From the window of the castle, the only thing that could be seen was the snow-covered forest, which for some reason always looked black from this vantage point. Gloomy black fur-trees were bent under the weight of the snow, and the gloomy, low, gray sky seemed almost to lie on their tops. On a sunny day, the view might even have been pleasant, but the old man could not recall the last time that he had seen the sun. As far as he remembered, there were only heavy clouds and snow, snow everywhere, and only gray and black, black and gray – the only colors of the world. 

He did not know why he climbed the castle’s tower every day, despite his aching legs, and peered out at the misty horizon. Many years ago he had waited for his son to return, but now he had no one to wait for. The road to the castle had long since been abandoned, the forest grew closer to the walls, and every night the wolves could be heard howling outside; or perhaps it was just the wind.

The gargoyles on the roof, the stone guardians of the castle, were wrapped in coats of snow as though they were also suffering from the cold.

“Don’t you like it here?” asked the old man. “Do you want to fly away to warmer lands?”

The nearest sculpture glanced at him, but did not answer. If it could talk, it might say that flying on stone wings would be difficult. On the other hand, the very existence of warmer lands was not certain to the old man. As a child, he used to ask his father when summer would come, because it was written in the books that winters would change into summers. His father’s reply was that these were just stories, and by now the old man was almost convinced that his father had been right: there had always been winter in this area, and he could not see any possible reason why the situation should be different in other places.

The darkness of the evening slowly crept towards the castle, the road disappearing into the shadows of the forest and the sky drowning in the faraway horizon. The old man could hear the wind sighing above his head and throwing a handful of snow down on him from the roof. In the villages of the county, the evening lights were usually on at this time, and one could always see people there, could hear the mooing of cattle. That day, however, the neighborhood was dark and silent, no light and no soul could be seen in the nearby village. What was wrong, the old man asked himself in surprise, and why were there no lights? Why could he only see the snowfield instead of the village? Upon further reflection, however, he reassured himself that it could not be true, that it had surely only seemed that way to him because of the deceptive shadows of the evening and his tired eyes.

The old man wrapped his jacket around himself more tightly and started back down the narrow spiral staircase, carefully descending, leaning on his cane with one hand and gripping the dark wooden railing with the other, lest he trip on the wet, worn and slippery steps. Every now and then he had to stop and take his hand off the railing to adjust the collar of his jacket, which kept trying to open. He suffered from the cold, from the permanent draught in the corridors and the chill emanating from the dank, icy walls. He repeated to himself that it was his age, his old age that was to blame, although he knew it was a lie. The problem was not only his age: it was indeed cold in the castle, even by the fireplaces, even by the huge one in the central hall. Its walls themselves seemed to suck out the heat, to resist it, and the fire was reluctant to burn, unwilling to share its warmth with anyone.

No wonder that the old man’s son had left this place as soon as he could, saying he would never return to this frozen ruin. The old man said nothing at the time, for he had also intended to leave when he had been young. As of late, he often reflected on those past days, trying to bring them back to memory, but all in vain: he could not recall with certainty whether he had indeed left once and returned later, or whether these intentions had never been realized. If he had a son, that meant he had been married, and that, in turn, meant that he had met his wife somewhere. To his great disappointment, however, no matter how much he asked himself where she was at present and what had happened to her, whether she had died, or left. He could not remember a single thing about her. He remembered his son and their last conversation, and nothing more.

The old man kept blaming his age, his accursed old age, which was certainly the only reason for these cruel jokes of his memory. When your body betrays you, he pondered sadly, it is not the worst – the worst thing is when your mind betrays you.

Finally, the stairs came to an end, and the old man shuffled into the dining room, which was cold and damp like all the other rooms in the castle. Without any appetite, he ate something tasteless and cold. Scolding the servant was useless, because each time the man assured him that the food had just come out of the stove. “Only the kitchen’s over there, m’lord,” the servant would explain, “and the dining room’s over here. And I’m not so young, m’lord, you know. It would be good to hire a young fellow, but there’s nowhere to find one.”

Perhaps it was true, because, indeed, the castle was big, and the only servant was old, just like his lord. Alas, his explanations did not make the food any warmer, which sometimes made the old man think it would be better to eat right in the kitchen, for at least that way he could hope to get some hot soup, and besides, it might be a little warmer next to the kitchen stove. However, his pride would not allow him to behave that way.

