Dreams of Death

Chapter 1- Ashes, Ashes

The blasted village was silent as the winter evening fell. Like so many other villages in Germany it had fallen victim to the Allies’ progress, its inhabitants fleeing as the great armies did battle, leaving behind only the blasted buildings, their shattered walls and skeletal frames standing as a testament to the horrors of war. Here and there a few fires still smoldered, sending ash and soot up into the air, where it mixed with the falling snow before returning to earth. The odd mixture gave the land a grayish pallor, similar to that of a long dead corpse. The wind wove through the wreckage, causing loose timbers to creak and groan. The village belonged to death, and death alone.

The only movement was the steady progress of three soldiers down the main street of the village, their shoulder patches showing them to be from the American forces. The crunch of their boots in the packed snow was muffled by soft snow that was falling. Their faces were streaked by the gray ash, causing them to look like the walking dead, come back to remind the living of their sins.

The first was tall, standing around six one. His coat was blackened from repeated gunfire in crowded areas, his head bare to the winter chill, his helmet lost somewhere in the haze of combat. In his left hand he carried a rifle, his hand gripping the stock near the trigger. The other hand held small briefcase, one that was solidly built and armored to protect it from the hazards of battle. On his back was a worn and beaten pack, tattered and split by several bullet holes. Between his back and the pack was a wooden sheath, dyed black. The sheath held a katana, though this was not visible, save for the hilt. The hilt had been wrapped in black cloth, two bronze fetishes the only pieces left uncovered. The guard was bronze as well, depicting two dragons curled around the blade. His name tag had been torn, but it had once read Franklins.

The one on the opposite end was even taller, standing close to six and a half feet. He was rail thin, looking as if one good gust of wind could bowl him over. His face was gaunt, leading the casual observer to assume it was malnourishment that had led to his current state. Such an assumption would be misguided, as the body beneath the battle fatigues was athletic and muscular, despite the slight build. Despite his weary condition the soldier held himself with pride. Besides the equipment on his back his only other burden was a large Thompson gun, a drum clip hanging from the gun, while a chain of ammunition wound around his body, collecting the falling snow. His sole mark of identification was his dog tags, bearing the name Hart.

The one in the middle was smaller than his two companion, standing close to five-ten. He was stockier then the other two, and his helmet rested askew on his head, displaying his unkempt blond hair. His hands gripped his rifle tightly, his knuckles white. His eyes darted back and forth nervously, scanning the village for some sign of danger. A small photo peeked out from his breast pocket, the ragged edge flapping in the wind. His helmet bore the name Webster, the result of long ago barracks prank.

They marched in silence, having nothing to say to each other. Each was replaying the past few days in their head, the order to scout, the waiting German ambush, the deaths of the rest of their unit. The harrying fire as they tried to make their way back to the allied lines, snipers picking off the survivors until they were the last ones left, the tank that had chased them for several miles, driving them from their return route. Each one replayed the memories over and over, wondering if there was something they might have changed, some action they might have taken that would have preserved their numbers. All they found instead was regret.

The wind picked up speed, stinging their faces with snow. They glanced at each other and nodded. Quickly looking around for shelter they noticed a large Victorian mansion built at the end of the street. Bowing into the wind, they hurried up to the mansion. As they reached the door Franklins and Webster dropped to either side of Hart, leveling their rifles against the village, scanning it for some sign of danger. Hart kicked the doors, smashing them inwards. He leveled the Thompson and swung it back and forth, checking the room for anything that might threaten the three of them. He motioned to the other two, and they followed him inside. While Franklins and Webster struggled to close the doors Hart went up to the nearest lamp to give them some light. He was surprised to find it wasn’t electric, but was in fact an old time oil lamp. He pulled out a box of matches and lit it, the flame casting a pale glow about the room. Unable to see much he followed the wall, lighting more lamps as he came to them. Behind him the doors slammed shut with a loud crash. He turned back towards Franklins and Webster, ready to fire at what ever had attacked them. Webster stood there hands up.

