Clip-clop-clip-clop… 
   The sound of the stallion’s hoofbeats started to agitate Horace during the first couple minutes of the ride. He hadn’t ridden since the days he was a Magister, one of the most prestigious chess players in the land. Horace wished to forget those times, to wipe all memories of it as he would scrape the remains of food off his dinner plate into the rubbish pile.
   Horace shivered violently as a strong wind of frigid frost fell from far above in the snowy wonderland of winter nature. He breathed in slowly, closing his eyes as intricate six-sided flakes of ice-cold snow hesitantly touched and disappeared on his face. The snowy, breathtaking setting never ceased to leave him in awe. Another breeze glided by, and the cold fingers of Mother Nature lightly patted his cheeks.
   The horse plodded on, making Horace feel even more uneasy as every trot made him gag with a nauseous feeling in his stomach. He grunted several times and swore horribly as the nausea close to overcame him. He tried desperately not to look at the droppings on the trail behind him.
    A lush pine forest dominated most of the snowy terrain. Horace had strolled into that woods before on more pleasant days, his woolen winter coat keeping him warm. Birds, hares, and small foxes lived in that forest. Horace remembered the time he had encountered a wolf there. He had scrambled up a small tree, remaining at the top until the wild dog had left.
   Horace retrieved the invitation from his pocket. Written on it was Greystone Castle, a name which struck him as vaguely familiar. Dismissing this notion and instead focusing on his destination, he spotted the castle about eight hundred meters away.
   It was a small, shabby castle, he could see, with cracked stone bricks that were probably decades old, and spreading moss that wasn’t especially prominent, but a keen eye like Horace’s could spot it. A castle keep stood high from the ancient bricks below. People could see for miles from that tower, Horace thought.
   Four hundred, three hundred, two hundred… Horace counted down the approximate amount of meters to the castle. He had an incredible sense of direction and distance. Anna had always said, Horace could calculate a distance faster than a racehorse could sprint twenty meters. Of course, Horace had figured out the second part himself.
   Now he was at the castle, and he was not alone. At the premises were some other people, loitering in the light of the descending sun on the horizon. Six including himself, to be exact, but then two strolled into the castle arm in arm. Probably a couple, Horace thought.
   One of the men walked up to him presumptuously. He wore sumptuous clothing, and boasted a glossy bronze pendant that Horace could not see the bottom of.
   “May I ask what you are doing here?” the man prompted, a smirk hidden under his wide brimmed fedora. A magnificent silver cape flew in the wind behind him. Horace couldn’t help but stare at the man’s splendor, and the man gave a chuckle. “This party is only for the rich, you filthy scoundrel,” he said. “Didn’t you see the invitation? Oh wait, you probably didn’t get one. See this?” he said, pulling out his pendant from under his fancy vest. Horace recognized the symbol. A rook, just like the ones he used to play with back in his Magister days. Horace spaced out once more.
   Snap. Snap. “Hello? Anybody there? This is the symbol of a Magister, one of the best chess players in the land, you dimwit.”
   Horace’s then realized he had a bad stature, and that made him look weak. He rose to his full height, towering over the man. “Who are you?” he bellowed at him loudly.
   The other man’s confidence shrunk. He thought he’d gotten the rugged man good. Now the unabashed fellow stood there, waiting for an answer.
   “Name’s Elijah,” he sputtered, some of his confidence regained. “And who may you be?”
   Horace answered, “Horace. And who are you to challenge me? You see, I’m a Magister myself.”
   “Magister?” another man said, walking up. “I’m not the only one? Oh, sorry for eavesdropping.”
   “What’s going on here?” A fourth man appeared, although he seemed to have always been there. His leather mahogany colored vest blended in with his horse. “Elijah? Horace? I remember you! Do you remember me? I’m Terryn. We were all Magisters back in the day.”
