The millstones were not in operation when she pulled open the door, and from this side of the wall she could hear the noises much louder.
She strode in. The room was sweltering hot, as if the fire had been roaring for days.
A figure was bent over near the fireplace.
“Thomas!” she shouted, angry hands on her hips. “Can’t you hear that? There are rats in the walls!”
The figure stiffened and stood tall, his back to Serilda.
Apprehension shot through her. The figure was shorter than Thomas Lindbeck. Broader in the shoulders. Wearing clothing that was filthy and tattered.
“Who are you?” she demanded, gauging how close she was to the tools that hung on the wall, in case she needed to grab a weapon.
But then the figure started to turn. His movements were jerky and stiff. His face pale.
But his eyes met hers and suddenly her head was spinning, her chest tight with disbelief. “Papa?”
Chapter 46
He shambled a couple of steps toward her, and though Serilda’s first instinct was to sob and throw herself into his arms, a second, stronger instinct kept her feet rooted to the ground.
This was her father.
And not her father.
He was still wearing the same clothes as when he’d been lured away by the hunt, but his shirt was little more than dirt-crusted and bloodstained tatters. His shoes were missing entirely.
His arm was?…
It was?…
Serilda didn’t know what to make of it, but her stomach turned at the sight and she thought she might heave onto the gristmill floor.
His arm looked like a haunch of pork strung up over the butcher’s table in the market. Most of the skin was gone, revealing flesh and gristle beneath. Near his elbow, she could see all the way to the bone.
And his mouth. His chin. The front of his chest.
Covered in blood.
His own blood?
He took another step toward her, running his tongue along the edges of his mouth.
“Papa,” she whispered. “It’s me. Serilda.”
He had no reaction, other than a spark of something in his eye. Not recognition. Not love.
Hunger.
This was not her father.
“Nachzehrer,” she breathed.
His lips pulled back, revealing bits of flesh stuck in his teeth. As if he despised the word.
Then he lunged for her.
Serilda screamed. Yanking open the door, she ran out into the yard. She would have thought him to be slow, but the promise of flesh seemed to have awoken something in him and she could feel him at her back.
Fingernails grabbed the cloth of her dress. She was thrown to the ground. The breath was knocked from her and she rolled away a few feet, before stopping on her back. Her father’s mutilated body stood over her. He was not breathing hard. There was no emotion at all in his eyes beyond that dark craving.
He dropped to his knees and grasped her wrist in both arms, eyeing it like a blood sausage.
Serilda’s other hand flailed around until her fingers landed on something hard. As her father bent his head toward her flesh, she swung the rock at the side of his head.
His temple caved in easily, like a rotten fruit. He dropped her arm and snarled.
With a yowl, Serilda swung again, but this time he dodged back and scampered from her reach, reminding her of a feral animal.
His expression was more wary now, but no less eager, as he crouched a few feet away, trying to determine how to get at his supper.
Serilda sat up, trembling, gripping the rock, bracing for him to come at her again.
He seemed distressed as he stared at her. Afraid of the rock, but not willing to let his prey go. He lifted his hand and gnawed absently on his pinkie finger—until she heard the bone snap and the tip of the finger disappeared between his teeth.
Serilda’s stomach kicked.
He must have decided that her flesh would be better than his own, because he spit out the digit and lurched at her again.
This time, she was more prepared.
This time, she remembered what to do.
She curled her legs closer so he would not try to grab her feet, then lifted her arms in front of her face like a shield.
And as soon as he was close enough, she jabbed her hand forward and shoved the stone into his open mouth.
His jaw locked around it, the end of the rock jutting a few inches beyond his bloodied lips. His eyes widened and for a moment his jaw continued to work, his teeth grinding against the stone, as if he meant to try and devour it. But then his body slumped, the energy draining away, and he collapsed onto his back, arms and legs hitting the earth with soft thuds.
Serilda scrambled to her feet. She was covered in sweat. Her pulse was racing, her breaths ragged.
For a long time, she couldn’t bring herself to move, afraid that if she took a single step in any direction, this monster would rear back to life and come at her again.
He looked dead now. A corpse with rotting flesh and a rock stuck in its jaw. But she knew she had only paralyzed him. She knew that the only way to truly kill a nachzehrer was?…
She shuddered. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to do it. She didn’t think she could—
A shadow appeared in the corner of her vision. Serilda cried out, as a square-headed shovel swung overhead.
It landed with a sickening thump, the shovel’s edge being driven through the monster’s throat. The figure stepped forward, placed a foot on the shovel’s head for leverage, and shoved, severing the head clean through.
Serilda swayed on her feet. The world darkened around her.
Madam Sauer turned and shot her a disgruntled look. “All those disgusting stories you tell, and you don’t know how to kill a nachzehrer?”
Together, she and Madam Sauer had carried the body to the river, filled his clothes with stones, and let it and the disembodied head sink to the bottom. Serilda felt like she was living in a nightmare, but she hadn’t yet woken up.
“He was my father,” Serilda said despondently, once some of the shock had passed.
“That was not your father.”
“No, I know. I would have done it. I just … needed a moment.”
Madam Sauer snorted.
Serilda’s heart was heavy as one of the rocks that had dragged her father’s body to the bottom of the river. She had known he was gone for months now. She had not expected him to come back. And yet, there had always been a slim hope. A tiny chance that he might still be alive and trying to make his way back to her. She had never given up on him completely.
Yet, somehow, the truth had been even worse than her nightmares. Not only had her father been dead all this time, he’d been a monster. An undead thing, feasting on his own flesh, making his way back to his daughter—not out of love, but hunger. Nachzehrer came back from the dead so they could devour their own family members. To think that her simple, shy, warm-hearted father had been reduced to such a fate made her stomach roil. He hadn’t deserved such a fate. Serilda wished she could have a moment alone. She needed quiet and solitude. She needed a good, long cry.
But as she trudged back to the cottage, Madam Sauer followed stubbornly behind.