Chapter 1 – The Legacy in the Wall

The smell of old wood and mothballs hung heavy in the air as Erik climbed the narrow staircase to the attic. Every step creaked beneath his weight, a protesting groan that echoed through the empty house. Pale afternoon light filtered through the dusty skylight, turning the floating motes of dust into glittering points—tiny stars in a dead galaxy.

His grandmother had died three weeks ago. Peacefully, the doctor had said, in her sleep. Erik had not cried. Not at the funeral, not when the will was read, not even now, as he sifted through the remnants of her life. Perhaps it was distance—they had never been particularly close. Or perhaps it was the way she had died: with a strangely rigid expression on her face, her eyes fixed on the corner of the room, as if she had seen something there that no one else could see.

The attic stretched across the entire length of the old house, a confusing labyrinth of boxes, suitcases, and furniture draped in sheets. Erik had no idea where to begin. The lawyer had told him to look for documents—insurance papers, old contracts, perhaps a few stock certificates. Instead, he found mountains of memories: yellowed photographs of unknown people, his mother’s school reports, a cardboard box filled with hand-knitted baby clothes that smelled of lavender and time.

He worked methodically, opening one box after another, sorting the contents, making notes. After two hours his hands were black with dust, and he had formed three piles: discard, donate, keep. The last was the smallest.

Then he came across the wardrobe.

It stood in the farthest corner, half hidden behind a rolled-up carpet and several boxes of old magazines. Erik almost missed it. It was a narrow, unremarkable piece of furniture made of dark wood, perhaps four feet tall, with a simple door and no lock. The surface was coated in a thick layer of dust, and when Erik touched it, the wood felt strangely warm—warmer than it should have been in this cold room.

He pulled the door open. It resisted at first, the hinges protesting with a high, mournful squeal. Inside hung a few old coat hangers, and on the floor lay a single shoe, its partner long since lost. Erik was about to close the door again when something caught his eye.

The back wall of the wardrobe didn’t sit right.

He knelt down and examined it more closely. The boards protruded slightly in one spot, as if the wood had warped. Erik pressed against it. Nothing happened. He pressed harder—and suddenly something gave way. A soft click, barely audible, and a narrow panel came loose from the wall.

Behind it was a hidden compartment.

Erik’s heart began to race. With trembling fingers he reached inside and pulled out a leather-bound bundle. It was tied with a faded satin ribbon that fell apart at the first touch. The leather was brittle and stained, but he could still make out the embossed initials: E.H.

Elise Hartmann. His great-grandmother.

Carefully, he unfolded the leather. Inside were several items: a small package wrapped in silk paper, a few folded letters, and—his breath caught—a photograph.

It was an old black-and-white photograph, the edges yellowed and brittle. Two young people stood stiffly side by side, formal in the way people posed in photographs of that era. The woman wore a high-necked dark dress, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. The man beside her was tall and slender, with a thick mustache and serious eyes. Both stared directly into the camera without smiling.

Erik recognized them immediately. He had seen a similar photograph downstairs in the living room, in a silver frame on the mantelpiece. His great-grandparents, Elise and Friedrich Hartmann. They had vanished without a trace in the early 1930s. The family had searched for them but never found any clue. Eventually, the searching stopped. Eventually, they became one of those stories told only in hints and half-sentences.

But this photograph was different.

Behind the couple, near the edge of the frame, stood a massive building. A castle—dark and imposing, with pointed towers that rose like fingers into a leaden sky. And there, in one of the tall windows on the top floor, something could be seen. A figure, little more than a shadow, but unmistakable to anyone who looked closely.

Someone had been watching them when the photograph was taken.

Erik turned the photo over. On the back, written in faded ink in a shaky hand, were the words:

Falkenstein Castle, September 1932

And beneath that, barely legible:

We cannot leave. He will not let us.

The words seemed to burn up at him from the paper. Erik stared at them, read them again and again, as if he could change their meaning by sheer force of will. His mouth went dry.

He reached for the letters and unfolded the top one. The paper was brittle, tearing slightly along the creases. The handwriting was the same as on the back of the photograph—his great-grandmother’s.

October 14, 1932

Dearest Mother,

I do not know whether this letter will ever reach you. I have already written three, but Mr. von Falkenstein does not permit any mail to leave the castle without reading it first. This one will be taken by one of the suppliers, who has promised to post it in the city.

It is difficult to explain what is happening here. Friedrich and I thought we had found a good position—the castle is large and magnificent, if somewhat decayed, and the pay is better than anything we could have found in the city. But there are rules here, Mother. So many rules.

We are never allowed to enter the west wing. We must return to our rooms before sunset every evening and lock the doors. We must never walk the corridors at night, no matter what we hear. And we hear so many things, Mother. Footsteps. Voices. Sometimes scratching at our door, as if someone—or something—were trying to get in.

The other servants do not speak of it. They avert their eyes when questions are asked. But I see the fear in their faces. I see how they tremble when the sun goes down.

Friedrich says we should leave. But the contract… We signed it, Mother. Five years of service. And the penalty for leaving early…

The letter broke off there. No signature, no further words. Only a smeared blot of ink at the bottom of the page, as if someone had dropped the pen.

Erik picked up the next letter. His hands were visibly shaking now.

November 2, 1932

Mother,

I write in haste. Friedrich is finally asleep after three nights without rest. Last night something happened. Something terrible.

One of the servants—a young man named Thomas, barely twenty—tried to flee. In the middle of the night he packed his things and crept toward the gate. We heard him scream. Such a scream, Mother. I will never forget it as long as I live.

They found him the next morning. Not far from the gate, curled up like a child. His hair had turned white. Completely white, overnight. He could not speak, could not stand. His eyes… it was as if he had looked into something no human being should ever see.

They took him away. I do not know where.

We hear Him every night now. The master of the castle. He walks through the corridors, his footsteps echoing on the stone. Sometimes he stops outside our door. Sometimes I hear Him breathing—a long, rasping breath, as if it comes from a great depth.

Friedrich says we must endure it. Only four years and eight months left. But, Mother… I do not believe we will survive that long. I do not believe that anyone here…

Again, no ending. Again, that abrupt interruption.

There were three more letters. Erik read them all as the light through the skylight gradually faded and the shadows grew longer. With each letter, the tone became more desperate, the handwriting more illegible. The last was dated January 7, 1933.

I no longer know what is real. The days blur together. Sometimes I believe weeks have passed, but the calendar says it was only a day. The other servants look at me strangely. Friedrich barely speaks anymore. At night he lies awake staring at the ceiling, and I hear him counting. Again and again, softly, like a prayer.

We have seen Him. Or at least… a shadow. A figure that is not fully there. It moves differently than a human. Too fast. Too fluid. And the cold that emanates from it…

I believe we will never leave this castle. I believe we belong here now. Like all the others who came before us.

We hear Him in our bones. He is here, even if you do not see Him.

Forgive us.

That was all.

Erik sat motionless for a long time, the letters in his hands. Outside, it had almost grown dark. The shadows in the attic had thickened, turning into black pools in the corners. He felt something tighten in his chest—not fear, exactly, but something else. A mixture of curiosity and… obligation?

His great-grandparents had not simply vanished. They had been trapped. Somewhere in a place called Falkenstein Castle, which was probably long since ruined and forgotten. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was still standing? What if—

He shook his head. This was absurd. The letters were almost a hundred years old. Everyone who had lived in that castle back then was long dead. This was history, the past, finished.

And yet…

Erik reached for the final object in the bundle—the small package wrapped in silk paper. He unfolded it carefully and found a key. It was made of heavy, blackened iron, intricately decorated with vines and ornaments. Attached to the handle was a small tag, engraved in tiny letters:

West Wing

Erik stared at the key. The west wing. The part of the castle the servants were never allowed to enter. The part his great-grandmother had feared so deeply.

Why had she kept the key? Why had she hidden it here, together with the letters and the photograph?

A cold draft brushed against the back of his neck. Erik spun around, but the attic was empty. The skylight was open only a crack—far too little for a gust of wind like that. And yet… hadn’t he heard something, just for a moment? A whisper, so faint he couldn’t be sure whether it was real or only his imagination?

Come.

No. That was impossible. He was alone. Completely alone.

But as he placed the letters back into the leather bundle, slipped the key into his pocket, and headed for the stairs, he could not shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching him. From the shadows. From the covered mirrors. From the hidden compartment in the wardrobe wall.

Downstairs, he made himself a strong coffee and sat at the kitchen table. The letters lay spread out before him, along with the photograph. He stared at the dark castle in the background, at the shadowy figure in the window.

Falkenstein Castle.

His laptop was still open on the table where he had left it that morning. Erik opened it fully, waited for the screen to light up, and typed the name into the search engine.

The first results were tourist pages about other castles, historical archives, genealogical databases. Nothing relevant. He refined the search, added the year, the region, every detail he could glean from the letters.

And then, on the third page of results, he found something.

A short entry in a regional history forum, posted eight years earlier by someone with the username “Archivar67”:

Looking for information on Falkenstein Castle in the Black Forest, presumably built in the 16th century. Last known owners: the von Falkenstein family. The castle was removed from public records after 1933. Reasons unknown. All map materials blacked out or missing. Research in the state archive revealed systematic gaps. Someone did not want this castle to be found.

There was only one reply, posted two days later by a user named “Waldläufer_M”:

I know the castle. It lies about 40 km northeast of Freudenstadt, deep in the forest. No road has led there for decades. Locals don’t talk about it. When I once asked, an old man only said: “Some places should be left alone. Especially after dark.”

Below that, someone had posted GPS coordinates. Erik copied them into a map application.

The castle lay far from any road, surrounded by dense forest. On the satellite image, there was only a large, dark mass—trees packed so tightly they concealed everything beneath them. But if you looked closely, if you increased the contrast and zoomed in, you could make out faint outlines of structures. Towers. Walls. A building that should not exist—but did.

Erik leaned back. His heart pounded against his ribs. This was insane. Completely insane. He had a job, responsibilities, a life. He couldn’t just drop everything to chase a hundred-year-old secret.

But the key in his pocket felt heavy. So heavy.

And his great-grandmother’s words echoed in his mind.

What if they were still there? Not literally—that was impossible—but their stories, their memories, the truth about what had happened to them? What if he could be the first to find those answers?

Erik closed the laptop. Outside, it was now completely dark. The kitchen lay in shadow, lit only by the weak glow of the streetlamp outside the house. In the window he could see his own reflection—and for a moment, just a fraction of a second, it looked as if someone were standing behind him.

He spun around.

No one.

Of course no one.

But as he climbed the stairs to his makeshift bedroom on the first floor, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was listening. That it was waiting. That it wanted him to go.

And a quiet voice in his head—his own or something else, he couldn’t say—whispered:

Come home, Erik. We’ve been waiting for you.

He would leave tomorrow.

That night, he did not sleep.

Chapter 2 – The Road That Does Not Exist

Erik left the city just after seven in the morning. The sky was leaden, weighed down by thick clouds hanging so low they seemed to swallow the tops of the hills. It had rained during the night, and the streets still glistened with moisture in the pale light.

He carried only a small travel bag—clothes for two, maybe three days, a flashlight, his laptop, a thermos of coffee. And the key. It now lay on the passenger seat, wrapped in the yellowed photograph of his great-grandparents, as if it might guide him.

The first two hours of driving were uneventful. Highway, then federal road, then ever-narrowing country lanes winding through gentle hills and autumn forests. Erik had studied this route several times—first on a map, then on satellite images, finally on Street View, as far as the coverage allowed. But the closer he came to his destination, the less useful technology became.

The GPS coordinates he had found in the forum led him to a small village called Schönwald. The name was a lie. The village consisted of perhaps twenty houses huddled along a single road, as if afraid to venture too far into the surrounding forest. Most of the buildings were old, their façades weathered and blotched. Wooden shutters hung crooked on their hinges. A small church tower rose above the rooftops, the clock in its belfry showing a time that was about twenty minutes off.

Erik parked in front of the only shop that appeared to be open—a small bakery with fogged-up windows. As he stepped out of the car, the cold hit him like a blow. It was noticeably colder here than in the city, and the air smelled different. Of moss and damp wood, and something deeper. Older.

The bakery’s doorbell rang with a metallic clang as he entered. Inside it was warm and smelled of fresh bread, but the woman behind the counter—short, round, in her mid-sixties—froze when she saw him. Her smile stopped halfway.

“Good morning,” Erik said.

She merely nodded, said nothing.

“I’d like two rolls, and…” He hesitated. Should he ask directly? Or would that only arouse suspicion? “And perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for a road to an old castle nearby. Falkenstein Castle.”

