The Prince of Mist (Niebla 1)

The film was a rather clumsy attempt at depicting a walk through what looked like a forest. The person operating the camera advanced slowly through the trees, the images jerking from one place to another with sudden shifts in light and focus, so that it was difficult to pick out where this strange walk was taking place.

‘But, what is this?’ cried Irina, visibly disappointed. She looked at her father, who was staring in bewilderment at what appeared to be a strange – and, judging from the first minute, boring – film.

‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Maximilian Carver, despondent. ‘I wasn’t expecting this … Maybe it’s just one of the Fleischmanns’ home movies.’

‘Is that the people who used to live in this house before us?’

Max had also started to lose interest in the film when something caught his eye in the confused rush of images.

‘What if you try another reel, dear?’ Andrea Carver suggested, trying to keep her husband’s spirits up.

‘Wait …’ Max interrupted as he recognised a familiar silhouette.

The camera had now left the forest and was heading towards an area surrounded by tall stone walls with a gate of spearheaded bars. Max knew this place; he’d been there only that morning.

Fascinated, Max watched as the camera operator appeared to stumble slightly and then entered the walled garden filled with statues.

‘It looks like a graveyard,’ whispered Andrea Carver. ‘Dear, turn this off.’

‘Just a second,’ said Max.

The camera panned across the scene. In the film the garden didn’t look as neglected as it had when Max discovered it. Not a hint of weeds, and the stone surface of the ground was clean and smooth; someone had been keeping the place immaculate.

The camera paused at each of the statues standing at the cardinal points of the large star that was clearly visible at the base of the figures. Max recognised the white stone faces, the circus costumes. There was something unnerving about the rigid poses adopted by these ghostly figures and the theatrical expressions on their mask-like faces.

The film went from one statue to another, capturing each member of the circus troupe without any cuts. The family watched the haunting scene in silence, no other sound in the room except the rattle of the projector.

Finally, the camera turned towards the centre of the star. Standing with its back to the light was the figure of the smiling clown, around which all the other statues were arranged. Max studied its features and felt the same shudder running through his body as when he’d stood in front of it. There was something about the clown that didn’t quite match what he remembered from his visit to the walled garden, but the poor quality of the film didn’t give him a clear enough view to work out what it was. The Carvers continued sitting in silence as the last few frames ran across the projector’s beam. Maximilian Carver stopped the machine and turned on the light.

‘Jacob Fleischmann,’ Max finally murmured. ‘These were filmed by Dr Fleischmann’s son.’

‘We don’t know that, Max,’ said his father, his tone sombre.

They looked at each other but Max said nothing. He started thinking about the boy who had drowned over ten years ago only metres away on that same beach. It seemed to him as if the boy’s presence filled every corner of the house, making Max feel like an intruder. Maybe he was sleeping in what used to be his bed.

‘Can we see some more?’ Max asked timidly.

The watchmaker caught the darting looks his wife was giving him.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Max.’

Without another word, Maximilian Carver began to dismantle the projector, and his wife picked up Irina and carried her upstairs to bed.

‘Can I sleep with you?’ asked Irina, hugging her mother.

‘Leave this,’ said Max to his father. ‘I’ll put it away.’

Maximilian looked at his son, intrigued, but then patted him on the back.

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ he whispered.

The watchmaker turned to his daughter. ‘Goodnight, Alicia.’

‘Goodnight, Dad,’ she replied, watching her father as he climbed the stairs. He looked tired and disappointed.

When the watchmaker’s footsteps could no longer be heard, Alicia turned and fixed her eyes on Max.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Max.