   Horace, Elijah, and Terryn glanced over at the last man, who spoke rapidly. “I’m Isidor, a- a Magister. Pleased to yeet mou. I- I- I mean meet you. Apologies.” He gave a nervous grin.
   “Do you all not remember one another?” Terryn inquired. “We all won the Tournament of Magisters in the same month! We were all they talked about at the alehouses. The four great Magisters, undefeated in the chess tournament! Surely you all remember this!”
   “That happened eleven years ago!” Elijah exclaimed. “I forgot all of your names the first week and- I had things to do.”
   Isidor’s eyes swept across all of the men’s faces, and he definitely recognized them. He just didn’t remember them.
   Meanwhile, Terryn was going on and on about the tournament, just as the last flares of fire from the sun licked the horizon, with an air of desperation to not let the sky go dark. Horace checked his small silver pocket watch, and saw that he was late. He ushered the other Magisters inside, as a mother would do to a perplexed child who was unsure of what to do.
   What they saw inside astonished them.
   Lights emitting from bright candles on golden chandeliers, the laughs of exquisitely dressed people in conversation, and brightly painted walls lined with baroque statues. Statues of warriors, women with infants, and famous philosophers.
   Horace was unimpressed at the liveliness of the room and the luxurious pieces of furniture and artwork. After all, he lived in a tremendous mansion himself, and he preferred a life of solitude and peace with his beloved Anna.
   Elijah was thinking similar thoughts, but then became preoccupied as a few women stared and whispered amongst themselves at his striking appearance. The man with the sparkly cape flashed a smile that made the women falter and swoon helplessly.
   While Elijah succumbed to the distraction, the other Magisters were shuttled into a separate dining room. They were apparently to be the special guests at the fancy dinner. Elijah hurriedly pushed two men aside, causing their wine to spill out of their glasses. Surprisingly, they did not object. The muscular Elijah was grabbed by Terryn and pulled into the dining room.
   A long dining table was the hallmark of this room, including even more statues and a few paintings. According to Horace’s knowledge, they were called Renaissance art by foreigners.
   A man with a small moustache that Horace assumed to be a waiter nodded as they sat down. “Stay here until the Host comes,” he directed, with a hint of a French accent. He exited the room, the doors closing behind him ever so quietly that the slight squeak of the perfectly oiled hinges was perfectly audible.
   With the closing door, all the background noise seemed to fade away suddenly, like a candle being abruptly extinguished.
   Isidor was jubilant that he would get a more than ample meal tonight. His planned supper, had he not been invited, probably would have been a potato, some bread, and a morsel of a pastry. At least he would be able to have a filling dinner tonight, and maybe even bring home some leftovers for his wife and child, Cedric. Isidor made a mental note to speak to the waiter about that.
   Meanwhile, Terryn was looking in wonder at the art on the wall. There was a signature in the bottom left corner of one of the canvases, and Terryn could barely make out the name Michelangelo. A true masterpiece..., Terryn thought.
   Elijah walked towards the door from which the came and tried the knob, expecting it to open and it did, thankfully. However, what he saw on the other side of the door, he wouldn’t have made a willful choice to see.
  The Magisters were looking at a complete opposite scene to what had been there just moments ago. The room was devoid of sound, all of the candles out, all color lost, the life and vibrance of the room… gone. The door leading to the outside of the now ghastly castle was ajar, and the moonlight spread upon the shimmering white snow that had now risen a few centimeters. Horace faced the door, looking out into the emptiness. His mind told him two words, Get out.
   Terryn tore his eyes from the beautiful paintings, only to capture the sudden change as the others had. All of them stood still, similar to the atmosphere. It felt as if time had stopped entirely.
   It resumed again as Horace made a mad dash towards the open door.
   Horace ran as fast as he could, and just ten meters from the door, he saw a haunting sight.
   A ghost, with outstretched arms, waiting to catch Horace. What is that! Horace’s mind raced. Horace shrieked in fear, wishing that he had never come here in the first place, to just accept that he had no friends.
