In winter’s grip, in thirty-three,
A Polish castle loomed with glee,
Where noble Anton Hullberg drank,
Till cards were blurred and senses sank.
The candles flickered, laughter rolled,
Red wine spilled on carpets old,
Empty glasses, drunken cheer,
No fear was felt by those inside here.
But then above, a creaking groan,
A sound that chilled them to the bone,
The room fell still, the smiles froze—
“What’s that?” they asked… and Anton rose.
“Oh, don’t you fret,” he slurred with grin,
“That’s just the monk who lives within.”
A hooded shade, a ghostly tale,
A haunted room beyond the pale.
One guest was new, had never heard,
Of monkly myths or whispers stirred,
“A room you own but never tread?
Because a ghost?” the stranger said.
The friends all laughed, the teasing grew,
They mocked his fear, his tale untrue,
“Go sleep up there, if you’re so brave,
Or are you just a noble knave?”
With pride and drink, he sealed his fate,
“Fine,” he said, “I’ll tempt it—wait.
Tonight I’ll sleep where shadows stay,
And prove your childish fears all gray.”
They climbed the stairs, the hallway long,
Where silence hummed a funeral song,
The door unlocked with nervous hands,
Dust and webs like ancient lands.
Inside, no beast, no monk in sight,
Just aged décor drowned in night,
He locked the door, said “See you morn,”
Unknowing he was already mourned.
Hours passed in moonless dread,
Then screams erupted—sharp with dead,
A sound so raw, so filled with fear,
It dragged them all from beds to hear.
They ran, they knocked, they shouted loud,
But silence answered, thick as shroud,
The door was locked, no voice replied,
They broke it down and rushed inside.
There Anton lay upon the bed,
Cold, unmoving—very dead,
No rope, no chain, no sign of fight,
Just a red mark, thin and tight.
A ligature, yet nothing there,
No weapon found, no killer’s snare,
The autopsy drew blanks again—
No cause of death, no mortal men.
Then whispers grew of truths untold,
Of stories older, dark and cold,
Not just a monk who roamed the room—
But one who strangled souls to doom.
They said if you dared to sleep that night,
The monk would come, unseen, out of sight,
A thin rope drawn from realms unknown,
To crush your breath, to claim your bone.
And so it stands, a locked-room death,
No killer’s hand, no final breath,
A haunted castle, legend real—
Where truth and terror intertwine and seal.
To this day, no soul can say,
What stole Anton Hullberg’s life away,
But in that room, they still won’t stay…
For monks don’t need ropes—
They find their way.
