Adventures at Schreckenstein Castle The Gallery of Whispering Frames

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The gallery was a narrow, seemingly endless corridor, its high walls densely hung with old portraits. One picture after another, in heavy frames, gilt or black lacquered, some dusty, some seemingly freshly painted, as if someone had touched them only yesterday. The boy stepped hesitantly over the creaking threshold. Immediately, it fell silent. Unreal quiet. Even the wind, which usually whistled through the cracks, seemed to hold its breath here. He felt the room change. Something had awakened. The portraits stared at him—not just with painted eyes, but with a strange alertness, as if checking who was entering their corridor. Men with pointed beards, women in stiff collars, children with serious gazes and pale cheeks. Some wore clothing spanning centuries, from ruffles to breeches, from sashes to pearl caps. Then the whispering began. At first he thought it was his own breath whispering across the stone floor. But it was more—a whisper like paper twisting in the wind, like voices drifting through a castle of mist. The sounds came from the frames. Not loud, not clear, but they were there. "Do you see him too?" "Another visitor." "Too young. Too alive." "Perhaps it is him." He stepped back. A frame cracked. The picture inside—a man with a weather-beaten face and a curved pipe—blinked. Just once. But it was enough. The boy stopped. "Who are you?" he whispered. A smile spread through the rows of portraits, as if they had been waiting for this very question. A girl with golden curls and a worn pointed collar tore her gaze from the wall. Her painted lips barely moved—and yet her voice was clear. "We are the memories that never wanted to fade. The voices the walls wouldn't let go of. Those who knew too much or couldn't forget enough." He stepped closer. The frames crackled as if they were breathing. One particularly old portrait showed a woman in a midnight-blue dress, holding a key in her hand. The boy could almost feel it—cold, made of iron, with strange indentations. "What do you want from me?" he asked. The whispers became a chorus. "You carry something with you that we lack." "A question." "A memory." "A name." A pull emanated from the pictures, not like a wind, but like thoughts that wanted to flow into his. He closed his eyes. And suddenly he no longer saw the gallery—but stood in an old chamber, looking through strange eyes, hearing strange voices. A woman screamed. A book fell to the floor. And someone said quietly, "Hide it with the Whisperers. Only there will it be safe." Then it was all over. The hallway was silent. The portraits were staring straight ahead again. Only one, at the very back in the corner, had changed. It was empty. No picture, no name—just the frame, open like a door. And within it: a hint of fog. And something flickering like a memory.