High upon a jagged cliff, Castle Wytherstone jutted out into the sky like a beast clawing its way from the earth. The precipice below dropped hundreds of feet into the crashing waves of the Tempest Sea, which lashed the rocks relentlessly. The wind howled around the turrets, and the ancient stones groaned under the weight of centuries. Though time had worn away its grandeur, the castle remained a fortress, isolated and menacing. Few dared venture near it.
Lord Edrick Wytherstone, the last of his bloodline, lived alone in the castle with his servants. He was a man of middle years, with sharp features and dark eyes that seemed to pierce through anyone who gazed too long into them. He had inherited the castle after his father’s mysterious death, and with it, the weight of generations’ worth of secrets.
Wytherstone’s legend was one of tragedy. The Wytherstone family had been cursed, or so it was whispered among the villagers in the nearby town of Fenwater. It was said that those who lived in the castle never died peacefully in their beds. Each generation met with violence or despair. Many believed the sea itself demanded the Wytherstones' lives as payment for building a castle so close to its fury.
Despite these grim tales, Lord Edrick was determined to break the curse. He kept the villagers at bay, isolating himself from their superstitions and allowing only the most loyal of servants to enter the castle's walls. But there was one night he could not avoid—his father’s anniversary. Ten years ago, on that very night, his father had fallen from the highest tower of the castle. His body had been found smashed on the rocks below, and it was unclear whether he had jumped, fallen, or been pushed. The mystery haunted Edrick's every waking moment.
This year, the anniversary was marked by a ferocious storm. Thunder rumbled across the sky, and lightning illuminated the castle in brief flashes. Inside, Lord Edrick sat in his dimly lit study, the flames from the hearth casting long, flickering shadows on the stone walls. He sipped a glass of wine, his thoughts troubled by memories of his father. His gaze drifted to the portrait that hung above the mantle—his father, Lord Gideon Wytherstone, standing tall and proud in the very same room.
"Why did you fall?" Edrick whispered to the painting, as if expecting an answer.
A knock on the heavy wooden door broke the silence. It creaked open to reveal Iona, the castle’s steward. She was a stout, no-nonsense woman with grey streaks in her hair and the kind of face that had seen too much of the world. Edrick trusted her more than anyone else, though he had his doubts about everyone these days.
"My lord, the storm grows worse. Perhaps you should retire for the night," she said, her voice calm but filled with concern.
Edrick waved her off. "I’m not tired, Iona. There’s work yet to be done."
Iona hesitated. "It’s not just the storm, my lord. The staff is on edge. This night—it unnerves them."
"Superstitions, nothing more," Edrick muttered. "Go back to your duties."
She lingered a moment longer, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for some unseen presence. Then, with a small nod, she left Edrick alone.
The night dragged on, and the storm grew more violent. Wind whistled through the cracks in the old stone, and the flames in the hearth sputtered as gusts found their way inside. Edrick could feel the weight of the castle around him, the weight of centuries pressing down. He drained his wine and stood, pacing the length of the room. His mind kept circling back to the tower, to the night his father had died.
He had been a boy of seven then, awoken in the middle of the night by the shouts of the servants. He had run to the tower, only to be stopped by Iona, who had held him back as they looked down at the broken body below. Even now, the memory was like a jagged scar on his soul.
As the wind howled, a strange noise reached Edrick’s ears—a distant scraping, like metal on stone. He paused, listening. It came again, faint but unmistakable, echoing through the castle’s halls.
His heart quickened. The staff had retired hours ago. Who could be wandering the castle at this hour?
Grabbing a lantern, Edrick left the study and stepped into the dark corridor. The air was cold, and the wind seemed to carry with it an unnatural chill. He followed the sound, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways. The noise grew louder as he approached the west wing of the castle—the wing that housed the tower.
Suddenly, the scraping stopped.
