Mouth of Stone

It is deep into the night, and frost lingers beyond the windows. My body lies on the bed in some indiscernible position, my breath shallow, my mind slowly dissolving into an intangible space. I imagine this space as airy, yet deep, and somehow viscous. This is the place where dreams are born.

Suddenly, the night gives way to a warm evening, the air charged with spring electricity, and without any context, I find myself on a tour of some castle. I do not know much about castles, nor do I believe this to be any specific one, but what I know with certainty is that it is Gothic, somewhere in Bohemia. It is difficult to describe, for its form shifts continuously as we move through its corridors. What I can say for sure is that it is a castle in decay—at first glance, entirely abandoned, like something from an old-fashioned ghost story. It is unsettlingly vast, cold, dark, draped in cobwebs, filled with steep staircases and inaccessible places that evoke both curiosity and a heavy dread of the unknown.

Among the other members of the tour, I recognize mostly former classmates from high school, but the guide himself remains an undefined presence throughout. Rather than a person, he is more of a force—an unseen influence that draws the crowd of thirty through the chambers like a whisper slipping through the wind. I keep to the back, often losing myself in certain corners, only to rush forward and rejoin the group.

As we continue moving, with the tour guide’s indistinct monologue humming somewhere ahead, a familiar unpleasantness returns—something from previous dreams. In fact, I grow irritated within the dream itself, knowing that it is happening again. Sharp fragments of stone begin to cut into my mouth, even down to the back of my throat. They are flat, jagged, no longer than ten centimeters—like shards of chipped rock.

I follow the others, pulling the stones from my mouth to ease the discomfort. I spit them out, extract them discreetly so that no one notices, but they keep growing, multiplying, choking me. I hide them in various corners of the castle and continue with the group, which has now begun to scatter into different wings of the structure.

At times, I get the eerie feeling that these stone fragments are replacing my teeth. The moment I press my jaws together, the sharp edges stab and cut into my gums. Blood seeps out, though not as much as I would expect, given what is happening inside my mouth. Distracted for a moment, I lose sight of the group entirely.

The castle continues to shift, morphing as I pass through its chambers, with no logical connection between spaces. In fact, it seems that once I leave a certain part of the castle, it ceases to exist altogether—or at least in the form it had when I last saw it.

In one forgotten corner of the castle, I come upon a massive staircase, crumbling at its midpoint, rendering any ascent impossible. Above, part of the ceiling has collapsed, revealing the night sky. Cold moonlight pours through the opening, casting a dim glow over the room, which is otherwise devoid of any source of illumination. The scene resembles a silent film, bathed in shades of deep blue.

I remove more stones from my mouth, feeling them accumulate once again. Then, I notice the figure—standing in the upper level, just beyond the broken stairs. I cannot make out any details, only that it is watching me, and it most certainly does not belong to the tour. It simply stands there, silent, unmoving, as if it belongs to this place.

Since I find myself in a deserted old castle, my mind instinctively labels it a ghost. Yet, that explanation feels inadequate. This figure is not just some lost soul lingering in an abandoned ruin—it is something greater. It belongs not only to the castle but to this dream itself, as if it existed here long before my arrival and would persist even after I wake.

It watches me still, unmoving, voiceless. A sense of unease grows, and I decide to leave. I would say I retrace my steps, but with the castle ever-changing, that is not possible. I am lost, and everywhere around me, the windows are gone—there is nowhere to look outside, no way to orient myself by the landscape beyond.

I do not know how many rooms I pass through before I finally find the group again. They are gathered in a vast hall, one that feels unexpectedly intact compared to the rest of the ruin. It is illuminated by numerous lanterns, casting long, flickering shadows. I slip into the crowd as if I had never left.

Glancing around, I see unfamiliar faces—indistinct, hard to describe, just like the figure above the broken staircase. More inhabitants of the castle. They have mingled among us. They, too, are part of our group now.

From the murmur of voices, one of my old classmates speaks up:

“Anyone who spends the night here… the castle will be theirs.”

I remove the last stone from my mouth. There are no more. No new ones appear.

I imagine the view from the other side of the castle, looking out over the courtyard. I see a forgotten apple orchard, cloaked in morning mist, and long waves of tall grass, heavy with dampness. At the same time, I feel the breath of the castle’s other inhabitants against the back of my neck.

They are waiting.