Romania celebrates one of its most cherished religious holidays on November 30 - the feast of Saint Andrew (Sfantul Andrei), the country's patron saint. To mark this special occasion, Patricia Furstenberg, a Romanian-born author now living in South Africa and a reader of Romania-insider.com, has shared a captivating short story inspired by the magic and superstitions of Saint Andrew’s night.

The Feast of Saint Andrew is steeped in superstitions and customs, many of which center around the night before (November 29 to 30). According to folklore, this is a time when spirits roam the earth, wolves are said to speak, and garlic is used to ward off evil and spells.

“For the night of Saint Andrew 2024, I’ve written a short story that delves into the deeply rooted superstitions of Transylvanian folklore. In Romania, it is believed that on Saint Andrew’s night, the gates between this world and the realm of the dead open. Restless spirits, known as strigoi, moroi, or vampires, are said to haunt villages, trouble the living, and cause various mischiefs. This story weaves together superstition, bravery, and encounters with the unknown, all set against a mysterious Transylvanian backdrop filled with legends, where the past and present intertwine on this fateful night,” Patricia Furstenberg told Romania-insider.com.

Below, we invite you to enjoy her special story:

Whispers of Superstition in a Transylvanian Night by Patricia Furstenberg

The forest draped itself in an unsettling silence, thick and unnatural, as if the very air waited in tense stillness.

Even the bravest souls would falter on a night like this, I thought.

We stood outside a Transylvanian village, its charm lost to the chill of winter and the creeping shadows. I drew in a lungful of air, expecting the scent of the holidays. Instead, the crisp bite of snow mingled with the sharp tang of pine and something else - a sugary odor beneath, earthy and putrid. My heart skipped. A carcass? I pushed the thought aside.

Icicles hung from trees like cruel daggers, the skeletal limbs of ancient oaks reaching out, unyielding. Above, the last rays of sun sliced through the dense canopy, casting long, ghostly shadows over the forest floor. Now and again a branch snapped under the weight of unseen hooves - an unnerving reminder that we were not alone.

The sound pulled me back to another winter’s day, to the edge of another village where I had once sought an enigmatic sorceress. There, too, silence reigned broken only by the menacing crackle of the campfire and the rhythmic hoofbeats of unseen riders.

Ahead of us, the courtyard cottage, eerily still, its emptiness playing tricks on my mind as night pulled around. We paused at the threshold, where a fallen stork’s nest lay, its absence gnawing at my fears. For years no stork had returned to this roof - a silent omen, dark and foreboding.

Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into another world. The low doorframe forced us to bow as though acknowledging our smallness in this strange, forgotten place. The wooden floor groaned beneath our weight. The low beams seemed to press down reminding me how close the past lingered here. I froze, the silence inside suffocating. Was the room holding its breath? Was it waiting for something - or someone?

The earthy scent of old timber held a trace of hearth smoke, filling the room with the ghosts of lives once lived. I couldn’t shake the feeling that their energy still hung in the air, thick and watchful. Was it good? Or something else?

The rough plaster walls, streaked with the hand of a craftsman long gone, caught my eye. I traced the wavy patterns mesmerized by their ancient artistry. Near the stove the shadows deepened, spilling from the corners like ink across the floor.

Twin windows framed in delicate, translucent curtains stared out at a moonlit courtyard, their wooden beams crossing in an uneasy gesture of protection. I felt exposed, as if those unseen creatures prowling beyond the glass could sense my every breath. Only those crosses, they offered comfort, however feeble.

“We’ll be cozy in here,” my friend muttered. I nodded, though unease still gnawed at me.

The room had its own rhythm, its own ancient order. A stove in one corner, the bed in another, the spindle’s dark shape lurking near the woman’s space with a broom and bucket shoved behind the door. The fourth corner, empty save for the murky shadows, felt like it belonged to spells - or something worse.

Spells only touch those who believe in them, I told myself. Yet, when I noticed my friend’s handbag discarded on the floor I picked it up without a word. Better not tempt fate, or worse, invite something inside.

Just then, the full moon cast a pallid glow across the room. A cross of light flickered at my feet. I jumped, startled by its sudden appearance. My friend’s nervous laughter echoed behind me, sharp and forced, a frail attempt to hold back the darkness creeping ever closer.

“Full moon,” she muttered, her voice trembling. “Think we’ll hear any strange noises tonight?”

She gestured toward the doorway where clusters of dried garlic dangled, their pungent scent filling the air, a feeble defense against what might lurk outside.

I hesitated, my voice barely above a whisper. “What kind of noises?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

“Perhaps the watchman’s call, reminding us to snuff the candles. And if not, well, that should keep vampires at bay. They say the moroii - the restless spirits - don’t just drink blood but feed on human energy too,” she added, her tone too casual.

“Should we tuck some cloves in our pockets then?” I forced a laugh, hoping she might agree. But even I didn’t believe the trick would help.

A sudden creak behind me sent a jolt through my spine. I spun around to catch my shadow stretching mockingly across the wall. My friend waved it off, her words hollow. “Old homes….they groan and moan.”

Then, silence. It pressed in on us, amplifying every creak underfoot, every rustle of fabric. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears, each pulse louder than the last. Night’s whispers danced in the corners of the room, just beyond the reach of the flickering candlelight. Fear seeped into the cracks. Superstition dripped like ice into our bones. We wondered what might wait beyond the cottage walls.

I drifted toward the window, the wooden frame heavy with age, its cold glass the only barrier between us and the world outside. Our humble cottage stood on the village’s edge, the dark, impenetrable woods our only neighbor. The stories of the Forest Crone surfaced unbidden in my mind.

