Pretend he's not there. Just pretend he's not there! Keep telling yourself he's not there! Langenscheidt swallowed nervously, staring straight ahead. A cold hand touched his chin, forcing him to turn around. "You're not here! Y-You're just in my head! You're not here!"

Westworth smiled. "I expected a bit more resistance, and a lot less gullibility," he said. "If you fell for the will o'wisps, what else can I make you fall for? Oh, this is something I can have a lot of fun with."

"I am not gullible!"

"Then why did you follow the will o'wisps? You believed everything I said through them, therefore, you are gullible, and I know that this isn't the first time you fell for something that was so obviously a trick."

"You have nothing to gain from me! Find someone else to bother!"

"Would you rather I go to your friend Kielholz?"

"No! Absolutely not! Leave him alone!"

"Frankly, I won't have to bother him to mess with you. I just have to make you think I'm bothering him."

"I won't fall for it!"

"You will. Oh, I know very well you do. You care for him too much. He is practically a brother to you. I reckon you would even die for him."

"Don't—" Langenscheidt stepped closer to Westworth, breathing heavily, "touch Erich! Never touch him!"

"You become far less… fearful, when he may be in danger, and I haven't done anything to threaten him."

"You are certainly hinting that you may try to hurt him! I will find a way to get rid of you!"

"Perhaps. It may cost you, though." Westworth fell silent, folding his arms over his chest. "I can't decide if I should just let you go, or knock you out and give you another nightmare. It is fun watching you squirm and scream. However… I think I'll let you go this time. I have plans to make. Have a good night, my friend." He disappeared into thin air.

Langenscheidt fell to his knees, clenching his fists and struggling to resist the urge to sob out loud. He's going to hurt Erich! He's going to mess with me into thinking he's hurting Erich! What am I going to do?!

"This way! I see his tracks!"

Langenscheidt looked up when he heard Kielholz's voice, and turned to see his friend and Corporal Steinhauser jogging up to him. "Erich?"

"You're alright!" Kielholz knelt next to him. "What happened? You didn't come looking for me after you were done with your conversation with Newkirk."

"I… I followed the will o'wisps. Th-They told me there was a solution—"

"No! You knew those were likely from Westworth! Why did you believe them?"

Shame flooded Langenscheidt, and he looked down at the ground, hunching his shoulders. "I… I'm sorry. You know I don't know much about magic. I-I wasn't sure if the will o'wisps were Westworth's or not."

Kielholz gripped Langenscheidt's shoulders, then let him go. "I should be glad you're alright. Just… don't do that again." He helped his friend stand, and they began heading back to the camp.

Steinhauser walked alongside them. "This ghost thing is getting out of hand," he said. "Do you have plans on what to do about it?"

"We do. We just hope it will work."

Langenscheidt spent the next day constantly looking over his shoulder, as well as worrying about Kielholz when his friend wasn't in his sight. Then again, he had no idea what Westworth was capable of making him see. After all, he made Langenscheidt think that Tobias had disappeared before his eyes. Surely, he could do the same with Kielholz.

Westworth must have been planning something quite elaborate, as he wasn't seen at all that Monday. On Tuesday, Langenscheidt tried to be excited about going to meet Ritschmann. It wasn't going to be a happy meeting, though. Why should he be excited? He was finally going to get a chance to get some answers on Westworth. That was enough to be exciting.

Langenscheidt and Kielholz accompanied the prisoners to their work detail, and Langenscheidt tried to stay alert, especially after what happened the last time when he had ridden in one of the trucks with the prisoners. He had managed to sleep well the night before. That's not going to matter to Westworth.

In Hammelburg, Langenscheidt and Kielholz got Kinchloe and Newkirk alone, and talked in hushed tones. Kinchloe took a piece of paper from one of his pockets. "Here's Ritschmann's address," he said. "We'll try to stall as much as we can to give you all the time you need."

"You don't have to do this for me," Langenscheidt said.

"Well, we already did. Go."

"Hopefully Ritschmann will actually give you some answers," Newkirk added. "It's only a matter of time before Westworth decides he's done with you and moves on to someone else."

Langenscheidt nodded. "Alright."

"I'll cover for you," Kielholz said.

"Please be careful."

"No, you be careful."

Langenscheidt sighed. "Fine. I will be careful." He stood, walking quietly down the road, past a couple of houses and taking a turn onto a long, winding street that Ritschmann was supposedly living at.

It was after Christmas, in the dismal month of January. Winter after Christmas was always dreary. The cheer of the holiday was now dormant until the next, and with the fear of Westworth being around every corner, the depressive nature of the season was even more palpable and oppressive. Langenscheidt kept his head down, occasionally looking up to check signs and house numbers. His thoughts wandered as he walked.

Did I do something to deserve this? Is this really by chance, as Tobias suggested? Perhaps this is a punishment of some kind, but for what? Langenscheidt looked up at the sky, remembering how he had opted to join the Luftwaffe because he wanted to experience flying—only to crash and be relegated to guard duty because of a head injury he had very little recollection of. He remembered the crash, but couldn't remember what happened directly afterward. He could remember not remembering.

