Anno Domini 1475 let Erik, son of Axel Knight of Lagnö, build this Castle to the Glory of God, to strengthen the Holy Christian Faith in Christ: and then was my wife's name Elin, daughter of Götstaff[D] in Lagmansöö.
That weary traveller saw the indignation at its erection at Nyslott, just within the Russian limits of the frontier, saw the five splendid towers finished, of which three now remain, and the Bastion Dick properly rebuilt.
And then all grew suddenly dark, and, in a deeper sleep, that dreamer groped along the gloomy subterranean passage, said to run from the clock tower to the town, seemed to hear the rushing water, a hundred and twenty feet deep at this point, tearing like a cataract overhead, peered into those many strange dark chambers, and hearkened, appalled, to the piercing shrieks of those two wretched men bricked up together in yonder small chamber, in darkness till death brought relief.
What a life, and what a death! Four stone walls round a room about six feet by ten—with an earthen floor and a low ceiling—no window for light, no stove for warmth in that bitterly cold land.
Half waking from troubled slumber the weary traveller shivered to think of the horror that had been enacted so close to her elaborately carved bedstead and its lumpy mattress.
How hot it still was! The day had been almost tropical, but it is a merciful provision of Providence that all days, even one beginning at four A.M., must end at last, and as I, the nineteenth century traveller, the "elderly scribe," aroused myself sufficiently to shake off those terrible visions of a cruel past, I realised it was getting on for midnight. I heard our friend going to rest in his chapel-chamber, and, turning over, tried to go to sleep. How quiet everything was! Except for the gnawing of the rats or mice under the floor—no unusual sound in an old castle, of course—and so unconsciousness came—I slept—yes, I slept—till——
Ah! what was that! Was it? yes, it was—some one calling; and yet it could not be.
The custodians had both retired to their kitchen to rest I knew—for had I not heard them trudging upstairs to seek their improvised couches long before?—and yet, most certainly, a loud strange call had broken the silence of night. Was it, really uttered by a human being, or could it be—no, no, of course not. A spirit? Ridiculous! The very idea was preposterous, and, lying down again, I argued how absurd were such fears, how I had been simply dreaming; over-fatigued after a long day's travel—how, in fact, my mind was disorganised, and the best thing to do was to fall asleep at once. At that moment a tremendous peal of thunder broke overhead, while, simultaneously, the whole room was flooded with light. It played over the walls, it danced over the floor, and then a clap more tremendous than the first seemed to shake the very building. Yet through the roll of heaven's artillery I heard that hideous weird cry distinctly audible.
Starting up again in response, I began to think sleeping in a haunted castle was not such fun after all; that there must be something very uncanny about Nyslott, more especially when a strange door creaked on its hinges, that sort of rasping squeak one associates with the opening of a door generally kept firmly closed—and muffled feet pattered over the stairs.
Nearer came the sound, nearer, yet nearer. My heart jumped into my mouth, it ceased almost to beat as the strange footsteps stopped on the very threshold of our room. "Oh!" I gasped, thinking that in another moment spirit fingers would turn the handle, and a ghostly figure enter the room. What form would it take? Would the phantom be man or woman—tall or short—an assassin, murderer, or victim? Yes, the steps had ceased at our very door, and the next moment they would be upon us.