Against the star-littered night-sky and the gibbous moon the ruined castle atop the hill dominated the surrounding moon-dappled landscape. Its several crumbling stone towers, chapel spire and ruined battlements still rising high above the trees that encircled the massive outer walls like an invading army. The old road that ran up the gently sloping hill from the wooded base had over the centuries sunk down, become worn away by the countless footfalls of people, till at last, a hollow way had formed, and the overhead branches made it seem like a tunnel. At the base of the hill old, defensive earthworks encircled it, long-since overgrown by trees and shrubberies, and it was now almost indistinguishable from the rest of the hill.
The sight of the ruined castle had always reminded her of the scenes Caspar David Friedrich painted so beautifully, and especially so on a chill, moonlit autumnal night. She watched the castle silhouetted against the night-sky as the car drove along the old gravel road through what had once been the main street of the old village. The bombastic intro of ‘The Moon Was Yellow’ gave away and Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice took over on the car stereo, and she had to admit that the song seemed to be made for the scene.
Ever since she had first heard the tales of Karnstein Castle and the noble family of which she was a distant descendant via a maternal line, Sara Weil had felt a pull towards the castle. She remembered seeing some of the old family portraits on the walls when visiting her grandparents at a quite young age. Even though the paintings were faded by age and blackened by dirt and time she felt a wonderful familial resemblance to one portrait in particular – written in gold in the corner of the portrait was a name: Mircalla Karnstein. It had felt like she was looking at her own reflection in a the water, only slightly distorted despite being separated from each other by centuries – in particular it was the eyes that gave it away. What had begun as a fascination with a distant relative had developed into an obsession; and the vague, hazy memories, or even fragments of memories that had been with her for as long as she could recall began to fit like the pieces of a puzzle when she began to research her long-dead relative – names, faces, places and events. She had ‘known’ where to go when she first visited the castle with her family – where the various rooms had been, the garden, what the stained glass windows of the chapel had looked like… Some of these blood-memories, as she thought of them, were clearer and more ‘complete’ than others; while in some cases she felt the scent of the flowers and the grass, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the tone of voice and the look of someone’s eyes looking at her, they were other times a broken, incomplete sensation with distorted voices and faces without names to them. In the old family Bible she had retraced her ancestry on the ornate family tree drawn up on the front leaf with her index finger, feeling the paper against her touch, tracing herself back to the Karnsteins, the source of the blood-memories and all the trouble had had followed with them.
She was brought out of her reverie as the chauffeur brought the car to a halt on the makeshift parking-lot as the song faded away over the stereo speakers, and the whisper that had called out to her since forever sounded clearer than ever before, beckoning her on like a siren song.
Sara turned her head as the chauffeur opened the door for her. She had hardly noticed him exiting the car, so focused had she been on the call. The air was cool and crisp, and she quickly pulled her cloak around her shoulders as she stepped out of the car. The chill air against her skin, the feel of the grass under her shoes, and how unsteady she felt made it all feel so much more real, and she bit her bottom lip in nervous anticipation. The chauffeur retrieved a bag from the trunk and led the way towards the iron gate intended to keep trespassers from entering the crumbling ruin. As he used a bolt cutter to cut the padlock Sara, turned her head and cast a last look back over her shoulder – was she uncertain, or excited? The gate opened with the grating, unpleasant sound of long-disuse of the rusted hinges.
Dry, dead autumn leaves swirled in the air by the chill night-wind, and made her cloak billow and exposed the soft, crimson-coloured inner fabric. Their breaths were visible in the cold air as the flashlight illuminated the old hollow way up to the castle that had haunted her dreams with so many half-remember memories from another life and another time.
They approached the massive castle walls, and she had to crane her neck to look up at the battlement of the imposing gatehouse where once had hung the banners of the House of Karnstein during the heyday. The main courtyard was overgrown with grass and weeds, and wilting wildflowers.
