Goranovichy, Transylvania 1750
The air was heavy and clammy as it often is just before a storm. The villagers could feel the dampness through
their simple clothing. The Goranovich castle loomed over the village like a gigantic monster guarding its slaves.
Green moss, gray lichen and entangled vines coated the 600-year-old castle, its decaying walls showing neglect
and the effect of the pounding of the frequent Transylvanian torrential rainstorms. Three turrets, once the final
defense and refuge of the occupants during sieges, still jutted straight into the sky. The dilapidated old structure
added to the dismal atmosphere surrounding the village and the serfs living in its shadow.
A motley mob crept stealthily along the interior walls of the crumbling old castle. They had no trouble gaining
access to the interior of the castle grounds, since the night was unseasonably hot for this part of Transylvania and
the characteristically lazy guards were even more indolent because of the heat. They would probably not have
interfered had they known what was afoot because the Baron’s vile temper was nonrestrictive. The guards had
suffered indignities and worse from him and disliked the despot as much as the ordinary villagers.
The air was heavy and clammy as it often is just before a storm. The villagers could feel the dampness through
their simple clothing. The Goranovich castle loomed over the village like a gigantic monster guarding its slaves.
Green moss, gray lichen and entangled vines coated the 600-year-old castle, its decaying walls showing neglect
and the effect of the pounding of the frequent Transylvanian torrential rainstorms. Three turrets, once the final
defense and refuge of the occupants during sieges, still jutted straight into the sky. The dilapidated old structure
added to the dismal atmosphere surrounding the village and the serfs living in its shadow.
A motley mob crept stealthily along the interior walls of the crumbling old castle. They had no trouble gaining
access to the interior of the castle grounds, since the night was unseasonably hot for this part of Transylvania and
the characteristically lazy guards were even more indolent because of the heat. They would probably not have
interfered had they known what was afoot because the Baron’s vile temper was nonrestrictive. The guards had
suffered indignities and worse from him and disliked the despot as much as the ordinary villagers.
| Old Yellow Hand |
The tale of the old yellow hand is fiction. It is based on stories told by the author to his children and
grandchildren while camping on Great North Mountain, Gore VA. The sighing of trees, the rustle of leaves on
the ground as small animals foraged, and the occasional unexplained forest noise were all fodder for the ghost
story: Old Yellow Hand.
grandchildren while camping on Great North Mountain, Gore VA. The sighing of trees, the rustle of leaves on
the ground as small animals foraged, and the occasional unexplained forest noise were all fodder for the ghost
story: Old Yellow Hand.
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