Adventures at Schreckenstein Castle The Dungeon of Schreckenstein Castle

More about Adventures at Schreckenstein Castle The Dungeon of Schreckenstein Castle

The rain had stopped, but the drops still hung heavy on the ivy vines as Elias crept through the old west wing in the twilight. His cat, following him like a shadow, seemed restless—its tail twitched nervously, and it repeatedly sniffed the damp air. Behind a broken door, Elias discovered a stone spiral staircase, half-overgrown with cobwebs, leading down into the depths. A premonition settled on his chest like a heavy blanket of fog: This must be the entrance to the dungeon. He hesitated. And yet—something drew him. Perhaps it was the whisper of the wind coming from the depths. Perhaps it was the premonition that another piece of truth awaited down there. The cat was the first to jump onto the top step, turning toward him, its amber eyes demanding. Elias took a deep breath and followed it. The stairs were narrow and slippery. He felt his way along the damp wall with his hand. The deeper they went, the cooler it became, as if the darkness down here had its own temperature. Finally, the corridor opened into a shallow room with roughly hewn walls, damp stones, and rusty iron rings. In the shadows, remnants of a gruesome past crouched: skeletons, their wrists fastened to the walls with rusty chains. The chains clinked softly in the breeze, as if they were about to stir once more. Elias shivered. He stepped closer, examined the bones, the empty eye sockets. Some skulls still bore traces of old hair. His cat growled deeply—a sound he had never heard from it before. He placed his hand on its back, but it remained frozen. Its eyes stared at a spot in the farthest corner of the room. Something flickered there. Not light, not fire—more like a silvery mist slowly taking shape. And then a figure stood there. Shadowy, pale, barely visible. The outline of an old man with sunken cheeks and a long cloak that seemed to blow in the wind, even though no one was walking. Elias felt his legs tremble, but his gaze remained fixed on the ghost. "You are not like the others," the figure said, his voice like crumbling stone. "You hear the old walls whispering. You see what was meant to remain hidden." Elias swallowed. "Who... who are you?" The ghost approached. Its eyes glowed faintly. "I was the chronicler of this castle. When I discovered what happened in the dungeon, I was locked away with those they never wanted to release. I kept writing—with charcoal on the walls, until my voice fell silent too." Elias looked around. And then he realized: between the stains on the walls, between claw marks and moss, words were carved. Names, dates. Fragments of stories. "And what am I supposed to do?" he asked quietly. "Listen," answered the ghost. "Remember. And write what you saw. For only those who remember can break the silence."