In the year of 1900, I had arrived by carriage in the evening to the home of Count Felip Balaguer, a nobleman from Catalonia. It is a castle, where the silence is interrupted by the flight of the gargoyles.Īcross the numerous tracts of land, there is a castle that was once a Roman fortification and now, is a Gothic semblance of a hidden past. They dwell in the nocturnal darkness, and their beady eyes of a scarlet shade watch over fiercely, through the pervasive mist that hovers above the solitary castle, beyond the edge of the forest. There are reapers of death that pose as wrought statues, but are really the keepers of the abyss of sable shadows. Death is always an unwelcomed guest, for it appears like the unannounced reaper of souls. They haunt us like wraiths, with an unrelenting passion that knows no surcease, except the intervals of madness. Our imaginations are full of mysterious chapters of the subconscious realm that exceed our fanciful chimeras interspersed.
Amongst the sundry tales of horror that are told and assumed as legends, there are ineffable ones that are disturbing enough to cause heightened episodes of sheer dread.
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