The Castle That Wasn’t Hungry, Just Curious

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The castle rose the way a bad thought does—slowly, politely, pretending to be architecture. Its spires looked sharpened by weather, which is the kindest sharpening there is. Nothing here wanted blood. It wanted attention.

I arrived with a notebook and a sandwich. The sandwich went bad immediately, which felt like a personal critique. The notebook stayed neutral. That’s how you can tell which objects are on your side.

Inside, the halls were long enough to forget why you started walking. Candles burned with the tired enthusiasm of librarians. Shadows gathered in corners like students who had missed the lecture but still wanted credit. A stairway went up and down at the same time, a courtesy extended to indecision.

I met the monster near a window that refused to show the outside. It wasn’t tall. It wasn’t short. It was shaped like a paragraph that had been edited too many times. Its eyes were careful. Its mouth was a footnote.

“I’m not here to eat you,” it said, which is what someone says when they don’t plan to eat you right away.

“That’s fine,” I said. “I already ate.”

The monster nodded, relieved. It told me it had been haunting this place since the idea of the place arrived before the place did. It said the castle kept growing spires the way people grow opinions—unnecessarily, but with conviction.

We walked together past tapestries depicting weather having arguments with itself. A bell rang somewhere, apologizing. The monster confessed it had once scared a village, but only because the village had asked to be scared. They wanted something to point at. The monster obliged. Hospitality matters.

Outside never appeared, but the window finally showed a small lake inside a teacup, with a boat rowing in circles, convinced it was making progress. The monster smiled, which rearranged the room.

I left the castle lighter. The notebook was full. The sandwich remained offended. Behind me, the spires leaned in, listening, as if the building hoped I’d write it a better ending.