   Horace just covered his face with his arms as he ran straight through the ghost, and out the door as some unknown and unexplainable force slammed it behind him. What!? That was crazy! Definitely not what I was expecting! Thoughts whizzed relentlessly through Horace’s head. Finally safe, his knees gave away, forcing him to the ground, sobbing and trembling, with both fear and relief.

   Isidor, still inside, stood, speechless, and he shivered from the cold air that had wafted into the room. He refused to leave. Yet his eyes, wide open, gave away the terror in his heart. The ghost was stationary the whole time, his arms still outstretched. Slowly, the ghost turned around, his faded, blue-tinged luminescence the only light that reached Isidor’s distraught pupils.
   The ghost wore a tattered cloak, which didn’t conceal the horrendous-looking figure beneath. His head hung down, but then up it came, revealing the ghost’s face.
   The face wasn’t particularly sinister. With a moustache and fair hair, he looked just like the others that had been in the room before.
   Terryn, however, didn’t see it that way.
   “You,” he said, in a voice filled with acrimony. “I understand now. You’re the ‘Host’.”
   The ghost slowly nodded.
   Terryn’s face slowly changed from timidness to hatred. He let go of all of his fear of this ghost, because he remembered him perfectly well. Back in his Magister days…

   A younger Terryn shook his head, trying to clear his mind of all distractions. He needed to think, and hard. This situation was unavoidable from the second his bishop had been taken...
   Terryn made a loud grunt of dissatisfaction, startling everyone in the large room. Utter silence now. There must be an escape, Terryn thought. He needed to make the right moves, otherwise he was done. The whole Tournament of Magisters would be over for him.
   There must be a weakness! Terryn’s frantically searched the depths of the intellect. Do something! Move your knight! Move your rook! Just move something!
   All right, Terryn rationalized. He analyzed his pieces quickly and thoroughly, considered the possible outcomes, and what his mysterious opponent would choose to do next.
  Then he lay his eyes on the queen. There was no place he could move the queen to that wouldn’t risk him losing it on the next move.
   Unless… he made a sacrifice. The queen was always tempting to kill, no matter what happened to other defending or attacking pieces. It was as tantalizing to take out as a cat would be enticed by a ball of knitting yarn.
   Terryn’s mind started racing towards a solution. Gears turned and clicked in his mind. The spectating crowd, noting Terryn’s sudden change in expression on his face, began to stir restlessly as the chess genius placed his queen in a spot that, even if it was killed, would checkmate the king. “Checkmate,” he announced triumphantly.
   Terryn, a newly ranked Magister, sighed with relief and grinned at his opponent, finally victorious.
   Terryn’s cloaked opponent, Ulfric Greystone, stared in horror his defeat. Chess was all he had; it was his everything. The game was his only friend. Ulfric couldn't couldn’t handle the grave impact of this. He had come inches from… being rich and famous. A Magister! He had sacrificed almost everything he had for this… sport. Seething rage welled up in him. Terryn could've sworn that Ulfric’s face was as red as a ripe strawberry.
   Then, Ulfric invariably lost his mind. He grabbed the table and flipped it over. Chess pieces littered the floor. He stepped right over them and dashed out of the large room like an insane madman. Which was exactly how any person watching would have described him as.

   Terryn’s mind flowed with the memory. His opponent in the last game of the Tournament of Magisters, Ulfric, had gone insane to the point of death. He had succumbed to alcohol after the incident, and combined with his stress and fury, he died only three hours after that fateful moment. Terryn had even attended his funeral. He didn't want to accept that Ulfric’s death was his fault.
   Now he stood merely four meters away from him. The specter’s face did not show any aggressive feelings inside him, which surprised Terryn.
   “I'm sorry,” he said to Ulfric. There wasn't anything more he could say to him.
   “You… don't… even… understand,” Ulfric replied, in a subdued and raspy tone. “Life was like a chess game to me. I was a pawn. I was to be exalted to a new level. You stole that from me.”
