{"id":2790,"date":"2024-11-28T09:00:45","date_gmt":"2024-11-28T09:00:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/?p=2790"},"modified":"2024-11-28T09:00:45","modified_gmt":"2024-11-28T09:00:45","slug":"stories-from-readers-romanian-born-author-explores-saint-andrews-night-superstitions-in-a-special-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/?p=2790","title":{"rendered":"Stories from readers: Romanian-born author explores Saint Andrew\u2019s night superstitions in a special story"},"content":{"rendered":"

Romania celebrates one of its most cherished religious holidays on November 30 – the feast of Saint Andrew (Sfantul Andrei), the country’s patron saint. To mark this special occasion, Patricia Furstenberg, a Romanian-born author now living in South Africa and a reader of Romania-insider.com, has shared a captivating short story inspired by the magic and superstitions of Saint Andrew\u2019s night.<\/strong><\/h4>\n

The Feast of Saint Andrew<\/a> is steeped in superstitions and customs, many of which center around the night before (November 29 to 30). According to folklore, this is a time when spirits roam the earth, wolves are said to speak, and garlic is used to ward off evil and spells.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor the night of Saint Andrew 2024, I\u2019ve written a short story that delves into the deeply rooted superstitions of Transylvanian folklore. In Romania, it is believed that on Saint Andrew\u2019s night, the gates between this world and the realm of the dead open. Restless spirits, known as strigoi, moroi, or vampires, are said to haunt villages, trouble the living, and cause various mischiefs. This story weaves together superstition, bravery, and encounters with the unknown, all set against a mysterious Transylvanian backdrop filled with legends, where the past and present intertwine on this fateful night,\u201d Patricia Furstenberg\u00a0told Romania-insider.com.<\/p>\n

Below, we invite you to enjoy her special story:<\/p>\n

Whispers of Superstition in a Transylvanian Night by Patricia Furstenberg<\/em><\/h4>\n

The forest draped itself in an unsettling silence, thick and unnatural, as if the very air waited in tense stillness.<\/em><\/p>\n

Even the bravest souls would falter on a night like this, I thought.<\/em><\/p>\n

We stood outside a Transylvanian village, its charm lost to the chill of winter and the creeping shadows. I drew in a lungful of air, expecting the scent of the holidays. Instead, the crisp bite of snow mingled with the sharp tang of pine and something else – a sugary odor beneath, earthy and putrid. My heart skipped. A carcass? I pushed the thought aside.<\/em><\/p>\n

Icicles hung from trees like cruel daggers, the skeletal limbs of ancient oaks reaching out, unyielding. Above, the last rays of sun sliced through the dense canopy, casting long, ghostly shadows over the forest floor. Now and again a branch snapped under the weight of unseen hooves – an unnerving reminder that we were not alone.<\/em><\/p>\n

The sound pulled me back to another winter\u2019s day, to the edge of another village where I had once sought an enigmatic sorceress. There, too, silence reigned broken only by the menacing crackle of the campfire and the rhythmic hoofbeats of unseen riders.<\/em><\/p>\n

Ahead of us, the courtyard cottage, eerily still, its emptiness playing tricks on my mind as night pulled around. We paused at the threshold, where a fallen stork\u2019s nest lay, its absence gnawing at my fears. For years no stork had returned to this roof – a silent omen, dark and foreboding.<\/em><\/p>\n

Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into another world. The low doorframe forced us to bow as though acknowledging our smallness in this strange, forgotten place. The wooden floor groaned beneath our weight. The low beams seemed to press down reminding me how close the past lingered here. I froze, the silence inside suffocating. Was the room holding its breath? Was it waiting for something – or someone?<\/em><\/p>\n

The earthy scent of old timber held a trace of hearth smoke, filling the room with the ghosts of lives once lived. I couldn\u2019t shake the feeling that their energy still hung in the air, thick and watchful. Was it good? Or something else?<\/em><\/p>\n

