The same peeling white letters... The same old, worn sign. The outskirts of Freiburg looked exactly like she remembered it. No modern stores, no new homes. Even the cars, sparse as they were on the old streets, looked like something out of a time machine.
Some places never changed, she supposed.
Her eyes fixated on the letters Vogel Antiquitäten. Even more worn than she last remembered them. The store itself, beneath the sign was also familiar. Through the windows and glass, she spotted the telltale glimpses of varnished wood, old mirrors, counters with small chains and a scattering of jewelry. She spotted china, kettles, and even a couple of iron cast stoves.
Ilse double-checked her car door was locked. Then checked it again. Then again. She puffed a breath, trying not to get caught up in an obsessive loop. The more heightened her emotions, the harder it was to avoid fiddling with things like locks or door handles and sometimes, when it got worse, even light switches.
Her fingers finally moved away from the car door and hovered near her pocket where the half-broken doll rested. She could feel the small lump against her hip, and it gave her a strange sense of direction.
Her father had come to this store. More than once.
If anyone remembered him, it would be the store owner.
She marched up the steps, these ones far sturdier than the moldered ones back at her old home. She pushed through the glass door, listening to the quiet tinkle of an old bell above. Inside, the store was abandoned.
“Hello?” she called out, her voice quavering.
No answer.
Behind her, evening was quickly approaching. The driving, the stop at the old house, and then the return trip to the new village had taken longer than she'd expected.
Had the store closed for the night? She hadn't seen hours posted. Why was the door unlocked then?
People in small towns could be trusting... Was she trespassing? A shiver trembled up her spine. The last thing she needed now was to get arrested.
Still, her own feet seemed to propel her further forward, drawn deeper into the antique store. As a child, it was nearly impossible to not find excitement at the things one's parents found exciting. She'd never been allowed inside the store, but her father had seemed happiest when visiting. A fascination had rubbed off on her, like a child who was forbidden sweets at a young age.
An old dusty antique store carried the same odd nostalgia as most children had for water parks or scary movies or big kid rides at a theme park. Unlike most children, Ilse's emotions also carried an ever--present undercurrent of anxiety.
Instead of roller coasters and chain-saw wielding monsters on the big screen, though, Ilse now found herself drawn to a small glass cupboard behind a row of display cases.
Her eyes narrowed as she approached, one hand pressed to the lump in her pocket with the small, porcelain doll.
There, in the glass display case, she spotted little, beady eyes staring out at her. Poorly painted features peered through the smudged glass, the tchotchkes within were motionless, dead-eyed like fish. The little things, trapped behind the glass, seemed some sort of suffocated creature, locked away and trapped.
Ilse leaned in, finding her own breath quickening as she stared at the horrible items. Some of the little girls dancing rope, other boys with holes in their heads like saltshakers.
They stared back, leering, eyes wide. A cold shiver crept up her spine. Her father had collected these things... Loved them, in a way.
“What are you doing?” a voice in German creaked behind her.
Ilse yelped and whirled around, one hand reaching out in an instinctive defensive gesture. The person in question was standing in the doorway, frowning at her: an old man with wispy facial hair and a bald, wrinkled head. The man wore a flat cap that did little to disguise his missing hair. He pursed his lips like a disapproving friar and frowned at Ilse.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
She swallowed, panting for a moment, feeling the little glass eyes behind her fixed on the nape of her neck. Then, still breathing heavily, she murmured, “So—sorry. I thought you were open.”
The old man in the flat-cap nodded slowly, sniffing once. He moved forward with a walking cane, stepping near the cash register. “Nature’s call,” he said in that same creaking voice. “Don't have one in here. Have to use the restaurant's next door.”
“I—I see.”
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
She paused for a moment, keeping track of the man's German as best she could. Comprehending wasn't hard for her, but her speech was rusty.
It took her a moment to pick her words, but then, carefully, she said, “I—my name is Ilse.”
“Ilse?”
She paused, swallowed. It didn't seem appropriate somehow, to come here of all places under a fake name. She wasn't quite sure why she said it, but a second later, as if unbidden from her lips, she blurted, “Hilda,” she said. “Not Ilse. I'm sorry. My name is Hilda.”
The man wrinkled his large nose. “Alright, Not Ilse but Hilda. How can I help you? I see you eyeing those dolls.”