   Terryn’s mouth hung open in surprise, and the two other silent Magisters, Elijah and Isidor, stared at the two rivals in disbelief.
   “Actually, you all did,” Ulfric continued. “If you haven't forgotten, Elijah and Isidor, if you lose four games in the Tournament of Magisters, you're out.” He shifted his gaze from Elijah and Isidor back to Terryn.  “Including that cowardly friend of yours out there,” he said, gesturing back to the shut door, “All four of you killed me.”
   Elijah was angry now. He had come for an elegant dinner meant for the affluent, not for the sob story some psychopath who he could barely recall.
   “Listen, you maniac,” he said. “Hearing you tell your sad tale of dread isn’t what I came for. You don’t spook me the slightest bit. I would like to leave if no supper is served this evening.”
   “Well then, you can go hungry,” Ulfric said. “I haven’t eaten in a decade, and you won’t be leaving this place any time soon. This… is where you will spend your life and death for eternity.”
   All Elijah did in return was rub his belly and glance apprehensively around the room.
   “You better get used to this,” Ulfric whispered softly, the waves of sound just managing to reach the three Magister’s ears.
   In a sudden change of events, Elijah charged at Ulfric, who stood still and waited, a snarl on his face. Elijah made contact, then in a puff, the deranged phantom vanished.

Horace struggled to rise as he awakened after what had seemed like hours of sleep. Maybe it was, for all he knew. With a leisurely rotation of his head, he got a glimpse of the moon, which had already traveled a quarter of its journey to another horizon.
   Estimating that it was two hours prior to midnight, Horace rose and roamed the plains that were across the trail from the mansion. No horses were present for him to depart from this horrid place.
   Anna was probably wondering where he was by now. Oh, how he missed her hazel colored hair, her ocean colored eyes, and, of course, her benevolent character. I love her more than anyone on the face of this earth, he thought, a tear rolling down his cheek.
   He collapsed on the snowy ground once more, and lost consciousness just before a clamorous howl let loose from across the horse trail at Greystone Castle.

   The three Magisters wasted no time lingering in the main room of Greystone Castle. They slipped through doors, dashed through countless hallways and passageways, and kept an eye out for the mischievous Ulfric Greystone.
   Isidor carefully opened every door so slowly that the rusty, decrepit hinges made the creak noise drawl out over nothing less than six seconds. Elijah followed behind him, and started to get impatient due to his urgency to escape.
   “Go faster!” Elijah ordered, but Isidor simply ignored him. Then, in a more congenial tone, he told Isidor to quicken his pace once more. The imperious part of himself took over again. He pushed Isidor aside and rammed a door open.
   They had gone right back to the main room, into which they had originally entered the castle. Terryn pushed open the door next to them, and put both of his hands on his head.
   “This… is impossible!” Terryn shouted into the open room, his voice echoing on the walls. “It can't be! I went straight down those hallways away from this room!” He frantically pointed back at the door he just came through.
   Elijah twitched and turned his head as he saw lights starting to appear around him. A split second and they were gone. Apparitions everywhere. Light blue apparitions.
   A low, maniacal chuckle cut the silence. All color drained from Elijah’s face as the room seemed to get colder.
   Then the ghost rose out of the tiled floor. Isidor shuffled his feet back and slammed his body against the door. Ulfric’s malevolent looking eyes were focused on Isidor’s hand, which slowly twisted the doorknob.
   One movement of Ulfric’s thin fingers and snap. Locked.
   Isidor jerked the door handle vigorously, but there was no point. There was no escape.
   “Foolish…” Ulfric said, savoring every sinister sounding syllable in the word. “There is no escape… but death.”
   “What do you want from us?” Terryn demanded. “You can’t just keep us here! The villagers will come for us! Someone will!”
   “It’s simple,” Ulfric responded. “They won’t find anybody here. That is, if they even care about you enough to come.” He sneered evilly.