The reaction was immediate. The woman stepped back as if he had struck her. Her hand flew to a silver chain around her neck—a cross, Erik noticed, half hidden beneath her blouse.

“We don’t have a castle here,” she said sharply. Her voice had grown thin, brittle.

“But I saw it on the map—”

“There is no castle.” She was louder now, her intensity making Erik instinctively retreat. “There is no road leading there. And even if there were, I wouldn’t tell you where it is.”

“I don’t understand—”

“You should drive home.” Her eyes were moist now, flickering between fear and something that looked almost like pity. “Right now. While it’s still daylight.”

Erik opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the door behind him opened. An old man entered, bent over and leaning on a cane. His face was so deeply wrinkled it looked like a crumpled map. But his eyes were sharp and alert, and they fixed on Erik immediately.

“You’re asking about the castle,” the old man said. It was not a question.

“Mr. Bachmann, please—” The baker sounded panicked.

The old man ignored her. He came closer, his steps slow but deliberate. Erik caught a scent—tobacco and old leather and something medicinal.

“Why do you want to go there?” the man asked.

Erik hesitated. But something in the old man’s eyes—a weariness, perhaps, or a kind of knowing—made him tell the truth.

“My great-grandparents worked there. In the 1930s. They disappeared, and I…” He trailed off. How could he explain what he barely understood himself? “I want to know what happened to them.”

The old man studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.

“Hartmann,” he said. “Elise and Friedrich Hartmann.”

Erik’s heart skipped a beat. “You know—”

“My father knew them. He was a supplier. Brought food to the castle, before…” The man fell silent, his gaze drifting away. “He never spoke about it. But sometimes, at night, I heard him talking in his sleep. The same words, over and over. ‘They stay there. They all stay there.’”

The baker had retreated into a corner, her hands clenched tightly around her chain. She murmured something—perhaps a prayer.

“There is a road,” the old man said. “Or there was one. I don’t know if it’s still passable. Follow the road north for about three kilometers. You’ll see an old wooden shed on the right—or what’s left of it. Behind it begins a forest path. Unmarked. Barely visible. But if you pay attention, you’ll find it.”

“And how far—”

“Two or three kilometers. Maybe more. The forest is dense there. The trees…” He shook his head. “They grow differently there. As if they’re trying to hide something. Or protect it.”

Erik felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Why are you telling me this? The others—”

“Because you’re going anyway.” The old man looked at him intently. “I see it in your eyes. You have the same look as the others who’ve asked about it. Not many. One every few years, perhaps. Historians. Adventurers. Madmen.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “They all come back. Most of them, anyway. But they’re… changed.”

“Changed how?”

The old man didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out—a small, weathered wooden figurine, no larger than a thumb. It depicted a human figure, crudely carved, with a cross around its neck.

“Take this,” he said, pressing it into Erik’s hand. “My father always carried it when he had to go to the castle. He said it helped. I don’t know if that’s true. But…”

Erik closed his fingers around the figurine. It was warm, though it had come from the old man’s pocket. “Thank you.”

The man nodded. Then, more quietly: “When you’re there, after sunset… stay in the light. Always in the light. And if you hear voices—voices you recognize—don’t follow them. No matter what they say.”

Before Erik could reply, the old man had already turned toward the door. He left without another word, without buying the rolls he had presumably come for.

The baker stared at Erik, her eyes wide and wet.

“Please,” she whispered. “Drive away.”

But Erik had already placed money on the counter and was heading for the door.

The wooden shed was still there—barely. Its walls had collapsed, the roof half caved in. Erik parked his car by the roadside and got out. The silence here was even deeper than in the village. No birdsong. No wind. Only the soft dripping of water falling from wet leaves.

He found the forest path exactly where the old man had said it would be. It was little more than a narrow trace between the trees, overgrown with ferns and moss. Branches and fallen limbs blocked the way. But if you looked closely, you could tell that people had once walked here. Perhaps a very long time ago.

Erik hesitated. It was just after ten in the morning, but beneath the dense canopy it was already dim. The trees stood so close together that their crowns arched overhead, forming a natural vault. Only occasional shafts of light broke through, trembling and unsteady.

He thought of the old man’s words. After sunset… stay in the light.

Then he thought of his great-grandparents, of the desperation in Elise’s letters, of the terror she had described.

He went on.

The path was more difficult than he had expected. Roots twisted across it, thick and knotted like snakes. Branches clawed at his clothes. The ground was muddy and slick, and more than once Erik nearly lost his balance. The bag on his shoulder grew heavier with every step.

After about twenty minutes, he stopped to catch his breath. When he looked around, he realized he had no idea where he was. The trees all looked the same—thick, ancient, their bark dark and cracked like old skin. He could no longer see or hear the road. There was only the forest, endless and consuming.

A quiet unease began to grow in his chest. He had brought his phone, but when he pulled it out now, he saw there was no signal. Of course not. Too deep in the forest, too far from civilization.

He went on.

Time lost its meaning. It might have been another hour or three—Erik couldn’t say. The light barely changed, trapped in a perpetual twilight. His legs began to ache, his feet were wet from puddles he hadn’t seen in time.

And then, quite suddenly, the forest opened up.

Erik stopped short. Before him lay a clearing, perhaps a hundred meters across. The grass was tall and untended, threaded with weeds and wildflowers already half withered. At the far end of the clearing, half hidden behind twisted, stunted trees, rose a wall.

A tall, massive stone wall, blackened by age and moisture. And behind it, towering above the treetops, rose the towers.

Erik’s breath caught. It was real. After all the letters, the research, the doubt—it was real.

The castle was larger than in the photograph, more imposing and yet more decayed. The towers rose sharp and irregular into the sky, as if they had tried to escape the earth and frozen halfway. The walls were cracked, ivy climbing the façade like grasping fingers. Many of the windows were broken, their openings gaping black and empty.

But not all of them.

Erik narrowed his eyes. In one of the upper windows—the same one in which a shadow had appeared in the old photograph—he thought he saw movement. Something dark that withdrew as he looked at it.

His heartbeat quickened. The castle was not abandoned. Not completely. Someone—or something—was there.

He crossed the clearing with hesitant steps. The tall grass rustled around his legs. With every meter he drew closer, the unease in his chest intensified. Not fear, not exactly. More a sense of foreboding. The feeling that he was crossing a boundary that should not be crossed.

The wall was even higher than it had appeared from a distance—at least four meters, perhaps five. The gate was made of thick, rusted iron, decorated with ornaments almost erased by time. A heavy padlock hung in the center, old and corroded.

Erik reached out and touched it.

The moment his fingers made contact with the metal, the lock gave way. Not through his strength—it simply fell apart, crumbling into rust and dust, as if it had only been waiting to be touched.

The gate swung open. Slowly, creaking, the hinges screaming in protest. A breath of air flowed out from within the courtyard, cold and stale, like air that had been trapped for decades.

Erik stepped inside.

The courtyard was paved with large, uneven stones, many of them broken or shifted. Weeds grew from the cracks. Along the sides stood the remains of outbuildings—stables perhaps, or storage rooms—their roofs collapsed, their walls smashed as if by a gigantic fist.

Ahead of him rose the main building. A wide staircase led up to a massive entrance portal. The door stood open. Just a crack, but wide enough for Erik to see: someone had been here before him. Recently.

He climbed the stairs. The steps were slick, covered in a layer of moss and something else—something darker he preferred not to examine too closely. His hand closed around the key in his pocket, drawing reassurance from its solid weight.

At the top, he pushed the door open further.

The entrance hall was enormous. High ceilings from which intricately carved beams hung, many of them broken or crooked. A broad staircase led up to a gallery on the upper floor. The walls were draped with the remains of tapestries, shredded and mold-eaten. And over everything lay a layer of dust so thick that Erik’s shoes left clear prints.

But they were not the only prints.

He knelt down and examined the tracks more closely. They were fresh, at most a few days old. Bare feet. Unshod, but the prints were strange—too long, too narrow, the toes splayed as if made by someone who had not worn shoes in a very long time.

Erik straightened. His mouth had gone dry. He tried to call out—“Hello?”—but his voice sounded muffled in the vast space, swallowed by the silence, as if the castle did not want him to be heard.

No answer.

He moved on, following the gallery to the left. Doors lined the corridor, most of them closed, some half open. In one room he saw the remains of furniture—a toppled chair, shards of a mirror, a bed with tattered sheets. In another he discovered stacks of old books, their pages swollen with damp.

And then, at the end of the corridor, he found them.

The servants’ quarters.

He recognized them immediately from Elise’s descriptions. Small rooms, barely larger than cells, with narrow beds and simple dressers. The door to one of the rooms stood open. Erik stepped inside.

The room was surprisingly well preserved. The bed was made, the blanket neatly folded. On the dresser stood a few personal items—a brush, a small mirror, a dish containing what must once have been soap.

And on the bed, carefully laid out, lay a servant’s dress. Dark, high-necked, with a white apron. Exactly like in the photograph.

Erik’s hands trembled as he opened the dresser. Inside were letters. Dozens of them, neatly stacked. All in the same handwriting. Elise’s handwriting.

But that was impossible. The letters he had found were the last ones. She had stopped writing. She had disappeared.

He took the top letter and unfolded it. The paper was not old, not yellowed. It was almost new.

November 16, 2023

Erik’s blood ran cold.

To whom it may concern,

If you are reading this, you are here. You have found us. Or perhaps we have found you. Time works differently here. We no longer know how long we have been here. Decades? Centuries? It feels like both and like neither.

He does not let us leave. He never has. But we live, in a way. We serve, we wait, we exist in the spaces between night and day.

If you are Erik—and we believe you are, because the castle calls only those who belong here—then you should know this: you are one of us. Blood binds. And the blood of the servants of this house flows through your veins.

Go, while you still can. Before the sun sets. Before He sees you.

But if you stay…

Then welcome home.

The letter was unsigned. But at the bottom was a fingerprint, half smeared. In something dark. Something Erik did not want to identify.

He let the letter fall, stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. His heart hammered so loudly it roared in his ears. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. People couldn’t live for a hundred years. People couldn’t—

A sound froze him in place.

Footsteps. Slow, dragging footsteps. From somewhere deeper in the castle. They were coming closer.

Erik turned toward the exit. But someone was standing between him and the door now.

A figure. In the shadows. He couldn’t make out details—the light was too weak, too unstable. But he could see the outline. Slender. Female. A servant’s apron.

“Erik,” the figure said. The voice was soft, brittle, like wind over old paper. “You’ve come.”

He tried to speak, but no words emerged.

The figure stepped forward, into the light.

It was a woman. Old, her face wrinkled and sunken. But her eyes—her eyes were young. Alert. And in them lay a mixture of relief and endless sorrow.

“I’ve waited so long,” she whispered. “All of us have waited.”

And Erik recognized the shape of her face, the line of her jaw. He recognized her from the photograph, hidden beneath a hundred years of suffering.

Elise.

His great-grandmother.

She smiled. “Welcome to Falkenstein Castle.”

Then she turned and walked down the dark corridor, her footsteps silent on the stone.

And after a long, hesitant moment, Erik followed her into the darkness.

Chapter 3 – The Rules of the House

The corridor was long and narrow, the walls so close that Erik could have touched them with outstretched arms. Elise walked ahead of him, her figure little more than a shadow in the darkness. She moved with a strange fluidity, as if she weren’t walking at all but gliding. Her feet made no sound on the stone.

Erik followed, his heart pounding against his ribs. A thousand questions swirled through his mind, but his throat felt tight, constricted. The light grew weaker the deeper they penetrated into the castle. The few windows they passed were small and grimy, letting in only thin shafts of gray light.

They passed several doors, all of them closed. From behind some of them Erik heard sounds—a faint scratching, like fingernails on wood. A whisper, too soft to make out words. Once he thought he heard footsteps above them, heavy and slow, carrying through the ceiling.

Elise did not react. She simply kept going, relentless.

At last they reached a staircase leading downward. Stone steps, worn smooth by time, spiraled into the depths. Elise began to descend without hesitation.

“Wait,” Erik finally managed. His voice sounded rough, unfamiliar. “I don’t understand—how can you—”

She turned around. In the faint light from above, he could see her face more clearly. The wrinkles, the deep shadows beneath her eyes, the papery skin stretched tight over bone. But also the eyes—those unnaturally young eyes that regarded him with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

“How I’m still alive?” she asked quietly. A thin smile played around her lips, but it never reached her eyes. “That’s a complicated question. And the answer… the answer doesn’t please anyone.”

“But you’re over a hundred years old. That’s—”

“Impossible. Yes.” She nodded. “But we are here, Erik. In Falkenstein Castle. Different rules apply here.” She turned back toward the stairs. “Come. The others are waiting.”