Though he was told that he was lucky to have survived, he wasn't left unscathed. He probably should have been discharged, but the medics decided he was well enough and his occasionally fogginess and confusion should eventually pass. In some ways, it had. He didn't experience nearly as many episodes of blanking out and forgetting details that most people would remember, but they still occurred, and it often resulted in him presenting information to Klink that the commandant was already aware of.

Some of the guards would pick up on it, and a few decided to start messing around with him. Even the prisoners became aware of Langenscheidt's difficulties and took advantage of it in order to cause trouble. Only Kielholz, Schultz, and to some extent Steinhauser, were wholly sympathetic and tried to help.

His father had told him not to feel like a failure for what happened. It was an accident. Just like how stumbling upon Westworth was an accident? It seemed everything that happened to him was just an accident, and he wondered if that was going to keep happening throughout his life.

When Langenscheidt arrived at the address written on the paper, he first noticed the blinds were still closed. It was after ten in the morning, which made it a little strange. Hopefully, Ritschmann is home. He put the paper in a pocket before knocking on the door, and waited a full minute before hearing footsteps inside. The door unlocked, and slowly opened. An older man with thick, silver hair and a sharply angled face appeared, peering around the door. A confused look came over his face. "What are you doing here, Corporal? Are you lost?"

"No, I'm not lost. I… I came looking for you specifically," Langenscheidt replied. "Um… may I come in?"

"What is it you want? Why did you come looking for me? What unit are you with?"

Langenscheidt looked down at the doorstep. "I am from Stalag Thirteen, Colonel. I have come with questions about Barracks One."

"Barracks One was lost in an accidental fire. That is all you need to know." Ritschmann moved to close the door, but Langenscheidt grabbed it, forcing it to stay open.

"Sergeant Westworth's spirit is still around. He's targeted me, and he has said that he wants revenge on everyone who was involved in what happened. I need to know what happened. I need to know how to stop him."

Ritschmann sighed, letting go of the door. A more sympathetic look came over his face. "Come inside. We have a lot to discuss."

Langenscheidt closed the door behind him as he followed Ritschmann inside. The house was very well-kept and cozy. The walls were covered in paintings and photographs of Ritschmann and his family. Most curious was the presence of a blue witch-ball hanging on the wall in the entryway. Langenscheidt remembered Kielholz talking about how true witch-balls were specifically designed to protect against dark magic, but allowed passive and harmless magic to take place within its boundaries. It was a custom to hang at least one witch-ball on a Christmas tree in most villages.

"Westworth will not be able to harm anyone here with that active," Ritschmann said when he noticed Langenscheidt staring. "You are safe."

"Thank you, sir. I… I have not felt safe in several days."

"Sit in my study. I will make you some tea."

Nervous, as he didn't want to overstep his boundaries, Langenscheidt sat in Ritschmann's study and did nothing until the colonel returned with two cups of tea. He set both cups on his desk before sitting across from Langenscheidt. "Now, I know you were not on Stalag Thirteen's staff when I was in charge. When were you assigned?"

"June of 1941, sir," Langenscheidt replied. "I originally joined the Luftwaffe in order to fly, but crashed right out of training. I injured my head, and I was proclaimed unfit for active service, so they sent me to Stalag Thirteen."

"I see. That is quite unfortunate. I hope you are alright, though."

"I… have moments where I am forgetful, or foggy, but I am getting better, slowly."

"Good." Ritschmann took a sip of his tea, looking deep in thought. "How did you come to find out about Barracks One and Sergeant Westworth?"

Langenscheidt recounted what happened while he was sick, as well as what had been occurring since he left the camp infirmary. He described every instance with Westworth to the best of his ability, not leaving out any of the horrifying details.

Ritschmann listened as he sipped his tea, his expression growing sadder and sadder with each encounter Langenscheidt described. When Langenscheidt finished his story, Ritschmann was silent. Only the ticking of a clock in the hallway could be heard for the next few minutes.

Then, Ritschmann drew in a breath, "Westworth's revenge has already begun, and has been occurring for the last two years. It started with the death of my wife over a month after I resigned from my position at Stalag Thirteen. She collapsed one day while walking—just walking—from the bedroom to the stairs. I found her in the hall, unresponsive, dead. The non-magical doctors couldn't find an answer, but, given that I am a bit of the superstitious type, I consulted with a witch healer. We talked, and she suggested that this may be connected to Westworth."

"What did happen in Barracks One? Two of the prisoners who witnessed it said it caught fire."

"It did indeed catch fire. From the inside." Ritschmann set his cup on the desk, folding his hands and maintaining his composure. "I did not know Westworth was a warlock until that morning. I did know that guards and German civilians were being killed by a witch, but I had no idea that the murderer was right there in my camp. When I conducted roll call that morning, mid-September of 1940, I was confused as to why the residents of Barracks One did not come out. This was quite unusual for them—for any barracks, really. So, I took a handful of guards, wondering if this was some kind of prank, or worse, they escaped." Ritschmann suddenly looked distant. "I… I would have preferred if they had escaped. What I found in there was nothing short of a living nightmare. Many of the men inside were already dead, while others were dying, because Westworth forcefully fed them seeds of the castor plant."

