The killer code, p.1
The Killer Code, page 1
Copyright © 2022 by Cameron Jace
All Rights Reserved
Storybook Publishing
Part of Thomas Crown
All the love and appreciation to my Storykiller Team for taking the time and feedback to help me get out of my own head. Also thanks to Holley Wade & Brendan Surane & Cora Bea Porter for helping me edit this book and love it as much as I do.
Important
The book’s events take place in Kassel, Germany, specifically inside a digital room where history is re-imagined. If you would like to take a look at the real-life technology and room itself, please follow the link below, scroll all the way down where you can see how this technology works
https://geni.us/Digitization-Grimm
1
Grimm Hotel, Kassel, Germany
* * *
Anne Anderson pulled the gym towel over her head and kickstarted her morning workout.
She set the speed to eight miles per hour and cranked the incline to twelve. Thirty minutes of relentless cardio on the treadmill helped her bury her childhood memories into the rabbit hole of her mind. Unfortunately, the towel overhead wasn't for sweat. It gave her permission to cry underneath its folds without anyone noticing.
Coffee, no sugar, black and unflavored, would follow, giving her the energy she needed to face a new day.
With Beethoven's Fifth Symphony tickling her ears, she imagined herself a warrior queen, battling a dragon called Yesterday in a fairytale of lies.
Anne understood she could never defeat the unrelenting foe of her past. But she planned to tire it out, bit by bit, every day until one of them raised a white flag.
Let's go!
At six in the morning, she had the hotel gym for herself—only her Nike sneakers were audible on the belt below. She still wasn't fast enough to outrun her sister's memory, though.
Stop thinking. Just live!
Fifteen minutes later, she had mentally left this world. Blood pumped through her veins, and Dopamine elevated her beyond the banality of real life.
Freedom from oneself.
If only she could capture this feeling forever.
If only the inertia of her workout would crack a hole through this world and transport her to a better place.
Anne never minded the hardships of life but secretly worried they’d amount to nothing in the end; she feared she would never find Rachel and ask her for forgiveness in this lifetime.
The treadmill stopped.
Gripping the handrails, she struggled to catch her breath. She realized that she had sort of dozed off. It happened to her once in a while, as if she blacked out and weren't herself for the past few minutes. She could barely remember her run.
Let it go. It's not a big deal.
Tired of listening to the cacophony of doubt in her mind, she yanked the headphones away. Maybe that was why she blacked out? Her thoughts were so loud they drowned out Beethoven's symphony to a hissing shame.
That was why she had fallen in love with researching folklore and fairytales from a young age. The stories were never-ending, and the mystery behind them was worth living. It helped her escape to the unknown and soften the chaos in her mind.
She sat on the bench and read the local newspaper on her phone.
As a researcher, reading local newspapers helped her indulge in the culture and learn more about it. Today, the headlines mentioned the kidnapping of a twelve-year-old girl named Mary Miller.
They talked about the ongoing attempts at finding her. A search that spanned the entire city. Mary's father put fifty-thousand euros to whoever found her—dead or alive.
Typically, Kassel was a safe city. More like a huge town with kind locals and peculiar traditions. The kidnapping was out of the norm. Anne wished she could help because she had never found Rachel.
However, she was the American stranger in this town, and any involvement would overstep her precarious boundaries.
She had struggled with interviewing locals and asking them to help with her historical research about the city's olden folklore. The younger crowd welcomed her inquiries, but the older locals, not so much. They did not like her and refrained from talking to her about the city’s secrets.
Anne's phone vibrated in her hands. The call she was waiting for.
It was from her employer, a German tech company that digitized historical monuments and buildings to preserve cultural heritage. Anne slung the headphones back on.
"Professor Anderson," Max Bauer, supposedly one of Germany's wealthiest philanthropists, her agent had told her, said in his perfectly pronounced English. His accent was flawlessly American, as he studied in Silicon Valley most of his life. "Did you finish your workout? You said to call at six-thirty-five."
Anne smiled. Max and his crew were overly punctual. A German tick she admired. She had been joking when she told him to call her at 'six-thirty-five' during their zoom session yesterday—a joke intended for him to laugh and unwind instead of hitting on her.
At forty-five, he was handsome, athletic, and intelligent. A big plus was his interest in European folklore and fairytales, which was her field of specialty.
At thirty-two, she had just acquired a Ph.D. in the Origins of Fairytales and Folklore, plus a possible seven-figure-book deal on the way—of which she hadn't seen a dime yet.
Max Bauer was likable, but his unforgivable mistake was that he was too charming.
Anne, who devoted her life to debunking fairytales and exposing their darker origins against Disney's fluffy version, didn't appreciate instant charms.
She never understood why, but there was something about a man being too charming too early on that alerted her. It felt like a façade, a dark presage of things to come—like Prince Charming from the Snow White tale, who kissed a dead girl and was proven to have been a necrophiliac in the original Brothers Grimm tale.
