Romanian-born author Patricia Furstenberg invites readers into the shadowed heart of Transylvania with her 1000-word story The Night of Returning Souls. “Let me show you the world as it once was,” she told Romania-insider.com, introducing a haunting tale set on All Saints’ Night, when the veil between the living and the dead grows thin.
“In The Night of Returning Souls, you will walk the misted streets of old Kronstadt beside Kate, the daughter who dares to defy the old rites of the dead. On the eve of All Saints’ Night, when the veil between worlds thins, she learns that not all spirits rest quietly and some sins never find atonement,” she said.
“It is a tale of courage and repentance, of fear and grace, where love outlives even death.”
Below, we invite you to enjoy her special story:
The Night of Returning Souls, a Transylvanian Legend
Mist curled low across the stubble fields, clinging to Kate’s boots as she walked faster, her basket knocking against her hip, thump-thump, thump-thump, her breath pale in the moonlight, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and dying leaves that eve of Sărbătoarea Tuturor Sfinților, All Saints’ Day.
The moon followed her through the haze, veiled in thin cloud, the night tasting of smoke and iron as even the owls held their breath.
Behind her, the bells of Valea Tâmpei, Tâmpa Valley tolled for the saints; ahead, the night stretched silent and cold.
She carried no candle, only her basket and a little blade, its handle warm and molded to her grip as if it had grown from her own hand.
That morning, in the village square, she had said it, loud enough for all to hear, “If the dead wish for light, let them strike the match themselves. I have herbs to dry, not ghosts to feed.”
The women gasped. The priest frowned. But Kate only smiled, that small, defiant smile of hers that never reached her green eyes.
Her little sister had died the winter before, and all the prayers in Valea Tâmpei hadn’t brought her back. So when the bells tolled and the villagers lit candles, Kate only felt the ache of smoke in her throat, her tears long gone.
They still speak of her in Valea Tâmpei, though the old ones cross themselves before saying her name. Kate, the healer’s daughter — confident, sharp-tongued, and too brave for her own good.
They say the air changes on that night, that if you breathe too deep you might taste the dust of centuries. Kate felt it too, though she’d never have admitted it. The church bells had gone silent when the mist began to move. Not drift, not swirl, but move, with purpose. It gathered in pale shapes, tall and slight, and from them rose a sound, the faint hum of voices, like the last sighs of a prayer forgotten halfway through.
Kate stopped. Her breath turned white.
The shapes drew closer and in their shimmer she saw faces she knew: the midwife who had taught her to mix poultices, a child she’d buried last winter, watching her with her mother’s verdun eyes.
Still, she said, her voice trembling but proud:
“Go back to your rest! You’ve no claim on me!”
The air answered with a hiss like water on hot iron. Her blade slipped from her hand and vanished into the fog.
Then came Ielele, the maiden dancers of the air, the unseen daughters of the night.
Their gowns flowed like smoke, their hair shimmered like frost, but their bare feet left no print on earth. They moved in a slow circle around Kate, a rhythm older than the church bells, older than words.
One stepped forward. Her face was neither kind nor cruel, only ancient, as if carved from wind.
“You walk in our hour, child of flesh,” she whispered, her voice no louder than a dying flame. “You struck at more than shadows, disturbing the souls on their one night of return. Why mock the hands that bless you from beyond? Come, then!”
Kate wanted to speak, to say she meant no harm, but her tongue felt heavy, her heart cold as the stones beneath her feet. The Ielele reached out, one slender hand brushing her brow, and the world fell away. And for an instant she saw – not the valley, not the graves – but a thousand candles burning in the dark, one for every soul forgotten.
From that sea of trembling light came the souls of the departed, rising from the warmth of remembered prayers. Their glow was soft as church wax, yet fierce enough to blind. They drifted between her and the Ielele, their murmurs swelling into a tide of voices, sorrowful and forgiving.
And as Kate watched, the glow deepened, and within it faces began to take shape… The midwife who had once blessed her cradle; her grandmother smiling from behind a veil of light and, there, fleeting as breath on glass, the shadow of a man whose eyes mirrored her own. Her grandmother’s hand rose, not in farewell but in blessing. The warmth of that unseen touch spread through Kate’s chest, dissolving the frost of all her doubting years.
The air trembled around; something inside her shifted, like ice cracking under thaw. Their presence filled her with a strange, aching peace.
The wind that moments before had howled, now whispered like a lullaby sung over a sleeping child. She reached out without thinking and, though her fingers met only air, the chill in her heart broke melting into tears she hadn’t known she carried.
Above her, the thousand candles still burned, thousands of tiny suns holding back the dark, and in their flicker, she no longer felt alone.
The Ielele drew back, their dance faltering, their music unraveling into the wind. One of them hissed her name, not in anger, but in warning, before vanishing into the dark. Kate fell to her knees, trembling, her breath mingling with the cold breath of the dead.
When dawn broke, she found frost glimmering in her hair, a single silver strand for every candle she had seen, a mark of those who have looked upon the border of worlds and lived to remember.
She walked back to the village in silence. The others were returning from the cemetery, their eyes red from candle smoke and tears. No one spoke to her, but they all looked.
From that night on, whenever the bells tolled for the departed on All Saints’ Eve, Kate lit a candle, whispering, “For those who walked with me in the dark.” Not only for kin, but for those the earth had forgotten, wanderers, soldiers, sinners. And for babes without names.
And some say that, on certain nights, when the wind slides down from the Carpathians and the air smells of damp moss and wax, you can see her light still, a small flame flickering between the graves.
The old ones cross themselves and murmur, “Nu toți sfinții stau în icoane, și nu toți morții dorm liniștiți.”
Not all saints live in icons, and not all the dead sleep peacefully.
They say it because of her.
———-
About the author:
Patricia Furstenberg grew up in Bucharest, obtained a medical degree, and moved to South Africa almost a courter of a century ago. There, she went on to pursue her love of writing while also running a blog where she advocates her love for Romania. She writes novels, children’s books, and poetry.
Readers can find Patricia Furstenberg on her website and blog or on social media, especially X, but also on Instagram, Facebook, or LinkedIn.
She previously shared special stories with Romania-insider.com: dedicated to the tradition of Mǎrțișor – here, the night of Saint Andrew – here, and an interview – here.
Irina Marica, irina.marica@romania-insider.com
(Photo source: Evgeny Gavrilov/Dreamstime.com)
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