Train journey in winter
Posted on by Patricia Furstenberg

A Transylvanian Tale of Old Superstitions and New Horror

Enjoy a Transylvanian tale where old superstitions and new horror go hand in hand and just in time for Halloween and the feast of Saint Andrew, Sfantul Andrei in Romanian, observed on the 30th of November.

A Transylvanian Tale by Patricia Furstenberg

The forest was veiled in an unsettling silence, making even the bravest souls shudder on that chilly winter night. We stood just outside a charming Transylvanian village. We had arrived. I filled my chest with the scent of holiday. The crisp, pure fragrance of snow, the subtle tang of pine, all underlined by a distant hint of musky deer trails. And something earthly, sweet, putrid. An animal carcass. I dismissed the thought.

Icicles, cruel and unyielding, dangled from the skeletal limbs of ancient trees like the daggers of a shadowy assassin. The last slivers of sunlight, like the pale man’s touch, struggled to pierce the thick canopy barely revealing the forest floor. Here and there, a gurgle of branches snapped, caught under hooves.

It made me remember the day when I ventured to the edge of another village, to meet an enigmatic sorceress. The only sounds were the menacing crackle of the campfire and the rhythmic hoofbeats of steeds.

Ahead, the eerie stillness of the courtyard cottage played tricks on our senses as the night fell behind. We stood at the entrance, the fallen stork’s nest a silent omen of bad luck. What wasn’t there was what worried me. The stork’s absence over a few years, possibly due to the whimsy of the wind, gnawed at my superstitious fears.

Soon as we crossed the threshold we were transported back in time. We had to bow underneath the short door frame, reminded of our place in this strange world. The silence within was profound. The room kept to itself and I felt like an intruder. Wooden floors squeaked under our weight, and the low ceiling beams seemed to lower my stature. The old cottage exuded a comforting, earthy scent, a blend of aged timber, faint hints of hearth smoke, and the memories of countless stories whispered within its walls.

I wondered if the energy these past lives had left behind was a good one.

Rough, white plaster on the walls hinted at a time when craftsmanship was valued. I was mesmerized by the ancient beauty of the hand-made job as I traced its wavy pattern.
The antique ceramic stove, adorned with white and blue tiles, emitted a soothing heat, but shadows crept ominously from the room’s corners.

The twin windows, with their crossed wooden beams, peered out onto the moonlit courtyard. Framed by pristine curtains, almost see-through, I felt exposed. But I found solace in their crosses, a pitiful deterrent to the unseen creatures that might prowl on moonlit nights.

“We should be cozy in here,” said my friend. And I wished for it too.

I looked around the room, identifying the four corners: the stove in the family corner, the bed in the matrimonial corner, a shadowy spindle in the women’s corner, and a broom and a bucket behind the door. In the spells and muck corner.

Spells only touch those who believe in them, was it not? But I coolly pick up my friend’s handbag, discarded on the floor. Let’s not invite the bad luck inside.

Just then the full moon cast an eerie glow, and a cross appeared on the floor at my feet. I jumped to the side, startled by the unexpected appearance. My friend chuckled, her high-pitched laughter a desperate attempt to ward off the approaching darkness.

“Full moon,” she said nervously, “You think we’ll hear noises in the night?”
I struggled to respond, my voice barely above a whisper.
“What kind of noises?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Perhaps the watchman’s call, to remind us to blow out the candles,” she speculated. “And, if not, that should keep the vampires at bay.” She pointed to the doorway, where dried garlic hung, its pungent odor intended to ward off the undead that might lurk in the night.
“They say that the moroii, how they call the ghosts here, drank not only the human blood, but fed on his energy too.”
“shall we place some garlic in our pockets then?” I joked, but wish she’d agree.

A sudden creak behind me made me turn. Only my shadow against the wall watched me mockingly.”Old homes groan and moan,” said my friend.

Then silence. And it seemed to amplify any noise. My heartbeat drumming in my ears. Every screech underfoot, each rustle of cloth. And the whispers in the moonlit darkness. Fear and superstition trickled terror into our night leaving us wonder what lurked beyond the safety of the cottage walls.

I approached the window, the old wooden frame heavy with an air of antiquity. Our humble hut stood on the outskirts of the small hamlet. Our neighbors were the dark, foreboding woods. Were the rumors about the Forest Crone true?
“They say she comes to take each tenth born child,” said my friend, as if hearing my thoughts.

A river bed stretched like a dark, luscious ribbon to the left, disappearing into the snowy Carpathians, Europe’s last wild mountain range. Transylvania, a land steeped in myths and legends, kept its secrets hidden, particularly on moonlit nights.

With an enigmatic smile, our host had said, handing us the key, “Venture out on a moonlit night and you might encounter pricolici, these devilish werewolves, said to be the restless spirits of violent men.” His words had hung in the air like a haunting melody, leaving us unsure whether he was inviting us or warning us.

Something scratched the windowpane, and sweat beads formed on my brow. My heart hammered in my chest. The Forest Crone has twigs for fingers.
“What was that?” I stumbled.
The eerie sound had also frightened my friend.
“Shall we lock the door?”
Her voice was trembling.
“You mean you never locked it?”
I took advantage of this opportunity to leave the window, thankful for the solid oak panel and double latch. But the requirement for such a secure locking system left me unsettled. My friend dragged a heavy chair over to the door and wedged it against it. It felt like an anchor, grounding us in our small, enigmatic haven.

Here, in Transylvania, a tapestry of age-old superstitions still holds the region in its eerie grip. Time seems to have frozen in the embrace of centuries past. Light-hued cottages and weathered barns line cobblestone streets, carts pulled by horses or oxen echo through a snow-draped landscape, and wisps of wood smoke spiral from chimneys. But inside these time-worn homes traditions as old as time still rule the life. Beliefs in the supernatural cling to this land like ancient sentinels of the night.