While chewing the tough cold meat with difficulty, the old man pondered about the stupid and superstitious peasants who had gotten it into their heads that the castle was cursed. He had no idea where this nonsense was coming from, or why the castle was supposed to be cursed; of course, there was nothing to it.

Yet on the other hand, it was very, very strange to see those dark surroundings of the castle, when all that seemed to be left of the world was the edge of the field and the forest, the same dark, frozen forest, black and gray under the gray sky.

The old man tried to remember the last time that the peasants had been to the castle to bring flour and meat and milk for the morning oatmeal, as they were supposed to do. He could almost remember it, almost… but suddenly the fire in the fireplace distracted his attention and he forgot.

His old servant, the most devoted of all, was the only one who stayed with the old man; ah, and there was also the woman cook. Besides the two servants, there were only the gargoyles and the ghosts; both were poor interlocutors, and the old man had no one to talk to.

A long time ago, in his childhood, he was afraid of the ghosts, even though they were doing nothing wrong, just floating by on their own ghostly business. When his father found out, he was very displeased. “These are our family ghosts, Gregory,” his father said at the time. “They are our relatives, therefore you ought to treat them with respect, whether they are dead or not.”

Not that he stopped being afraid, but over time he became accustomed to the translucent silhouettes gliding along the corridors: his late great-great-grandfather, his great-uncle and others; later, his father joined their company. The old man continued to greet his father for a long time, and it was rather hard to forget this habit; however, saying good morning to a ghost would be ridiculous.

As of late, the old man sometimes had the feeling that he, too, had become a ghost a long time ago, that he only imagined himself to still be alive.

***

As soon as he reached adulthood, he began to repair the castle, having decided, despite his father’s assurances of the impossibility of this undertaking, that he had the right to insist. Paint-splattered workers from the nearby town walked the corridors, there was constant rumbling, always dust in the air, the draughts were worse than usual, and the servants (there were still many servants in the castle at that time) gave up their fruitless attempts to clean the floors. He rejoiced in the anticipation that it would soon be done.Finally, after the workers were paid and left, he proudly invited his father.

“Look at this!” he said as he opened the doors to the central hall.

“No, you look at this,” his father replied.

He looked – and could not believe his own eyes as he saw that everything was gray, worn and shabby: faded tapestries, scuffed parquet floors, tarnished glass and dark stains of mold everywhere..

“I have told you it is impossible,” his father said with a sigh. “The castle does not want it.”

He screamed.

***

The old man awoke from his own scream and lay motionless for a long time, waiting for his frantically pounding heart to calm down. That dream, once again. Over and over again, he had the same dream; over and over again, he racked his brain trying to figure out whether these events had really taken place. Many years ago, he had indeed intended to rebuild everything as soon as he had the right to do so; however, the castle looked like it had not been repaired for a hundred years if not more. His father might have forbidden him, but even so, it remained unclear what happened after his father’s death.

Once he even asked his servant when the castle had last been repaired. The servant thought a bit and answered that yes, some workers had come, but it had been many years ago, and he could not remember who had given them the orders. There had been a lot of dirt, the servant added, that was for sure. When questioned about the results he shrugged and said in an apologetic tone of voice, “I didn’t look closely, we’re simple people, we are. It must’ve gotten prettier. Why is it so shabby now? Well, m’lord, I say, ‘twas long ago. You can do it again, m’lord, but nowhere to find workers.”

The servant’s answer did not make things any clearer, and so every time the old man woke up screaming he tried to guess whether it was real or not. It would be unbelievable if the castle really “did not want” something! Nevertheless… what if it were true?

There was another dream yet: that he wanted to leave the castle but the doors closed, one after the other, and would not let him out. The shutters slammed shut, the bars came down, and finally the walls started closing around him, crushing and suffocating him. The last part was definitely just a dream: no doubt it was old age and heart palpitations that caused him to dream of suffocation. Recently, the old man remembered with certainty that he had left the castle when he was young, that he had met his wife at the town ball and they had been introduced to each other; he also remembered her blonde hair and a sharp chin, her excellent manners, and her playing the harpsichord. Still, he could not tell what her name was. He forgot it.