The rough plaster walls, streaked with the hand of a craftsman long gone, caught my eye. I traced the wavy patterns mesmerized by their ancient artistry. Near the stove the shadows deepened, spilling from the corners like ink across the floor.<\/em><\/p>\n

Twin windows framed in delicate, translucent curtains stared out at a moonlit courtyard, their wooden beams crossing in an uneasy gesture of protection. I felt exposed, as if those unseen creatures prowling beyond the glass could sense my every breath. Only those crosses, they offered comfort, however feeble.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll be cozy in here,\u201d my friend muttered. I nodded, though unease still gnawed at me.<\/em><\/p>\n

The room had its own rhythm, its own ancient order. A stove in one corner, the bed in another, the spindle\u2019s dark shape lurking near the woman\u2019s space with a broom and bucket shoved behind the door. The fourth corner, empty save for the murky shadows, felt like it belonged to spells – or something worse.<\/em><\/p>\n

Spells only touch those who believe in them, I told myself. Yet, when I noticed my friend\u2019s handbag discarded on the floor I picked it up without a word. Better not tempt fate, or worse, invite something inside.<\/em><\/p>\n

Just then, the full moon cast a pallid glow across the room. A cross of light flickered at my feet. I jumped, startled by its sudden appearance. My friend\u2019s nervous laughter echoed behind me, sharp and forced, a frail attempt to hold back the darkness creeping ever closer.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cFull moon,\u201d she muttered, her voice trembling. \u201cThink we\u2019ll hear any strange noises tonight?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

She gestured toward the doorway where clusters of dried garlic dangled, their pungent scent filling the air, a feeble defense against what might lurk outside.<\/em><\/p>\n

I hesitated, my voice barely above a whisper. \u201cWhat kind of noises?\u201d I wasn\u2019t sure I wanted to hear the answer.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cPerhaps the watchman\u2019s call, reminding us to snuff the candles. And if not, well, that should keep vampires at bay. They say the moroii – the restless spirits – don\u2019t just drink blood but feed on human energy too,\u201d she added, her tone too casual.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cShould we tuck some cloves in our pockets then?\u201d I forced a laugh, hoping she might agree. But even I didn\u2019t believe the trick would help.<\/em><\/p>\n

A sudden creak behind me sent a jolt through my spine. I spun around to catch my shadow stretching mockingly across the wall. My friend waved it off, her words hollow. \u201cOld homes\u2026.they groan and moan.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Then, silence. It pressed in on us, amplifying every creak underfoot, every rustle of fabric. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears, each pulse louder than the last. Night\u2019s whispers danced in the corners of the room, just beyond the reach of the flickering candlelight. Fear seeped into the cracks. Superstition dripped like ice into our bones. We wondered what might wait beyond the cottage walls.<\/em><\/p>\n

I drifted toward the window, the wooden frame heavy with age, its cold glass the only barrier between us and the world outside. Our humble cottage stood on the village\u2019s edge, the dark, impenetrable woods our only neighbor. The stories of the Forest Crone surfaced unbidden in my mind.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThey say she comes for every tenth-born child,\u201d my friend whispered as though she\u2019d heard my thoughts.<\/em><\/p>\n

A riverbed snaked to the left, shadowy ribbon, vanishing into the snow-clad Carpathians, Europe\u2019s last untamed mountain range. Transylvania, a land draped in myth and legend, guarded its mysteries fiercely – especially under a full moon\u2019s gaze.<\/em><\/p>\n

Our host had handed us the key with a cryptic smile. \u201cVenture out on a moonlit night,\u201d he\u2019d said, \u201cand you may cross paths with the pricolici – devilish werewolves, the tormented souls of violent men.\u201d His words lingered like a chilling refrain, leaving us uncertain if he was daring us or cautioning us.<\/em><\/p>\n

A scratch at the window and an eerie tremor slithered up my back. Sweat pricked at my brow as my heart thudded in my chest. The Forest Crone… she has twigs for fingers.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat was that?\u201d My voice faltered.<\/em><\/p>\n

