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Beneath Csejthe’s silent stone,

A staircase lay, by few known.

Hidden from sight, its steps led deep,

Into shadows where spirits creep.

Whispers spoke of horrors there,

Where Countess Erzsébet would dare,

To practice deeds in dark and dread,

Where sunlight feared and shadows spread.

One young maid, unaware of lore,

Wandered through the hidden door.

A chilling pull drew her down,

Into the staircase cold and brown.

Downward steps, thick air like rust,

Walls marked with claws, stone worn to dust.

The deeper depths held cries in chains,

And stifled moans of long-past pains.

Whispers spoke of horrors there,

Where Countess Erzsébet would dare,

To practice deeds in dark and dread,

Where sunlight feared and shadows spread.

A candle lit the ghastly scene,

Of twisted iron, cracked and mean.

Shackles hung, and bones lay strewn,

Beneath the gaze of a blood-red moon.

Iron maiden, spiked with hate,

Stood open wide in eerie state.

The air grew dense with rising cries,

And tortured souls in anguished sighs.

Her heart raced as she climbed the stair,

Cold whispers clung in thickened air.

Return to us, the voices sighed,

In spectral tones where spirits died.

Whispers spoke of horrors there,

Where Countess Erzsébet would dare,

To practice deeds in dark and dread,

Where sunlight feared and shadows spread.

At last she reached the castle’s hall,

But Erzsébet’s gaze held her thrall.

The Countess smiled, sealing her fate,

As whispers called her to the gate.