PROLOGUE

  “IT CAME FROM SOMEWHERE ACROSS THE OCEAN.” - Berend Vos.

  In the shadowy depths of the Carpathian Mountains, where the wind howls through ancient trees, a chilling whisper stirs in the air, carrying with it a tale that has slithered through the ages. It is the story of a soldier, a figure lost to time, who once fought in the great wars, only to perish in the unforgiving cold of winter. His body, entombed in snowdrifts, was forgotten by all, except for the mountains that cradled his bones.

  This soldier, though, was not a man who could simply fade away. He was a nameless specter, a forgotten soul twisted by dark forces. Some say he had a name once, but it was stolen by the cold, buried under layers of time and silence.

  Others say it never mattered, for he was doomed to become more than a mere man—he became something darker, something vengeful. His spirit, cursed by the restless souls of his ancestors, was condemned to rise again from the frozen earth, not as a soldier, but as a ghost seeking vengeance for the injustices done to him.

  It is said that during a terrible storm, when the sky was torn apart by lightning and the ground trembled with the fury of the elements, the curse of the soldier awakened. The storm, as though summoned by some ancient force, gave birth to him once more—a figure of fear and wrath. A shadow among shadows, he emerged from the snow-covered grave with eyes glowing like burning coals, searching for those who had wronged him.

  It Came From Somewhere Across the Ocean…

  In the deep, deep woods, hidden deep in the mountains

  Where even the birds don’t sing,

  Lies a mountain wrapped in silence—

  And a tale with a sting.

  The wind there talks in whispers.

  The trees creak in their sleep.

  And buried in the frozen earth,

  A soldier lies beneath.

  He marched through storms and gunfire.

  He braved the bitter snow.

  But when the battle ended—

  He had no place to go.

  He fell beneath a pale blue sky,

  No hand to hold his own.

  The world forgot his heartbeat.

  The mountain kept his bones.

  No name was carved, no grave was built.

  No candle lit his death.

  And still he lies there, waiting,

  With frost upon his breath.

  Some say he had a name once.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  But the snow took it away.

  Others say he never did—

  And that’s why he can’t stay.

  They say he turned to something else.

  Not quite ghost, not quite man.

  A spirit born from silence,

  From frost, and red, and sand.

  And when the thunder cracks the sky,

  And lightning finds the peak,

  You just might hear him climbing—

  His boots begin to creak.

  His eyes glow red like embers.

  His fur still smells of smoke.

  He walks the paths of the living fear,

  And never speaks or jokes.

  The village tells its story.

  They whisper it each year.

  And every time a storm rolls in...

  Their hearts all fill with fear.

  “Don’t say his name,” the old ones say.

  “Don’t speak it, don’t pretend.

  Because the soldier’s name is gone—

  And now, he has no end.”

  They wait behind their windows.

  They shut their shutters tight.

  For every gust could bring him back—

  And he only walks at night.

  He doesn’t want your bedtime books.

  He doesn’t want your tea.

  He wants the name he never had—

  He wants his memory.

  So if you feel a tapping,

  Or hear a mournful moan...

  It might just be the soldier

  Looking for his home.

  Or perhaps, Mother.

  And now you know his story.

  So tell it, if you dare.

  But speak it slowly and softly...

  Because he’s always there.

  And so, the tale spread through the villagers like a whisper in the dark, as each passing storm rekindled old fears. They did not wonder if the soldier would return; they wondered when—and in what form he would take. Every lightning strike, every gust of wind, made their hearts race with dread. They turned their eyes to the mountains, afraid to ask the question that haunted them all: Is today the day he rises? The story is still told, in hushed voices, around flickering fires. The villagers wait, always waiting. Eyes watch the horizon, for they know the curse is far from over. The last words of the tale echo through the ages, still sharp with fear:

  "Come forth, soldier. Rise once again."

  And you know what? This story... It’s not just a fun little bedtime tale. Oh no, it’s real. The kind of real that makes your skin crawl and your heart beat fast when the wind howls at night. Because sometimes, stories like this don’t stay in the past. They wake up. And when they do, they can find their way right back to you. Oh, I’m not lying, not one bit! Mr. Vos would never, ever tell a tale that isn’t true. But how could I prove it, you ask? That’s the one thing I cannot do on my own.