Old Targului Street Sibiu Day-Night Walk Photos and a Medieval Story

Healing rests in the shapes of melted lead, a knife placed under bed cuts the birthing pains in two, and forefathers’ whispers linger in communal memory. Among the most terrifying of these stories are those of the Samca, crone-like hags with gnarled nails like daggers who are said to appear to children and women during the pains of childbirth—a dire omen foretelling certain death. Or Ielele forest maidens who steal the mind of those who stumble upon them.

Then there are the vampire legends of the strigoii. These undead beings, resurrected from their graves, hunger for the living’s blood. Their tales, which have enthralled countless souls since Bram Stoker’s immortal “Dracula,” whisper in the winds and haunt the land itself.

The sensation I had as we had arrived at our vacation haven had been otherworldly. I felt silly to be so scared. It was just the back-country. Away from civilization. That’s why we chose this place as a holiday destination. Transylvania’s landscape, nestled among the ancient Carpathian Mountains, has long served as a source of inspiration for storytellers. Nature itself appeared to be touched by the supernatural here, where jagged peaks cradle hidden valleys and centuries-old forests drape the land in an otherworldly tapestry. Beyond the enchanting towns and timeless villages, vast swaths of untamed beauty beckoned.

My breath hung in the air like a spectral mist as I approached the window again. Was I really being brave? After all, the cottage was on the outskirts of the hamlet, and the forest was stretching like an enigmatic tapestry beyond its creaking timbers.

Under the haunting glow of the full moon the woods to the right had taken on an eerie transformation. Trees stood like ancient sentinels, their gnarled branches reaching for the heavens, casting a canopy of shadows that seemed to whisper secrets from long ago. Moonlight filtered through the twisted limbs, casting a spectral light and an otherworldly hue on the forest floor. Where the sun couldn’t reach before. I felt a shiver crawl over my back as I caught sight of two red coals watching me, a spectral figure that roamed these woods. Eyes gleaming with a vengeance. A beast. But what kind?

“Only this door stands between us and whatever is out there,” I said staring at the woods, unable to tear my eyes from its shapes and shadows.

“In this place, we are the intruders,” said my friend.

Outside, a wolf stalked the shadows in his realm of primal allure, while deer and wild boars moved silently through the ancient woodlands. The majestic presence of golden eagles soaring gracefully amidst the towering mountain peaks graced the skies above. Yet mysteries lingered in the far reaches of this realm. Brown bears and cunning packs of beasts prowl the untouched lands, their presence a testament to this extraordinary land’s enduring wildness.

“Is it true – what they say?” she asked, her eyes searching the darkness outside.
“What they say?”
“That wolves can speak in human tongues. One night a year.”
Saint Andrew’s night. “Yes, they say so around here.” But I don’t want to find out if it’s true.

Transylvania is indeed a land where the lines between reality and myth blur, providing fertile ground for the most enthralling of stories to take root.

A sudden sound shattered the night’s tranquility as we stood in the freezing silence.
A mewl?
A hoot?
An owl soared into view, its feathers as dark as the midnight sky, its wings a ghostly whisper against the backdrop of the full moon. It descended from the shadowy heights, its talons gleaming like silver daggers. The owl glided down a snow-covered branch, its large, unblinking eyes fixed on us. It was as if the Forest Crone herself had dispatched this messenger to keep an eye on us at all times. The owl looped and hovered above the land as the moon cast long, spindly shadows. And snowflakes fell from the winter sky, soon to hush the land and cover any footprints.

A faint peal of bells echoed from the church, their chimes resonating through the night’s silence like a distant whisper. We exchanged startled glances in the hushed confines of the cottage, our breaths held as we heard the midnight chimes. Such an occurrence was out of the ordinary. It felt as if time had taken an eerie turn, and we were caught in a moment where the line between the living and the unknown was blurred.

“I heard a whole village disappeared under waters.”
“Yes, but not here.”
“Its bell still chimes. But none wishes to hear its lonely call.”

In the midst of our fears, my friend’s voice quivered as she spoke, seeking reassurance. I nodded, hoping to dispel the gloom that had descended on us like an invisible shroud.
“No, bells at midnight are not bad luck.”
It’s just a reminder of what’s going on outside.
“We’re snug in this cottage, surrounded by protective symbols,” I said, motioning to the bright bed-covers and the embroidered symbols. And the stove keeps us warm and safe, humming like a guardian spirit.”

The moon’s retreat from the window emphasizes how at ease we should be in our haven, with the outside world and its creatures kept at bay. I hoped my words would bring comfort, dispelling the foreboding atmosphere that had taken hold of our minds.

“No ghoul can enter a home without an invite,” I said out loud and again in my head, like a mantra.

“But what if the beast has already made its way inside?” said my friend, echoing my own thoughts.

I couldn’t help but look around the dimly lit room, my eyes probing the corners for any sign of an intruder. Nothing, but the spindle, forlorn in its corner.
What if indeed.
I found myself whispering the words of a long lost spell of protection I had once heard a sorceress say, and didn’t believe it true.

Copyright © Patricia Furstenberg. All Rights Reserved.

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8 Replies to “A Transylvanian Tale of Old Superstitions and New Horror”

  1. I’m having internet challenges, so I apologize if this comment is a repeat. I loved this spooky story and the way you wove real superstition into it. Every time I learn more about Transylvania, I want to visit. 😀

  6. This is a perfect story for spooky season. Thank you for sharing, Patricia! I love the way you included some of your instagram posts with superstition content in between the paragraphs of your story.

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