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- Herausgeber: crueger ebooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
The Oker, a small river in the middle of Germany. Lush greenery, ducks, anglers and paddlers. An idyll for excursionists and romantics, you might think. But the peace is deceptive, for the breath of death blows across the riverbed: far from the villages, the horse ripper commits his next murder and upstream, a manic man-killer prowls. In Braunschweig, a psychotic stalker desires his victim to the death and in the Oker reservoir a woman finds a terrible lump of meat. Thrilling and full of surprises, Hardy Crueger proves himself a master storyteller in the premium class of fiction – the short story. »Nothing would be more annoying than missing the conclusion of this story.« Norddeutscher Rundfunk
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Inhaltsverzeichnis
About the book / Imprint
The author
Contents
Map of the river Oker
The Oker isn’t a long quiet river …
The horse ripper
The Girl on the Shore
18 and up
When the Oker mourns
No Police!
Swan Lake
Border crossers
Oker meat
Bloodless
The Bridge to the Valley of Roses
Impressum
Hardy Crueger
OKER STORIES
Crime. Insanity. Passion.
True and not so true.
Translated by
Sina-Marie Brose
Kimberly Last
Erik Sandmann
About the book / Imprint
The Oker, a small river in the middle of Germany. Lush greenery, ducks, anglers and paddlers. An idyll for excursionists and romantics, you might think. But the peace is deceptive, for the breath of death blows across the riverbed: far from the villages, the horse ripper commits his next murder and upstream, a manic man-killer prowls. In Braunschweig, a psychotic stalker desires his victim to the death and in the Oker reservoir a woman finds a terrible lump of meat.
Thrilling and full of surprises, Hardy Crueger proves himself a master storyteller in the premium class of fiction – the short story.
»Nothing would be more annoying than missing the conclusion of this story.« Norddeutscher Rundfunk
From the mouth to the source of the Oker river, Hardy Crueger tells of passionate crimes and everyday madness. Of psychopaths and mystical phenomena. Of criminals, manslayers and animal murderers. With vividly drawn figures, authentic dialogue and realistic characters. Serious, humorous or oppressive, they offer exciting entertainment.
© by Hardy Crueger 2023, all rights reserved
Published in Braunschweig, Lower Saxony, Germany
www.HardyCrueger.de / [email protected]
Cover Design and Oker Map by Karsten Weyershausen
The author
Hardy Crueger, born in the 1960s in the city of Oldenburg studied history and sociology in Braunschweig (Lower Saxony, Germany), where he now lives as a freelance writer. In addition to thrillers and suspense short stories, he also writes novels on historical themes. So far, more than twenty of his books have been published. In 2021 Crueger received a literary scholarship from the city of Braunschweig.
Since 2012, the author has published »Oker Stories«, which he reads every summer on a raft on the river.
Contents
1 The Horse Ripper
2 The Girl on the Shore
3 18 and up
4 When the Oker mourns - (Don’t Look Now)
5 No Police
6 Swan Lake
7 Border Crossers
8 Oker Meat
9 Bloodless
10 The Bridge to the Valley of Roses
Map of the river Oker
The Oker isn’t a long quiet river …
It spans over 128 kilometres
from Altenau in the Harz Mountains
to Müden in the Südheide
through the old Ostfalen land.
Over half a million people live
on the bank of the Oker and its tributaries.
That’s not much.
But enough for thrillers.
Stories of crime, insanity and passion.
Stories of the Oker.
True and not so true.
For Rainer 1964 - 2020
The horse ripper
Crime Scene: Seershausen/Hillerse
A sonorous bariton boomed through the interior of a rickety VW bus. The bearded, singing man at the wheel bared the golden crowns of his molars while the woman with short hair next to him stared out of the window with pressed lips. The man’s voice sounded a bit like Johnny Cash who bubbled out of the boxes, and burns, burns, burns – the ring of fire made his enormous rip cage vibrate. The bold country rhythm made his head twitch from left to right, causing his long brown locks to dance.
The tall woman didn’t like Johnny Cash because he had liked him. She was glad when the song ended, Lutz – the bearded driver – finally fell silent and the town sign of Gifhorn appeared in front of them. She was excited about the two days and 60 kilometres of peace and quiet which the boat trip to Celle would give her. Whitsun was over. It was Wednesday afternoon and she expected hardly any other boaters on the river.
She had a good navigation system at hand and guided the driver through the town, past an allotment colony, to the bank of the Aller below a small barrage.
