Nocturnal Sounds

Please note: This story is a continuous, multi-chapter narrative. You can find the correct order in the right sidebar. All texts were originally written in German and translated into English using AI. I asked the AI to preserve the original stylistic flair wherever possible.     Ebram stared into the darkness, not daring to make a sound. His heart was racing, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his nightclothes clung to him like a second skin. At the same time, he shivered—the cold night air drifting through the tent—or was it Bernard’s ghost haunting him?   With trembling fingers, Ebram pulled the blanket up to his eyes and let out a muffled sound. He tried to push the dream away, and after a few minutes, it began to fade. Slowly, he calmed down—until he heard a scream, eerily similar to his own. Alert now, he listened into the night. More screams followed, from other tents—filled with fear, some even with pain. He froze again in his hammock, unable to bring himself to look outside. He tried to convince himself it was just another dream. But he didn’t wake up, and again and again, tortured cries pierced the night.   Suddenly, he heard something nearby. He couldn’t tell exactly where it came from, but it was still outside—not in the tent. Ever so slowly, he turned his head to listen. Judging by the sounds, he believed someone was crawling on the ground—groaning and whimpering—close enough to the tent that the soft sobbing and sniffling could be heard, far enough that it required intense concentration to notice.   Then, as if from nowhere, a figure appeared. Its shadow was cast against the tent wall. The shape seemed human, yet grotesque—perhaps because of the way it moved, hunched unnaturally forward. A soft, luring call in a foreign tongue came from the thing, like someone trying to coax a cat closer only to trap it with a net.   The sobbing stopped. A tense silence settled over the scene, though screams still echoed in the background. Again and again, Ebram heard the luring words—and suddenly realized he had thrown off the blanket and was beginning to sit up. That voice—it sounded wrong, but the promise in it was seductive. He had already begun to swing one leg out of the hammock when the sniffling returned, followed by a faint rustle.   The shadow immediately ceased its sweet-talking chant and let out a triumphant, gurgling sound, moving toward the sobbing. The sobs turned into pleading whimpers: “Please… no… please… mercy!” The shadow moved faster toward the voice—no longer visible, but clearly audible.   At first, Ebram couldn’t place the sound amid the shrieks of pain—until a loud crack conjured the image of a bone breaking in his mind. He pulled the blanket over his head, pressed his hands to his ears, and bit his lip to stay silent. He tried to block out the sounds that still seeped through fabric and fingers, praying silently to finally wake up.   After what felt like an eternity, the screams faded. A dragging sound—like a sack being pulled across the ground—receded into the distance. Then silence. Deep silence. As if the world were holding its breath—just like Ebram. But eventually, he had to breathe again. So he exhaled slowly, deliberately, and drew in air just as quietly. Eyes closed, hands no longer covering his ears, he listened for any movement nearby.     Time crawled by, but no sound came. Then, as if nothing had happened the night before, the morning birdsong began—sporadic, since this forest held few birds, but audible. As normal and cheerful as the chirping sounded, it triggered a brief flicker of madness in Ebram, and he began to chuckle softly. His shoulders shook with the laughter, which spread to his belly, grew stronger, and finally erupted into a hysterical fit. It wasn’t loud—more like a helpless laugh turned inward. He had to wipe tears from his eyes and sniffled quietly. He looked at his tear-dampened hand, grew briefly serious, then burst out laughing again—until the episode finally subsided after a few minutes.   Exhausted, Ebram ran a hand over his face and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he pulled himself together and stepped into the front room of his tent. Everything looked the same. He scanned the space carefully but noticed no changes. This convinced him more and more that it had all been a dream.   Whistling and in good spirits, he dressed—trousers, shirt, shoes—tied his necktie neatly and pulled on his vest. He checked that everything sat properly, then flipped back the tent flap and stepped outside with energy.     Ebram froze.   In the middle of the camp, a stone pillar had been erected. It bore a grotesquely twisted face that stared at him with ravenous hunger. Around this idol lay people—strangely deformed and arranged in a pattern he couldn’t decipher. Perhaps a dozen men, lifeless, their eyes wide with terror, staring into nothing.   Gasping and stumbling backward, Ebram fell against his tent wall and collapsed to the ground. His mouth hung open in speechless horror, his face a mask of disbelief and fear. But he couldn’t look away—and he wasn’t alone.   Those who had survived and now stepped out of their tents—some relieved like Ebram had been, others already cautious and fearful—couldn’t look away either. A few vomited, others began to pray. Some froze in place. One or two lost all composure.