   Ulfric was filled with enmity, but still managed to stay serene, as he was simply was so sure of his straightforward plan. He would bring death to all of those blockheaded Magisters.
   This was the rematch he had waited years for. Another chance- another game. He was a new pawn, awaiting promotion on the seventh row. On the eighth he would reach a rank higher than a Magister. He would live the rest of his afterlife knowing that he had succeeded in revenge. Nothing barricaded him from his burning ambition to achieve what he lured his former rivals here for.
   The man outside would suffer as well. With all of the horses scattered around the plateau  in fear of a certain ghost, he would have no ride back to his mansion.
   Ulfric’s plan was working out perfectly.
   Terryn retorted, “Just kill us then, if there’s ‘no escape’! One snap and your magic kills us!”
   Ulfric assumed his nefarious manner again, rising up into the air closer to the Magister rebel and spoke like the devil himself.
   “Oh, I’m planning something different,” he said maliciously. “This is my revenge. Now it’s time for a rematch.”
   Isidor built up some courage and stood up to the ghost just like Terryn.
   “No!” he said. “I refuse! Why is chess so important? What is a chess game worth killing for? I’d rather just die here in this spot than play another game!”
   Immediately after he uttered that last sentence, Isidor instantly regretted it.
   “Well, if dying this moment is what you want, that is what you’ll get!” Ulfric yelled, and cackled as he snapped his finger.
   A moment passed. Isidor closed his eyes tightly, accepting his fate. He opened one eye. Then a groan came from up above, and the three Magisters looked towards the sound.
   The chandelier was grey and deprived of the allure and lustre provided by the previous candlelight had given it. Swaying in the darkness, it made a noise like a screw coming loose.
   Then it crashed down mercilessly upon Isidor, who stood directly beneath it. Shards of metal were thrown up into the air, then spread upon on the intricately designed stone floor. Isidor lay unconscious, suffering with several gashes where the fragments had grazed.
   Ulfric continued, “Oh, the ghost life has some perks to it, I must say. I’ve made illusions, some as big as large dining rooms filled with activity and bright lights! I am in control of this castle, and anyone that comes into it!”
   “What do you mean?” Elijah queried.
   Ulfric took out two wooden chess pieces, each being a king, the piece of highest rank in chess.
   “You will find that out later,” he said with gritted teeth. They ask too many questions, he thought. “I am sure you know about the king in chess. It is the most powerful piece, and it is invaluable.” He placed the two items on a dark pinewood table. “Meaning that if it’s killed, the chess game is over. Checkmate. Endgame. Defeat. Whatever you want to call it.”
   The ghost glided to a blank wall and halted.
   “It is time,” he said. “Come through this door.” He gestured to the wall.
   Terryn and Elijah glanced trepidly at each other in confusion.
   “There is no door there,” Terryn stated simply.
   Ulfric snapped his finger and a door materialized. It was mostly wood, and very sophisticated in detail. The ornate design was the work of some master carver, one that sat in his workshop every day and was committed in life only to his work. Terryn could tell this simply by looking at it. The door was not just a door, but a work of art, just like the once vibrant paintings that covered the walls.
   Elijah approached the door, pushing it open hard with his brawny arms. Terryn followed into the unknown room, which seemed to have a fiery light emitting from the interior, like the setting sun back at his home. Home. Family. Being late back home was not like Terryn. He was a man that was known for always being on time. Surely his family must know by now that something was terribly wrong.
   Terryn was brought into a room which was relatively pleasant. It was immaculate, and definitely an improvement from the cobweb infested room from which they came. A warm fire resided in a corner, and a table and one chair stood in front of it.
   “Come here,” Ulfric waved his hand to beckon them. Terryn sat in the chair, and then he realized that they were sitting at a chess table. He sighed in exasperation.
   “We will play!” Ulfric exclaimed with indisputable joy in his voice, as he had been waiting years for this moment.