“The others?”

“Friedrich. The servants. All those who were forced to stay.” She started down again. “Hurry. It’s better if we’re below before the shadows grow longer.”

Erik hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back. Back to the entrance hall, to the gate, through the forest, back to civilization. But his feet carried him forward. The curiosity that had brought him here was still stronger than the fear. For now.

The staircase was steep and endless. Erik counted the steps—twenty, forty, sixty—before giving up. The air grew colder, damper. He could see his own breath, small clouds dancing before his face before fading away.

Somewhere far above, so distant it might have been imagination, he heard a sound. A long, dragging scrape. As if something heavy were being pulled across the floor.

He quickened his pace.

At last they reached the foot of the stairs. Another corridor opened up, wider than the one above but lower. The ceiling was vaulted, made of roughly hewn stone. Torches burned along the walls—real torches, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows.

“Who lit those?” Erik asked.

Elise didn’t answer.

At the end of the corridor stood a heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron. It was ajar, and warm light spilled out. Erik could hear voices—quiet, murmured, but unmistakably human.

Elise pushed the door open.

The room beyond was some kind of kitchen or common room. A large stone hearth dominated one wall, a kettle hanging over a smoldering fire. A long wooden table stood in the center, surrounded by benches. And at that table sat people.

Four, five—Erik needed a moment to count them. All wore servant’s clothing, simple and dark. All had the same ageless, timeworn appearance as Elise. Faces that looked both young and ancient at once. Eyes that had seen too much.

When Erik entered, the conversations fell silent. Every head turned toward him.

A man stood up—tall, gaunt, with thick hair streaked with gray. He wore a simple vest over a faded shirt. His face was narrow, his cheekbones sharply defined. And Erik recognized him. From the photograph. From the letters.

Friedrich. His great-grandfather.

“Erik,” the man said. His voice was deep, rough, like a door that had not been opened in a very long time. “So you really did come.”

Erik couldn’t speak. He just stared, his mind rebelling against what his eyes were seeing. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be real.

Friedrich stepped closer. He moved stiffly, as if his joints ached, but his eyes were alert, searching. “You look like your grandmother,” he said. “Sophia. Our granddaughter. We’ve… we’ve seen photographs. Sometimes. When visitors came.”

“Visitors?” Erik’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Not many. One every few years. Historians. The curious. They never stay long.” Friedrich smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Most of them flee as soon as the sun goes down. The wiser ones leave earlier.”

“Sit down.” Friedrich gestured to the bench. “You must be hungry. Thirsty. The journey through the forest is exhausting.”

He was. Erik hadn’t eaten since morning, had only drunk the coffee that was long gone and cold. But the thought of eating here, in this room, with these… people? Ghosts?—filled him with unease.

As if she had read his thoughts, Elise laughed softly. “We are not dead, Erik. Not in the usual sense. We eat, we drink, we breathe. We are simply… bound.”

“Bound to what?”

“To Him.” The voice came from a younger woman at the table. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but her eyes betrayed a much greater age. “To the lord of the castle.”

Erik sat down slowly. The bench creaked beneath his weight. Friedrich took the seat opposite him, Elise sat down beside him. The other servants watched him in silence.

“Explain it to me,” Erik said. “From the beginning.”

Friedrich and Elise exchanged a glance. Something unspoken passed between them. Then Friedrich nodded.

“You’ve read the letters,” he began. “You know we were hired as servants here. In 1932. Times were hard, work was scarce. The offer seemed… generous. An isolated castle, strange rules, but good pay. Too good, as we should have known.”

“The lord of the castle,” Elise interrupted. “We never saw him. Not in the first months. He stayed in the west wing, behind locked doors. We only heard… sounds. Footsteps. Sometimes voices. The older servants warned us. Told us to obey the rules. Never walk the corridors at night. Never enter the west wing. Never speak his name.”

“What name?”

“You must never ask that,” the young woman said sharply. “Names have power here.”

Friedrich continued. “We followed the rules. For a while. But then… servants began to disappear. Not many, just one here, one there. And when they returned—if they returned—they were changed. Quiet. Obedient. Their eyes were empty.”

“One of them was Thomas,” Elise said softly. “The boy who tried to flee. They found him the next morning. But he wasn’t dead. He was just… different. He never spoke again. Moved like a marionette. And at night, when the others slept, we heard him wandering the corridors. Always the same route. Always the same steps.”

Erik’s mouth had gone dry. “What happened to him?”

“He became one of His,” Friedrich said. “Those who stay too long in the west wing, who get too close, who look directly at Him—they no longer belong to themselves.”

“And you?”

A long silence followed. The fire crackled in the hearth. Somewhere above them, wood creaked.

“We made a mistake,” Elise said at last. “We wanted to flee. Planned it for weeks. Waited for the right moment. A full-moon night, we thought He would be distracted. We packed our things, crept toward the gate.”

“But He knew,” Friedrich whispered. “He always knew what happened in the castle. We made it to the forest. We thought we’d succeeded. Then…”

He fell silent, and Erik saw his hands clench into fists.

“He brought us back,” Elise finished. “Not physically. We didn’t see Him. But we felt Him. A cold that crawled through our bones. Our legs no longer obeyed us. We were pulled back as if by strings. Step by step, through the forest, through the gate, back into the castle.”

“And after that,” Friedrich said, “we were bound. Truly bound. We can no longer leave the castle grounds. Not by an inch. The gates may stand open, but for us they are closed. If we try to leave, we feel… pain. As if our bodies were dissolving from the inside.”

“But how do you survive?” Erik asked suddenly. “If you can’t leave the grounds—where do you get food? Supplies?”

The servants exchanged glances. It was Ernst who answered.

“Suppliers,” he said. “There is a contract. Very old, dating back to the sixteenth century. Certain families in the region are obligated to supply the castle. Once a month a delivery truck comes. Leaves crates at the gate—flour, canned goods, oil, sometimes fresh meat. They never come inside. They set the goods down and drive away immediately.”

“They’re afraid,” the young woman added. “But the pay is too good to refuse. The money always appears in their mailboxes, on time, in cash. No one knows where it comes from. No one asks.”

“He arranges it,” Elise said quietly. “Somehow. He has connections, means we don’t understand. Wealth that has accumulated over centuries. He makes sure we are provided for. Because He needs us. We maintain the castle, keep it livable. And in return…” She fell silent.

“In return, He feeds on us,” Friedrich finished bitterly.

“But that contract must be void by now,” Erik said. “Something that old can’t still be valid.”

“The families believe it is,” Ernst replied. “And as long as the money keeps coming, as long as no one asks questions… The old man in the village, Mr. Bachmann—his father was one of the suppliers. His family has done it for generations. He knows more than most. That’s why he warned you.”

“And the last few decades?” Erik asked. “The world has changed. Computers, databases, authorities…”

“The castle doesn’t exist,” the young woman said simply. “Not officially. It was erased from all records a long time ago. Maps show only forest. No one pays taxes on it. No one owns it. It’s a ghost.”

“But that’s impossible—”

“Impossible?” Ernst laughed bitterly. “You’re sitting here with people over a hundred years old, talking to you. You were hunted by a vampire. And you’re talking about impossibilities?”

Erik fell silent. Of course he was right.

“But that means,” Erik said slowly, “if the deliveries stopped—”

“We would starve,” Elise said. “Yes. Slowly, perhaps—time works differently here, and so does our metabolism. But eventually, yes. Although…” She hesitated. “I don’t think He would allow that. He would find new suppliers. New ways. He always has.”

“But that was over ninety years ago,” Erik whispered. “How can you still—”

“Live?” Elise smiled bitterly. “We age. Just very, very slowly. One year here is like a month outside. Or that’s how it feels. Time… doesn’t work properly in the castle. Sometimes days are like minutes. Sometimes minutes like days. He controls it. Just as He controls us.”

Erik leaned back, his head spinning. It was too much. Too impossible. And yet the proof sat before him, living and breathing and older than any human measure.

“What is He?” Erik asked. “This… lord of the castle?”

The servants exchanged nervous glances. No one wanted to answer.

At last the young woman spoke. “We don’t know exactly. The oldest servants—the ones who were here when we arrived—called Him by different names. Bloodsucker. Lord of the Night. Immortal. But the word they used most…” She hesitated, lowering her voice. “Vampire.”

The word hung in the air like a curse.

“He lives on blood,” Friedrich continued. “Not often. Maybe once a month, maybe less. But when the hunger comes… He hunts. Through the corridors, through the rooms. We hear Him. We feel Him. And then one of us disappears. For a night. When they return, they are weak. Pale. With wounds on the neck or wrist. But they live. He doesn’t kill us. He needs us.”

“As food,” Erik whispered.

“As servants,” Elise corrected. “He is alone here. Has been for centuries. He needs someone to care for the castle. To keep the fire burning. To… provide company, in a way. We are his household. His prisoners. His family.”

Erik felt nausea rise. “And now I’m here.”

“Now you’re here,” Friedrich confirmed. He leaned forward, his eyes intense. “And you must leave, Erik. Immediately. While it’s still light. While He sleeps.”

“He sleeps?”

“During the day. Mostly.” Elise looked up at the ceiling, as if she could see through the floors into the west wing. “But when the sun sets… He wakes. And if He smells you, your fresh blood, your youth…” She shuddered. “He will not let you go. Just as He did not let us go.”

“We left the messages,” Friedrich said. “The letters. The photograph. Hoping someone would find them. That someone would be warned. But you came anyway.”

“I had to,” Erik said. “I had to know—”

“And now you do.” Friedrich stood. “So go. Before it’s too late.”

Erik stood as well, his legs unsteady. “What about you? Can’t I—”

“Help us?” Elise laughed, a hollow, desperate sound. “We are lost, Erik. Have been for decades. But you aren’t. Not yet.”

One of the other servants—an older man with a white beard—spoke for the first time. “There is a way,” he said slowly. His voice sounded like broken glass. “Theoretically. To break the binding.”

Everyone stared at him.

“Ernst,” Friedrich warned. “Don’t tell him.”

“He has a right to know,” the old man insisted. “If someone could kill the lord—truly kill him, not just wound him—the binding would break. We would be free.”

“That’s impossible,” the young woman said. “Dozens have tried. Over the centuries. Hunters. Priests. Madmen. All of them failed.”

“Because they didn’t know where to look,” Ernst replied. “But if someone could enter the west wing. If someone could find His lair while He sleeps—”

“You’re talking about suicide,” Elise hissed.

“I’m talking about a chance.” Ernst looked at Erik. “You have the key, don’t you? We saw you in the entrance hall. You have something in your pocket. Something that belongs here.”

Erik’s hand moved instinctively to his pocket, where the iron key lay. How had they—

“We can feel it,” Ernst explained. “Objects that belong to Him. They carry His essence. And that key… it opens the door to the west wing, doesn’t it?”

Erik nodded slowly.

“Then you have a choice,” Ernst said. “Run. Now. And live with the knowledge that we will remain here forever. Or…” He leaned back. “Or try to free us all.”

“That’s madness,” Friedrich said sharply. “He’s a boy. He has no weapons, no experience. He wouldn’t survive five minutes in the west wing.”

“Perhaps,” Ernst agreed. “Or perhaps not. Sometimes fate favors the ignorant.”

Erik looked from one to the other. His head throbbed. An hour ago he hadn’t even known if the castle was real. Now he stood here, surrounded by his impossible ancestors, discussing the murder of a vampire.

“How much time do I have?” he asked.

Elise looked toward a narrow slit of a window high up in the wall. The light filtering through was gray and weak.

“Two hours,” she said. “Maybe three. Then it will be dark. And then…” She swallowed. “Then He will wake.”

Erik nodded slowly. He felt the weight of the key in his pocket. The weight of the decision.

“Show me the way,” he said. “To the west wing.”

“Erik, no—” Friedrich began.

“Show me,” Erik repeated, his voice firmer this time. “I didn’t come here to run.”

The servants looked at him. In their eyes was a mixture of hope and despair and something else—pity, perhaps.

At last Ernst stood. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you. But what happens after that…” He shook his head. “That’s up to you. And to Him.”

They left the common room and climbed the spiral staircase again. The shadows had grown longer; Erik noticed it immediately. The light coming through the windows was redder, weaker. The sun was nearing the horizon.

They returned to the entrance hall, then continued through a side wing Erik hadn’t seen before. The corridors here were more ornate—tattered tapestries still hung on the walls, paintings of long-dead nobles stared from their frames. But the cold was stronger too. The air felt thick, heavy, as if resisting their presence.

Ernst stopped before a massive double door. It was made of dark wood, adorned with carvings Erik couldn’t fully make out in the dim light. But he thought he saw faces. Screaming faces.

