Alsace Tales and Legends: Finkwiller’s Ghosts

Alsatian legends are numerous, and telling you about this stove fills me with joy. But we’ve moved a little further from this beautiful city of Strasbourg while not left out when it comes to dark and spooky stories. Here, take simple ghost tales. You find them everywhere. But it seems that one area of ​​the city concentrates them much more than the others.

At Finkwiller, we see them regularly here and there. Between the crooked cooper who forever atones for his deception, the nun who is aimlessly lost, her heart broken by an impossible love, there are many. We even meet animals that are being chased by a villain. But the truth is, one of these ghosts connects them all. If this neighborhood has a lot of exciting stories, there is a reason. And even today, some people learn it the hard way.

Fisherman’s Wharf Boat Wash, Today Finkwiller © Unknown author/

Marta found the St. Thomas Square stones. “This is the last time I’ll drink.”I laughed at this promise made a hundred times. Tired of walking in slow motion and hurrying home, on the other side of the illness, she took off her heels and grabbed them with her sweaty hands. Barefoot, quickly turning black with the dirt of the middle of the night, she sped up again, swaying left and right. She found the corner of the church and finally saw the bridge that would bring her back safe and sound. “A few more meters, go.”.

The alcohol mist suddenly thickens. Marta leaned against the pink sandstone of the Gothic monument for a few moments. She fixed her gaze on a stationary teacher, half a dozen bikes hanging from their collars in the opposite alley, and tried to focus. The photographic lenses are defective, his eyes are failing. I curled them. I stared. She inhaled as if she was supplying a part of her body with oxygen at first, but the misty remained, treacherously very close to the target. What little awareness his brain still gives him. “So, if the left eye goes in that direction, and the right in that direction, if you go that way, it will be straight ahead.”. Marta managed to climb the St. Thomas Bridge without going straight.

A man drunk much more than he came from the sidewalk, behind the former mint mansion, now a kindergarten, and called out to her. Marta quickened her pace. The sound followed and approached. Then nothing. Marta turned around drunk, but was aware of the very sudden disappearance of the individual. There was no one. He had to be on the bridge. If he had fallen into the water, she would have heard it. no ? None of his senses helped him anymore. Even her eyesight seemed to deceive her little by little, as a real mist descended around her. Not those caused by alcohol intoxication, but those that cover the desolate plains on bad weather nights. A cold, wet cloud clung to his skin. An icy hand, dripping with a strange liquid, half-carved onto his shoulder. Marta’s cry would have echoed all the way to the cathedral if she had not been overwhelmed by fear. She threw herself forward, and fell to the ground. The man with the dead hand floated in the air. She could see through her medieval clothes. His face shone with hatred. He tried to get close, but Marta crawled back, not losing sight of him.

“A glass of wine, and a glass of beer goes well!” he shouted hoarsely at her.

Marta did not try to understand, she got up, but a storm knocked her to the ground. Fog flew around in a hurricane nightmare. The sounds of hoofs reached him from the other side. The galloping horse was heading straight towards them. He was so degenerated like an old fool that where his leg should be, only one heel of the flesh was still dangling.

“leave me alone!” Marta cried.

I hastily crossed the bridge and reached Finkwiller Pier Park. There she saw a lady near the water and felt that she had survived.

– Please, I pleaded with him, I drank too much. I have hallucinations, I think I was drugged. Accompany me to the fire department, over there, I’m not sure I can do it on my own.

The woman continued her work. Marta approached again, and discovered that she was washing clothes in the sick water.

“Please,” Beheira insisted.

Laundry of the Night \ 1861 \ © Yan’Dargent (Musée des Beaux-Arts de Quimper)

Then the lady turned and all the alcohol in Marta’s body immediately flew over. A smile cuts across the face from ear to ear. Her eyes stained her white skin up to her chin with blood and she also lost bits of her flesh here and there. Marta wanted to escape, but the ghost was faster. The washing machine left all the clothes on and grabbed the girl by the neck. Within seconds, she found her head underwater, unable to rise to the surface. On the verge of fainting, the ghost pulled her hair back cautiously. Marta inhaled so hard that she nearly vomited. All she could hear was high-pitched laughter at the pleasure the washing machine was producing. The vortex game started again. Underwater. Abroad. When Marta opened her eyes between her two sinks, she saw the three-legged horse, the drunken man, and a white nun also, standing motionless on the deck, staring in her direction.

After eternal torture, the washing machine stopped laughing. I pushed Marta’s head under the water and never came out again. The young woman struggled, but she struggled with the energy of someone endlessly stalking him in his nightmares. And then the air disappointed him forever. On the bridge, there, the three ghosts resumed their journey as if nothing had happened. The fog lifted, and the sun shone over the disease.


Ali’s working day lasted until midnight. It was close to midnight and the young man was racing his bike to join his partner in their new apartment downtown. He was ascending Finkwiller Street by a lone dynamo light when a gust of wind made him lose his balance as he approached Saint-Thomas Bridge. A three-legged horse passed by at breakneck speed and a smell of putrefaction was chasing after him. On deck, a nun lifted inches off the ground and watched him pass with lust. A ghostly drunk man was singing the praises of beer and wine. An equally drunk, pale young woman, soaked from head to toe and rotting skin groggy on the deck, collapses from time to time before returning. Ali fell off his bike. He wanted to run away, but a thick mist rose up, so thick that he couldn’t see himself anymore. Walk around the sidewalk, looking for an exit. The washerwoman turned to him, at the bottom of the garden, at the edge of a water filled with clothes and blood, and smiled.

Ali, of course, failed to escape the trap set by the washing machine. You can still see it on the banks of the disease, like hundreds of years ago. who is she ? Why would she force the innocent to wander by her side in limbo forever? Of course I have the answer somewhere in my memory. If I return to this living room, I will give it to you, for your own safety. In the meantime, if you’re walking late at night in this area of ​​Finkwiller, be careful not to get too close. Some ghosts are harmless victims. Others, terrible executioners.

Jeremy Martin, narrator
Instagram account: jeremy.auteur

Leave a Comment