huddled close to their hearths, clutching charms and muttering litanies against things that moved unseen in the gloom. In the home of Otto Becker—the miller’s son—the air was especially heavy. Otto, strong as an ox and usually untroubled by superstition, was the first to fall prey to the Drude.
Otto’s mother, a stern widow named Gertrud, was awakened in the early hours by guttural gasps. She found her son sprawled atop his straw mattress, arms and legs pinned by invisible force. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his lips tinged blue as if he’d drowned in his own bed. Gertrud shook him, calling his name, but Otto could only croak out a few words—"Heavy… She’s here… Can’t breathe…"—before falling limp, breath shuddering in shallow bursts. The physician summoned from the neighboring town found no sign of fever or wound.
The only clue: deep, bruising marks across Otto’s chest, shaped like a woman’s hand, and a faint, oily scent lingering in the room. It was Grete who recognized the signs. She’d seen it once before, years ago, when a traveling peddler died in his sleep after boasting of his luck at cards. The villagers spoke of an Alp or a Mare then, but Grete remembered her grandmother’s stories—the Drude, who presses on sleeping chests until breath is stolen, and nightmares reign.
The next night, it happened again. This time to old Frau Lenz, the midwife, who had delivered nearly every child in Eichenruh. She awoke screaming, clutching her chest, sweat pouring down her face as she raved about a gaunt woman with eyes like coal and fingers cold as the grave. Her voice trembled as she described the sensation—a weight crushing her, a song so old and bitter it turned her blood to ice. The village priest, Father Matthias, called for prayer and confession.
Suspicion began to swirl as thickly as the winter mist. Was this a curse? A punishment? Or the work of a witch hiding among them? Doors were barred at night, and sleep became a fearful ordeal.
When cows went dry and bread soured overnight, whispers grew louder. Some blamed the woods. Others eyed their neighbors with mistrust, wondering who might have consorted with dark forces.
Grete watched all of this with mounting dread. She tended to Otto and Frau Lenz, but the remedies of root and prayer did little to ease their suffering. In her own dreams, the same shadow crept ever closer—a woman with hair tangled like brambles, her voice a susurrus of ancient words. Each morning, Grete woke breathless, the taste of fear sharp on her tongue. She knew the Drude would not stop at two.