“Beyond this,” Ernst said quietly, “begins the west wing. None of us has been in there. Not since… well, not for a very long time. Whatever you find there…” He shuddered. “Be careful. Stay in the light if you can. And if you hear voices—voices that sound familiar—don’t believe them.”

“What do you mean?”

“He plays with minds,” Ernst explained. “He can imitate voices. Manipulate memories. You will see things that aren’t real. Or perhaps they are real, but not in the way you think. Don’t trust your senses.”

Erik nodded, though he only half understood.

Ernst reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. “Holy water,” he said. “It might help. It might not. But it’s all we have.”

Erik took the bottle. It was warm—warmer than it should have been.

“And this.” Ernst handed him a second bottle, this one metal. “Oil. For a torch. There are brackets in the corridors. Without light, you’re lost.”

“Thank you,” Erik murmured.

Ernst placed a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Your great-grandparents,” he said, “they were good people. They didn’t deserve what happened to them. None of us did.” His eyes grew moist. “If you succeed… if you find Him… don’t hesitate. No matter what He says, no matter what He promises—do it.”

Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the empty corridor until they vanished into nothing.

Erik stood alone before the door to the west wing.

He took the key from his pocket. In the faint light the iron gleamed dark, almost black. The ornaments seemed to move as he turned it, but that was surely just exhaustion, fear.

The lock in the door was old, rusted. But when Erik slid the key into it, it went in smoothly, as if it had been used only yesterday.

He turned it.

A click. Then a deep, resonant sound, as if mechanisms deep within the walls were coming to life. The door shuddered.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, it swung open.

Cold air struck Erik. Not just cold—icy. As if stepping into a winter forest. His breath condensed into thick clouds before his face.

Beyond the door lay darkness. Complete, absolute darkness. No window, no light, nothing. Just a yawning void waiting for him.

Erik took one of the torches from the wall beside him, poured oil over it, lit it with the lighter he still had in his pocket. The flame flared, casting trembling shadows.

He held it out in front of him and stepped across the threshold.

The door slammed shut behind him.

And in the silence that followed, he heard it.

Deep in the west wing, somewhere in the darkness.

Breathing.

Slow. Steady. Ancient.

He waited.

Chapter 4 – In the Realm of Shadows

The torch in Erik’s hand cast a weak circle of light, barely reaching three meters ahead. Beyond it lay only blackness—not merely the absence of light, but something more substantial. Something that felt as though it could swallow him whole.

The breathing was still there. Deep. Steady. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once, echoing through the walls, the floor, the air itself. Erik felt it vibrate in his bones, as if it were trying to overwrite his own heartbeat.

He forced himself to take a step forward. Then another.

The corridor was wider than the others in the castle. The walls were made of dark marble, smooth and glossy like black ice. Remnants of chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals long shattered and fallen. A thick, dark carpet covered the floor, muffling his footsteps. Erik couldn’t tell whether it had once been red—or whether it was stained with dried blood.

He went on. The torch trembled in his hand, and he realized that he was trembling too. The cold was penetrating, creeping beneath his clothes and into his skin. His fingers went numb. His breath came in short, panicked bursts.

After about twenty meters, he reached an intersection. Three corridors branched off—left, right, and straight ahead. All equally dark. All equally threatening. Erik raised the torch into each one, searching for a sign, a clue, a direction.

Then he saw it.

On the floor of the left corridor. Marks.

Not footprints. Scratches. Long, deep gouges in the wooden parquet, as if something heavy—something with claws—had been dragged along the floor. The marks led deeper into the darkness.

Every instinct screamed at him not to follow them. But where else could he go? If the vampire was there, then he had to find him. It was the only way.

He turned left.

The corridor narrowed. The walls pressed closer together, the ceiling sank lower. Erik had to duck to avoid hitting the beams. The scratch marks grew deeper, more numerous. In one place the wall itself was torn open, as if something had struck the plaster with immense force.

Then, suddenly, the corridor opened into a large chamber.

Erik stopped and raised the torch higher.

It was some kind of audience hall. Tall and expansive, with a vaulted ceiling and columns rising from the floor like petrified giants. More paintings hung on the walls—but these were different from those elsewhere in the castle. They did not depict nobles or landscapes.

They depicted… scenes.

Erik stepped closer to one. His stomach churned.

The painting showed people. Dozens of them. Some knelt, others lay on the ground. Towering above them—monstrous and dominant—stood a figure. Tall. Dark. Its face hidden in shadow. But the eyes were visible. Red eyes, glowing as if they burned straight out of the canvas.

And on every human throat: bite marks.

Erik stumbled back. His foot struck something. He looked down.

Bones.

A whole pile of them. Small bones, like those of animals—rats, perhaps, or birds. But among them lay larger ones. Longer ones.

Human.

He swallowed the urge to retch and forced himself onward. On the far side of the hall stood another door, smaller, half concealed behind a heavy curtain. The fabric was torn, hanging in ragged strips.

Erik pushed it aside and stepped through.

The room beyond was small. Almost intimate. A bedroom, Erik realized. A massive four-poster bed stood against the back wall, its curtains drawn. Beside it stood a desk, covered in papers and books. A tall mirror stood in the corner, but its glass was shattered, leaving only sharp shards in the frame.

Erik approached the desk. The books were old, leather-bound, swollen with age and damp. Some were written in languages he didn’t recognize—Latin, perhaps, or something older. But one lay open, its pages filled with tight, flowing handwriting.

A diary.

Erik set the torch on the desk and began to read.

---

March 3, 1847

The craving grows stronger. I once could wait months between feedings. Now it is weeks. Sometimes days. Hunger is a living thing within me, hollowing me out from the inside. I feel my control slipping.

The servants fear me. Good. Fear keeps them obedient. But I also see the despair in their eyes—the knowledge that they will never escape. That they belong to me, as everything within these walls belongs to me.

Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. Immortality. Eternal life. What good is existing forever if one can exist only in darkness? When sunlight becomes the enemy, when every heartbeat one hears is merely a reminder of what was lost?

But then the hunger returns, and I remember. I am no longer human. I am more. And less. I am what remains when humanity dies.

---

Erik turned the page. The next entries were shorter, more hurried.

---

August 12, 1902

A new servant today. Hartmann, his name. With his wife. They are young, full of hope. They will learn. They all do, sooner or later.

I have watched them through the walls. He is strong; she is clever. They may be useful. For a time.

---

Erik’s breath caught. Hartmann. His great-grandparents.

He flipped through the pages, searching for more mentions. The entries grew disjointed, skipping years.

---

January 7, 1933

The Hartmanns attempted to flee. How predictable. Like all the others before them. I brought them back. It was… satisfying. The way they screamed. The way their hope broke. They belong to me now. Truly belong to me. Their blood carries my essence. They will never be free again.

---

Erik clenched his fists. Rage boiled inside him, hot and violent. This… thing had enslaved his family, turned them into living prisoners, had—

A creak. Soft, but unmistakable.

Behind him.

From the bed.

Erik spun around, grabbed the torch. Light danced across the curtains of the four-poster bed. They were moving. Just slightly, as if stirred by a draft.

But there was no draft. No open windows. No door.

“Is someone there?” Erik whispered. His voice sounded thin. Fragile.

The curtains continued to sway.

He forced his feet to move. Step by step, he approached the bed. He held the torch out like a weapon, as though fire might protect him from whatever lurked there.

He reached the curtains. Grasped the fabric with trembling fingers.

And tore them aside.

The bed was empty.

No figure. No body. Just rumpled sheets, coated in thick dust. And in the center, pressed into the fabric, the outline of a body—as if someone had been lying there moments ago.

Erik staggered back. His heart hammered so loudly it roared in his ears. The breathing he had heard earlier was gone. The silence was almost worse.

Then he heard it.

Behind him.

A whisper.

“Erik.”

His own voice. Or an imitation of it. So close he felt breath on the back of his neck.

Nothing. Just the empty room, the shadows cast by the torch.

“Erik.” Again. This time from the left. No—from the right. From everywhere.

“Show yourself,” Erik forced out. “I know you’re here.”

A laugh. Soft, almost affectionate. It seemed to come from the walls themselves.

“So brave,” the voice said. Not his now. Deeper. Older. With an accent Erik couldn’t place. “So foolish.”

A shadow moved at the edge of the light—barely visible. Human-shaped, but too large, too long. Its arms hung lower than they should have, its fingers almost scraping the floor.

“You are in my home,” the voice said. “Uninvited. Unbidden. And yet… expected.”

“Expected?” Erik managed.

“Of course.” The shadow glided closer—not walking, not moving as a human would, but sliding. “I felt your arrival. The fresh blood in your veins. The youth radiating from you. It was… intoxicating.”

Erik raised the torch higher. The light reached the shadow, but it did not dissolve. It remained just outside the full glow, a silhouette that never quite took form.

“Who are you?” Erik asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I?” Another laugh. “I am the lord of this castle. The keeper of these halls. The drinker, the taker, the eternal. I have many names. But for you…”
The shadow leaned closer, and Erik could now make out details: a pale hand, fingers long and spindly; a partially revealed face—a high brow, sharp cheekbones, and eyes glowing like embers in the dark.

“For you,” the voice continued, “I am your curse. Your undoing. Just as I was for your ancestors.”

“You enslaved them,” Erik said. Rage overwhelmed his fear. “You stole their lives.”

“Stole?” The shadow laughed again. “I gave them a gift. Immortality. Eternity. They will never die as long as this castle stands. Is that not what all humans desire?”

“They are prisoners.”

“All humans are prisoners,” the voice replied. “Trapped in mortal bodies, in fear of death. I merely moved them from one prison to another. One I control.”

Erik’s grip tightened on the torch. “I will kill you,” he said. His voice trembled, but the words came anyway. “I will free them.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then the room exploded into motion.

The shadow surged forward, impossibly fast. Erik had no time to react. Something struck the torch from his hand; it flew through the air and smashed against the wall. The flame went out.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Erik stumbled backward, his hands flailing blindly. He hit the desk; books fell, crashing to the floor. He heard the breathing again—now right beside him. Felt cold envelop him, as if the air itself were freezing.

“Kill me?” the voice whispered directly into his ear. “Many have tried, Erik. All have failed. Do you know why?”

Erik couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe.

“Because I am not a simple monster. I am part of this castle. And the castle is part of me. As long as these walls stand, I cannot die. Every stone, every beam, every shadow—everything belongs to me.”

Something touched Erik’s face. Cold. Rough, like sandpaper. Fingers—he recognized them—the long, thin fingers he had seen before. They slid along his cheek, his jaw, his throat. Searching for his pulse.

“So delicate,” the voice murmured. “So warm. It would be so easy to take you now. To taste your blood. To make you one of mine.”

Erik’s hand closed around something. The bottle. The holy water Ernst had given him. With shaking fingers, he twisted off the cap and hurled the contents toward the voice.

A hiss. A scream—not human, more like metal scraping against stone. The touch on his throat vanished. Erik lurched forward, tripped, fell.

Light. He needed light.

His hands searched the floor, found the torch. He pulled the lighter from his pocket, his hands shaking so badly he dropped it twice before managing to hold it.

A spark. Then another.

The flame caught.

Light flared, illuminating the room.

Empty.

The shadow was gone. The room was as it had been before—still. Dead. Only Erik’s ragged breathing broke the silence.

But on the floor, where he had thrown the holy water, was a mark. Burned into the wooden boards, still smoking. The outline of a hand. An inhuman hand—fingers too long, claws too sharp.

Erik struggled to his feet, his legs barely able to support him. He had to get out. Had to go back. Back to the servants, to the living, to the light.

He stumbled to the door, tore it open, ran through the audience hall. The paintings on the walls seemed to follow him with their gaze; the red eyes in the canvases tracked his every movement.

He reached the corridor, followed the scratch marks back. His lungs burned; his heart threatened to burst from his chest.

Behind him, he heard it.

The breathing.

Closer now. Faster.

He was being hunted.

Erik ran faster. The torch in his hand wobbled wildly, casting mad shadows on the walls. The intersection appeared ahead, then the main corridor.

The double doors.

He could see them. Still open, just as he had left them.

He hurled himself through, slammed the doors shut behind him, leaned against them. His whole body shook. Sweat streamed down his face, mingling with tears he hadn’t realized he was crying.

For a long moment he just stood there, breathing, trying to calm his pounding heart.

From the other side of the door—

A slow, methodical scratching. As if claws were being dragged across the wood. Up and down. Up and down.

And then, so softly Erik thought he imagined it:

“Run along, little Hartmann. The game has only just begun.”