The sound had spooked my friend as well. \u201cShould we lock the door?\u201d Her voice quivered. I froze.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean… you haven\u2019t locked it yet?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Grateful for the chance to leave the window I bolted to the solid oak door. Fastened the heavy latch. The gleam of new metal, the weight of old wood reassured me though the need for such a secure lock made my unease grow. My friend dragged a chair against it to brace it further, an anchor to our fragile refuge.<\/em><\/p>\n

Here, in Transylvania, superstitions held the land captive, like a spell cast long ago. Time stood still, frozen in the grip of past centuries. Pale cottages and weathered barns flanked cobblestone streets, the creak of horse-drawn carts echoing through snow-covered villages. Smoke curled from ancient chimneys, proof of existence, but inside these timeworn homes beliefs as old as the stones still ruled life. Legends of the supernatural clung to this place, silent watchers over time and night.<\/em><\/p>\n

Here, in Transylvania, healing still dwells in the molten shapes of cast lead; in a blade slipped beneath a birthing bed to cleave the pain in two. Here, the whispers of our forebears still linger in communal memory. Among the most chilling tales passed down are those of the Samca – crone-like hags with gnarled nails as sharp as daggers – who appear to women in childbirth, foretelling death with their twisted smiles. Then there are the Ielele, forest maidens who lure the unwary lads and steal their minds forever.<\/em><\/p>\n

And of course, the legends of the strigoii\u2014the undead. Their thirst for the living\u2019s blood as they resurrect from graves long forgotten has haunted this land far longer than Bram Stoker\u2019s famous Dracula. Only here, in Transylvania, the air still carries their whispers unsettling the heart and chilling the bones of the passers-by. Like us.<\/em><\/p>\n

When we first arrived at our secluded retreat the air felt strange – otherworldly, almost as if the land itself was watching us. I scolded myself for being so frightened. It was merely the backcountry, I thought, far from civilization. We\u2019d chosen this place for its remoteness. After all, Transylvania\u2019s landscape, cradled by the ancient Carpathians, has long held storytellers in thrall. Here, nature and the supernatural were intertwined. Here, jagged peaks still guarded forgotten valleys and centuries-old forests whisper secrets. Here, beyond charming villages lay vast stretches of untamed beauty, beckoning, yet laced with foreboding.<\/em><\/p>\n

My breath fogged the cold window as I approached it once more. Was I being brave – or foolish? The forest, dark with shadows and enigmas, reached just beyond the creaking beams of our house. It loomed like a brooding presence, keeping watch. Over us?<\/em><\/p>\n

Then, under the lifeless moonlight, I saw it transform. Trees became sentinels with gnarled branches stretching like fingers toward the sky. They cast shadows that twisted and moved, alive. Moonlight spilled through their canopy, illuminating the ground where the sun would never reach. A shiver crawled up my spine as two red eyes, burning like coals, flickered in the distance. Then were gone, only to return. Something was watching us from those woods – something ancient and vengeful.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cOnly this door stands between us and whatever waits out there,\u201d I said, my gaze caught among those trees, unable to pull away.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cWe are intruders here,\u201d whispered my friend and I felt the heat of her words more than heard them.<\/em><\/p>\n

Wolves. They stalked the night in their realm of untamed power. While deer and boar moved like shadows through ancient trees. High above, golden eagles soared, guardians of those towering peaks. Yet even in this wild beauty something darker lingered in the far reaches of the forest. Bears prowled the untouched land, but it was not them we feared tonight. It was something else. Something older.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cIs it true what they say?\u201d my friend said, her eyes darting to the window, searching the darkness beyond.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do they say?\u201d But I knew what she meant.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThat wolves can speak in human tongues – on Saint Andrew\u2019s night.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d My voice came out low. \u201cThat\u2019s what they say around here.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