The VW bus was parked in the sun, a few metres from the bank. Groaning, fat Lutz helped her heave the kayak off the roof of the van and carry it to the boarding point. The two waterproof pack sacks contained everything she needed for the two days ahead: milk, muesli, bread and cheese. Water, coffee and the little bag of sugar. Dry clothes, a sleeping mat, a sleeping bag and a pillow.
"Where are you going to spend the night out in the wilderness?" Lutz asked short of breath, trying to dab drops of sweat from his temples with a ragged paper handkerchief. "Just so I can tell police where to find you."
"Somewhere in-between Müden and Schwachhausen ... Don’t laugh, it’s really called that," she said, creaming her strong upper arms.
"On a campsite? Please. For my sake."
"No way! I don’t want to see anyone. No one. That’s why I’m here. Lutz, you always worry too much." She put on her peaked cap and sunglasses, clenched her left hand into an imposing fist and bared her teeth. "I can defend myself," she said, slamming her fist against his shoulder with lightning speed.
"Ouch! I know, I know," Lutz said and rubbed the spot where her fist had hit him. "But when there’s some crazy pervert idiot standing in front of you with nothing but horny murder in his eyes because he was severely abused as a child and hates women more than the Nazis hate Blacks ... even a former decathlete like you cannot stand a single chance against someone like that."
She grabbed the double paddle, let out a scream and whirled it around her head several times like the rotor of a helicopter. "Anyone who gets too close to me – they’re as good as dead!"
The oar blades whizzed just above Lutz’s curly head. Still, he ducked his head and raised his hands. "Okay, okay, you’re real dynamite, baby. Is your phone charged?"
She lowered the paddle. "Of course," she said and pushed the cap far down her large bull neck. "Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you tomorrow morning," she smiled, put the paddle into the boat and heaved the two waterproof pack sacks inside. She hadn’t known fat Lutz for long. She liked him because she could rely on him. Now and then, he wore women’s clothes. And she liked him because he wasn’t a real man.
Lutz nodded and got into his VW bus. "See you tomorrow in Celle. At the Allerbrücke. And beware of the heath killer. And the werewolves. And the horse ripper."
"Do I perhaps look like a horse to you?" she snorted, putting on her neoprene shoes.
"Of course not," Lutz said, slammed the door shut and leant out of the window. "But who knows what a moronic, broken idiot is capable of!" he shouted. "The newspaper said he’s dangerous! He could kill people too! So, take care ..." She looked after him and waved him farewell. Then, she tied her paddle jacket around her sturdy waist, pushed the boat into the water and climbed in.
The sun had long since passed its highest point, and when the river made the appropriate bend, the piercing sun light was reflected in hundreds of twinkling facets on the rippling waves. With a few powerful stokes of the paddle, she moved away from the shore, glided along a small island and crossed under the main road with a frothing sprint after a few minutes. Beyond the bridge, the river enveloped her in the longed-for peace and quiet she so desperately needed.
The kayak cut the surface of the water with confidence, leaving a V-shaped trail that ran against the riverbank in two or three sloping waves. She energetically pulled the paddle through the water, gliding quickly, when the head of a horse peaked over a fence. The animal looked at her curiously with huge, shining eyes. She stopped paddling. The kayak slowed down. She began to giggle. Her giggling turned into shrill laughter that echoed continuously louder and crazier down the river. Her laughter increased to a hysterical roar that culminated in a piercing scream. She tossed her head back and forth. Her mouth was a black hole and her eyes were narrowed as if she didn’t want to open them ever again. As if she wished to be blind forever.
She screamed to remember, and the ducks darted off in all directions with frantic flaps of their wings. She screamed and threw herself violently from side to side so that the kayak almost capsized. She screamed to become furious. She screamed to arouse hatred. She screamed to bring back all the demons the therapists thought they had exorcised. She screamed to remember: the powerlessness, the incomprehensible powerlessness that had almost killed her. She, in front of the church, all in white and with red roses, crying with happiness. And he never showed up. The bridegroom had not come! She screamed to remember, to rouse her anger. She screamed for the old pictures. Ten years ago, they had been taken, and today, today, she would finally erase them. She screamed as if possessed, and whoever saw it would say they had seen a madwoman.
Her head flushed, she tried to catch her breath. The peaked cap had fallen off her head and was floating on the water next to the boat. She bent over the edge, fished it out and wrung it out. Then she put her hands together, ran water into them and cooled her heated face, stroking her short hair with wet fingers.