The large, ruined chapel where many of her Karnstein ancestors had been laid to rest stood separate from the other ruined buildings inside the castle walls. The moon shone in and partially illuminated the interior; the many alcoves along the sides held the alabaster tombs, with highly ornate effigies depicting the proud, noble Karnsteins laid to rest. Right before the ruined altar she knew she’d find the large stone slab on the floor, dirtied and covered in dirt and dust. She knelt down, and with a gloved hand she brushed aside the leaves and dirt to reveal the familiar inscription on the stone slab, which was visible even in the light of the moon.
Hier Liget
Die
Arme Sünderin
Mircalla
Bittet Für Sie
No effigy or carvings, just a plain gray stone slab and a simple inscription marked the resting place of the ‘poor sinner’. She got up and stepped to the side, letting her chauffeur begin the work to open the grave. She watched in nervous anticipation as he used a crowbar to wedge it open. The tombstone covering the grave was quite heavy, and he struggled with it for a moment, before he managed to rise it up with the help of the crowbar, and push it to the side, exposing the with it, but he is strong as a bull & manages to push the heavy stone slab to the side, exposing a brick casing covering the wooden coffin below. Without wasting any time he brought out a large hammer from the bag of tools, and put it to good use, breaking through the red bricks.
The rush of excitement & nervousness growing stronger as he began to remove brick after brick and a gaping black hole began to emerge. Her heartbeat started picking up as she pointed the cone of light from the flashlight and caught her first glimpse of the simple, sturdy wooden coffin below, sealed off for so long in a redbrick hole in the ground. The chauffeur leaned in and used the crowbar to force open the lid once all the bricks had been removed. Without too much difficulty the lid is loosened and opened; the lid being quite frail despite the lack of significant water damage. Splinters of decayed wood fell off as the lid was forced open and slid to the side, finally exposing the contents of the coffin. The chauffeur sat back and pulled out a handkerchief to clean the dust and perspiration from his face after the hard work. Sara turned the flashlight downward to illuminate the wooden coffin, feeling the scent of bricks and dust and rotten wood as the centuried grave was opened.
Unable to wait Sara climbed down into the opened hole and the wooden coffin, not caring that her clothes were smudged and dirtied with dust and dirt and cobwebs. She tore off her gloves impatiently, and reached into the coffin. Her cold fingers touched the ashes, though the slight trembling of her hands came from the feeling of awe and excitement and nervousness she felt.
She caught a glimpse of shiny metal and picked up a small silver necklace, partially covered by the ashes – it wasn’t more than 3x2cm, but her fingers trembled even more as she held she necklace in her hands. She had seen it before, in her blood-memories; two flaming hearts joined together.
With fingers that continued to tremble she put the necklace around her own neck, struggling a few times to get the small lock to close. Her pulse was racing and the emotions were all over the place, constantly switching and fighting for dominance, but neither winning out. She fought to keep her ash-stained hands from visibly trembling, she accepted the glass and knife her chauffeur had retrieved from his bag. She scooped up the ashes in both hands and let it pour into the glass, again and again, till she was satisfied, and took the knife in one hand, and sliced open her right-hand palm in a quick, fluent motion. The pain was overpoweringly sharp and intense, and she cried out in agony as she let the knife drop with a clank to the bottom of the coffin. As tears streaked down her flushed cheeks she gritted her teeth in pain, closing her wounded hand tightly over the glass, letting the warm, red blood drip into the glass container and mixing with the ashes. She raised the glass to her lips and drank deeply – gulping down everything. After forcing down the cocktail she was unable to keep herself from gagging and gasping for breath. Her lips stained crimson, the blood dripping down from her lips, down her chin – her hot breath is visible in the light of the flashlight which lay on the bottom of the coffin. “Help me!” she managed to choke out in an agonised cry of sheer terror; the fear of death evident in her eyes and her voice. Unable to crawl out of the tomb she slumped down in the coffin, her face against the dirtied, decaying wood at the bottom, no longer aware of anything that went on around her before she thankfully was swallowed up in the blissful darkness of unconsciousness.
