The Prince of Mist (Niebla 1)

The cemetery was a large rectangular enclosure, reached via a long path that wound its way uphill between tall cypress trees. There was nothing particularly original about it, he supposed. The stone walls seemed quite old, though not ancient, and from the outside it looked like a typical small-town graveyard, where except for a couple of days a year – excluding local funerals – visitors were few and far between. The gates were open and a metal sign, covered in rust, announced that the opening hours were from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. in the summer, and from 8 to 4 in winter. If there was anyone guarding the place, Max couldn’t see them.

On his way there, he had prepared himself for a sombre, sinister landscape, but the bright early-summer sunshine made it look more like a cloister, quiet and only vaguely sad.

Max left his bicycle leaning against the outer wall and walked into the cemetery. It was dotted with modest tombs that probably belonged to some of the more established local families. Here and there he saw walls containing recesses for burial urns that appeared to be more recent.

Although it had crossed his mind that the Fleischmanns might have preferred to bury their little Jacob far from this place, something told Max that the remains of Dr Fleischmann’s heir would be resting in the town in which he was born. It took him almost half an hour to find the grave, at the far end of the cemetery, under the shade of two old cypress trees. It was a mausoleum to which time and rain had lent an air of abandon and neglect. The structure resembled a narrow marble hut, and it was blackened and dirty. Its wrought-iron gate was flanked by statues of two angels that looked towards heaven with imploring eyes. Jammed between the rusty bars of the gate was a bunch of dry flowers that must have been there since time immemorial.

An aura of sadness seemed to surround the tomb, and although it was obvious that it hadn’t been visited for some time, the echoes of pain and tragedy still felt recent. He followed the flagstone path leading up to the tomb and stopped at the entrance. The gate was half open and a strong smell of musty air came from within. All around there was complete silence. Max glanced one last time at the stone angels guarding Jacob Fleischmann’s tomb and entered, aware that, if he waited one more minute, he’d be tempted to run away from the place as fast as his legs could carry him.

The inside of the mausoleum was engulfed in darkness. Max was able to make out a trail of dead flowers on the floor leading to the foot of a tombstone on which Jacob Fleischmann’s name had been carved. But there was something else. Under Jacob’s name, presiding over the stone that held his remains, was the symbol of a six-pointed star within a circle.

Max felt an unpleasant tingling down his spine and for the first time he wondered why he’d come to the cemetery on his own. Behind him, the daylight seemed to be growing fainter. He pulled out his watch and looked at the time, thinking that perhaps he’d spent longer in this place than he’d intended and that some guard had locked the gates, leaving him trapped inside. The hands on his watch showed it was two minutes past three. Max took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

He had a last look around, and after making sure there was nothing else here that could shed new light on the story of Dr Cain, he got ready to leave. It was then that he realised he was not alone inside the tomb. He could hear the sound behind him. A sound like nails clicking over stone. He slowly turned round. Something was moving in the gloom, a dark figure creeping along the ceiling, advancing slowly, like an insect. Max broke out in a cold sweat and he could feel his watch slipping from his hands. He took a few steps back and looked up. At first he could only make out the eyes, which were trained on him. One of the stone angels he’d seen at the entrance was walking upside down on the ceiling. The figure stopped and, staring at Max, gave a canine smile then pointed an accusing finger at him. Gradually, the angel’s features melted until they were transformed into the familiar face of the clown, Dr Cain. Max could see burning anger and hatred in those eyes. He knew he had to run to the door but his legs wouldn’t respond. Terrified, he could only close his eyes and stand, rooted to the spot, shaking, waiting for those stone claws to caress his face. Moments later he felt a fetid, icy breath on his face. He opened his eyes, resolved to face death head on, but there was nothing there. The apparition had dissolved into the shadows. Max still stood, paralysed. Perhaps the creature was just behind his back, closing in.

This time he didn’t hang about. He ran to the exit as fast as he could and didn’t stop to look behind him until he was back on his bicycle and had put at least a hundred metres between himself and the cemetery gates. Pedalling furiously helped him to regain control of his nerves. He told himself it had just been a trick of the light, a macabre manipulation of his own fears. That was all. Maybe there was still time for him to go back to the beach and join his sister and Roland for a swim. He was about to check his watch when he realised it wasn’t there. He’d dropped the precious present his father had given him for his birthday inside the tomb.

‘You idiot,’ he muttered to himself.

He contemplated his options. The idea of returning to that place to recover his watch was unthinkable. Defeated, Max rode back towards the bay. But this time he wasn’t looking for Roland and his sister; he wanted to see the old lighthouse keeper. There were a number of questions he wanted to ask the old man.

*

The lighthouse keeper listened attentively to Max’s account of what had happened in the cemetery. When the story was over, he nodded gravely and gestured to Max to sit down next to him.

‘Can I be honest with you, Mr Kray?’ Max asked.

‘I hope you will be, young man,’ Victor Kray replied. ‘When you get to my age you realise lying is a waste of time.’

‘But you lied to us, sir,’ Max prompted, instantly regretting his bluntness.

Victor Kray regarded him with piercing eyes.

‘What makes you think I did, Max?’

Max tried to choose his words more carefully this time. He had not meant to offend the lighthouse keeper and was convinced that if the old man had not told them the whole truth it was probably for a reason.

‘I have a feeling that yesterday you didn’t tell us everything you know. Don’t ask me why – it’s just a hunch,’ said Max.

‘A hunch,’ echoed Victor Kray.

‘My father says a hunch is your brain’s way of taking a short cut to the truth,’ replied Max.

‘He’s a wise man, your father. What else does he say?’

‘That the more you try to hide from the truth, the quicker it finds you.’

The lighthouse keeper smiled.

‘And what do you think the truth is, Max?’

‘I don’t know … I think that Dr Cain, or whoever he is, is about to make a move. Soon,’ Max said. ‘And I think that all the things that have been happening over the last few days are just a sign of what is to come.’

‘What is to come,’ the lighthouse keeper repeated. ‘That’s an interesting way of putting it, Max.’

‘Look, Mr Kray,’ Max interjected. ‘I’ve had the fright of my life. Very strange things have been happening to me, and I’m s

ure my family, you, Roland and I are in danger. The last thing I need right now is another mystery.’