Adventures at Schreckenstein Castle The Ghost of Schreckenstein Castle

More about Adventures at Schreckenstein Castle The Ghost of Schreckenstein Castle

The stairs had led him to a place not marked on maps. Not in the old books, not in the teachers' tales. Perhaps it existed only on certain nights—or only when one had forgotten how to doubt. He entered a hall, silent as a windless lake. The floor was made of irregular slabs, smooth and cool. The air smelled of stone and light, of things that were no longer there and things that had never been. Candles burned in the distance, though no one could have lit them. The cat crept close beside him. Its fur curled, not from fear, but from tense vigilance. The boy sensed it too: they were not alone. In the middle of the room stood a mirror. Not large. Not ornate. A simple frame, made of dark wood, with fine cracks running along it like the marks of something that had tried to break out—or fall in. He approached. No reflection. Only twilight. And then... a movement. A breath. As if someone had exhaled behind the glass. He shivered. "You're late," a voice said. It was quiet, but clear. Not old, not young. Not male, not female. A voice felt more than heard—like a thought thinking itself. "Who... are you?" the boy asked. The answer came slowly. As if it had to piece itself together. "I am the rest. The echo. The story without a page. I am what remained when the last one left." The fog in the mirror began to form. At first just like smoke, then thicker. Contours appeared: a face, pale and transparent, with clear eyes. Not evil. Not friendly. Just there. Like a poem no one had finished. "Are you a ghost?" the boy whispered. "Not in the way you think. I'm not a haunting. I'm a memory." The cat growled softly. But it stayed. "Why are you here?" The mirror flickered as if someone had turned a page. And then the boy saw images—not like on a screen, but like dreams passing by windows: children running through the castle corridors. A girl laughing. A teacher with ink on her fingers. A hand locking a door. And a figure, alone, before that very mirror. "I waited," said the creature. "But no one came. Until you." "What do you want from me?" "Nothing. But you carry something with you. Something that needs to be remembered." The boy suddenly felt something heavy in his jacket. He reached inside and pulled out an old set of keys. He had never seen it before. It was cold. And quiet. "The third key," said the ghost. "For what?" "For the door that recognizes you." He wanted to ask what that meant, but at that moment a wind blew through the hall—though no opening was visible. The mirror trembled. The face faded. "Wait!" cried the boy. But the mist in the glass dissolved, like ink in water. All that remained was the frame. Empty. And a line that now stood on the floor as if it had fallen there: "He who forgets the ghost loses his way." The cat jumped onto the edge of the mirror. Its gaze was calm. Then it turned to him – as if to say: It continues. And he knew: This wasn't the end of the riddle. It was just the beginning.