However, this reassured him that the impossibility of leaving the castle was no more than a dream, that he had not left it for many years because he had no desire to do so, because he was old and sick and did not like company. Besides, he had no company to meet, and therefore nowhere to go; but if he wanted to…   

The old man was afraid to ask himself a question: if he wanted to leave, would the castle let him go this time?

***

Climbing the tower was more difficult than usual, and the old man remembered that doctors used to recommend exercise as good for health; in his opinion, however, these doctors understood nothing since they probably never experienced back pain, aching knees, or shortness of breath with the slightest effort.

The next moment, he was perplexed as to why he had suddenly thought of doctors even though none had visited the castle for many years. In case of need, the old servant treated his lord with herbal infusions, repeating his usual saying, “Nowhere to find ‘em”. Apparently, the old man just felt ill that day; more ill than usual, one might say.

His main illness, which unfortunately could not be cured, was old age, and it was an illness that would inevitably pass by itself in the end, though not in the way one would like.

***

Strangely enough, the old man did not remember his father being old and weak. Ah yes, the day before, he had recalled that he had left the castle for several years and had apparently returned after his father’s death. He tried to imagine his father climbing the tower every day, as had been his own custom in recent years, waiting for his return, worrying about him, hoping to see him again and sending him letters; such things, however, seemed almost impossible since, as far as the old man could remember, his father had been strict, stern, and always calm. Then he thought about himself and wondered whether he had written letters to his father a long time ago, when he was young, and whether he had written letters to his own son or received his son’s letters in the past years; yet no matter how hard he strained his memory, he could recall nothing. Perhaps the letters, if there were any, were still stored somewhere, and he could search for them, but he did not have the faintest idea where they might be, and besides, this was very unlikely: he was not sentimental, and his father would certainly not have kept useless junk.  

Having thought this, the old man was horrified to realize that he had just referred to his son’s letters as useless junk.

***

Finally, the old man reached the top of the tower where the observation room was, which was cold and draughty as usual, or perhaps even more than usual. As he looked out of the window he shuddered, for it seemed to him that the stone figures had disappeared from the roof, as though they had indeed flown away. Upon closer inspection, however, he realized that the sculptures were simply covered in snow up to their waists, shoulders or even their heads. The dark eye of the familiar gargoyle glanced at him with obvious reproach, and the old man addressed the sculpture, saying, “You don’t think it is my fault, do you? Do you believe that eternal winter is indeed our curse, our punishment for some old sins?”

The gargoyle remained silent. Stone sculptures were poor interlocutors, as he had said before, or perhaps had thought it. It did not matter, though, since he just needed to have someone to talk to.

His father, seemingly…

The old man was annoyed to notice that he kept returning to his memories of his father, kept trying to recall what could not be revived, although the reason for these attempts was blurred. Perhaps it was but his desire to avoid thinking about the bleak present, or perhaps something else. Alas, the memories were dodging, hiding, sneaking away, and he was no longer sure that everything he had managed to recall was not merely a dream, that he indeed had a wife and a son.

 He even began to doubt whether he had ever lived at all.

***

The old man paused for a moment to recover his breath, gripping the railing tighter with his trembling hands. No! He remembered! He remembered his father, his childhood, and moreover, he remembered the bouquet of flowers that he had brought his wife before their wedding! She had the flowers in her hands, and the fan, and she was wearing a light-colored silk dress, which certainly meant that it was summer at the time, and therefore could serve as evidence for the existence of summer in the world; unless it was nothing more than another dream. But if it were true, the old man asked himself, why then…  All of a sudden, he was struck by a horrible thought that the peasants, the stupid and ignorant peasants, might be right.

He visited the castle’s picture gallery, where the portraits of his ancestors hung,  and walked for a long time from one picture to another, peering into their faces, either trying to figure out which of these equally indifferent people was guilty of the eternal cold, or perhaps seeking some proof that he indeed existed and had not imagined his past. He found a portrait of himself as a young man, but this arrogant face seemed unfamiliar to him.

The gallery was the coldest place of all.

