A Collection of Haunted Tales

3. The Lord's Curse

I have been waiting for so long, waiting for the perfect opportunity, a moment when someone, anyone, would be foolish enough to stray too far, to wander off the safe path.

The walls of my castle, now reduced to a tourist trap, used to be revered, feared.

I was once the ruler here—Lord Braxton, master of this place. I led armies, commanded loyalty, and dealt swift retribution for treachery.
It has been centuries since they condemned me to this tomb of stone and silence, my castle, the one I bled for, fought for, died for.

The living come here like sheep to marvel at the ruins, to laugh at the false tales their guides tell of me, twisting my story into cheap thrills.

They do not know the truth. They do not feel the rage that festers within these stones, that festers within me.

But the girl... The girl with the yellow scarf that stands on the edge of the group, her eyes wide and curious. She's different from the others, not interested in the kitschy ghost stories and false legends the tour guides spin to entertain the masses.

She's searching. I can feel it—the pull she has toward the shadows, toward me.
Her eyes roam the towering ceilings and the dark corners of the castle, where the others dare not look.

I watch her carefully, unseen, from behind a crumbling pillar. My gaze lingers on her face. Her features, though young, bear the subtle traces of someone drawn to mystery. She doesn't know it yet, but she's not like the others.

She wants to be here.

She needs to know more.

The others shuffle along, bored or amused, snapping photographs and joking with one another. They don't care about the history, about the whispers of the past. But Sophie does.

The group moves forward, the guide droning on about the supposed mysteries of the west wing, the same false stories about noblemen who never existed, about betrayals that never happened. They've long since forgotten the truth of what happened here.

But I haven't.

I remember the weight of betrayal, the sting of treachery, every lie that was spoken against me. And this girl—this Sophie—has the curiosity that could pry open doors she should never unlock.
I feel the pull in her, a need to know.

It is not the first time I've felt this in someone, but hers is stronger. She is braver than most. More daring. And for that, she will pay.

"Please stick with the group," the guide says, ushering the tourists through the decaying corridors like sheep.
But Sophie lingers, standing at the back. Her eyes are still fixed on the shadows.

And that's when my moment finally arrives.

The group moves too far ahead, leaving her standing alone in a dim corridor, the shadows of the castle closing in around her. I watch her, unseen, from the gloom. Her hand tightens around the flashlight she carries, her breath coming quicker now as she looks around, realizing she has lost sight of the others.

She hesitates for a moment, her mind urging her to run, to catch up. But she doesn't move.

She wants to stay.

And I, as always, want to feed.

Sophie, I whisper, letting my voice slip through the cold air like a breath on the back of her neck.

Her head tilts slightly, like she's heard something, but she doesn't react right away. I feel her heartbeat quicken, though she doesn't yet understand why.

Sophie.

This time, she stops.

"Hello?" she calls softly, her voice trembling but steady.