   He drifted up to the mantel above the blazing fire and removed a box from it. Terryn noticed it had a red velvet coating on the outside. He placed the box upon the table, and he lifted the box’s latch. Out spilled chess pieces onto the table.
   They set up the game, with Ulfric as white and Terryn as black. Elijah, who was ignored while they did this, sat on a plush red armchair. He wondered who would win, as he did not know either of their skill levels. Even so, he hoped for Terryn to win because of the uncertainty of what would happen if he didn’t.
   “Why aren’t there any kings in my set?” Terryn asked.
   “You already have the king,” Ulfric said. “You. You are the king.” He pulled out one of the wooden kings that Terryn saw before from a pocket in his tattered cloak. “This piece will represent you. Whoever wins this game will decide the fate of the loser.”
   Terryn wondered how he would decide the fate of a ghost, but he decided to go with what the specter was saying.
   Ulfric’s white pawn was pushed forward by Ulfric with a snap of his finger. Just like that, the game had started.

The White army and the Black army both advanced when the first move was made. It was a battle for the ages; whoever won would decide the remaining opposing pieces’ fate. The bishops brawled, the rooks wrangled, the knights dueled, and the queens skirmished. After half an hour’s time, there was a declared winner, whose pieces were still standing untouched, with not even a small cut. They had the King surrounded. There was no way it could possibly escape without being killed. In medieval conflicts like this, they liked to call the resolution “Checkmate”.

   Both players, Ulfric and Terryn, stared, astonished as to how the game had ended. Elijah had come over from his cozy velvet chair to witness the last moves.
   The loser’s king was knocked down by Ulfric, who roared with laughter at Terryn’s stupidity.
   “I control you now!” he exclaimed, still laughing with triumph. He floated up, picked up Terryn’s fallen king, and threw it into the smoldering fire.
   Terryn gawked with horror at his king being thrown into the fire to burn. When the bright orange tongues of heat licked the wooden piece, it burst into flames, and when it happened, so did Terryn.
   He shrieked and squirmed in pain and agony as his legs burned, and his arms set fire as well. The fire engulfed him, almost reaching his chest. Elijah rushed over to him, terrified at the premonition of his own fate. Before the fire reached Terryn’s heart, the dying man made one last effort to utter his last words.
   “Remember me,” he croaked. “And avenge me, Elij-”
   Terryn died right at that moment. Elijah shivered as the last tiny flames died down and Terryn was a pile of ashes.
   The ghost of Greystone castle was a murderer. Corrupt, vile, and wicked. Elijah gave an oath to himself that he would avenge Terryn, even though he didn’t remember him. All he cared about now was vengeance. Not fame or riches. He would exact his revenge on the ghost that strived to get his own revenge on him.
   “You monster,” he said angrily. “I challenge you to another game. You better watch out, because I have a fire in me, greater than your thirst for revenge.” Elijah wished he could have expressed his motivation more articulately, which was difficult given what he had just witnessed.
   “Ah, I remember the times you four beat me in chess,” Ulfric mused, replaying the moments in his mind. “I had always planned for that one to die first.” He gestured towards Terryn’s remains. “Now you will join me in death, no matter what encouragement you have. You have no one here now. At least, no one that is conscious.” He looked back at the main room where Isidor lay, still unconscious. “I’ve figured out hundreds of strategies. I’ve practiced for a decade. I will undoubtedly win.”
   “We’ll see about that,” Elijah said, and sat down in the chair at the chess table. He took a deep breath and retained his confidence as well as composure. The pieces were set up again, and the second game took off.

   Word had come that another army was approaching from the west, one that was bolder and more tenacious. The White army stayed posted in the spot where they predicted they would come, preparing their knights for attack. Reinforcements had come in, and orders went around to get them where they needed to be.
   While the army was still adapting to their new situation, they were caught off guard when the attack came early. Black pawns scampered across the flat terrain, hands on their daggers, which were put loosely in their scabbards, ready for quick use.