“Easy man. It was just the doors. They slipped is all. They must have gotten caught on something.” Webster explained to him. Hart nodded and lowered the Thompson.
“Well, it looks like we should be safe in here. The walls are in good condition, and judging from the dust, no one’s been in here for nearly a year.” Hart replied.
“Good. I still think we should give the place a quick look over, just to make sure there aren’t any previous tenants upstairs.” Franklins suggested. The others nodded. Hart took up post at the bottom of the stairs, keeping his eyes on the upper floor, making sure no one approached them from there. Franklins began circling the hall from the right, while Webster went around to the left.

Webster was amazed at the condition the old house was in. Hart had been right, there seemed to be no signs of anyone having been there in a quite a long time. Despite all this everything seemed to be in remarkable condition. The pieces of furniture he came across were dusty, but they lacked any signs of being chewed on by rodents. There were no spider webs, or dead bugs anywhere. The carpet seemed to be in fine condition, a wonderful example of oriental weaving. Even the walls were fine. They were covered in a fine blue wall paper, with an interesting deep red pattern spread across it. He stepped up to the wall, to see what exactly the pattern was supposed to be and reached out to touch it, then stepped back quickly. He had been at war long enough to recognized dried blood when he saw it, and the walls were covered. There was enough blood for there to have been a small massacre in the hall alone. He felt a shiver go up his spine, and knew it wasn’t from any draft. As he followed the wall even further, he came across the dead body of a cat. It had been preserved rather well in the cold, dry air of the house. From the looks of things, the cat hadn’t been dead long. Across the hall he heard the slight groan of old wood moving, and turned to see Franklins open a large coat closet and disappear inside. He went back to following the wall, now alert for anything. The old house was beginning to make him nervous. A few moments later he heard Franklins call out.

“Hey guys, you might want to come and look at this!” Webster glanced at Hart, and the older soldier nodded. They headed over to the closet that Franklins had been investigating, hoping everything was alright. As they got closer it became obvious that calling it a closet was an understatement. It was closer to a coat check room, right down to the inclusion of a small counter for a butler or such to accept other people’s coats and jackets. It was big enough for both of them to fit in comfortably, and they both walked in. Franklins was standing near the back rack, from which was hanging a dead body. The body was a German officer, hanged by the neck by a piece of thick rope. His head and neck were deathly white, while his hands were a disturbing purple color, his blood pooling in the hanging limbs after he had died. Below his feet lay a step stool, lying on its side as if it had been kicked away.

“So what do you think got him?” Franklins asked. Webster pointed to the stool.
“Looks like a suicide to me.” he pointed out. Hart just shook his head.
“C’mon, lets cut the poor bastard down. No one deserves to be left like that.” Franklins nodded and pulled out a knife. After a few moments of sawing at the rope, he and Webster lowered the body to the ground. Webster noticed one of the hands tightly clenched around a piece of paper. Reaching down he began to pry the bloated fingers open, doing his best to ignore the way they felt, the way the skin molded to his own, the blood oozing out in some places. After a few moments of delicate work, he managed to get the paper free, while the others watched.

“Damn, its in German.” Webster announced.
“Here, give it. My family’s German. My grandmother taught me it as a boy.” Hart held out a hand for the paper, and Webster passed it on to him. Hart began to read it to himself, his lips moving silently.
“So what’s it say?” Franklins asked. Hart looked up at him.
“Huh? Oh. Sorry.” Hart apologized, then began to read the letter aloud.”

“This letter is for who ever finds my body. I could stand it no longer. The furball, my only living companion, died two days ago. I can only assume it was from lack of food or water. It seems the house has not cared for it the way it has for me. I fear I am going mad, if I have not already. My only company now is her, and I can not even be sure she is real. As such, I have chosen to end my own life. It is the coward’s way out, but I doubt any man has the courage to face what I have. Damn her and her little riddle. Had it not been for that, I might have been able to wait for my rescue. I beg that who ever finds this, please may you pass on my apologies to my wife. I fear I shall not be returning to her after all. Please, to you who reads this, do not let me become one of the forgotten dead. Signed, Captain Abraham von Arkalim.” Reynolds looked up from the paper. “So now what?” he asked.
“I say we do what the guy wanted. When all is said and done, no matter which of us survive this war, at least one of us finds his widow and passes on that note.” Franklins declared.
“Do you realize how difficult that would be?” Reynolds asked.
“That won’t stop me. If it seems to be too much for you, then you don’t have to help.” Franklins retorted.
“Webster, what do you think?” Hart asked. Webster thought about it for a moment, then reached down to his pocket and pulled out the picture that he kept there. He stared at if for a few moments, then put it away with a sigh.
“I’m in. If I ever asked that of someone, I hope they pull it off.” he responded. Hart nodded his head.
“Good, then we’re all in.” Hart declared.
“I thought you were against this?” Franklins asked.
“Who me? Never. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to have to do everything by myself.” Reynolds answered. “So what now?” Franklins paused to think for a moment.

