The Whispering Ghost of Viremont Palace
The towering silhouette of Viremont Palace loomed over the mist-covered hills like a forgotten wound. Its once-gleaming spires were now brittle bones jutting into the gray sky, and the ornate windows—clouded and cracked—seemed to watch every step of the villagers below.
No one dared enter Viremont after sundown. Not since the night of the blood moon, nearly a century ago, when Princess Elira vanished during the royal masquerade. The guests claimed she simply disappeared mid-dance. One moment she was twirling across the ballroom in a gown of silver threads, the next—gone. Her echoing scream was the last sound to touch the walls that night.
Over time, Viremont fell into ruin, its secrets swallowed by ivy and silence. But the ghost never left.
“Don’t go near the palace,” warned the elders of the village, eyes darting toward the mist-draped hill. “She still dances. And if she sees you, she’ll want a partner.”
But nineteen-year-old Lucien wasn’t one to heed superstitions. An orphan with a taste for mystery and a pocketful of skepticism, he believed stories like Elira’s were made to scare children—not men. So, on the eve of the hundredth anniversary, Lucien climbed to Viremont, flashlight in hand, camera around his neck, and defiance in his heart.
Inside, time had stood still. The massive chandeliers swayed gently as though still pulsing to phantom music. The marble floors, cracked but gleaming in the flashlight’s beam, reflected strange shapes that vanished when stared at directly.
Then he heard it—a violin.
Soft, sorrowful, elegant.
Drawn to the grand ballroom, Lucien stepped through its gilded archway and froze.
There she was.
Elira.
Floating inches above the ground, her gown shimmered with moonlight that had no source. Her eyes were hollow wells of grief, her mouth curved in an eternal, mournful smile.
“You came,” she whispered, though her lips never moved.
Lucien felt the pull—like gravity, but gentler. His flashlight dropped with a clatter. The camera blinked once, then died.
“Dance with me…”
What happened next is etched into Viremont legend.
The next morning, the villagers found Lucien’s backpack at the palace gates, and in his camera was a single photo—blurry, shadowed, but unmistakable: two figures mid-dance beneath a chandelier. One cloaked in silver. The other cloaked in fear.
Now, they say, if you approach the palace at night, you’ll hear two sets of footsteps. Two dancers. Trapped in an endless waltz of sorrow and shadows.
And the ghost of Viremont?
She no longer dances alone.
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