BLOGLISH

The end of the Varga dynasty

It was a dark autumn night of 1846, in the Carpathians. The silence was heavy, sinister, deadly… Suddenly a storm burst out. The wind was blowing through the trees of the thick forest and lightnings were ripping out the sky. Then, covering the raging thunder, a terrible scream rose up from the castle high up on the mountain.

            This castle was made of massive stones. It projected over an abrupt ravine. The doors were extremely massive as well, they hardly-ever opened. Nobody knew who lived there. Rumours were running that it was an old rich and bitter man, or a captive gracious lady. But in reality, this castle was the home of Sir Andrassy Varga, only survivor of the Varga dynasty who had inhabited this place for centuries. Sir Varga rarely went out of his room and never went outside the walls of the fort.

            This night, Sir Varga screamed from his gigantic room located on the last floor of the northern tower, at the top of spinning stairs made of stone and covered in dusty crimson velvet. He screamed at the top of his lungs, covered with blood, staring at the creature standing in front of him with frightened eyes.

            Earlier this October 23^rd, 1846, at around 9pm Sir Varga was writing on his desk, by the only little window who let a white thin trickle of light into the room that lightened the painted portrait of his older brother, Sir Zsigmond Varga.

Exactly ten years before this, all the Vargas, from Sir Andrassy’s great uncle to his nieces, except of course, Sir Andrassy himself, had been killed by the blade of Pavlo Vadymovytch Kravtchenko, their all-time enemy. The Kravtchenkos once had a lot of debts towards the Vargas, so they slowly gave them everything they had. Pavlo always wanted to take back from the Vargas what he thought was his.

Kravtchenko, once invited for dinner at the Varga’s castle to try to solve their conflict and instaure acquaintance, got out of his mind for an unknown reason and savagely slaughtered all the women and children in the castle, including the maids. It was an awful massacre. The crimson blood married the velvet. Then each man, including the servants defied Kravtchenko in a sword duel. The evil personage trans pierced every single one of them, without pity. Zsigmond was now alone in the deadly room with the murderer, his little brother was in Paris. It was his turn to try to avenge his family, assassinated right in front of him in the cruellest bloodbath that had probably ever been. He fought this monster of a man with all the anger and rage of the world, he battled courageously, like a knight from the Middle-Age. The duel went more and more intense. Then, at the exact same instant, both swords pierced through the enemy’s stomach. The corpses fell to the floor. Zsigmond died peacefully, knowing that he had avenged his family, but Pavlo seemed tortured: he had been killed and he hadn’t taken back his family’s goods. There was more than that. His eyes that still looked full of rage, anger and madness were staring at a portrait of Andrassy. A Varga was still alive.

            When Sir Andrassy Varga came home, he found the horrific murder scene. The bodies had started rotting. The smell was unbearable. He fell on his knees and cried his family for days, weeks, months. He had lived the past ten years without going out of his room, writing the memories of the Vargas. He was broken and couldn’t recover from the horror he had seen. He was all alone, him, who was a young man full of joy and dreams. He hadn’t spoken for ten years, not even to the only person who stayed with him, a young girl he met in Paris that he had brought back home to be his new maid. She cooked him his meal and brought them to his door. The poor girl was feeling extremely lonely but didn’t want to leave her master alone after all he had been through. Both of them had probably lost the ability to speak.

            So earlier this October 23^rd, 1846, at exactly ten years after the massacre, at around nine in the evening, Sir Varga was writing the memories of his family, when he felt like something wasn’t right. He turned his head and saw the painting of his brother moving slowly, then faster and faster. All the portraits of his family members in the room were moving, according to the loud, percussing noise that made the walls shake, all the portraits of the castle were moving. Sir Varga went crazy, he was talking to the paintings, suddenly believing his family was alive. The maid, awaken by the noise, looked through the lock of his door but was too terrified to enter his room.

            At ten at night, the storm burst out, the window of Sir Varga’s room opened, and a white, living creature entered, holding a bloody sword and hit Andrassy in the stomach with it. He let out a deadly scream. Pavlo Vadymovytch Kravtchenko’s ghost laughed of an evil, demonic laugh. Then, he scratched every portrait of the Vargas with his blade, took, nobody knows how, everything that had belonged to his family, then left, still laughing.

            Sir Andrassy Varga, agonizing on the crimson velvet took his last breath. But then, as he thought he was entering heaven, he looked around him, and saw every single room of his castle, that he hadn’t seen in ten years. All simultaneously. He was stuck each painting of himself, along with his family.

            The maid, who had seen all of this was frightened. But her master was dead, so she could get out of this haunted place. Since then, she had been telling the story of the end of the Varga dynasty. Nobody believed her, but it stayed as a legend in the mysterious Carpathians.