I. An Early Fright
by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu · 2026-03-31
In Styria, we may not be the most impressive people, but we live in a castle, or schloss, that has its own charm. With a modest income of eight or nine hundred a year, we manage quite well in this part of the world. Back home, such a sum would hardly suffice among the wealthy. My father is English, and I carry an English name, even though Iâve never set foot in England. Yet here, in this remote and simple place where everything is surprisingly affordable, I canât see how having much more money would significantly improve our comforts or even our luxuries.
My father served in the Austrian military, retiring with a pension and his inheritance, which he used to buy this feudal residence and the small estate surrounding it at a bargain price.
The castle is incredibly picturesque and isolated. It sits on a slight rise within a forest. A narrow, ancient road runs in front of its drawbridge, which has never been raised in my lifetime, and its moat is filled with perch, gliding swans, and floating white water lilies.
The schloss boasts a facade adorned with numerous windows, towers, and a Gothic chapel.
Before the gate, the forest opens into a charming, irregular glade, and to the right, a steep Gothic bridge spans a stream that meanders through the deep shadows of the woods. Iâve mentioned how lonely this place isâlet me illustrate. From the hall door, if you look toward the road, the forest stretches fifteen miles to the right and twelve to the left. The nearest village is about seven English miles to the left, while the closest historic schloss belongs to the old General Spielsdorf, nearly twenty miles to the right.
I specified âthe nearest inhabited villageâ because, just three miles westward, in the direction of General Spielsdorfâs castle, lies a deserted village. It features a quaint little church, now roofless, where the crumbling tombs of the once-proud Karnstein family, now extinct, rest. They used to own the equally desolate chateau that overlooks the silent ruins of the town, hidden deep within the forest.
Thereâs a legend explaining the abandonment of this hauntingly beautiful place, but Iâll save that story for another time.
Now, let me tell you about the small group of people who live in our castle. Iâm not counting the servants or those who occupy the rooms in the buildings attached to the schloss. Just listen and marvel! My father, the kindest man you could ever meet, is growing old, and I, at the time of this story, am only nineteen. Eight years have passed since then.
Itâs just my father and me who make up the family at the schloss. My mother, a Styrian lady, passed away when I was an infant, but I had a good-natured governess who had been with me for as long as I can remember. I canât recall a time when her warm, round face wasnât a familiar sight.
Her name was Madame Perrodon, a native of Berne, whose care and kindness helped fill the void left by my mother, whom I donât even remember since I lost her so early. She joined us for our small dinners. There was also Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, a lady you might call a âfinishing governess.â She spoke French and German, while Madame Perrodon spoke French and broken English. My father and I added English to the mix, partly to keep it alive among us and partly out of patriotism. The result was a delightful chaos that often amused strangers, and I wonât attempt to recreate it here.
Occasionally, I had two or three young lady friends of similar age who visited for varying lengths of time, and I sometimes returned their visits.
These were our regular social interactions, but we also had occasional visits from âneighborsâ living five or six leagues away. Despite this, my life was quite solitary, I assure you.
My governesses had just enough influence over me as you might expect with a somewhat spoiled girl whose only parent allowed her a great deal of freedom.
The first memory that left a deep mark on my mind, one that I can still feel today, happened when I was very young. Some might dismiss it as trivial, but itâs important to me, and youâll see why.
The nursery, as it was called, was a large room on the upper floor of the castle, with a steep oak ceiling. I must have been around six years old when one night I woke up and looked around my bed, only to find the nursery maid was missing. My nurse was gone too, and for a moment, I thought I was alone. I wasnât scared; I was one of those fortunate children who had been sheltered from ghost stories and fairy talesâthose tales that make you pull the covers over your head when you hear a creak or see a shadow flicker in the candlelight.
Instead, I felt neglected and a bit insulted, and I started to whimper, preparing for a full-blown cry. But then, to my surprise, I saw a lovely, serious face peering at me from the side of the bed. It belonged to a young woman who was kneeling beside me, her hands tucked under the blanket. I looked at her in a mix of wonder and delight, and my whimpering stopped. She gently caressed me, lay down next to me, and pulled me close with a smile. Instantly, I felt comforted and drifted back to sleep.
I was jolted awake by a sharp pain, as if two needles had pierced my chest at the same time, and I screamed. The lady recoiled, her eyes wide with shock, and then she slipped off the bed and, as I thought, hid beneath it.
That was the first time I felt real fear, and I yelled at the top of my lungs. The nurse, the nursery maid, and the housekeeper rushed in. They listened to my story and tried to reassure me, but I could see the worry etched on their faces. They looked under the bed, searched the room, peeked into cupboards, and the housekeeper whispered to the nurse, âFeel that dip in the bed? Someone was definitely here; the spot is still warm.â
I remember the nursery maid comforting me while the others examined my chest, where I said I felt the pain. They concluded there were no visible marks, and I was fine.
The housekeeper and the two other women stayed up with me all night, and from that point on, someone always kept watch in the nursery until I turned fourteen.
For a long time after that night, I was incredibly anxious. A doctor was called inâan elderly man with a pale, serious face, marked by smallpox scars, and wearing a chestnut wig. He came every other day for a while, bringing medicine that I absolutely loathed.
The morning after I saw the apparition, I was still terrified and couldnât stand being alone, even in broad daylight.
I remember my father coming in, standing by my bedside, chatting cheerfully, asking the nurse questions, and laughing heartily at one of her responses. He patted my shoulder, kissed me, and told me not to be scared, insisting it was just a dream and couldnât hurt me.
But I wasnât comforted; I knew the strange womanâs visit hadnât been a dream, and I was utterly terrified.
The nursery maid tried to console me, saying it was her who had come to check on me and lay down beside me, suggesting I must have been half-asleep not to recognize her. But even with the nurse backing her up, I wasnât fully convinced.
Later that day, I remembered an elderly man in a black robe entering the room with the nurse and housekeeper. He spoke kindly to them and gently to me. His face was sweet and kind, and he told me they were going to pray. He joined my hands together and asked me to say softly, âLord, hear all good prayers for us, for Jesusâ sake.â I think those were the exact words, as I often repeated them to myself, and my nurse made me say them in my prayers for years to come.
I can still picture the kind, gentle face of that old man with white hair, dressed in his black cassock. He stood in that rough, high-ceilinged brown room, surrounded by clunky furniture that looked like it belonged to another era, three hundred years ago. The light was dim, filtering through the small window, casting shadows across the space.
He knelt down, and the three women with him followed suit. He prayed aloud, his voice trembling with sincerity, and it felt like he went on for a long time. Everything that came before that moment has faded from my memory, and even the time that followed is a blur. But those scenes I just described remain clear in my mind, like vivid images in a dream, standing out against a backdrop of darkness.