The Debt Collector’s Mask

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The cobblestones of Copenhagen’s winding streets glistened under a pale moonlight, their jagged edges slick with rain. The year was 1782, and the city’s air was heavy with the mingling scents of saltwater from the nearby harbor and the stench of decaying refuse. Amid the labyrinthine alleyways, a figure moved with purpose, their cloak billowing in the damp breeze. The hood concealed their face, but the clinking sound of a chain dangling from their belt betrayed their presence.

Eliza Bjornsdatter, a midwife known for her sharp wit and even sharper tongue, hurried through the darkness. Her reputation as a healer and confidante had earned her a place among both the noble and the downtrodden. But tonight, it was not the cry of a newborn or the pleading of a desperate mother that drew her. A letter had arrived at her modest home hours earlier, delivered by a boy whose eyes were wide with fear. The parchment had borne no signature, only an address and three words scrawled in crimson ink: “Come before dawn.”

She now found herself before a derelict townhouse at the end of Nybodergade, its windows boarded up and its façade cloaked in shadows. The air around the building felt colder, almost suffocating. As Eliza’s hand reached for the iron knocker, the door creaked open of its own accord, revealing a darkened corridor beyond.

“Hello?” she called, her voice echoing unnaturally. There was no response. Her instincts screamed at her to turn back, but the weight of curiosity was too great. She stepped inside, the wooden floor groaning under her weight.

The interior was sparse, devoid of the usual trappings of life. Cobwebs hung like drapes from the corners, and a faint, acrid smell lingered in the air. Eliza’s eyes were drawn to a single candle burning on a table in the center of the room. Beside it lay a small wooden box, intricately carved with runes she did not recognize. She approached cautiously, her fingers brushing against the box’s surface. It was cold—unnaturally so.

The sound of a door slamming echoed through the house, making her spin around. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice steady despite the growing unease. Again, there was no answer. Instead, a soft, rhythmic tapping began to emanate from the upper floor, like the sound of a pendulum swinging. Against her better judgment, Eliza climbed the creaking staircase, the sound growing louder with each step.

At the top, she found a single room illuminated by moonlight streaming through a crack in the boarded windows. In the center stood a tall grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging with deliberate precision. But it wasn’t the clock that froze Eliza in place. It was the figure standing beside it.

The man was dressed in tattered finery, his coat adorned with gold embroidery now dulled by age. His face was obscured by a porcelain mask, its surface cracked and stained. In his gloved hands, he held an ornate pocket watch, its chain dangling like a noose.

“You received my letter,” he said, his voice low and resonant.

“Who are you?” Eliza demanded.

The man tilted his head slightly. “A collector of debts.”

Before she could respond, the clock chimed, its sound reverberating through the room with a deafening intensity. The man’s form seemed to shimmer, as though he were not entirely solid. The pocket watch in his hand began to glow faintly, and Eliza felt an overwhelming compulsion to look into its face.

When she did, she saw not her own reflection, but a series of fleeting images: a child crying out in a dimly lit room, a hand dripping with blood, and a grave freshly dug in the frozen earth. She staggered back, the weight of the visions pressing against her chest.

“What do you want from me?” she gasped.

The man’s voice grew colder. “You have meddled in fates that were not yours to alter. Lives saved that should have ended. Deaths delayed that should have come swiftly. The balance must be restored.”

Eliza shook her head. “I’ve only ever tried to help. To heal.”

The man’s laughter was hollow, like the echo of a distant bell. “Intentions do not absolve consequences. The threads of destiny are delicate. You have tangled them beyond repair.”

The room seemed to close in around her, the air thick with an oppressive force. The images from the pocket watch continued to flash before her eyes, each one more harrowing than the last. She saw the faces of those she had saved, their expressions twisted in agony, their voices calling out accusations.

“Stop it!” she screamed, dropping to her knees.

The man knelt beside her, his masked face inches from hers. “There is only one way to atone.” He extended the pocket watch toward her. “Accept the burden, and you may yet find peace.”

With trembling hands, Eliza reached for the watch. The moment her fingers brushed its surface, a searing pain shot through her, and the world dissolved into darkness.

When she awoke, she was back on the cobblestone streets of Copenhagen, the rain still falling in a steady drizzle. The townhouse was gone, replaced by an empty lot overgrown with weeds. In her hand, she clutched the pocket watch, its surface now cracked and lifeless.

As she stumbled home, the city felt different—colder, quieter. The faces of the townsfolk seemed unfamiliar, their eyes avoiding hers. And when she caught her reflection in a puddle, she saw not her own face, but the porcelain mask, fractured and staring back.

Eliza Bjornsdatter had become the new collector of debts, her life now bound to the threads of fate she had once sought to mend.

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