The double paddle lay across the kayak. She grabbed it, plunged it into the river and the narrow boat got moving again. With powerful strokes, she propelled it forward; faster and faster, she went down the river, whirling the paddles around until her arms went numb. In the afternoon, she reached Müden.
In front of the weir, she moored at a small jetty. Two strollers wished her a good day when she put the packsacks onto the bank and watched in awe how deftly she pulled the kayak out of the water, lifted it up and carried it across the road. 18 kilos, that was easy for her. Behind the weir, she continued along the Aller for a few hundred metres. Then she turned the kayak to the left in a sharp, rushing curve and entered the Oker. She overcame the historic Oker weir, found her rhythm and paddled swiftly up the Oker. Against the current, her muscles could prove what they were still capable of even beyond the age of 40. Only before the next village did she take a short break.
The sun was setting towards the horizon but she still had enough time. Her GPS indicated that she had left behind Meinersen and Seershauen, and she reached the place she had chosen to spend the night at with the last light of day. The winding band of old Oker meadows formed numerous peninsulas about a kilometre behind Volkse. There was a safe campsite, surrounded by water on three sides, so that danger could only approach from a narrow passageway.
Drag marks and a firepit on the narrow beach showed that this place was frequented by canoeists. She landed, pulled her kayak out of the water, hid it in bushes on shore and set up camp. At dusk, the white disc of the moon slid into the deep dark blue sky which was speckled with more and more stars. She heated coffee water on the gas cooker. She put both hands around the mug and looked up to the grey spots on the moon’s surface.
The groom, who loved horses as if he was crazy, had not come. He had ditched her for that bitch. That was why she had collapsed back then. While the 25th Olympic Games opened in Barcelona without her, she had lain there in the ruins of her life – numb and with a melted soul. Ten years had passed since but the wound had not closed. It festered and smouldered in her soul, flooding her with red blood. She knew where the Ripper would strike. It had taken her a long time to figure it out but she had finally done it. And tonight, he would strike for the last time.
When the time came, she retrieved the belt with a pistol and knife, put it on and set off at an easy trot through the fields. She knew the terrain well. When she spied out the Ripper’s crime scene, she had raced around between the Oker and the paddock with her mountain bike.
At the road, she waited in the bushes until there weren’t car lights anymore. She scurried across the road, took advantage of every cover, every shade of trees and bushes until she reached the dirt road that led to the paddock. It was still too early and she hid in the darkness of a bush, waiting. Nervously she kept looking at her watch, checked her gun several times. She felt cold, and her trembling body spurred on the anger until she could hardly wait any longer.
She crept along the path and reached the paddock where the horse stood, which the Ripper had chosen as their next victim. A pretty black Hanoverian mare. Even now in the cold moonlight, its fur shone. The mare had already heard her and looked in her direction with twitching ears. Hidden invisibly in the deep shade of a tree, she stopped, looked around, listened into the darkness. Still nothing. She walked quickly along the fence to the gate, opened it and entered the meadow. She approached the large horse carefully which assessed her sceptically with a black shining eyeball. About five paces from the horse, she stopped.
"Come, little horse. I won’t hurt you," she whispered and held out her hand. "Take it easy. Come, sweetheart. I have something for you. I bet you don’t get something like this every day." She pulled out the little bag with sugar, took out three pieces and held them out to the horse on her flat hand. "Come on, horsey. Yummy. Real sugar." The mare moved its head forward, sniffed and snorted but didn’t put its ears back. "Easy now," she whispered. "That’s a good girl."
She approached the large animal cautiously until it touched her palm with its soft, furry lips to pick up the pieces of sugar. "Would you like some more?" she asked and patted the mare’s neck. In response, the mare sniffed at the sugar bag. She turned her hand and dropped the remaining pieces on the grass. When the horse lowered its head, she pulled out her pistol.
Neither in Eickenrode nor in Rietze did anyone hear the shot. A ghastly sound came from the horse when it tried to leap but slumped. Crying, the woman put the Tokarew back into its holster. The mare, mortally wounded, lay on the ground with twitching legs and breathed hysterically. The animal’s body twitched. The big dark eyes were open in panic so that the white parts flashed in the bright moonlight. The tongue licked helplessly at the air and red foam oozed from under its lips.
The groom had loved horses and had mounted the horse girls. One after the other.
The woman pulled the hunting knife out of its sheath. The horse girls had taken everything from her: the Olympics and the groom.
In tears, she placed the tip of the knife below the animal’s sternum, tensed her muscles and, with a jerk, pushed the blade through skin and cartilage crunching deep into the horse.
