Echoes of the Haunted Manor

This story is by no means fictional, though it might be unexpected. People no longer see it as mere legend. Besides, in the pragmatic and result-oriented late 19th century, fabricating legends has long gone out of style.

The mysterious landscape of the Carpathian Mountains in Transylvania can easily stir ghostly imaginings. This is largely because ancient superstitions have a deep-rooted influence on the people of Transylvania.

On May 29th of a certain year, on a lush green plateau at the foot of Mount Retezat, a shepherd was tending his flock. The valley was lush, with towering trees and a variety of plants adorning the plateau. The vast, open plateau, exposed to the raging northwest wind, seemed to be swept clean by its razor-sharp gales.

The shepherd was a man named Frik, from the village of Werst. Like his sheep, Frik was shabby and unkempt. He lived in a filthy hovel at the edge of the village, sharing the space with his sheep and pigs. His body was dirty and covered with animal excrement, making him a revolting sight.

Frik lazily stretched his limbs, sprawling on the grass. Whenever a sheep strayed from the flock, he would blow his whistle, and his shepherd dog would promptly bring the stray back. Each time the whistle sounded, its echo would linger long among the mountains.

At 4 p.m., the sun began to set in the west. The peaks in the mist-shrouded east bathed in the sunset glow appeared eerily dark. Sunlight slanted from the southwestern valley, like a colorful waterfall gushing from the narrow gorge.

This mountain range, known as Klausenburg or Koloszvar, is one of the most desolate parts of Transylvania. It is home to a diverse mix of ethnic groups—Romanians, Hungarians, Roma, Székelys, and Saxons—who live in hostility toward one another and do not intermarry. However, as time passes, they are bound to "become Hungarianized," which is seen as a great boon for the unification of Transylvania.

To which ethnicity did the shepherd Frik belong? Could he be a descendant of the degenerate Dacians? It was hard to say. His matted hair, dirty face, bristly beard, and wiry eyebrows looked like two rusty brushes, and his blue-green eyes, surrounded by moist wrinkles, seemed aged and weary. Though clearly around 65, he could appear much younger from afar.

He was tall, strong, and upright, draped in a dark yellow cloak. From behind, he didn't look as ragged as from the front. He wore a straw hat resembling a thatched roof and leaned on a shepherd's crook, standing as still as a statue in the sunset—a picture-perfect sight for any painter.

As the sunlight streamed through the mountain crevices, Frik shaded his eyes with his hand, scanning his surroundings. His gaze was as focused as when he cupped his hands into a funnel to shout and make his voice carry far.

Far off, under the blue horizon, the outlines of a group of ancient castles loomed sharply against the sunset. But to discern their details would require extraordinary eyesight.

Frik suddenly shook his head and called out:

"Castle! Oh, castle! How I wish you could stand forever, but you only have a few years left! Only three branches remain on that cypress tree."

He was referring to a cypress tree visible only to him, perched atop one of the castle's bastions. Against the blue backdrop of the sky, its dark shadow was visible to his keen eyes but not to anyone else from such a distance.

"Yes," he muttered, "only three branches remain... Yesterday, there were four. One broke off last night... Only three left now. I can count them—just three. Oh, castle, just three branches are left."

Interpreted through the lens of realism, Frik's ramblings might paint him as a meditative philosopher. He could commune with planets, converse with stars, and gaze up at the heavens. In truth, he was merely a daydreaming fool.

However, people revered his peculiar ways with a superstitious awe. They believed him to possess magical powers, imagining he could command people and animals, or with a mystical stone, turn the earth into a barren wasteland.

Frik embraced the legend. This reputation brought him wealth. He sold aphrodisiacs and antidotes alike, thriving on the superstitions of others. Yet, ironically, he believed in the legends of his homeland as fervently as his dupes believed in his tricks.

It was unsurprising, then, that he linked the castle's fate to the dwindling branches of the cypress. He was eager to spread this discovery to the villagers of Werst.

Calling his flock with the long note of his wooden horn, he rose and set off toward the village. His fierce dogs drove the sheep forward, nipping at their heels. Among his flock of over a hundred, there were a dozen lambs, with the rest being three- to four-year-old sheep.

The sheep belonged to Lord Koltz, the local magistrate, who paid a hefty grazing tax to the government. Koltz appreciated Frik for his skill in shearing sheep and treating their ailments.

As Frik herded the flock, he noticed a figure by the river, about 50 yards downstream.

"Hello there, friend!" the figure called out.

It was a peddler, the type that roams towns and remote mountain paths, speaking various languages to communicate with everyone. This one was a Polish Jew—a tall, thin man with a hooked nose, a thick beard, a broad forehead, and gleaming eyes.

The peddler sold telescopes, thermometers, barometers, and various small clocks. These weren't stowed in a backpack but hung around his neck and belt, making him a walking market stall.

With a mix of Romanian, Latin, and Slavic-accented phrases, he greeted Frik:

"How is life treating you, my friend?"

"Not bad—depending on the weather," Frik replied.

"Well, then, today must be a good day, for the weather is fine!"

The shepherd shrugged and responded indifferently:

"A fine day, but one that might lead to a storm."

The peddler, accustomed to such cryptic responses, adjusted his merchandise and approached Frik, asking:

"Do you need anything, my friend? Perhaps a clock to wake you at sunrise?"

"Why would I need a clock?" Frik replied, his tone slightly mocking. "When the cock crows, I wake; when the sun sets, I sleep."