"You're on time, Max," Anne strode out of the hotel's gym, heading to the elevator. "When do you need me at the museum?"
"Thirty minutes. Is that okay?"
"So fast?"
"I'd prefer we work early as the city is concerned with a kidnapped girl."
"Oh. I just read about it, but what does that have to do with working so early in the morning?"
"It is likely that the Metropolitan Police will order the museum shut later today to interrogate everyone."
"I see." She admired the police's dedication.
In most cities, the authorities would take twenty-four hours or more before declaring someone as ‘missing.’ Since Kassel still held onto their small-town mannerism, she reckoned they didn’t play by these rules.
"We have a lot to do," Max said. "You won't believe the digitized version of The Brothers Grimm's house when you see it. It's a real work of art. I'm proud."
"You digitized The Brothers Grimm House?" Anne exited the elevator, as her phone’s reception had weakened inside.
She also remembered that The Brothers Grimm House was in Steinau, a few miles from Kassel. However, the digitized version would be shown in Kassel so they could show it in The Grimmwelt Museum, which was a five-minute drive from her hotel.
Few people in America knew about this museum. But then again, Americans were more into heart-warming fairytales, not the morbid original versions. She didn't blame them. She was a Disney fangirl once, and thought the same before leaving California to start her studies in Europe.
"We've been working on it for two years," Max said. "It has paid off."
"That's quite a historical house, Mr. Bauer. I'm not sure how it translates to a digital walkthrough on a phone app.”
"I feel your concerns. The board was also worried how such a historical feat, also labeled a World Cultural Heritage by UNESCO, would look when digitized," Max said. "But don't worry. The colors and format look as if cut from reality."
"Glad to hear it," Anne said. "You’ve piqued my curiosity."
"I wouldn't damage a national treasure, Anne. I'm not the kind of rich man who is bored and needs a reason to live. I've always been a fan of my ancestors folk history."
Anne refrained from commenting on the term 'folk history.' Her upcoming book Fairytales: A Beautiful Lie argued that true stories had inspired fairytales. Stories that The Brothers Grimm toned down.
For instance, Snow White's stepmother in the first 1811 edition was her birth mother, torturing and envying her youth. Mothers enslaving their children and violating them was a largely documented event by historians, which arguably could be seen as a darker form of postpartum depression these days.
These horrible acts happened centuries ago in poor environments. They caused the death of many children. Single mothers were impregnated by travelers, soldiers, or day traders whom they never saw again in their lives and eventually went insane. It was a different world than ours now.
In later editions, The Brothers Grimm forged the original version of the Snow White tale and rewrote the mother into a stepmother, the so-called Evil Queen. It was factual and, beyond a doubt, documented by authentic publishing houses and prestigious folklorists.
The Brothers Grimm repeatedly did that with other tales. Not to mention that they deliberately took out names, locations, and dates from these stories.
No one knows why, though.
Folk history wasn’t a pseudo-history, but part of the real history.
"Anne?" Max said.
Anne shook her head and fidgeted to return to the real world. She hated wandering off like that. How long did she keep him on the phone without responding?
“Sorry, b ad reception. I missed your last few words," She pulled a strand of hair behind her ears. "What were you saying?"
"I was telling you that the only part of the house we weren't allowed to digitize was The Brothers Grimm's original copy set on the podium in their study," Max said. "Sadly, UNESCO worried if we digitize everything, people won't come to visit the house anymore. It's an important tourist attraction for the city, you know."
Anne was startled that she had missed everything he said. He had shared a considerable chunk of information while she was daydreaming. A follow-up with her psychiatrist later today sounded like a good idea. Maybe she would FaceTime her tonight after the meeting with Mr. Bauer.
"The copy in The Brothers Grimm's House isn't the original. The first hand-written copy was forever lost—but I'm not going to argue about it now." She said. "I think you should tell them that digitizing historical treasures is a sound method for preservation. Imagine if this technology was available long ago, we could’ve had a factually recorded history."
"It's a shame when the ones in charge aren't up to date on technological advancements," Max said. "Anyway, I'll see you in a few minutes."
Anne was about to hang up when she heard someone hiss into the phone. Max had hung up, so maybe reception was just bad.
She hung up and pushed the elevator button but changed her mind once the doors chugged open. She shook her head and ran up the stairs. Four stories was an easy feat. Besides, she loved running. Maybe one day, she could outrun that memory dragon, and it would finally leave her in peace…
* * *
Except, I wasn't going to let her live in peace.
She didn't realize I had slowly lured her into my spider's web.
Slowly but surely, she was about to see the darker side of The Brothers Grimm. Not as fairytale or fantasy, but as reality. So real it would scar her forever.
Anne was looking for the correct answers in the wrong city.
And yes, I was fixing that frequency on her phone. Maybe I should have installed a better device, but I didn't want her to know I was in her ears, heart, and soul.
Not yet.
2
Anne needed to postpone her meeting with Max Bauer. Something came up—something she wasn't ready for.