Erik pushed himself away from the door, stumbled backward. The torch slipped from his hand and rolled across the floor. He turned and ran.

Through corridors, down staircases, back to the common room. The door stood open. Light and warmth spilled out.

He burst inside.

The servants were still seated at the table. They raised their heads as he entered. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide.

Elise stood. “Erik,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

He couldn’t answer. He collapsed onto a bench, his whole body shaking.

Friedrich approached, laid a hand on his shoulder. “You were in there,” he said. It was not a question. “You met Him.”

Erik nodded.

“And you’re still alive.” Ernst sounded almost astonished. “That is… remarkable.”

“He didn’t want to kill me,” Erik managed. His voice was hoarse. “He said… it was a game.”

The servants exchanged grim looks.

“He always plays,” the young woman said softly. “He hunts. He torments. And in the end…” She fell silent.

“In the end, He takes you,” Elise finished. “Just as He took all of us.”

Erik looked toward the window. The light outside had nearly vanished. The sky had shifted from gray to a deep, dark violet.

The sun was setting.

“It’s time,” Friedrich said. “We must go to our rooms. Lock the doors. And pray that He is not hungry tonight.”

“What about me?” Erik asked.

“You stay here with us,” Elise said, gesturing to a small chamber beside the common room. “There. There’s a bed, a door with a strong bolt. It isn’t much, but—”

“But it’s better than out there,” Ernst said. “If He’s truly awake, if He’s hunting… you don’t want to be in the corridors.”

Erik followed them into the chamber. It was small, sparsely furnished. A narrow bed, a washbasin, a single candle on a table.

“Don’t extinguish the light,” Friedrich warned. “He doesn’t fear fire, but it slows Him. At least gives you a warning.”

“And if I hear noises?” Erik asked.

“Ignore them,” Elise said firmly. “No matter what you hear. Voices. Screams. Knocking. Do not respond. Do not open the door. He’s trying to lure you out.”

They left him. Erik slid the bolt into place, checked it twice. Then he sat on the bed, staring at the candle.

The silence of the castle settled over him like a heavy blanket.

And then, far away, he heard it.

Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy footsteps.

They drew closer.

Erik did not blow out the candle. He did not move. He barely dared to breathe.

The footsteps approached. Stopped outside his door.

Silence.

Then a soft scratching sound. Like fingernails on wood.

“Erik,” a voice whispered. His grandmother’s voice. Or at least it sounded like it. “Please. Let me in. I’m scared. He’s coming.”

Erik clenched his fists, pressed them to his ears. But the voice pierced through.

“Erik, please. It’s cold out here. So cold. I need you.”

Tears streamed down his face. But he did not move. Ernst had warned him. Do not trust the voices.

The knocking grew harder. More desperate.

“FELIX!”

Then, abruptly, silence.

The footsteps retreated. Faded. Vanished.

Erik sat on the bed, his entire body taut, ready to flee, to fight, to scream.

But nothing happened.

The night stretched on endlessly.

And Erik waited for morning.

“JONAS!”

Chapter 5 – The Light That Does Not Save

Morning did not come as expected. There was no sudden sunrise, no redeeming light pouring through the windows. Instead, the darkness merely grew less absolute, shifting slowly from black to gray, from gray to a dirty, pallid twilight.

Erik had not slept. He could not sleep. He had spent the entire night sitting on the bed, his back pressed against the wall, his eyes fixed on the door. The candle had nearly burned down—nothing but a waxy stub drowning in a puddle of melted wax.

The noises had stopped around midnight. Or what he assumed was midnight—without a clock, without natural light, it was impossible to tell. The footsteps, the scratching, the voices—everything had fallen silent, as though the castle itself had been holding its breath.

But the silence had almost been worse. Within it, Erik heard every creak of the ancient building, every sigh of the walls, every distant drip of water. And in every sound, he felt a presence. The certainty that something out there was waiting. Watching.

Now, in the gray morning light, he dared to stand. His legs were stiff, his shoulders aching. He went to the door, pressed his ear against the wood. Listened.

Nothing.

With trembling fingers, he slid back the bolt. Opened the door a crack.

The common room was empty. The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers. The table was tidied, the benches neatly in place. As if nothing had happened.

Erik stepped out. The stone floor was cold beneath his feet—he had forgotten to take off his shoes. Had not thought of it. Had thought only of survival.

“You made it through.”

Erik spun around. Elise stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a bowl in her hands. She looked tired, even paler than yesterday, the shadows beneath her eyes deeper. But she smiled—a faint, sad smile.

“The first night is always the worst,” she said. “You don’t know what to expect. The fear… it eats you alive.”

“He was here,” Erik said. His voice was hoarse from not speaking. “Outside my door. He used your voice.”

Elise’s smile faded. “He does that often. He knows us all so well. Our voices, our faces, our fears. He plays with them.”

She set the bowl on the table. “Come. Eat something. You need your strength.”

Erik sat down. The bowl contained some kind of porridge, along with a piece of hard bread. It did not look appetizing, but his stomach growled. How long had it been since he’d eaten? Yesterday morning? Longer?

He ate mechanically, barely tasting anything. Elise sat across from him, watching him with her old-young eyes.

“You went into the west wing,” she said at last. “Ernst told me. You met Him.”

“And He let you live.” She leaned back. “That means He’s interested in you. That is… complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Sometimes He kills immediately. Those who don’t please Him, who have nothing to offer. Others… He keeps. Plays with them. Breaks them slowly.” She met his gaze. “And then there are those He transforms. Those He makes His own.”

“Like Thomas,” Erik murmured.

“Like Thomas. And like many others before and after him.” Elise folded her hands on the table. “You must leave today, Erik. Now. While He sleeps. Pack your things, go through the gate, and don’t look back.”

“But you—”

“We are lost. We’ve told you that already. But you are not. Not yet.” Her voice grew urgent. “One more night here, and He will grow stronger. His bond with you will tighten. And at some point—maybe the third night, maybe the tenth—you won’t be able to leave anymore. Just like us.”

Erik set the spoon down. “He said He was part of the castle. That He couldn’t be killed as long as these walls stand.”

“He always says that.” Friedrich stepped out of one of the side rooms, followed by Ernst and the other servants. All of them looked exhausted, as though they too had not slept. “But the question is: is it true?”

“You think it might be a lie?” Erik asked.

“I think vampires lie,” Ernst said. He sat down, leaning heavily on his cane. “It’s their nature. Deception. Manipulation. Why should we assume He’s telling the truth?”

“But if it is true,” the young woman said—Erik still hadn’t learned her name—“then any attempt to kill Him is pointless. Then we can only destroy the castle.”

“Destroy the castle,” Friedrich repeated slowly. “That would mean… burning it down.”

“Or tearing down the walls,” Ernst said. “Or both.”

“But how?” Erik looked around. “It’s enormous. Stone. It would take days—weeks—to cause enough damage.”

“Not necessarily.” Ernst stood and went to a cabinet in the corner. He opened it, rummaged inside, and finally pulled out a yellowed plan. He spread it on the table.

It was a blueprint of the castle. Detailed, showing every wing, every floor. Erik leaned over it, trying to decipher the lines and notes.

“Here,” Ernst said, pointing to a central point. “The main tower. The oldest part of the castle. Everything else was built around it later. If that tower falls, the structure of the entire building becomes unstable.”

“And how are we supposed to bring down a tower?” the young woman asked skeptically.

“Fire,” Ernst said simply. “The beams inside are wood. Centuries old. Dry as tinder. If you set a fire at the right angle, ignite the right support beams… the tower will collapse in on itself. And with it, half the castle.”

“And we would be inside,” Elise said quietly. “We can’t leave the grounds, remember? If the castle falls, we fall with it.”

Silence settled over the room. The servants looked at one another, their gazes filled with a mix of hope and resignation.

“Perhaps,” Friedrich said at last, “that’s a price worth paying. To finally rest. To truly die, instead of being trapped in this half-life.”

“Speak for yourself,” the young woman hissed. “I’m not ready to die.”

“You already died,” Ernst replied calmly. “All of us did. The moment we were bound here, our real lives ended. What we have now… is only an echo.”

Erik looked at them. These people—his family, strangers, fellow sufferers. Trapped in a nightmare that had lasted decades, centuries.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

Every head turned toward him.

“I’ll set the tower on fire,” Erik continued. His voice grew steadier, more resolute. “Today. Now. While He sleeps.”

“Erik, no—” Elise began.

“You can’t leave. But I can. If I set the fire and then flee—if I make sure you can all get out once the flames are high enough, when He’s too distracted to stop you—”

“It won’t work,” Friedrich interrupted. “His bond to us is too strong. Even if the castle burns, even if He dies, the bond might remain. We could be trapped here—in the ruins—forever.”

“Or,” Ernst said, “the bond could break with His death. We don’t know. We’ve never tried.”

“Because it would be suicide,” the young woman said.

“We’re already dead,” Ernst repeated. “What do we have to lose?”

Erik grabbed the blueprint and studied it more closely. “Where exactly in the tower? Which level?”

Ernst pointed to a spot about halfway up. “There. The great hall. It spans two floors, the ceiling supported by six main beams. If they burn—if the ceiling collapses—the entire tower will follow.”

“How do I get there?”

“Through the west wing,” Friedrich said tensely. “The great hall lies directly beyond it. You’d have to go through His territory.”

“I managed once,” Erik said. “I can do it again.”

“The first time, you surprised Him,” Elise said. “This time, He’ll be waiting.”

“Not necessarily.” Ernst folded the plan. “He sleeps during the day. Deeply. The sun weakens Him, even if it doesn’t reach the castle directly. If you’re fast—careful—you might succeed.”

Erik nodded. A strange calm had settled over him. The fear was still there, deep inside, but it was overshadowed by determination. By the knowledge that this was the only way.

“I need oil,” he said. “A lot of it. And something to light it.”

“We have lamp oil,” Friedrich said. “Barrels of it in the cellar. For the torches, the lamps. It’s old, but it burns.”

“Good.” Erik stood. “Show me.”

They led him deeper down, into cellars even lower and colder than the common room. Between decayed supplies and rusted tools stood several barrels, marked with faded writing. One of them was half full of an oily, amber-colored liquid.

“That should do,” Ernst said. He helped Erik lift the barrel onto a small cart. “But be careful. If you use too much at once, the explosion will kill you.”

“Better than what He’d do to me,” Erik muttered.

They brought the cart back upstairs, through the winding corridors. Erik’s heart pounded with every step. He tried not to think about what lay ahead. About the darkness of the west wing. About the voice that had whispered in his ear. About the cold fingers on his skin.

They reached the double doors. They were still ajar, just as Erik had left them. No sound came from the other side. No movement.

“He’s in there,” Elise whispered. “Somewhere. Sleeping. But His sleep is not like ours. He can… sense things. Disturbances.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Erik said.

Friedrich placed a hand on his shoulder. For the first time, his great-grandfather truly touched him, and Erik felt how thin the skin was, how cold the fingers. How much this man—these people—had suffered.

“If you don’t make it,” Friedrich said, “if He catches you… don’t try to fight. Run. Come back to us. We’ll protect you as best we can.”

Erik nodded. He wanted to say something—something meaningful—but the words stuck in his throat. So he simply pushed the door open and pulled the cart through.

The cold hit him immediately. Worse than yesterday. As though the air itself were trying to push him back. Erik lit a torch and held it high.

The corridor was empty. But the scratch marks were still there—deeper now, as though something had raged here during the night.

Erik began to walk. Slowly. Carefully. The cart squeaked softly with every step, and he flinched each time. But nothing stirred. No shadows leapt out. No voices called his name.

He followed the plan in his head. Left at the intersection. Then straight ahead, through the audience hall with the terrible paintings. Then another door, narrower, almost hidden behind a tattered tapestry.

He found it. Pushed it open.

Behind it lay a staircase. Spiral-shaped, winding upward. The steps were stone, worn smooth. Erik began to climb, dragging the cart behind him. It was arduous—the barrel heavy, the wheels catching on every uneven edge.

But he kept climbing.

One floor. Two. Three.

The air grew thinner, dustier. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, so thick they looked like curtains. Erik had to burn them away with the torch to keep going.

And then, after the fourth floor, the staircase opened into a large room.

The great hall.

Erik stopped and exhaled.

The hall was enormous. High ceilings supported by massive wooden beams carved with intricate designs. Rusted armor, broken weapons, faded banners hung on the walls. In the center of the room stood a long table, fallen and shattered, as though someone had smashed it apart with immense force.

And everywhere—on the floor, the walls, the ceiling—bloodstains.

Old stains, long dried, but unmistakable. So many Erik couldn’t count them. How many people had died here? How many had He brought here to… what? Feed? Play? Kill?