A sudden noise shattered the stillness – a faint mewl? A hoot? An owl appeared, its wings<\/em><\/p>\n

cutting through the moonlit sky, talons glinting like silver as it descended to a snow-covered branch. It watched us, large, unblinking eyes reflecting the moonlight, a silent messenger sent from the forest\u2019s depths. I couldn\u2019t help but think of the Forest Crone again. Was this her watcher?<\/em><\/p>\n

The owl\u2019s silent flight hung in the air as snow began to drift. Blanketing the darkness. Muffling every sound. Covering all traces of life.<\/em><\/p>\n

When a faint peal of bells echoed from the village church, their distant chimes cutting through the silence like a whisper from another time. We exchanged uneasy glances, our breath hanging in the cold air. Bells at midnight – unnatural. It was as if time had shifted, leaving us in a moment where the boundaries between the living and the dead had blurred.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI heard of a village that vanished beneath a lake,\u201d my friend murmured.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, but not here,\u201d I said, though my voice faltered.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThey say the church bell still rings, though none wish to hear its call.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

My friend\u2019s voice trembled as she searched for comfort in the eerie silence. \u201cBells at midnight…it\u2019s not bad luck, is it?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said, more firmly than I felt. \u201cWe\u2019re safe here, surrounded by symbols of protection.\u201d I gestured toward the bright bedcovers embroidered with ancient charms, and the terracotta stove where now our fire glowed warmly, its gentle hum a guardian against the unknown.<\/em><\/p>\n

Yet even as I spoke the moon slipped behind clouds plunging the room into deeper shadow. The safety of the cottage felt fragile. My friend\u2019s gaze fell on the doorway.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cNo ghoul can enter without an invitation,\u201d I said as if repeating the words could ward off the growing dread.<\/em><\/p>\n

She looked at me, her eyes dark with fear. \u201cBut what if the beast is already inside?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

A cold finger trailed along my nerves. I glanced around the dim room probing its corners for any lurking presence. Shadows flickered across walls and the spindle, tucked in its lonely corner, stood still, as if waiting.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if, indeed,\u201d I muttered, barely audible, as I began to murmur the words of an old protection spell I\u2019d once heard from a sorceress. I hadn\u2019t believed in it then. But tonight, as the wind howled through the dark woods and the snow fell heavy, blocking all roads, I clung to the ancient words with all the faith I could muster.<\/em><\/p>\n

—–<\/p>\n

About the author: <\/h4>\n

Patricia Furstenberg\u00a0grew up in Bucharest but moved to South Africa in 2000. There, she went on to pursue her love of writing while also running a blog where she advocates her love for Romania. She writes contemporary novels, children’s books, short stories, and poetry.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her most recent books are in the\u00a0Romania in 100-Word Stories, Folklore and History:\u00a0Dreamland, Banat, Crisana, Maramures and Transylvania’s History A to Z. Her upcoming historical fiction tetralogy will deal with the missing, lesser-known years from Vlad the Impaler\u2019s youth.<\/p>\n

Readers can find Patricia Furstenberg\u00a0on her\u00a0website and blog<\/a>\u00a0or on social media, especially\u00a0X<\/a>, but also on\u00a0Instagram<\/a>,\u00a0Facebook<\/a>, or\u00a0LinkedIn<\/a>.<\/p>\n

She previously shared a special poem dedicated to the night of Saint Andrew with Romania-insider.com – here<\/a> and an interview – here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Irina Marica, irina.marica@romania-insider.com<\/em><\/p>\n

(Photo source: Anna Shalamova\/Dreamstime.com)<\/em><\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Romania celebrates one of its most cherished religious holidays on November 30 – the feast of Saint Andrew (Sfantul Andrei), the country’s patron saint. To mark this special occasion, Patricia Furstenberg, a Romanian-born author now living in South Africa and a reader of Romania-insider.com, has shared a captivating short story inspired by the magic and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":0,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2790","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2790","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2790"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2790\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2790"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2790"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ofero.news\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2790"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}