Yet I couldn't look away. The details were bizarrely fascinating—the sheen of the plate, the texture of the roasted skin, the way her hair spread out like flames. It felt like I was looking into a cursed mirror—my future self as a feast. Fascination and horror wrestled within me. Who would do something like this? Why? My grandmother's neat handwriting on the folded letter beneath it now seemed almost obscene. The wax seal cracked like brittle bone when I opened it. The paper smelled of dust and dried lavender. I traced the words with my finger: *"To my descendants... I have unleashed an evil curse..."* The silence stretched on. Nicole exhaled sharply. "Sarah. That... that's you." Stefanie snatched the frame from my hands and violently turned it over. "Who the hell does something like this?"
With trembling hands, I unfolded the brittle letter further. My grandmother's elegant handwriting blurred before my eyes. Dust particles danced in the beam of Stefanie's flashlight as I cleared my throat. "To break this curse and the fate of the roasted woman," I read aloud, my voice breaking, "there are only two ways for the descendants of my line. To find the lost book of Bexter and solve the riddle..." Nicole gasped. “…or that my descendant will have children of their own, who, however, must never succumb to cannibalism.” Silence enveloped the attic. Stefanie snatched the letter from my hand and frantically scanned it. “Cannibalism? What kind of curse is this?” The words hung heavy like the dust. Cannibalism. My children? The impossibility of it—bound to this horror for a lifetime, or the hunt for a mythical book in godforsaken Romania. My gaze drifted back to the picture. The peaceful expression of the roasted woman mocked me. “Choose,” it seemed to whisper. “Freedom or fear?” Outside, the wind howled louder.


Nicole’s voice cut through the grim silence. "Romania?" Her flashlight beam trembled across the ancient symbols on the compartment lid. "Yes," I whispered, touching the cold silver coin chain around my wrist. The Roman numeral III glinted. "The lost book of Bexter. Grandma wrote it’s the key. The last trace..." My throat tightened. "...is supposed to be at Rubensburg Castle." Stefanie snorted, tossing the letter back into the box. "A castle? In Romania? Sarah, this is insane! That picture could be some sick joke!" But I barely heard her. In my mind, the roasted woman’s face shifted—older, yes, but undeniably mine. The golden-brown skin, the curve of the jaw, even the way her hair fanned across the platter like spilled wine. Terror coiled cold in my belly. Joke? No. Grandma hadn’t been the joking type. Her warning echoed: *Be careful. I’m sorry.* The apology tasted like ash.
That Halloween night ended strangely. We didn't finish watching the horror movie. Instead, the three of us huddled together in my narrow bed, our shoulders pressed close under the patchwork quilt. Nicole's breath warmed my neck as she whispered reassuringly, "It's just an old picture, Sarah," while Stefanie, in the dim light of her phone, scribbled angry wolves on the edge of her notebook. Outside, the wind scratched at the eaves like something hungry.

I stared at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a crooked crown. Their comfort felt fragile, a thin shield against the cold that seeped from the memories of the attic. When Nicole finally fell asleep, her fingers still tangled in my hair, Stefanie leaned close to me. Her whisper was hoarse. "When you leave... I'm coming with you." The promise pierced my chest sharply and brightly. Then, eventually, we all fell asleep.

In the following days, my obsession grew. My mother's ancient laptop became my altar, its dial-up connection sound a constant hymn. Romania. Rubensburg Castle. Cannibalism curses. The words burned through search engines clogged with pop-up ads and dead links. At sixteen, trapped behind parental filters and school firewalls, the truth felt like smoke.

Official tourism sites offered sanitized stories—"medieval fortress," "picturesque ruins"—but nothing about Bexter's book or roasted women. In forums, darker things were whispered: missing hikers, locals... A grainy photo showed stone towers clawing at the stormy sky, captioned *Rubensburg – Enter at your own risk*. I printed it out and put it under my pillow. The silver coin necklace left ghostly circles on my wrist.