   The White pawns were scattered around, which was a bad position to be in. The Black pawns easily broke through their enemies’ defense. Hope was lost for White, so they made arrangements to bring out the cavalry.
   The Knights trotted all around White’s turf, taking down any trespassing pawns. Then, with the help of several Bishops and a couple Rooks, they advanced on Black’s weakened defense. With the few pawns that Black had, they made an attempt to execute what was known as a Francorum defense. It consisted of making a diagonal line of pawns, all with daggers ready.
   The simplicity of the defense was eventually what would lead to Black’s downfall. All of White’s pieces were setting up for a massive blow to the sides of Black’s defense.
   White’s Rooks, Bishops, and Knights and even the Queen charged at the pawns. One of the two titans, known as Kings in command of each army, stood and watched his army conquer the other army. The other King was in an utter panic, as his defense was being completely obliterated before his frightened eyes. On half of him knew that the battle was lost for him, and the other half did not give up.
   It was definite that he had been defeated when White’s army surrounded him, and the other King stepped forward and said, “Checkmate.”

“Just kill me already,” Elijah whispered after Ulfric said the last word.
   “Checkmate, checkmate, checkmate…” Ulfric said. “Your army has been vanquished, and so has your king.” He knocked the king down, just like he had to Terryn’s. “Now you will be vanquished.” He picked up Elijah’s king, and he stepped towards the fire. This time, he reached up to the shelf above the fireplace and took a fishbowl down from it. The only thing different about it was that there was no fish. Ulfric held the king over it and let go. Plop.
   When the king’s head was totally submerged, Elijah didn’t breathe. He grabbed at his neck, making choking sounds. Collapsing onto the floor just like Terryn, he flipped and flopped like a fish out of water.
   The second Magister suffocated to death a minute later.
  

   Isidor had this crazy dream. He was invited to a dinner and he went, only to be ambushed by a ghost who dropped a chandelier on his fragile body.
   That dream was real, and somehow Isidor survived.
   Sadly, it did not matter, because once the Ulfric had gotten rid of Terryn and Elijah, Isidor was next.
   He woke up bound to a wooden pole, his scars burning and causing him agony. All he could see was a long, winding hallway that seemed to go on for an eternity. Then, a horse stepped out of the fog that lingered everywhere. Ulfric was riding on the horse, and dismounted from the animal. They were about two hundred meters away from Isidor’s quivering body.
   “It seems we have a hungry horse here,” he said sardonically. “Who hasn’t eaten in a week. Oh, and he craves hay. Especially the tasty hay bale behind you. Let’s see how fast this boy will run to get it! Shall we start? I don’t care! Go!”
   The horse broke off into a savage gallop. As narrow the hallway was, there was no way the horse wouldn’t crash straight into Isidor with full force.
   He held the ropes that kept him to the pole tightly. He wailed, a long cry filled with despair. The horse was getting closer. Any second now it would-
   Crash! Isidor was killed brutally, his last moans faded in the heavy mist. Ulfric left, leaving the horse and Isidor’s crushed body to rot.

   Ulfric Greystone went up to the highest point in the castle keep and looked over the land that he owned. He looked across the plains, and where the grasses met the pine forest. Then he caught a movement in the corner of his blue-tinged eye. Across the horse trail, a tall, sleek man that Ulfric knew as Horace went from sauntering around to dashing across the dry soil. A woman on horseback had come out of the forest. They ran to each other.
   They obviously had feelings for each other. They hugged each other tightly, and then they kissed. Ulfric had never experienced such love in his short life. He envied Horace for having such a companion.
   He decided he would let the man go for now. Horace’s haunting experiences at Greystone Castle would stay him for as long as he breathed. He had escaped from the castle physically, but his mind would never be unleashed from the horror within its walls. And invariably, Horace and the ghost’s paths would merge again someday. Someday.
   All that Ulfric could do was await that time.