“I—well, actually.” She exhaled slowly. “I'm here about a friend. Well, no,” she added, quickly, frowning. “I don't know why I said that either. Not a friend. Definitely not a friend.” Her mind pictured her father slamming the truck door, marching up the steps, the sound of the tinkling little bell. Sometimes as much as an hour would pass as she waited in the truck, her breath fogging the glass. Then, her father would return, a brown parcel clutched beneath one arm, whistling beneath his breath. Sometimes, he even smiled.
“You're not from around here, are you?” said the old man, frowning again and crossing his arms.
“I—not anymore. I was wondering if you knew anything...” she trailed off, unsure how to put it. Then, she just shrugged and said, “if you knew anything about that old house at the end of Eiche Rd.”
The moment she said it, she realized it had been a mistake.
The old man's eyes widened briefly, but then narrowed into a scowl, his bushy eyebrows dipping low. He tugged at the brim of his flat-cap, staring out at her from a shadowed brow. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Hilda.”
“Have a last name?”
“I—well... It used to be,” she puffed a breath, “Mueller.”
Now, the scowl transformed. His eyes went the size of marbles, and for a moment it looked as if the old man had seen a ghost. He stammered quickly, glancing past Hilda for a moment, and peering into the darker corners of his store. Then, he shot a frantic look towards the front door. Once he'd determined she was alone, though, he stammered. “So—so sorry, we're actually closing. I'm sorry.” He gestured frantically towards the door.
Ilse kept the frown from creasing her features. No sense putting him off any further.
“I apologize,” she said, quietly, “if I've offended you.”
“No offense,” he said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Just... We're closing Hilda Mueller. Good evening.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, quickly. “I'll leave, I promise. And I came alone.”
He stared at her now, as if he'd been gut punched. “Why would you say that?” He glanced around again, sharply.
“Please,” she said, her voice creaking suddenly. “You know the name, then? Mueller, you know that house?”
“We're closing,” he snapped now, his temper showing in the place of fear. “You'd best go.” His fingers moved to an old, corded phone and he lifted the device from the cradle with a threatening tilt of his head. “I'm friends with the Senior Inspector.”
Ilse held up her hands, retreating slowly towards the door and its brass bell. “I'm sorry,” she repeated. She pressed her hands against the cold glass, half pushing the door open. As she did, the weight in her pocket shifted, the breeze from the evening air whistled through the door. Her gaze landed on her rental sedan parked in the same spot he used to park.
No children locked in the back seat this time though. No forlorn eyes staring over the sill, desperate, hopeful.
The little bell above caused her to stop, and then, carefully, she turned.
“I don't mean to beg,” she said, her voice low, quavering. “I don't know what you know. I don't remember most of it myself. But please, sir... I'm—I'm trying to find out what happened at that house. I don't remember much.”
The old man's scowl cracked, briefly. He puffed a long breath, sending some of his wispy goatee fluttering. “I don't recognize you,” he said, simply. And for a moment, that's all she thought he was going to say. But then, inhaling and loosing another long sigh, he said, “I don't track the Muellers. I don't have much to say on that.” He swallowed. “But... But if you really are a Mueller. Tied to that demon's home.” He didn't blink, as if worried he might lose track of her. His eyes flitted to the doorway, waiting, it seemed, hoping, she'd just slip on through, carried like a piece of litter in the breeze.
“One of the boys still lives nearby,” he said. “Francis Mueller. Blue house, two story. Mundenhoffer Street.” He shook his head quickly, tugging at his cap again. “That's all I know. Now, please. We're closing.”
Ilse nodded her gratitude, a slow flush warming her cheeks as she turned and slipped out into the evening air once more.
One of the Mueller boys... Her brother. At least, one of her brothers. Who?
A two-story blue house on Mundenhoffer.
With heavy steps, she moved towards her vehicle, slowly opening the front door and sliding into the driver's seat. She stared through the windshield for a moment, watching the graying skies, the darkening horizon.
Was it too late to visit?
Too late by twenty years, perhaps. She'd put off the inevitable for too long.
With a surprisingly steady hand, she programmed the GPS in her phone. Not an address. Just a street name and a house color.
Still, she'd found more based on less in the past.
With the GPS now chirping in the dim cabin, she pulled backwards out of the parking spot. Through her windshield, she spotted the old antique store owner watching through his window. Still unblinking, his newsboy cap still low, his features were in shadow. Nothing, though, could have hidden the deep lines of his frown.
Asphalt crunched beneath tires, and Ilse gripped the steering wheel, carefully pulling back onto the main street, leaving the antique store and its unfriendly owner behind.