"Fair enough," said the peddler, smiling. "Perhaps a telescope then? It would help you see that castle of yours more clearly."

At this, Frik's interest seemed to stir. He pointed towards the distant structure and asked, "What kind of telescope?"

"An excellent one! The kind used by astronomers to gaze at stars, or soldiers to spy on enemies. If you'll allow me to demonstrate..."

The peddler pulled a telescope from his array of wares and handed it to Frik. The shepherd held it awkwardly, unsure how to use it. After a brief explanation, he raised it to his eye and focused on the castle in the distance.

As Frik peered through the lens, his face lit with astonishment. For the first time, he could clearly see the ruins—crumbling walls, broken towers, and even the cypress tree standing atop the bastion.

"There it is!" he exclaimed. "The castle... and the tree. Just three branches left!"

"Yes, a remarkable sight," said the peddler, his tone subtly encouraging. "And this telescope could be yours—for a small price."

"What price?" asked Frik, lowering the instrument.

"Just a few florins," the peddler replied smoothly. "For something that lets you see into the past—or perhaps the future."

Frik hesitated, the idea tempting yet unsettling. After a moment, he shook his head.

"No, I have no use for such things. My eyes are sharp enough to see all I need."

The peddler didn't press further, knowing persistence could sour a potential customer. Instead, he changed the subject.

"Tell me, my friend, do you believe in the stories about that castle?"

Frik's expression grew serious. He nodded gravely and replied, "Of course I do. Everyone in Werst knows the castle is cursed. They say strange lights flicker in its windows at night, and ghostly sounds echo through the halls. No one dares go near it."

The peddler raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is that so? And what about you? Have you ever been there?"

"Me?" Frik exclaimed, almost offended by the suggestion. "Never! Only a fool would set foot inside those walls. The castle belongs to the Devil himself."

The peddler smiled slyly. "Perhaps... or perhaps it's just an old ruin. I've visited many such places, and most are simply empty shells, haunted only by the wind."

Frik shook his head vehemently. "No, this one is different. Mark my words, stranger—there's a dark power in that castle. It watches over us, even from afar."

The peddler seemed amused by Frik's conviction but decided not to argue. Instead, he bid the shepherd farewell and continued on his way, the jingle of his wares fading into the distance.

As Frik herded his flock toward the village, his mind lingered on the peddler's words. Could the castle truly be nothing more than a ruin? Or was it, as he believed, a place of unspeakable mystery and danger?

By the time he reached Werst, the sun had set, and the village was cloaked in shadow. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the faint murmur of voices carried through the air.

But even in the warmth of his home, Frik couldn't shake the image of the castle from his mind—or the ominous meaning of the three remaining branches on the cypress tree.

The night in Werst was unusually quiet, as though the village itself were holding its breath. Frik sat by the fire in his modest home, the embers casting flickering shadows on the walls.

His thoughts were consumed by the castle and the peddler's telescope. What if he had accepted the offer? What secrets might the lens have revealed?

Unable to settle his restless mind, Frik leaned back in his chair and stared out of the small window. The cypress tree on the distant castle hill loomed large in his thoughts. Three branches left... what happens when they're gone?

The next day, Frik awoke before dawn. A strange unease drove him to the hill where he grazed his sheep. The peddler was gone, but his words lingered. Frik's gaze turned to the castle, its silhouette shrouded in early morning mist. The cypress stood still, its sparse branches reaching skyward like the fingers of a dying man.

As the sun rose, something unusual caught Frik's attention. A faint glimmer of light flickered in one of the castle's shattered windows. It was brief, like the spark of a match, but enough to send a chill down his spine.

"Who's there?" he muttered to himself.

The villagers avoided the castle at all costs, leaving it to the whispers of the wind and the occasional scavenging crow. Yet, this light was no illusion.

For the rest of the day, Frik struggled to concentrate on his work. He watched the castle intently, but the light didn't return.

That evening, after securing his flock and locking his door, Frik made a decision that surprised even himself. He would go to the castle.

It was madness, he knew. But curiosity gnawed at him. Was the castle merely a ruin? Or was there truth to the tales of spirits, curses, and dark forces?

Armed with nothing but a lantern and a sturdy staff, Frik set out under the cover of darkness. The path to the castle was treacherous, overgrown with thorny bushes and littered with rocks. Each step seemed louder than the last, the crunch of gravel echoing in the still night.

As he drew closer, the air grew colder. A faint wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it a scent of decay. Frik hesitated at the castle gate, which hung ajar on rusted hinges. Beyond it, the ruins loomed, their jagged outlines stark against the starless sky.

With a deep breath, Frik stepped inside.

The courtyard was eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves. Frik's lantern cast a pale glow on the crumbling walls, revealing faded murals and stonework scarred by time. He approached the central tower, the source of the flickering light he had seen earlier.

Inside, the air was damp and heavy. Broken furniture and debris littered the floor, and the once-grand staircase was now a precarious spiral of rotting wood. Frik's lantern revealed faint footprints in the dust—someone had been here recently.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice trembling.

The only reply was the distant sound of dripping water.

Summoning his courage, Frik climbed the stairs. The tower was dark and claustrophobic, its narrow walls pressing in on him. At the top, he found a small chamber.

In the center of the room stood a single table, and on it, a curious object: a telescope, just like the one the peddler had shown him. Beside it lay an open book, its pages filled with strange symbols and diagrams.

Frik approached cautiously, his eyes scanning the room. The air seemed charged with an invisible force, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.