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"As time went on, we encountered some unexpected issues. Maribelle complained of extreme fatigue, a lingering weakness from her recent illness. She seldom left her room until well into the afternoon. Oddly, despite always locking her door from the inside, it was discovered that she occasionally ventured out in the early morning and at other times during the day without alerting anyone. From the castle’s windows, she was spotted wandering in a trance-like state, heading eastward through the trees at dawn. It became evident that she was sleepwalking, but this revelation didn’t explain how she managed to leave her locked room without unlocking the door or window." The General continued his story.
"Amidst these mysteries, a more urgent concern arose. My dear child began to decline in appearance and health in a manner that deeply troubled me. She started having disturbing dreams and believed she was visited by a specter, sometimes resembling Maribelle and other times taking on an indistinct, beastly form, pacing around her bed. Then came strange sensations—an icy flow against her chest, followed by sharp, needle-like pains beneath her throat, leading to episodes of convulsive strangulation and subsequent unconsciousness."
The General’s words resonated clearly with me as we drove closer to the roofless village, where no chimney smoke had risen for decades. It was surreal to hear my own symptoms mirrored in those experienced by the unfortunate girl who would have been a guest at my father’s chateau if not for the tragic turn of events. The General’s description of habits and peculiarities perfectly matched those of our beautiful guest, Victoria.
As we arrived at the abandoned village, with the castle’s towers looming overhead, a sense of unease settled over me. We disembarked in silence, each lost in our thoughts, and began to explore the castle’s vast chambers, winding stairs, and shadowy corridors.
“And here we stand, in what was once the grand domain of the Rosewoods!” exclaimed the old General, his gaze sweeping across the village from a towering window. “A cursed lineage, their dark history etched in blood,” he continued somberly. “It’s a cruel fate that their wicked deeds linger even beyond the grave. That chapel down there, it’s the Rosewoods’ legacy,” he pointed towards the grey walls peeking through the trees. “And listen, the woodman’s axe echoes nearby; perhaps he holds the key to my quest, the grave of Sienna, Countess of Rosewood. These locals keep alive the tales of noble families, long forgotten by the rich and titled once their lines fade.”
“We have a portrait of Sienna, the Countess Rosewood, at home. Would you like to see it?” my father offered.
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“Another time, my friend,” replied the General. “I believe I’ve encountered the real Sienna; one reason I came earlier than planned was to explore this very chapel we’re approaching.”
“Sienna, the Countess Rosewood? She’s been gone for over a century!” exclaimed my father in disbelief.
“Not as gone as you think,” the General retorted cryptically.
“You’re quite the enigma, General,” my father remarked, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face again. Despite the General’s occasional outbursts of anger and detestation, his demeanor remained resolute.
“Only one thing drives me now in my remaining years,” the General spoke as we entered the grand Gothic church, its imposing architecture signaling its significance. “To avenge the monstrous deeds of that woman,” he declared, his voice echoing through the ancient ruin.
“Avenge? How?” my father inquired, growing more bewildered.
“To sever her head from her wretched body,” the General’s tone turned fierce, his hand mimicking the grip of an axe as he spoke of decapitation.
“Behead her?” my father gasped, utterly taken aback.
“Yes, with any tool that can cleave through her murderous throat!” the General’s rage was palpable. “You shall hear,” he continued, motioning for us to sit on a nearby bench. “Let me recount this chilling tale.”
As we settled on the wooden bench within the chapel’s solemn embrace, the General called out to the woodman, who had been clearing branches from the old walls. With axe in hand, the rugged man joined us, ready to share his part in the haunting narrative.
The woodman couldn’t offer much insight into the monuments, but he mentioned an old ranger, currently staying with the priest about two miles away, who knew every detail about the old Rosewood family’s monuments. He offered to fetch him back within half an hour if given a horse.
“Have you spent a lot of time in this forest?” my father inquired.
“I’ve been a woodman here under the forester all my life, just like my father and his father before him,” the old man replied in his local dialect. “I could show you the house where my ancestors lived in this village.”
The General, intrigued, asked about the village’s abandonment.
“It was plagued by revenants, sir,” the woodman explained. “Several were hunted to their graves and dealt with by decapitation, stakes, and burning, but not before many villagers lost their lives.”
Despite these efforts, the village remained troubled until a Moravian nobleman arrived. The woodman recounted a chilling tale of how the nobleman, using a strategic plan involving the vampire’s linen clothes, lured and defeated the creature atop the chapel tower.
“The nobleman had permission to relocate Sienna, Countess Rosewood’s tomb, which he did so effectively that its exact location was forgotten over time,” the woodman concluded.
“Can you at least show us where it used to be?” the General asked eagerly.
The forester shrugged. “No one alive could say for sure now,” he replied. “And rumors suggest her body might have been moved as well, but that’s uncertain.”
With that, he left to attend to his duties, leaving us eager to hear more from the General’s eerie narrative.