Matie Tudorache

This entry was written by ML S., Mike

   Duncan Josephson stood before the massive wood doors wondering how life ever brought him to this place. Many long years of toil in dust filmed libraries and hidden repositories had finally paid off. He was finally going to realize the culmination of chasing tenuous threads of knowledge and step inside the castle nobody believed could still exist.

   “Are you sure this is the place, Dodte?”

   “Yes Dr. Josephson. All maps and the locals say this is the place which you seek.”

   Josephson exhaled, “Let us enter then and see what wonders await us.”

   “But doctor, you know what they say. I do not wish to enter. Please let us flee while the sun is still in the sky.”

   “Poppycock! Fairytales is all those stories are. Enter we shall and we will not leave until I have found what I seek.”

   The massive doors spun slowly outward as they pulled on the large iron handles. Not a sound wafted from the hinges that had to be several hundred years old.

   Josephson cocked and eyebrow, “Strange. One would think the doors would have protested after being shut for so long. It’s almost as if they are as good as the day they were installed.”

   A chill breeze filtered through the dried leaves on the trees sending shivers down Josephson’s spine. Looking back down the mountainside, he could see the shadows quickly lengthening as the sun descended below the horizon.

   “Follow me Dodte and bring the lanterns with you. I wish to find the room before night falls completely. Legend says it should be down this hall and protected behind a blood red iron door.”

   The pair tentatively made their way down the gloomy hall. Their footsteps echoed off the stonework as they searched for the door.

   “Doctor, come here quickly! I think I have found the door but I’m not sure.”

   “I believe you have done it, Dodte. This is certainly a blood red door and it sounds like iron. It also strangely shows no signs of age. Have you also noticed the hall itself is as tidy as a minister’s home? What is going on here? All signs indicate this is the place but nowhere does it look to be more than a few years old.”

   Both men let out audible gasps as their lights shown upon shelf after shelf of journals and ancient tomes.

   “Dodte, look at all these books. There must be hundreds of journals alone! Pull down some and bring them over here to the desk so I can examine them.”

   Dodte moved around the room taking down random journals. He placed them before Josephson who waited as excitedly as a small child on Christmas morn.

   Reading in rapt awe, Josephson sped through page after page moving from one journal to the next. A furrow of concern crept across his brow.

   “All in the same script. How can this be? These journals span centuries yet they seem to be written by the same hand. This is impossible. The legend surely can’t be true. Yet, listen to these two passages, Dodte.”

   “My Ilona has been taken from me. The raiders hit our encampment at dawn taking us unawares. I was unable to defend her. I can not bear the sadness that has enveloped my soul.”

   “Now from this journal here dated three hundred years later.”

   “Memories of my sweet Ilona haunt my dreamings and wakings. How long must I endure this torture? Foul God that would curse me thus. I no longer acknowledge you.”

   “Amazing. Truly amazing. I must rest and contemplate over this. We’ll make a fire in the fireplace and sleep here tonight. I must read more and figure out how this can be.”

   Night fully descended on the pair and sleep soon followed. Fitful dreams pierced the visions of both men throughout the long night. As though remembering a time long since departed, they both tossed and turned to scenes of long conversations with a feudal lord, merriment, horror and time that seemed to never end.

   “Doctor. It is morning. Please wake! I had such terrible dreams.”

   “I did as well, Dodte. It must be the influence of this place. You can feel the weight of ages in the very air now.”

   “Dodte? Did you place this black journal on the desk after I slept?”

   “No doctor. I did not. I slept when you did.”

   Josephson was shocked when he opened the journal, “This ink is still fresh! See how it stains the facing page. Oh God! This can’t be! This just can’t be.”

   Josephson read aloud from the journal dated the night before, “Long have these years been empty. No human has dared venture unto Keep Tudorache. My long rest has finally been ended with the arrival of two whom I would know. A guide who goes by the name Dodte and a man of learning named Josephson. I have placed my watchers to look over them and keep them safe for little do they know the dark depravities with which the centuries have infected Keep Tudorache. On the morrow shall I greet them.”

   Both men turned at the sound of the inner door to the library opening. A chilled air rushed into the room as the heat of the fire retreated from their bones.

   A voice heavy with an ancient accent carried into the room though no form seemed attached, “I am Count Matei Tudorache. Welcome to your resting place. I hope you will find the centuries pleasant.”