"Corporal Newkirk mentioned that Westworth talked about receiving castor seeds."

Ritschmann fell silent again, but managed to continue. "I confronted Westworth, demanding to know what happened. He was very honest and pleased with what he had done, saying that he was planning to escape and live among the witches here because they, and I quote, 'helped him unlock his true potential with magic.' He was going to harvest what he needed from his former comrades before he left. I raised my sidearm and told him he wasn't going anywhere. Honestly, it was stupid of me to say that. If I had captured him alive, he was going to find a way out. The camp wasn't built to hold warlocks. He raised his wand, and began setting random things in the barracks on fire, including some of the dying men and my guards. I tried to grab people and get them out before the building burned down around them.

"I managed to get one guard out. Westworth had gotten out as well. He killed the guard with a single bolt from his wand, and towered over me, taunting me. I shot him through the chest. He remained alive long enough to say he would have revenge on me and everyone else involved in this. I knew enough about magic and ghosts at the time to believe him, but I didn't know how it was going to manifest. Honestly, I had hoped that when he killed my wife, it would be over, but it sounds like it isn't."

Langenscheidt fell silent. "If ghosts are capable of this, why hasn't he done anything sooner?"

"Ghosts are capable of conversing with the living and manifesting illusions. In order to do more, they need a set of tools. Among those tools is a beating human heart. No one really knows why. Some have suggested it is a means of creating a link between them and the living."

"If he needs a heart, how did he kill your wife?"

"I don't know. He may have had access to a heart from someone else, and it was destroyed before he could do anything else."

A horrific thought sent chills down Langenscheidt's spine. "Is… Is that why he is after me?"

"Since you are unrelated to what happened, I would say it is almost a definite. You are a tool to him."

"How do I stop him, then? He can be stopped, right?"

"He can, but it requires a process that can result in death if you don't succeed."

"What is that process? Please, I will try anything to stop him."

Ritschmann shook his head. "Unless you prepare yourself mentally and emotionally, you won't be able to undertake it."

"How do I prepare myself? He already drags me into his illusions regularly."

"What is your greatest fear?"

"Losing my friend."

"More than your own life?"

"At times, yes."

"Think of the worst things that could happen to your friend. Think about them constantly, but also tell yourself that they are just thoughts and nothing more. Westworth will be drawn to this and try to replicate them in illusions. When he does, you must continue to tell yourself that they are nothing more than thoughts. Don't give in. When you don't give in, only then are you ready to actually face Westworth."

"Face him?"

"He will pull you into an illusion where he is fully capable of doing harm to you, but you will also be able to do harm to him. To the outside world, you will be unconscious. If you lose, you die. Westworth will take your heart from your body and be capable of harming the living outside of illusions. By that point, only a magic-user will be able to deal with him, and you don't have any at camp, do you?"

Langenscheidt shook his head. "We don't."

"Westworth won't rest until he has his way with everyone involved with his death. I don't know how many of the original staff and prisoners are still there, but they are all in danger if Westworth isn't stopped."

Langenscheidt returned to Kielholz and the two POWs with a cold, dreadful feeling sitting in his stomach. The three asked him what he learned, but he was unable to answer right away. He sat on a bench, and took a deep breath before saying, "Ritschmann told me what happened."

"And? What happened?" Newkirk asked.

"Westworth… was killing the men in Barracks One to harvest their bones and organs, and then he was planning to leave so he could live among the witches nearby. He then set the building on fire. Ritschmann escaped while trying to get the others out, but Westworth managed to get out as well. When he tried to confront Ritschmann, he was shot. With his last breath, he swore revenge." Langenscheidt switched his gaze between Newkirk, Kinchloe, and Kielholz. "In order for Westworth to initiate his true revenge, he needs a beating human heart, and it is likely that it is my heart he is going to use."

"That won't happen on my watch," Kielholz said.

"No, it won't. There is a way to stop him, but… it is not going to be easy. I have to fight him, and in order to do that, I have to be able to resist his illusions."

"Like my brother told you."

"There is more. When Westworth is ready, he will pull me into another illusion, but in this one, we will be able to hurt each other."

Newkirk shook his head. "No. No, mate, you can't do that. It's me he wants. I will do it."

"You can't. I am the one Westworth intends to use. This is something I will have to do on my own."

"That is a load of rubbish. There has to be a way for me to do it instead."

"There isn't," Kielholz said. "At least, I do not think there is a way."

"Well, if you find one, let me know. I should have said something to Ritschmann sooner. This is my fault. We should have set the war aside to take care of something going after both of us."

"Would Ritschmann have taken care of it? Or would Westworth have been carted off to a Sorcery Division facility?" Kinchloe asked.

"I don't think so," Langenscheidt replied.

"Westworth was far too dangerous for even the Sorcery Division to handle," Newkirk said. "That, and the SS was probably why Burkhalter and Ritschmann covered the whole thing up. Remember they came by a little over a month later and didn't find or know anything about what happened."

"That would make sense. Which means we can't let them find out about this."

"I don't think that'll happen," Newkirk replied. "Not as long as Westworth is stopped before he rips your heart out. No one other than us has to know anything."