The White Man of Thier Maquée

The path along the Thier Maquée had been the shortest route between Marchin and Statte for generations. By day it was a pleasant walk: the Hoyoux glittered below in the valley, birds sang in the beeches, and sunlight fell in golden patches on the rocky trail. But come evening, everything changed.

The workers from the forges and mills along the river knew the path well. They walked it daily, back and forth, from village to workshop. But when dusk fell and mist rose from the valley, they quickened their pace. For on the Thier Maquée, the elders said, something not of this world kept watch.

On a November evening, when frost already gnawed at the banks of the Hoyoux, the blacksmith Jacques Renard was returning late from work. The moon hung high but kept being swallowed by clouds. Jacques walked briskly, hands deep in his pockets, collar turned up against the cold.

As he approached the bend at the Thier Maquée, he stopped dead. There, at the edge of the path, stood a figure. Completely white, motionless as a statue, its face turned toward the valley. No breath condensing in the cold air, no movement, no sound. Jacques felt the blood drain from his face.

“Who goes there?” he called with a trembling voice. No answer. The figure did not stir. Jacques took a step back, then another, and then ran the entire path back to Marchin, where he burst, panting and pale, into the nearest tavern.

His story caused uproar, but not disbelief. Other workers nodded grimly. They too had seen the white man — always in the same spot, always equally motionless, always in silence. Those who came too close, some claimed, felt an ice-cold gust that cut through bone and marrow.

Before long, all of Marchin knew the stories of the white man of the Thier Maquée. The explanations were as numerous as the witnesses. Some said it was the ghost of a miller who had drowned in the Hoyoux years earlier when the water rose suddenly after heavy rain. His body was never found, and his soul could find no rest.

Others, more level-headed, pointed to the limestone exposed on the slope. By moonlight, they said, the white rock could take on the shape of a human figure — a trick of light and shadow, nothing more. But even the greatest sceptics preferred to take the longer way through the woods at night.

The parish priest of Marchin blessed the path three times, yet the apparition kept returning. In time the sightings diminished, perhaps because the path fell into disuse when a new road was built. But the name Thier Maquée remained laden with a shiver that no rational explanation could entirely dispel. And anyone who walks through the Hoyoux valley today when the mist rolls in will notice that even the wind seems to pause for a moment — as though someone is standing there, waiting.