Edrick hesitated, his hand tightening around the lantern. The silence was oppressive, as if the very walls were holding their breath. He took a cautious step forward and then another. At the base of the spiral staircase leading to the tower, he stopped. The air here was even colder, and the lantern flickered ominously.
And then, he saw it—blood. A thin trail of blood leading up the stairs.
Edrick’s breath caught in his throat. He had seen this before—ten years ago, on the night of his father’s death. The same trail, the same smell of iron in the air. But how could this be happening again?
His hand shook as he placed the lantern on the ground and drew the sword that hung on the wall. Steeling himself, he ascended the stairs, his heart pounding with each step.
The trail led him higher and higher, until he reached the door to the tower chamber. It was ajar, the wood creaking in the wind. Edrick pushed it open, his eyes scanning the room. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the chamber for a brief moment—and in that flash, he saw the figure standing by the window.
A man, tall and gaunt, with dark eyes that gleamed in the storm’s light. He was dressed in clothes Edrick recognized all too well.
"Father?" Edrick whispered, his voice trembling.
The figure turned slowly, his face pale and gaunt, as though he had risen from the grave. It was Lord Gideon Wytherstone.
"You left me, Edrick," the apparition whispered. "You left me to die."
Edrick staggered back, his mind reeling. This was impossible. His father was dead—he had seen the body, he had buried him. But here he stood, as real as the day he had fallen.
"I didn’t—I couldn’t save you," Edrick stammered, his voice breaking.
"You didn’t even try," his father’s ghost hissed, stepping closer. "You let me fall, just as you will fall."
Suddenly, the ghost lunged, its hands reaching for Edrick’s throat. Edrick swung his sword, but it passed through the spectre as though it were mist. Cold fingers closed around his neck, squeezing the life from him.
"Join me, my son," the ghost whispered. "Join me in the abyss."
Edrick struggled, gasping for breath as the room spun around him. He could feel the pull of the tower’s edge, the same pull his father must have felt all those years ago. The wind howled, and the lightning cracked the sky. In his last desperate moments, Edrick kicked out, breaking free of the ghost’s grip. He stumbled backward, falling to the stone floor.
The ghost paused, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light. It pointed to the window, to the precipice beyond.
"End the curse, Edrick," it whispered. "End it now."
With that, the ghost vanished, leaving Edrick alone in the dark.
For a long time, he lay there, trembling, his mind reeling from what he had seen. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled to the window. The storm was still raging, but he no longer heard it. All he could hear was his father’s voice, calling him to the edge.
He stepped closer, the wind tugging at his clothes, pulling him toward the drop.
"End it," the voice whispered.
Edrick looked down at the rocks below, at the same spot where his father had died. Was this his fate? Was the curse real?
As he teetered on the edge, a voice called out behind him.
"My lord! Stop!"
It was Iona, her voice cutting through the storm. She rushed toward him, grabbing his arm and pulling him back from the precipice.
"You mustn’t," she cried. "The curse isn’t real. It was never real."
Edrick blinked, his mind clearing as he looked into her eyes. "But my father—"
"Your father fell because he was pushed, Edrick," Iona said, her voice steady but filled with urgency. "He was pushed by your uncle. He wanted the castle for himself. I saw it happen."
Edrick’s breath caught in his throat. "My uncle? But he—"
"Yes, he’s dead now too. But the curse—this was all his doing. He spread the rumours, made your father think he was mad, made everyone believe in the curse. It’s over, Edrick. You don’t have to follow him."
The storm began to quiet, and with it, the madness that had clouded Edrick’s mind. He looked once more at the rocks below, then stepped away from the window.
The curse was not real. But murder was.
As the storm passed, Edrick and Iona descended the tower in silence. The ghost of Lord Gideon Wytherstone would haunt the castle no more, but the truth of his death would linger in its shadows forever.
The precipice would not claim another life that night. But Castle Wytherstone, perched on the edge of the abyss, would never let anyone forget how close it had come.
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