After a long shower, she ate breakfast in her room while checking emails. The offer from Random House Publishing, for her book, was enticing—especially after they heard about Simon and Schuster offering her a better deal.
Unlike fiction authors who made little money in their debut releases because of the marketing and made-up expenses, Anne was offered two million dollars straight into her pockets. It wasn't a down payment or money they would later detract from her—just pure payment into her bank account.
Non-fiction writers who spent years researching and exploring untapped subjects like hers were gold mines for publishers. The book would result in a world tour, conferences, movie deals, and above all, what her agent liked to call a 'stir of echoes.'
It was like Daphne de Maurer’s Rebecca or Agatha Christie’s, And Then There Were None. Those one-of-a-kind timeless books created trends other authors would replicate over the years, and the publisher perpetually cashing in royalties.
How?
Every new movie tackling the subject that used one of Anne's discoveries would have to pay the publisher. Anne's consultation on a movie set or an exhibit would be handsomely rewarded, too.
Most people underestimated how profitable folklore and fairytales were. Fifth to religion, children's books, toys, and food, fairytales sold without interruption. Gone were the days when fairytales were in the public domain and without copyright. Anne's investigation was a rare gem every publisher wanted to uncover.
And God forbid her book didn't make its money back, her publisher would reap benefits from trending in the market just for bringing a controversial subject to the table. Some books made sales; others caused a frantic commotion that the following entries compensated for those initially lost sales.
That was why book and movie sequels made higher profits, given the lower expenses spent on marketing—a stir of echoes like her agent, Layla, said.
Anne remembered when Layla first emailed these publishers, and none of them wanted the book. All until she explained that not only were fairytales based on true stories, but that she proposed actual names, monarchies, kings, and queens that were involved.
Scandalous Marketing 101.
"Think Kim Kardashian's sex tape," Layla told her once. "Get everyone's attention first, then let them know what you can offer. And even if you don't have much to offer, they’ll always think you do. It's like selling the afterlife or repentance. No one can prove it won't happen."
Layla's off-putting logic aside, Anne wouldn't have known how to navigate the publishing space without her. All Anne wanted was to keep her overactive mind shut by exploring the mysteries of a childhood's past.
But the real world didn't reward creators or artists for simply being themselves. It rewarded those who knew how to sell themselves.
"Imagine the Father of Folklore Origin, Edmund Xaver, writing about you,” Layla said on the phone last night. "'A mesmerizing work of authentic stories that will shatter your childhood and leave you wanting more. Five stars!"
"You can get Professor Xaver to say that about me?" Anne had failed to even set an appointment with him in the past. She couldn't believe he would honor her with a stellar review.
"Anne, darling, you're such a naive soul," Layla said, munching on crackers. "Xaver won't even read the book. It's business. A hefty check, and viola."
Anne put down her breakfast, smiling at the memory of Layla. She would have asked her to come to Kassel, but Layla was busy—not with work but with romancing an up-and-coming author
Layla's life was different from Anne’s, but it made for a beneficial contrast. People like Anne, who lusted for books and knowledge, needed to pull their heads from the pages of fantastic escapism and face the real world. An unpleasant sight, incomparable to the magic of books, but also a necessary evil.
Anne hardly introduced herself as a folklorist in social gatherings, as no one understood what it meant.
"Folklorist? Is that like Botanist? You know, like Charles Darwin?" Some snobbish woman would ask while gripping a glass of Champagne. Back then, Anne still lived in California and attended parties.
"You could say so," Anne said. "Except I study fairytales."
"Who studies fairytales?" The pompous woman had asked, rolling her eyes. "What's to study about fairytales? They’re make-believe stories with no real value to society. Why waste your time!"
Anne never had an answer to that.
When she used to date in her twenties, none of her dates had the slightest interest in the subject. They thought it was 'cute.'
Since she hadn't had earned her Ph.D. yet, she failed to present a plausible argument about the historical significance of fairytales—the kind of history that lived in people's minds.
No one accepted the idea, if not advise her to get a real job.
One thing that made her laugh was whenever she wanted the date to end; she would widen her pupils, telling him how Cinderella's stepmother had her eyes pecked out by crows in the original story.
Or how one of the earlier versions of Cinderella ended with her losing a toe while escaping the palace without her slippers and having it amputated.
The best part was when she told them the Bluebeard fairytale was a nudge to Gilles De Rais, the French baron and history's first serial killer, whom a peasant girl chopped up and ate. That was usually when the date excused himself.
The Bluebeard story was commonly theorized on the internet and suggested in scholarly studies by renowned folklorists worldwide. But Anne could never prove it, so she left it out of the book.
However, the sheer number of locals in small towns around Kassel who remembered the specific names of the women he killed was mind-boggling. It wasn't a folk story to them but a shared history.
Anne's book wasn't an indisputable conclusion to the origins of fairytales. It was an eye-opening exploration, full of facts that would shatter everyone's childhood.