***

During the evening meal, as the old man was picking at the cold porridge with his spoon, he suddenly recalled that his wife had come to live here with him, but after a short time she decided to visit her parents and never came back. His son was about ten years old at the time, or even younger, and at first the boy kept asking when his mom would be back, but later he stopped. Upon further reflection, the old man realized that he did not remember his mother either, and surmised that she too had apparently “decided to visit her parents”. Moreover, there were only male portraits in the gallery. Was it possible that the castle did not tolerate women? That sounded strange.

Soon it would be night and nightmares again, he thought; it would be helpful to ask the servant for a sleeping potion, and perhaps even to inquire where the servant found the herbs he needed, although the old man was not particularly curious about it.

***

In his dream, the old man saw his father.

“You can leave and travel anywhere,” his father said. “It does not matter. Your place is here. One day the castle will call you and you will come back. We are unable to resist this call.”

His father’s eyes were cold as ice, and so was his voice, and so were his words: “The castle will call… We are unable to resist…”

The old man awoke shivering with cold under two down blankets, his father’s voice still seeming to echo in the chamber, although no ghosts were to be found nearby. As he had already learned, they did not care about the living, nor did they ever speak to the living, as far as he could remember.

Did not care about the living… Something important was hidden in these words, but the thought was slipping away. While trying to catch it, the old man stumbled several times on the stairs on his way up the tower. His heart sank in his chest, he felt dizzy, and he thought in fear that he might very well have fallen.

Having finally reached the top of the tower, he stood at the window, looking out at the empty road and the frozen sculptures, deep in thought.

“Do not care,” the gargoyle next to the window uttered very clearly.

Do not care…

The understanding burned him with a cold he had never known before. “This is it,” the old man whispered. “This is the curse of our family. We do not care about anyone, we do not know how to love. There is ice in our souls, in our hearts. I am not sure I loved my father. I doubt my father ever loved me. Did I love my wife when I can hardly remember now that she ever existed?”

The gargoyle glanced at him doubtfully. “Really?” it asked.

Now it was talking to him. Hadn’t he said that the gargoyles were… On the other hand, they were the part of the castle, weren’t they? In this case, did it mean that the castle itself decided to talk to him? That sounded strange, but no more so than the eternal winter.

“I am not sure,” the old man said. “But it is the only explanation I can think of.  I don’t know when it started. You are not to blame, for you only absorbed the cold of your masters. And so strong that cold was that it froze the entire neighborhood. That is why people are fleeing from here. Our wives cannot stand it, they leave, and we take our children from their mothers to raise them here, to prolong our accursed family line. Perhaps it is for the best that you draw us back here, lest we scatter across the world and freeze it all.”

The gargoyle still looked at him with distrust. With disapproval? With contempt?

“Why are you explaining this to me?” it inquired. “I don’t need your forgiveness.”

The old man sighed. Why? He didn’t know himself. He just felt he had to say it out loud, perhaps only for his own sake. Perhaps the words spoken would not vanish into thin air, would somehow stay within these icy walls and somehow… change something? Who knew?

“Let me finish,” he said with an effort. “It is important. I feel it is. Listen. We do not live, since our existence cannot be called life. We are like ghosts. Being alive, we are hardly different from the dead.”

The gargoyle turned away, and the old man heard a hoarse croaking. Apparently it was laughter. “What do I care?” it said.

The old man remained silent. What else could he say? It seemed that all these words had been said in vain. Words, words, words…

His vision blurred, and he blinked a few times to clear the tears that were probably welling up in his eyes; then he glanced out of the window again, and froze, staring at the carriage moving down the road.

It was his son, who else could it be? He was back at last!

The old man hurried down the stairs with a light step, as if he were young again, as if he were flying instead of walking. He guessed that the obvious reason for this was his joy, and suddenly he realized that he loved his son, and rejoiced even more at the thought that all was not yet lost and that he was able to love. He anticipated telling his son that he was happy to see him, that he had been waiting for him and hoping for his return. He decided to ask his son to tell him about his life, and if his son had children, oh, he would love his grandchildren. He already loved them! Perhaps his son would also say that he was glad to see him, and then together they would put an end to this curse, they would finally warm this castle, they would…

***

His son was standing in the entrance hall, with a ten-year-old boy beside him. The old man took a step toward them – and stumbled at the child’s frightened gaze.

“This is your grandfather,” the old man’s son said in a cold voice. “You must not be afraid of him. Ghosts do not care about the living.”