Erik forced himself onward. He rolled the cart to the center of the hall, beneath one of the largest beams. Then he began to pour the oil.

It flowed slowly, viscous, spreading across the floor. Erik worked methodically, pouring a line along the walls, around the beams, over the shattered furniture. The smell was overwhelming—sharp, stinging, making his eyes water.

When the barrel was half empty, he heard it.

A heartbeat.

No—not a heartbeat. Too slow. Too irregular. But a rhythmic pounding that vibrated through the floor. Coming from below. From the depths of the tower.

Erik froze. Listened.

The pounding grew louder. Closer.

He was waking.

“Shit,” Erik whispered. He poured out the remaining oil, now in haste, the liquid splashing over his hands, his clothes. Then he shoved the empty barrel aside and grabbed the torch.

The pounding turned into footsteps. Heavy, dragging footsteps. They were coming up the staircase Erik had just climbed.

He couldn’t go back. The only way was forward—to a small window he could see at the far end of the hall. Or…

Or he ended it now.

Erik threw the torch.

It landed in the middle of the oil.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the world exploded into flame.

Fire raced across the floor, climbed the walls, leapt from beam to beam. The heat was instantly overwhelming, forcing Erik back. He heard wood crack, the fire roar like a living thing.

The footsteps on the stairs stopped.

Then a scream. Not human. Furious. Pain and rage fused into a sound that made Erik’s bones vibrate.

He ran. Across the burning floor, through the flames, toward the window. It was barred—rusted but solid. Erik yanked at the bars, but they wouldn’t budge.

Behind him, something exploded. A beam splitting under the heat. Flames shot toward the ceiling, devouring the ancient wood.

Erik turned around.

And saw Him.

In the doorway. Half hidden by smoke and flame. But clear enough.

The figure was tall. Too tall. The proportions were wrong—the arms too long, the head too narrow. The clothing was torn, hanging in tatters from an emaciated body. And the face—

Erik couldn’t look at it directly. His mind refused to process the details. Only impressions remained: Pale skin stretched tight over bone. Eyes glowing red in the firelight. A mouth opened too wide, full of teeth that were too sharp, too many.

“You,” the figure said. The voice was the same as in the night. But now distorted. Furious. “You dare.”

He stepped through the flames. They didn’t seem to harm Him—licked at His clothes, His skin, but did not burn. He came closer, slowly, savoring it.

“I will make you suffer for this,” He said. “Decades. Centuries. You will wish I had simply killed you.”

Erik pressed himself against the wall. There was no escape. Flames blocked every path. The figure came closer. Erik could see Him more clearly now—details he didn’t want to see. The unnatural way He moved. The claws at His fingertips. The—

A creak. Loud. From above.

Erik looked up.

The ceiling. The beams. They were all burning now—orange and black and white-hot. And one of them—the largest, the central one—was cracking.

The figure noticed too. Stopped. Looked up.

“No,” He whispered.

The beam broke.

It fell—a massive, burning trunk—directly onto the figure. A scream rang out, piercing, inhuman, before it was drowned out by the thunder of impact.

Dust and smoke exploded in all directions. Erik couldn’t see, could barely breathe. He stumbled aside, away from where the figure had been.

The ceiling continued to collapse. More beams fell. Stones broke loose from the walls. The entire tower trembled.

Erik found an opening. Not the window, but a crack in the wall where a stone had fallen out. He squeezed through, scraping his hands on the rough rock.

He fell.

Only a few meters, onto a lower roof. His ankle twisted, pain shooting through his leg. But he stood, limped onward, across the roof, toward another opening.

Behind him, the tower began to fall. Slowly at first, then faster. Erik could hear it—the rumble and crash of breaking stone and wood.

He found a staircase. Ran down. One floor. Two. The walls shook around him. Plaster rained from the ceiling.

Onward. Always onward.

He reached the courtyard. Stumbled outside into the gray daylight.

Turned around.

The tower fell. Majestic. Terrible. Like a felled tree. It tipped sideways, tearing parts of the adjacent walls with it. Dust rose—a massive cloud swallowing half the courtyard.

And then, with one final, tremendous crash, the tower hit the ground.

The shock knocked Erik off his feet. He landed hard, tasting blood.

For a long moment, everything was still.

Then he heard shouts. Voices. The servants came running out of the main entrance, their faces filled with shock and hope and fear.

“Erik!” Elise reached him first, dropping to her knees beside him. “You’re alive. Oh God, you’re alive.”

“The tower,” Erik gasped. “Is He—”

“We don’t know,” Friedrich said. He stood there, staring at the ruins. “But if anything could kill Him, that would.”

Ernst stepped closer to the dust cloud. “The bond,” he murmured. “I feel… something has changed.”

The young woman raised her hand, spreading her fingers. “I feel it too. As if a chain has loosened. Just a little. But…”

“But enough?” Elise asked hopefully.

“Maybe,” Ernst said. He walked to the gate—the great iron gate that always stood open yet was closed to them. Hesitantly, he reached out.

His fingers touched the metal.

And passed through.

A collective gasp went through the servants.

“It works,” Ernst whispered. Tears streamed down his face. “It really works.”

One by one, they stepped forward. Touched the gate. Walked through. To the other side. Onto the clearing Erik had crossed yesterday.

They were free.

Erik watched them, a strange mixture of joy and exhaustion within him. He had done it. Against all expectations, he had done it.

Elise and Friedrich came to him, helped him to his feet.

“Come,” Elise said gently. “We have to go. Before—”

She stopped. Her gaze went back to the ruins.

Something moved there. In the dust cloud. A dark figure, slowly rising.

“No,” Erik whispered. “That’s not possible.”

But it was possible. The figure stepped out of the dust. Limping badly. Blood—or something like blood—ran from wounds on His head and chest. But He lived. He stood. And His eyes—

His eyes found Erik. And in them burned a hatred so intense that Erik took a step back.

“Run,” Friedrich said. “Now. All of you.”

They ran. Through the gate, across the clearing, into the forest. Erik heard a roar behind him, filled with rage and pain.

But when he looked back, he saw that the figure did not follow. He only stood there, at the edge of the courtyard, watching them.

And slowly—very slowly—He smiled.

They ran until they reached the forest. Until the castle vanished behind trees and mist.

Only then—only when they were safe—did they stop.

Erik sank to his knees, gasping, his entire body trembling.

“We’re free,” Elise said. She sounded almost unbelieving. “After all these years… we’re free.”

But Erik could not forget that smile. That terrible, knowing smile.

He had not destroyed the castle. Not truly. Only damaged it.

And He was still alive.

The question was: how long could the bond remain broken?

And would He come to claim them again?

Chapter 6 – The Escape That Wasn’t

They ran until Erik’s lungs burned and his legs felt like lead. The forest was a labyrinth of shadows and mist, the trees packed so tightly that it was impossible to see more than a few meters ahead. Roots clawed at his feet, branches lashed his face. Still he stumbled on, driven by the memory of those glowing red eyes, of that smile.

The servants were with him. Elise and Friedrich at his side, the others scattered between the trees. They moved with surprising speed for people of their apparent age, their bodies seeming lighter now, as if freedom had given them new strength.

Or as if they had forgotten how a normal human being was supposed to move.

“Wait,” Erik gasped at last. He stumbled, catching himself against a tree. His sprained ankle throbbed, every step sending waves of pain through his leg. “I can’t… I need to—”

“We can’t stop,” Ernst said. His eyes were wild, flicking between the trees. “Not until we reach the edge of the forest. Not until we’re on consecrated ground.”

“Consecrated ground?” Erik leaned against the tree, struggling for breath. “What do you mean?”

“The church in the village,” the young woman explained. She stood several meters away, her head constantly moving, listening. “He can’t enter consecrated ground. None of His kind can. If we make it there, we’ll be safe.”

“If we make it,” Friedrich murmured. He stood beside Elise, his hand resting on her shoulder. Both of them stared back in the direction they had come from.

Erik followed their gaze. The forest was silent. Too silent. No birdsong, no rustling of small animals. Only the wind moving through the leaves—and the pounding of his own heart.

“Do you think He’s following us?” he whispered.

“He’s injured,” Ernst said. “The tower… that must have weakened Him. Maybe He needs time to heal.”

“Or maybe,” the young woman said quietly, “He doesn’t need to follow us. Maybe He already knows we’ll come back.”

“Why would we come back?” Erik stared at her. “The bond is broken. You’re free.”

She laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. “Are you sure about that? Do you feel free, Erik? Or do you feel it too? That pull. Like a thread tugging at your heart. Like something calling you back.”

Erik wanted to argue. But he couldn’t. Because she was right. He felt it. Ever since they had passed through the gate. A pressure in his chest, a sense of unease that grew stronger with every step away from the castle.

“That’s just fear,” he said. “Shock. It’ll pass.”

“Will it?” The young woman stepped closer. For the first time, Erik really looked at her. She was young—or had been once. Maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair and large, dark eyes. But those eyes carried the weight of decades, perhaps centuries. “I’ve been in that castle since 1956, Erik. I tried to escape four times before the bond fully took hold. Every time it felt like this. That pulling sensation. And every time it grew stronger until I couldn’t do anything but go back.”

“But this time is different,” Erik insisted. “The tower has fallen. The castle is damaged. You passed through the gate.”

“We’ll see,” she said softly. Then she turned and walked on.

They continued, slower now. Erik limped between Elise and Friedrich, who supported him whenever his ankle gave out. The other servants had grown quieter, their initial euphoria fading into tense vigilance.

The forest seemed endless. Yesterday, it had taken Erik maybe two or three hours to reach the castle. Now it felt as if they had been walking just as long, and yet the trees looked the same everywhere—endless and uniform.

“Are we still going the right way?” he asked.

Ernst stopped, looking around. “I… I’m not sure. The forest has changed. Or we’ve lost our way.”

“That’s impossible,” Friedrich said. “We’ve been going straight. Always in the same direction.”

“Have we?” Elise’s voice was tight. “I have the feeling… like we’re walking in circles.”

Erik felt his stomach clench. He looked up, searching for the sun, for any point of orientation. But the sky was overcast, a gray, impenetrable mass that robbed him of any sense of time or direction.

“We have to keep going,” he said. “Eventually we’ll reach the edge of the forest.”

But after another half hour—or was it an hour? Two?—they began to see things that shouldn’t have been there.

Marks on the trees. Fresh marks, carved into the bark. Ernst stepped closer, running his fingers over them.

“I did this,” he whispered. “Twenty minutes ago. To mark our path.”

“That’s impossible,” the young woman said. “We didn’t turn back. We went straight—”

“The forest won’t let us go,” Elise interrupted. Her voice trembled. “It belongs to the castle. Just like we do. It makes us walk in circles.”

“No,” Erik said firmly, even as fear rose in him. “No. This is just disorientation. We change direction. We go… left. Or right. Just—different.”

They tried. Veered sharply to the right, followed a stream they had discovered. But twenty minutes later they returned to the same spot. The same marks. The same tree Ernst had leaned against.

Erik sank to the ground, his head in his hands. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

“Welcome to our world,” the young woman said bitterly. “Nothing is real if He doesn’t want it to be.”

“But He’s injured,” Erik protested. “He shouldn’t have the strength—”

“You underestimate Him,” Friedrich said, sitting down beside Erik. “All of us have made that mistake. Again and again. He is weaker, yes. But not powerless. Especially not in His forest. His territory.”

A sound made them all freeze.

Slow, heavy footsteps. Coming through the forest. From everywhere and nowhere at once.

“He’s coming,” Elise whispered. Her face had gone ashen.

“Run,” Ernst said. “Now.”

They ran again, all exhaustion forgotten. Erik ignored the pain in his ankle, forced his legs to keep moving. The footsteps followed them, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away—but always there.

They burst out onto a road. A real road, paved, with faded white lines. Erik recognized it—it was the road he had driven on yesterday.

“There,” the young woman cried, pointing. In the distance, barely more than a blurred shape, buildings were visible. The village.

They ran along the road, their footsteps echoing on the asphalt. The footsteps behind them stopped. Erik dared a glance back.

At the edge of the forest stood a figure. Tall, dark, half-hidden by shadows. It didn’t move, didn’t follow. Just stood there and watched.

But Erik could see the eyes. The red, glowing eyes.

And he could see the smile.

They reached the village just before nightfall. The sun had not yet set, but it hovered near the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that reminded Erik disturbingly of fire.

The streets were empty. Windows were shuttered, doors locked. It was as if the village had known they were coming—and had hidden.

“The church,” Ernst said, pointing to the small tower rising above the rooftops. “There.”

