A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit the Meinberg headquarters in Bad Pyrmont, Germany. Despite what “Bad” might connote in English, in German it indicates the place is officially recognized as a spa town (“bad” meaning “bath”). The headquarters was absolutely fascinating, and the sleepy little German town was gorgeous. I did get out early in the morning to get steps in – that’s true, that really happened. And the memorial was there, too. Beyond that… let’s just say the early morning really sparked my imagination. I can’t wait to go back and explore more.

I don’t generally go running in the middle of the night. But the 4:30am taxi I scheduled to take me from Bad Pyrmont to the train station and then a full schedule of trains and planes meant that if I had any hope of getting my 10,000 steps in I was going to have to start early.

That’s how I ended up on the cobblestone streets of Bad Pyrmont, Germany at 2:45 on a Wednesday morning. While a slight chill pervaded the late summer air, by the time I reached the road marked Brunnenstraße I felt plenty warmed up and the streetlights gently lit my way. I’m not a good runner, nor a graceful one, so as my feet quietly slapped the deserted pavement of the town still asleep, I admit I enjoyed the anonymity. Just me and the stone buildings, many probably predating the first Europeans in America. While I adjusted my pace to keep my breathing steady, I enjoyed my personal tour, glancing up at curtained windows and down narrow side streets. Passing one of these side streets, I heard the crying of a newborn and wondered how the parents were doing with their new lack of sleep.

Ahead, I spotted a glow near the base of one of the beech trees along the sidewalk. As I approached, I saw the glow came from several votive candles flickering in the early morning breeze, casting wan light on framed pictures of a young man and handwritten notes – clearly a fresh memorial. Unfortunately, I don’t yet speak a lick of German, so I kept moving, though the solemn memorial might have let the breeze chill me more than it had a few dozen meters back.

By the time Brunnenstraße crossed Oesdorfer, I turned back along the way I came – I was just looking for steps and a short workout, not trying to run any kind of distance. As I approached the memorial this time, I could see a tall man in a dark coat standing regarding the candles. Given I’d just been through here a few minutes ago and I hadn’t seen anyone or even any cars on the street, it struck me as odd. Still, we all grieve in our own ways, so I didn’t slow as I drew closer.

“Was machst du um diese späte Nachtzeit draußen?” he asked, his voice clear but not loud.

I stumbled to a halt and turned back to face the man. “I’m… sorry… I don’t speak German,” I said between panting breaths, now equally embarrassed that I hadn’t even learned to say that in German as I was panting and sweating in front of this man.

A smile creased his neatly shaven face. “Ah, an American. I asked, ‘what are you doing out at night?’”

“Oh,” I said sheepishly grateful for his English. “I’m just going for a run. Have to catch an early train.”

He took in my words and nodded. I thought his eyes looked familiar. Maybe I met him the day before at the factory…? “You shouldn’t be out now.”

“Oh? Sorry, is there some kind of curfew?”

“No…” he said slowly, and then looked at his watch. “It’s almost Geisterstunde.”

“Geister…” my mouth tripped over the syllables.

“Geisterstunde,” he repeated, then added, “It means… the witching hour.”

I recognized the face as I felt an icy chill cut through my soul.

It was his picture at our feet, at the base of the beech tree. It was his memorial. I staggered backwards, away from the man who didn’t move. His smile faltered a little and he looked sad. “Get inside,” he called after me. “It isn’t safe.”

I turned and sprinted away. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the memorial deserted again, the man gone. Somehow that made me run faster. I ran past the side street with the crying baby, but now the crying was gone, instead I heard the laughing of unseen children bubbling from the darkness of the bushes just as the a distant church bell tolled once… twice… three times.

And the deserted street in front of me filled with people.

Dozens of men, women, and children in outfits from varying time periods walked along the narrow street. I dodged a group of men in World War I era German uniforms who looked askance at me as I ran. There was a woman in a nineteenth-century gown walking next to a young girl in servants clothes pushing a pram, the woman fanning herself dismissively as I hurried past. I heard breaking glass nearby and looked over to see several men smashing a store window, the imminently recognizable symbol on their coats unmistakably told me their time period. One of the men saw me as I rushed past and called after me, pointing. The other men broke into a run after me.

Remember when I said I wasn’t a good or graceful runner? When you’ve got Nazi ghosts chasing you, it has a way of turning you into Usain Bolt. I ran faster, cutting down the broad, tree lined Hauptallee. This boulevard, too, was filled with people from seemingly every era for the better part of the last millennia. But these people paid me no mind, instead focusing on the luminescent stream that ran through the boulevard – the healing waters of the Hylliger spring. I slowed watching the ghosts gathering the waters when I heard the strident call of my pursuers and I sprinted towards my hotel.

I threw open the door to the lobby and bolted inside. The older woman at the front desk looked up startled, her face blanching. “Du solltest nicht draußen sein,” she said.

“What?” I panted, doubled over. I stared through the glass door, but outside the gently lit street was empty.

“You shouldn’t be out!” she repeated in English.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’ve figured that out.”