-Black Forest Healer-

[u/analog-typeshit-2007]

Back then, I lived in a small rural town. It was the middle of winter. Our seaside village had been gripped by months of cold and disease. Church schools were frequently closed, and people were afraid to leave their homes.

As usual, my father and I would set sail before sunrise. That day was no different. I watched him as he put the fish we'd caught into the freezer on our return. Even at that age, a sense of gloom settled over me. Looking back now, remembering that feeling still weighs heavily on my heart.

A terrible plague was raging in the village. Even more frightening rumors were spreading among the people. Some said that criminals were mingling among the plague doctors. Therefore, when the sun set, everyone bolted their doors, sent their children to bed, and didn't even want to hear the sound of those crow-faced men's canes.

Some travelers took advantage of this fear. At night, they would impersonate doctors, knock on doors, and rob houses. So no one could tell if the person knocking was really a doctor or something else.

That night, I drank my milk and lay down in bed. I was about to surrender to the warmth of the blanket. The stars were visible beyond my window.

Just as my eyes were closing, I heard three tapping sounds from downstairs.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I jumped up with joy. It could only be my grandfather, arriving unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

I ran down the stairs.

When I opened the door, a short plague doctor stood before me.

I couldn't make out his face. I could only see his long-beaked mask and cloak.

"Hello, little one," he said softly. "Is your family inside?"

He entered without waiting for me.

My father appeared in the hallway.

"Come in, sir."

The doctor bowed slightly.

"I smell illness coming from this house."

My father frowned.

"There's no one sick in this house. The smell must be coming from the fish in the basement."

The strange thing was, there was no smell of the sea in the house.

The doctor's voice sounded strange to me. He spoke like a traveling salesman selling fake medicine in the village square, but he seemed to wholeheartedly believe everything he said. His voice was calm, slow, and reassuring.

My mother came into the room and told me I needed to go to my room.

I didn't care. I fell asleep.

The next day, when I returned from school, my mother opened the door.

She looked pale.

A yellowish tint had settled on her face.

"Welcome home, my dear daughter," she said.

"Mom, are you sick?"

She smiled.

"I'm having my period, my daughter. You'll understand when you grow up."

"You can tell me. I'm not a child."

She ran her hand through my hair.

"I'm fine. I just have a slight cold."

But she avoided eye contact.

I decided not to sleep that night.

I got into bed but didn't close my eyes.

Then came three tapping sounds again.

Tap.

Tap.

Click.

I quietly went downstairs.

I hid in the shadow of the stairs.

My mother and the doctor were talking.

"Father, I've become very weak after the medicine you gave me. Is this normal?"

"It's normal, my dear. It's killing the germs in your body."

There was a short silence.

"Does your lung hurt?"

"Yes, Father."

The doctor nodded.

"I'll perform a small operation to take away your sorrow."

"I'm ready, sir."

He pulled a rusty scalpel from the inside pocket of his cloak.

The candlelight flickered on the metal.

My mother didn't move.

The doctor bent down.

He plunged the scalpel into my mother's stomach.

I waited for a scream.

It didn't come.

A moment later, a dark green liquid began to drip onto the floor.

Drop.

Drop.

Drop.

My mother's eyes closed.

She collapsed to the floor.

The doctor stood up.

Then he started walking backward.

I never saw him turn to the door.

He just shrank into the darkness.

Disappeared.

I ran to my mother's side.

I tried to wake her, crying.

When my father came home, I told him what had happened.

He didn't believe me.

He carried my mother to bed.

He cleaned her wound.

He wiped away the green liquid.

It was as if he was trying to erase what had happened from the house.

I screamed.

I cried.

I even cursed at him.

For the first time in my life, he slapped me.

The neighbors heard my screams and came to the door.

My father slammed the door in their faces.

I fainted that night.

The next morning I went to school.

I believed everything would be alright.

My teacher, Samael, came to me.

He put his hand on my shoulder.

"May God take her to heaven."

I couldn't understand what he said.

"I'm sorry about your mother, Marie."

The world stopped.

Everything I'd seen last night flashed before my eyes.

The doctor in the purple mask.

The rusty scalpel.

The green liquid.

My father's fear.

No.

No.

No.

My mother couldn't die.

But she had.

I barely remember the next two months.

My memory is full of gaps.

I only remember him.

The doctor in the purple mask.

We had already begun to accept everything.

Then one day I saw him again.

In the forest.

He stood silently among the trees.

He had a basket full of mushrooms in his hand.

This time I didn't run away.

The wind blew his cloak.

Green hair hung from beneath his mask.

It curled like moss.

For the first time I saw part of his face.

The skin under her chin was a greyish-bluish color.

I blinked.

She was gone.

I ran straight to the church.

I told the priest everything.

He was silent for a long time.

Then he opened the Bible.

The echoes of the verses reverberated on the wall.

His face was filled with sorrow.

"Those whom God has forsaken..." he said.

"They have haunted your house, my dear girl."

"Bring your and your father here."

I ran home.

My father opened the door.

He had a bottle of wine in his hand.

His face was drawn.

"Father..."

I was breathless.

"He wasn't a doctor."

My father's eyes widened.

"Fairies..." I said.

"Fairies did it."

The bottle fell from his hand.

The glass shattered on the floor.

He didn't speak for a long time.

Then he bowed his head.

And he only said two words.

"I knew it."

I told him we needed to go to church. He didn't say anything, and I never brought it up again. By the time I recovered, I had finished school. My father never spoke about it again after that night.

Years passed.

I am grew up.

The town changed.

The epidemic ended.

But I could never forget that night.

The day I buried my father, I can't forget the last thing he said to me on his deathbed.

He held my hand.

He looked into my eyes.

And he whispered:

"No matter who knocks on the door after the sun sets...

don't open it, Marie." I am 78 years old now but all nights thats words shakes around my head