They stumbled through the streets, their footsteps loud in the silence. Erik felt eyes on him—hidden watchers behind drawn curtains. But no one came out. No one offered help.

The church was small, built of gray stone, with a heavy wooden door. Ernst reached it first and tried to open it.

Locked.

“No,” he whispered. He hammered on the door. “Please. Let us in. We need shelter.”

“There’s no one here,” the young woman said. “Look.” She pointed to a small sign beside the door, weathered and hard to read. “Services Sundays only. Pastor: contact parish office.”

“We’ll break the door down,” Friedrich said.

“No.” A new voice.

They spun around. The old man—Mr. Bachmann, the baker had called him—stood there. He leaned on his cane, his face expressionless.

“You came back,” he said. “I knew you would.”

“We need help,” Erik said. “Please. He’s coming. He—”

“I know.” The old man stepped closer. His gaze moved over the servants, lingering on each of them. “I know all of you. From the stories. From the descriptions in the old records.” He looked at Elise. “You are Elise Hartmann. Disappeared in 1933.” Then Ernst. “Ernst Weber. Disappeared in 1889.” The young woman. “Clara Hoffmann. Disappeared in 1956.”

Clara—at last Erik knew her name—nodded slowly.

“How long,” the old man asked, “did you think you could stay free?”

“The bond is broken,” Ernst said. “We passed through the gate.”

“Did you?” The old man smiled sadly. “Or did He let you go?”

“What do you mean?” Erik asked.

“My father told me stories,” Mr. Bachmann said. “About others who tried before you. Servants who believed they had escaped. Who came to the village, seeking help. But always—always—they went back. Sometimes after a day. Sometimes after a week. But they went back.”

“We’re different,” Friedrich insisted.

“Are you?” The old man looked at him intently. “Don’t you feel it? The pull? The emptiness in your chest, growing with every moment you’re away?”

No one answered. But Erik saw it in their faces. The truth they had tried to hide.

“He’s playing with you,” Mr. Bachmann said. “That’s what He does. He lets you go, lets you believe you’re free. And then He pulls you back. Slowly. Inevitably. Like a fish on a line.”

“No,” Elise whispered. Tears streamed down her face. “No, that can’t be true. We waited so long. So long…”

The old man stepped closer, placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “But some prisons have no bars. Some chains are invisible.”

Erik felt something break inside him. All the hope, the courage, the determination—they crumbled to ash. “Then it was all for nothing,” he whispered. “The tower, the fire, everything…”

“Not for nothing,” the old man said. “You hurt Him. No one has ever done that before. Maybe you weakened Him. Maybe it will take longer for the bond to fully return.” He looked Erik in the eyes. “But you will go back. All of you. That is the truth you must accept.”

“I won’t go back,” Erik said. “I’ll—”

A scream cut him off.

Clara. She stood a few meters away, her hands pressed to her chest. Her face was contorted with pain.

“It hurts,” she gasped. “Oh God, it hurts so much.”

“Clara?” Ernst hurried to her. But when he touched her, she screamed again.

“Don’t touch me. It makes it worse. I can feel Him. He’s calling me. He wants me to come back.”

“Fight it,” Erik said. He went to her, ignored her warning, took her hands. They were ice-cold, trembling. “You have to fight.”

“I can’t.” Tears streamed down her face. “It’s too strong. He’s too strong.”

And then, before their eyes, she began to change.

Not dramatically. Not like in a movie. But subtly. Horribly. Her skin grew paler. Her eyes took on a glassy sheen. And her expression—the desperate, defiant look—gave way to something else.

Something empty.

“Clara,” Ernst whispered. “Stay with us.”

But Clara was no longer listening. She pulled her hands from Erik’s grip, turned around. Began to walk. Back toward the road. Back toward the forest.

“No,” Erik said. He tried to stop her, but she was stronger than she looked. She pushed him aside and kept going.

“Let her go,” Mr. Bachmann said quietly. “She belongs to Him. She always did.”

They watched helplessly as Clara left the village. As she disappeared down the road, a solitary figure in the fading light. Back to the castle. Back to Him.

“How long,” Friedrich asked in a broken voice, “do we have?”

“It varies,” the old man said. “Some last days. Others only hours. It depends on how deep the bond is. How long you served Him.”

Elise sank to the ground, her hands covering her face. “Almost a hundred years,” she whispered. “We served Him for almost a hundred years.”

“Then,” Mr. Bachmann said, “you don’t have much time.”

Erik felt numb. Empty. All of this—the escape, the hope, the belief that they could win—had been an illusion. The vampire had won. Had always won.

“There’s no way out,” he murmured.

“There is always a way out,” the old man said. “Just not the one you wish for.”

“What do you mean?”

Mr. Bachmann looked at the other servants. “You can’t be free anymore. Not in life. But…” He hesitated. “There are other kinds of freedom.”

Erik understood. “You mean…”

“Death,” the old man said simply. “True death. Not the half-existence in the castle. But the end. Complete. Final.”

“How?” Ernst asked. His voice was barely more than a whisper. But there was something in his eyes. Not fear. Relief.

“Fire,” Mr. Bachmann said. “Or beheading. Or the heart pierced and then burned. The old ways. The ways that work when the bond is too strong to be broken otherwise.”

“You’re offering to kill us,” Friedrich said slowly.

“I’m offering to free you,” the old man corrected. “But only if you want it. The choice has to be yours.”

The servants looked at one another. In the growing darkness, their faces were masks of shadow and light. But Erik could see the exhaustion. The despair. The weight of decades, of centuries.

“I want it,” Ernst said at last. “I’m so tired. So terribly tired.”

“So do I,” Elise whispered. She reached for Friedrich’s hand. “Both of us. Together. As we were always meant to be.”

Friedrich nodded. Tears ran down his face, but he smiled. “Together.”

“No,” Erik said. “No, there has to be another way. We can—”

“There isn’t,” Elise said gently. She stood, stepped toward him. Took his face in her hands—those cold, ancient hands. “You did your best, Erik. You did more than anyone has in a hundred years. But some things can’t be fixed. Some damage is too deep.”

“But you’re my family,” Erik whispered. “I just found you.”

“And you gave us a gift,” Friedrich said, standing beside Elise, his hand on her shoulder. “You showed us that someone remembers. That we weren’t forgotten. That’s more than we ever hoped for.”

Erik couldn’t speak. Could only nod as tears ran down his face.

“Come,” Mr. Bachmann said softly. “I’ll help you. All of you.”

The servants followed him, one by one. Away from the church, toward one of the houses. The door stood open, light spilling out.

Erik stayed behind. He couldn’t go with them. Couldn’t watch.

He stood alone in the street as darkness fell. And somewhere in the distance, at the edge of the forest, he felt the presence. The eyes watching him.

The vampire was waiting.

Waiting for Erik’s own bond to pull him back.

And Erik knew, with terrible certainty, that it was only a matter of time.

He had spent one night in the castle. One single night. Was that enough to form a bond?

He felt the pull in his chest. Weak, still—but there.

Yes. It had been enough.

Erik closed his eyes and waited for morning to come.

Or for the darkness to claim him.

Chapter 7 – The Return

Erik spent the night in his car, parked at the side of the road, far enough from the forest to feel safe, yet close enough to feel the castle. The seats were uncomfortable, the air inside the car grew stale and cold, but he did not dare go into any of the houses in the village. He had seen the curtains shift as he passed. Had felt the fear creeping through the streets like a living thing.

They did not want him here.
He was already marked.
Already damned.

He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw them. Elise and Friedrich, hand in hand as they entered the house. Ernst leaning on his cane, his face marked by a mixture of relief and sorrow. The other servants, whose names he had never learned, disappearing one by one into the warm light.

And then, perhaps an hour later, he had seen the smoke. Black and dense, rising into the night sky. Mr. Bachmann had kept his promise. Had given them the freedom that only death could offer.

Erik had cried. Sat in his car and cried like a child, his shoulders shaking, his face buried in his hands. He had lost them. His great-grandparents—people he had only just met. People who had survived for a hundred years, only to die in a burning house.

But it had been their choice.
Their escape.

And now he was alone.

The pull in his chest grew stronger as the night wore on. It was as if someone had anchored a hook in his heart and was now tugging on it slowly, relentlessly. Not painful. Not exactly. But constant. Inescapable.

He tried to fight it. Started the engine several times, put the car into gear, ready to drive. Away. Away from the village, away from the castle, back to civilization. Back to his life.

But his hand trembled on the steering wheel. His foot could not press the accelerator. And the pull intensified, turning into a burning sensation, into a pain that radiated through his chest to his spine.

When dawn came—a gray, hopeless light that barely pierced the darkness—Erik knew he no longer had a choice.

He got out of the car.

The road was silent, deserted. The smoke was long gone, but the smell lingered in the air. Burnt wood. Burnt flesh. Erik forced himself not to think about it.

He began to walk. Not toward the forest. Not directly. First, he walked through the village, slow steps echoing on the asphalt. He passed the bakery—closed, its windows dark. The house where his great-grandparents had died—now nothing more than a smoldering heap of ash and charred beams. The church, its door still locked, as if it could not save him even if it wanted to.

At the edge of the village, he stopped. Ahead of him lay the road that led back into the world. Behind him, the forest. The castle. Him.

And he turned around.

The forest was different in the morning light. No less threatening, but… calmer. The trees still stood close together, their crowns woven into a natural roof. But the disorientation that had been so overwhelming yesterday was gone. Instead, there was a path. Not visible—not really. But Erik could feel it. As if something were guiding him. As if the forest itself were showing him the way.

He followed the path. Over roots and through ferns, through streams and across moss-covered stones. His sprained ankle hurt, but the pain felt distant, unimportant. The pull in his chest had become a current, a force dragging him forward—faster, more urgently.

He tried to tell himself that he still had a choice. That he could turn back at any moment. But his body no longer obeyed his thoughts. His feet carried him forward, automatic, unstoppable.

How long he walked, he could not say. Time had lost its meaning. But eventually the forest opened—and there it was. The clearing. The castle.

Erik stopped at the edge of the trees and stared.

The castle looked different in daylight. No less dark, but… more vulnerable. The damage caused by the fire was clearly visible. The tower was a heap of rubble, a mountain of shattered stone and charred beams. Sections of the main wall had collapsed, gaping like open wounds. Wisps of smoke still rose into the air, thin and trembling, like the last breaths of a dying animal.

But the castle still stood. Damaged, broken—but not dead.

Just like him.

Erik crossed the clearing. With every step, the pull weakened, turning into a feeling of… coming home. As if he were returning to a place where he belonged. The thought made him nauseous, but he could not shake it.

The gate stood open. Inviting. Erik stepped through.

The courtyard was littered with debris. Stones, broken wood, shattered roof tiles. And among the rubble: bloodstains. Fresh. They led from the ruined tower across the courtyard to the main entrance.

Erik followed them.

The door stood ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The entrance hall was darker than before. Dust hung thick in the air, dancing in the weak beams of light that filtered through broken windows. The grand staircase had partially collapsed, its steps cracked like rotten teeth. And everywhere—bloodstains. More now. Clearer. They climbed the walls, stretched across the ceiling, as if something—something wounded, something desperate—had dragged itself through the hall.

“I knew you would come.”

The voice came from above. Erik looked up.

He stood on the gallery—or what remained of it. A dark figure slumped against the railing. In the dim light, Erik could make out details he wished he hadn’t.

The vampire was badly injured. His clothing was torn and burned, hanging in shreds from his body. The skin beneath was pale, almost translucent, stretched over bones that showed through in places. One side of his face was burned, the flesh blackened and split. And his left arm hung at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.

But He lived.
And His eyes—those terrible, glowing eyes—were as intense as ever.

“You surprised me,” the vampire said. His voice was hoarse, broken by a rattling breath. “That doesn’t happen often. Not anymore. Not at my age.” He laughed, a horrible, gurgling sound. “I’ve lived for centuries, Erik. Centuries. And you—a boy, barely more than a child—you’ve done more damage than all the hunters, priests, and warriors who came before you.”

Erik said nothing. Just stood there, his hands clenched into fists.

“But you made a mistake,” the vampire continued. He pushed himself away from the railing and began to descend the stairs. Each step seemed to cause him pain, but He came closer nonetheless. “You thought you could kill me. Thought fire and a collapsing tower would be enough.” He shook his head. “I survived the Black Death, Erik. I survived the Inquisition. I survived wars that wiped entire kingdoms from the map. Do you really think a little fire could kill me?”

“You’re injured,” Erik said. His voice sounded stranger than he intended. “You’re weak.”

“Weak, yes.” The vampire reached the foot of the stairs, now only a few meters away. “But not defeated. And not alone.”