“Lets set up camp in the main hall. We have some rations left, they should hold us till the storm passes. After that we can make our way back to the rest of the allied forces.” he suggested.
“Sounds good to me. Regular watches?” Webster asked. Franklins nodded.
“Three hours each, I’ll take first, Webster, you have second, and Hart, you got third right?”
“Same as always. Lets hope this one is rather uneventful.” Hart replied.

The three began to set up their gear for the coming night. They unrolled their sleeping gear near the stairs, the better to keep an eye on the door. If necessary all three could be up and firing into it in a matter of moments. Once they had their sleeping arrangements laid out they cracked open their rations and began to eat. After finishing his meal Franklins pulled out the kitana and began to work the blade, cleaning and sharpening it. Webster watched him for a few moments.

“Hey, James, I’ve always wondered where the hell you got that thing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sword quite like that one.” Webster remarked. Franklins chuckled.
“That would be because it’s a Japanese blade. I got it while in the Pacific.” Franklins explained.
“How’d you manage that one?” Hart asked, a bit curious himself.
“When the war first got started, I was one of the first volunteers. My unit got assigned to the Pacific theater, all the better to keep the Japs from coming all the way across the sea. Well, things didn’t quite work out that way.”
“Why not?” asked Webster.
“Like the rest of the Army pukes, my unit was assigned to a transport ship. A few weeks into our journey we got attacked. The ship had drifted to the outside fleet it was assigned to, it being the middle of the night and all lights being cut to keep us from getting hit by a Jap bomber. Well, instead of a bomber we got ourselves a destroyer instead. It managed to put several rounds into the carrier, busting a rather large hole in the ship. We were going down, and going down fast. The captain decided that if he was going to lose his ship, the other captain was going to lose his as well. Using the last of the engines, he rammed the destroyer, which had really been too close to begin with. Both ships went down.” Franklins told.
“Then what happened?” asked Hart.
“I ended up washing up on a nearby beach. No one else arrived, so I figure the sharks got ‘em. Fuckers ate well that night. The only other survivor was the captain of the destroyer that had sunk us. All he had with him was the clothes on his back and this blade. Well, after surrendering to each other, we decided survival was more entertaining then death, and began to work together. He knew more English then I knew Japanese, which in the end turned out to be a good thing. Well, in between feeding ourselves and making sure no one got eaten by anything bigger then a mosquito, we got to talking about honor. Seems they have a different view on it then we do. Where as we focus on the actions of the one, they dedicate the one to the many. Well, we got to debating about this somewhat often.”
“So what he do to you?”
“Kept callin’ me gaijin of all things. Still haven’t found out it means. Anyway, after a while the smoke from our fires got noticed by a passing PT boat. Seems it had been sent to find his destroyer so the bigger ships could nail it. Man where they surprised to find out they’d been wasting their time. So long story short, I got a pissed off navy puke on one side, and a Jap about to go all hairi kairi on the other. I managed to talk him into surrendering, and he did, on one condition: That I take the blade he had been running around the entire time. Turned out, it was his family blade, and he didn’t trust any of the so called ‘honorless dogs’ with something so important. It seemed that despite being a gaijin, I was worthy enough to carry it. Spent a few weeks Stateside to make up for the whole bout on the island, then got shipped out to you guys. Took the sword with me as a personal effect. Nobody’s said no to me carrying it so far.” Franklins finished.
“Now that is quite the story.” That said, Hart and Webster turned back to their food and started to finish eating.

