“If you go into that place, young one, you’ll emerge a broken soul; that is, if you even come out alive…”

I would know it until later, but the passing words of an old crone would turn out to be quite prophetic. However, in my reflections of the past, I rush ahead of myself, and shall start at the beginning – as most stories do.

It all began, as some tales tend to do, with a woman. She was young, energetic, and successful at her chosen path in life. I speak of myself – though, not with arrogance – I was, and still am, regarded as a rising star in archaeology, and I had been chosen to study Cradalu Castle, in Romania.

When I received the news, with a jealous glare from my Head of Department at Newcastle University, I admit I squealed with joy. Previous attempts to study the castle had met with cold rebuttals from the owners, so this was unprecedented.

Cradalu had always been a mystery to historians and archaeologists alike – no one really knew of the origins and as for the owners – there were few, if any, pieces of evidence as to their identities. The interest factor was further increased by what can only be described as the ‘spooky factor’.

Maybe it was the mysterious owner, or it’s uncharted history, or maybe it was simply the look of the place that creeped people out. As I stepped out of the airport taxi that had borne me to the castle, I could empathise with those being in nervous awe of Cradalu. Tall spires topped the four towers framing the edges of the building. Ornate carving decorated the outside, which was dominated by a rather forboding-looking doorway, in mahogany and lined with silver.

I was a self-confessed sceptic of the ghost stories that people conjured – I was here to research the castle, and no child’s tales of spooky happenings would scare me into submission. My feet strode on up the path with no hesitation, my posture stood tall and straight, facing this challenge with relish. Then I heard something that made me freeze.