Only then did Erik notice them. Shadows moving at the edges of the hall. Figures stepping out of the corridors. Servants. But not his great-grandparents. Others. Older, perhaps—or newer. Their faces were empty, their eyes glassy. They moved like marionettes, pulled by invisible strings.

“They belong to me,” the vampire said. “Just as you will soon belong to me.”

“I will never belong to you,” Erik forced out.

“Won’t you?” The vampire tilted his head. “Then why are you here, Erik? Why did you come back?”

Erik could not answer. Because he knew the truth. Because He was right.

“You can already feel it,” the vampire said softly. “The bond. It grows with every moment you spend near me. With every breath you take within these walls. You thought one night wasn’t enough. But you smelled my blood, Erik. Inhaled my essence. You walked my corridors, breathed my air. That’s all it takes. That’s all it ever took.”

“No,” Erik whispered. But even as he said it, he felt the truth. The pull was gone. In its place was a sense of… belonging. As if this were his place. As if he had always belonged here.

“You can fight it,” the vampire said. “Most do. For a while. But in the end, they all give up. In the end, they all accept what they have become.” He stepped closer. “I’m offering you something, Erik. Something your ancestors never had. A choice.”

“What kind of choice?”

“You can be a servant. Like all of them. Bound, obedient, existing for eternity as my property.” The vampire raised his uninjured hand. “Or…” He smiled, and it was a terrible smile, full of broken teeth and dark promises. “You can be more. You can become like me.”

Erik’s blood froze. “A vampire.”

“An immortal. An eternal being. Free from the weakness of mortal flesh. Free from sickness, age, death.” The vampire extended his hand. “You’ve shown courage, Erik. Strength. Qualities I value. Qualities that are rare. I haven’t turned anyone in centuries. But you…” His eyes burned brighter. “You, I could take as a companion. As an equal. Together, we could rebuild this castle. Find new servants. Rule the night.”

“I would rather die,” Erik said.

“Would you?” The vampire let his hand fall. “Then explain why you’re not already dead. You had time, Erik. Time to flee. Time to take your own life, as your ancestors did. But you’re here. You came back.” He stepped closer still, so close Erik could smell his breath—cold and metallic, like old blood. “Maybe you want to die. But part of you—a deeper, more honest part—wants to survive. Wants to endure. And I’m offering you that chance.”

Erik stumbled backward. His mind reeled. Everything inside him screamed to run, to fight, to do something. But his body would not obey. The bond was too strong. Or perhaps… perhaps the vampire was right. Perhaps part of him did want this.

“How long,” Erik whispered, “until I become like you?”

“The transformation takes three nights,” the vampire said. “Three nights of suffering, of burning, of dying and being reborn. It isn’t pleasant. But in the end…” He smiled again. “In the end, you are free. Truly free.”

“Free to murder. To kill. To become what you are.”

“To become what I am,” the vampire agreed. “A predator. A ruler of darkness. Is that so terrible? The humans you would kill—they die anyway. In sixty, seventy years, if they’re lucky. What does it matter whether they die today or tomorrow?”

“It matters to them.”

“Does it?” The vampire tilted his head. “Have you ever watched humans die, Erik? Seen disease consume their bodies? Seen age turn them into shadows of themselves? Seen fear and despair torment them in their final moments? The death I bring is quick. Merciful, in a way. And the blood…” His eyes closed briefly, his expression almost ecstatic. “The blood gives me strength. Sustains me. Allows me to endure while kingdoms fall and civilizations turn to dust. Isn’t that a fair trade?”

“No,” Erik said. But his voice was weaker now. Less certain.

The vampire opened his eyes again. “You’re still young. Still full of human sentimentality. But that will fade. In time, all these concerns, these fears, these moral doubts—they’ll fade like old photographs. And then you’ll understand.” He extended his hand once more. “Take my hand, Erik. Let me free you. From mortality. From fear. From everything that makes you human—and weak.”

Erik stared at the outstretched hand. The fingers were long, the nails sharp like claws. The skin was pale, veined with dark lines. It was the hand of a monster.

But it was also the hand of an offer. A possibility. An escape from the inevitability of death.

Erik’s own hand trembled. Lifted. Moved slowly, involuntarily, toward the vampire’s hand.

And then, in the moment before their hands touched, Erik saw something.

At the edge of his vision. Movement.

A figure stepping out of one of the side corridors. Not one of the empty, obedient servants. Someone else. Someone who moved with purpose. With will.

Clara.

She looked terrible. Her face was sunken, her skin gray. Her clothes hung in tatters. But her eyes—her eyes were clear. Awake. And in her hands she held something.

A wooden stake. Roughly carved, but sharp. And a torch.

The vampire noticed her at the same moment. His eyes widened. He spun around, faster than Erik could follow.

But Clara was faster.

She thrust the stake forward with all the strength she had left. The tip struck the vampire’s chest, pierced the burned flesh, drove deep inside.

The vampire screamed. A sound like shattering glass and dying animals, so loud Erik clapped his hands over his ears. The figure staggered back, clutching at the stake, trying to pull it free.

But Clara wasn’t finished. She raised the torch and pressed the flame against the shredded, oil-soaked remnants of fabric still clinging to the vampire’s body.

They ignited instantly.

Flames raced across the vampire’s body, climbed his neck, devoured his face. The scream grew louder, more piercing, filling the entire hall.

The other servants—the empty, controlled ones—collapsed. Fell like marionettes whose strings had been cut. Some twitched. Others lay still.

The vampire fell to his knees. Flames now engulfed him completely, turning him into a living torch. But His eyes—those terrible, glowing eyes—found Erik one last time.

“You…” He gasped. “You could have been… immortal…”

Then He collapsed forward. His body twisted, shrank, burned. The fire consumed the ancient flesh, reducing it to ash.

Erik stood frozen. Could not believe what he was seeing. After everything—after the fire, the tower, the escape—it had been Clara. Clara, who had returned. Clara, who had done what he could not.

She stood over the burning body, the torch still in her hand. Tears streamed down her face, but she smiled. An exhausted, relieved smile.

“For all of us,” she whispered. “For everyone who was ever trapped here.”

The vampire’s body still burned, but the flames began to die. What remained was barely recognizable as human—or once human. Just charred bones and ash.

Erik dropped to his knees. The relief flooding through him was so overwhelming he could not stay standing. It was over. Truly over.

“Clara,” he managed. “How… why are you…?”

She turned to him. “I wanted to come back,” she said softly. “The bond was too strong. But when I arrived, when I saw Him—so injured, so weak—I knew. This was the chance. The only chance we would ever have.” She dropped the torch and sank down beside Erik. “I couldn’t be free. But I could make sure no one else would ever be trapped again.”

Erik took her hand. It was ice-cold, trembling. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She nodded. Then her eyes closed. Her body sagged.

“Clara?” Erik shook her gently. “Clara, stay with me.”

But she didn’t respond. Her breathing grew shallow, slower. And then it stopped.

The bond was broken. And without it—without the unnatural force that had kept her alive for over a century—Clara was finally mortal again.

And she died.

Erik held her as silence settled over the hall. The other servants did not move. Some were still breathing, faintly, but most were already dead—freed by the death of their master.

Slowly, carefully, Erik laid Clara’s body on the floor. He stood and looked around.

The castle felt different. Emptier. As if something that had lived within it—something sentient, malicious—had finally left. The walls were just walls now. The shadows just shadows.

Erik walked to the door and stepped out into the courtyard. The sun had climbed higher, even breaking through the clouds in places. Its light fell on the ruins, on the rubble, turning destruction into something almost beautiful.

He walked to the gate. Reached out. Touched the metal.

No pain. No bond. Nothing.

He was free.

Erik passed through the gate. Across the clearing. Into the forest. And this time the forest did not lead him in circles. He found the way to the road, to his car, still standing where he had left it.

He got in. Started the engine. Drove away.

And did not look back.

---

Weeks Later

Weeks later, Erik sat in his apartment, hundreds of kilometers away. The physical wounds had healed—the sprained ankle, the scrapes, the bruises. But the memories remained. The nightmares came every night.

He had tried to report it. Had contacted the police, told them about the servants, about the castle. But they hadn’t believed him. Of course they hadn’t. The story was too unbelievable. Too fantastic.

They had visited the village. Found the burned-out house where Mr. Bachmann had freed the servants. Had taken the remains—too many remains—as the result of a tragic accident. An old house, poor insulation, a fire in the night. These things happened.

They had not found the castle. The forest had swallowed it, the police said. There were no roads leading to it, no paths. And the satellite images showed nothing but trees. Perhaps Erik had been mistaken. Perhaps the castle was somewhere else.

Or nowhere.

But Erik knew the truth. The castle was still there. Empty now. Dead—but there. A monument for all those who had never escaped.

He had kept Elise’s letters. The photograph. The key. They now lay in a box on his desk, together with other things he had taken from the castle. A charred fragment from Clara’s diary. A piece of the wooden stake. The small wooden figurine Mr. Bachmann had given him.

Evidence. Memories. Warnings.

Erik had changed. He felt it himself. The world looked different now. Darker. He saw shadows where there had been none before. Heard things in the silence. And sometimes, when he walked through the streets, he felt it—a presence, something old, something hungry, lurking in the corners of civilization.

The police didn’t believe him. But others did.

Three days after his return, he received a letter. No stamp. No return address. Just his name on the envelope, written in an old-fashioned hand.

Inside was a single card. Heavy, cream-colored paper with an embossed edge. It read:

You have survived what most do not.
You have seen what most never will.
If you wish to know more about what lurks in the darkness—and how to fight it—call this number.

Below it was a phone number. Nothing else.

Erik stared at the card for days. Threw it away, then retrieved it from the trash. Entered the number into his phone—without calling.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, he had seen something on the news. A report about a series of mysterious deaths in Munich. Young people. Healthy. Who suddenly collapsed. All with the same symptoms: extreme anemia, pale skin, two small wounds on the neck the doctors could not explain.

The official explanation was an unknown viral infection. But Erik had seen the photos. Read the descriptions.

And he knew.

He recognized the signs.

So he called the number.

A woman’s voice answered. Calm, professional, but with an undertone that suggested she knew exactly who he was.

“Mr. Nachtwald. We’ve been expecting your call.”

“Who are you?”

“An organization that deals with… unusual cases. Cases the authorities don’t understand. Or don’t want to understand.” A pause. “We’ve followed your story. Falkenstein Castle. The vampire. Your great-grandparents. You showed remarkable courage and ingenuity.”

“How do you know—”

“We know many things, Mr. Nachtwald. And we believe you have a talent. A rare one. The ability not just to survive—but to fight. To win.”

Erik said nothing. His heart pounded.

“The incidents in Munich,” the woman continued. “You’ve heard about them?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know there are more. More like Him. Not many—but enough. They hide in the shadows of our world. They hunt. They kill. And no one believes they’re real.” Her voice grew more intense. “But you know better. You’ve lived it.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Your help. We have resources. Information. Tools. But we need someone like you. Someone who can go into the field. Someone who can face the darkness.” A pause. “Someone willing to hunt.”

Erik was silent for a long time. He thought of Elise. Of Friedrich. Of Clara. Of all the souls trapped in that castle.

“I need time to think,” he finally said.

“Of course. But not too long, Mr. Nachtwald. People are dying in Munich. And tomorrow it will be another city. Another creature.”

She gave him an address. A café downtown. Tomorrow. 2 p.m.

“If you come,” she said, “bring what you took from the castle. Especially the key. It may be more important than you think.”

Then she hung up.

Now Erik sat at his desk, staring at the box. At the evidence of his journey into darkness. At the memories of people he could not save.

But maybe he could save others.

Maybe what had happened to him at Falkenstein Castle had not been the end.

But the beginning.

He picked up the iron key and turned it in his hands. The metal felt warm, almost alive. The ornaments seemed to flicker in the light, as if they were more than mere decoration.

West Wing, the plaque read.

But perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it was a key to something greater. To an understanding of the darkness he had faced.

Erik stood and went to the window. Outside lay the city, brightly lit, full of life. But now he knew what lurked in the shadows. What waited between the lights.

And he knew he could not look away.

He packed the box. Closed it. Set it beside his travel bag.

Tomorrow he would go to the meeting. Would hear what this organization had to say. Would decide whether he was ready to walk this path.

The path of the hunter.

Erik looked out the window one last time. Night had fallen, turning the city into a sea of lights and shadows. Somewhere out there, in another city, something was killing the innocent. Something the world believed impossible.

But Erik knew better.

And soon, that creature would know there was someone who fought back.

He smiled. For the first time in weeks, it wasn’t a sad smile.

It was determined.

The darkness had not broken him.

It had forged him.