Putting down his empty plate Hart took out the letter and began reading it again. After awhile he looked up at the others, then began to glance around the house looking for something. Franklins watched him for a moment then spoke up.

“What are you looking for?” Franklins asked.
“The letter mentions a furball and a little girl. But I don’t see any sign of either. Now that has me somewhat worried.” Hart answered.
“Well you don’t need to worry about the furball reference. There’s a dead cat curled up in the corner over there.” Webster pointed off to the corner in which he had earlier found the corpse.
“Well that takes care of that, but what about the little girl?” Hart asked. His two companions just shrugged. From behind them came the sound of a small child giggling.

Turning around they saw a little girl, no older then nine, sitting high above them on the steps. She was wearing a simple white sun dress, spotted with blue flowers. The outfit was completed by a large sun hat, similar in color to the dress, with a matching blue ribbon tied around it. She giggled as they lowered their guns to point at her.

“You sillys can put those away. You won’t be needing them.” She explained. “My name is Miss Amelia Mary Rammstein. I am quite pleased to meet you.” she introduced herself.
“Tell us little girl, are you the one mentioned in this letter?” Hart offered the piece of paper to the little girl so that she could examine it.
“Of course I am silly. You haven’t seen any other little girls running around have you?” She smiled as she answered. While Hart continued to talk with the little girl, Franklins pulled Webster aside.

“Didn’t the German say he thought he as hallucinating when he saw the girl?” Franklins asked.
“He did, but he never said why. Why do you ask?” Webster replied.
“Well, if we all see her, does that make her real, or are we hallucinating ourselves?”
“I don’t know about you, but when three people all see the same thing, I’m likely to believe it exists, especially when one of the people seeing it is myself.”
“Good point. C’mon, lets not leave Hart alone with her. Something about this still doesn’t seem right.” Franklins and Webster headed back to join their comrade, who was trying to figure out exactly why the girl was there.

“So, why are you in this house little one?” Hart asked. The Amelia laughed.
“Little one? Why, I’m older then all three of you!” she answered. Hart glanced at his friends. It was obvious the war had addled her mind.
“So you are,” he humored her, “but that doesn’t answer why you are in this house.”
“Oh that’s simple. You see, its my house. I live here.” The girl replied.
“What about your parents?”
“They died along time ago, leaving me all alone.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Hart replied.
“Oh, don’t be! Now I have new friends to play with! You three can help me solve a riddle!” The girl declared. Webster and Franklins glanced at each other, each remembering the dead man’s letter.
“Um, ok, I guess we can help.” Hart agreed. “But what do we have to do?” he asked. The girl smiled in way of reply.
“That’s simple! You see a hundred years ago, a simple prank was played, a harmless prank. But this harmless prank wasn’t so harmless. So someone died. And every year for the next hundred years, the house has taken another life in honor of that first. But if you can find out what that first prank is, I can stop it. Its that simple!” the girl beamed,

The three soldiers looked to each other. It was obvious to them all that there was something truly disturbed about the girl. It was tragic that one so young could be so insane. Sadly there was nothing they could do but play along for now. When the storm lifted they would take her with them, so that she could get the help she needed.

“Ok, we’ll help find out what the horrible prank was. But how do we find out what happened?” Hart asked.
“You know, you’re the first to ask? But it is really quite simple. Ask the blood. The blood knows all that happens in the house. For the house bleeds the blood of those the house has bled. Now with that, I must depart. Bedtime!” With that the girl turned and headed up the stairs. The three rushed after her, but by the time they got to the landing, there was nothing to be seen. The girl had already disappeared.

“So what do we do now?” Webster asked.
“I suggest we turn in for the night. We can deal with our mysterious host in the morning.” Franklins advised. Hart nodded.
“Seems like a good plan. On that, I’m going to get some sleep. Wake me for my watch.” he replied. Webster nodded, then climbed into his own sack. Franklins leaned back against the stairs as his friends began to snore, a thousand thoughts running through his head.

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A/N: Reviews and criticisms welcome!