“They say she comes for every tenth-born child,” my friend whispered as though she’d heard my thoughts.

A riverbed snaked to the left, shadowy ribbon, vanishing into the snow-clad Carpathians, Europe’s last untamed mountain range. Transylvania, a land draped in myth and legend, guarded its mysteries fiercely - especially under a full moon’s gaze.

Our host had handed us the key with a cryptic smile. “Venture out on a moonlit night,” he’d said, “and you may cross paths with the pricolici - devilish werewolves, the tormented souls of violent men.” His words lingered like a chilling refrain, leaving us uncertain if he was daring us or cautioning us.

A scratch at the window and an eerie tremor slithered up my back. Sweat pricked at my brow as my heart thudded in my chest. The Forest Crone... she has twigs for fingers.

“What was that?” My voice faltered.

The sound had spooked my friend as well. “Should we lock the door?” Her voice quivered. I froze.

“You mean... you haven’t locked it yet?”

Grateful for the chance to leave the window I bolted to the solid oak door. Fastened the heavy latch. The gleam of new metal, the weight of old wood reassured me though the need for such a secure lock made my unease grow. My friend dragged a chair against it to brace it further, an anchor to our fragile refuge.

Here, in Transylvania, superstitions held the land captive, like a spell cast long ago. Time stood still, frozen in the grip of past centuries. Pale cottages and weathered barns flanked cobblestone streets, the creak of horse-drawn carts echoing through snow-covered villages. Smoke curled from ancient chimneys, proof of existence, but inside these timeworn homes beliefs as old as the stones still ruled life. Legends of the supernatural clung to this place, silent watchers over time and night.

Here, in Transylvania, healing still dwells in the molten shapes of cast lead; in a blade slipped beneath a birthing bed to cleave the pain in two. Here, the whispers of our forebears still linger in communal memory. Among the most chilling tales passed down are those of the Samca - crone-like hags with gnarled nails as sharp as daggers - who appear to women in childbirth, foretelling death with their twisted smiles. Then there are the Ielele, forest maidens who lure the unwary lads and steal their minds forever.

And of course, the legends of the strigoii—the undead. Their thirst for the living’s blood as they resurrect from graves long forgotten has haunted this land far longer than Bram Stoker’s famous Dracula. Only here, in Transylvania, the air still carries their whispers unsettling the heart and chilling the bones of the passers-by. Like us.

When we first arrived at our secluded retreat the air felt strange - otherworldly, almost as if the land itself was watching us. I scolded myself for being so frightened. It was merely the backcountry, I thought, far from civilization. We’d chosen this place for its remoteness. After all, Transylvania’s landscape, cradled by the ancient Carpathians, has long held storytellers in thrall. Here, nature and the supernatural were intertwined. Here, jagged peaks still guarded forgotten valleys and centuries-old forests whisper secrets. Here, beyond charming villages lay vast stretches of untamed beauty, beckoning, yet laced with foreboding.

My breath fogged the cold window as I approached it once more. Was I being brave - or foolish? The forest, dark with shadows and enigmas, reached just beyond the creaking beams of our house. It loomed like a brooding presence, keeping watch. Over us?

Then, under the lifeless moonlight, I saw it transform. Trees became sentinels with gnarled branches stretching like fingers toward the sky. They cast shadows that twisted and moved, alive. Moonlight spilled through their canopy, illuminating the ground where the sun would never reach. A shiver crawled up my spine as two red eyes, burning like coals, flickered in the distance. Then were gone, only to return. Something was watching us from those woods - something ancient and vengeful.

“Only this door stands between us and whatever waits out there,” I said, my gaze caught among those trees, unable to pull away.

“We are intruders here,” whispered my friend and I felt the heat of her words more than heard them.

Wolves. They stalked the night in their realm of untamed power. While deer and boar moved like shadows through ancient trees. High above, golden eagles soared, guardians of those towering peaks. Yet even in this wild beauty something darker lingered in the far reaches of the forest. Bears prowled the untouched land, but it was not them we feared tonight. It was something else. Something older.

“Is it true what they say?” my friend said, her eyes darting to the window, searching the darkness beyond.

“What do they say?” But I knew what she meant.

“That wolves can speak in human tongues - on Saint Andrew’s night.”

“Yes,” My voice came out low. “That’s what they say around here.”

A sudden noise shattered the stillness - a faint mewl? A hoot? An owl appeared, its wings

cutting through the moonlit sky, talons glinting like silver as it descended to a snow-covered branch. It watched us, large, unblinking eyes reflecting the moonlight, a silent messenger sent from the forest’s depths. I couldn’t help but think of the Forest Crone again. Was this her watcher?

The owl’s silent flight hung in the air as snow began to drift. Blanketing the darkness. Muffling every sound. Covering all traces of life.

When a faint peal of bells echoed from the village church, their distant chimes cutting through the silence like a whisper from another time. We exchanged uneasy glances, our breath hanging in the cold air. Bells at midnight - unnatural. It was as if time had shifted, leaving us in a moment where the boundaries between the living and the dead had blurred.

“I heard of a village that vanished beneath a lake,” my friend murmured.

“Yes, but not here,” I said, though my voice faltered.

“They say the church bell still rings, though none wish to hear its call.”

My friend’s voice trembled as she searched for comfort in the eerie silence. “Bells at midnight...it’s not bad luck, is it?”

“No,” I said, more firmly than I felt. “We’re safe here, surrounded by symbols of protection.” I gestured toward the bright bedcovers embroidered with ancient charms, and the terracotta stove where now our fire glowed warmly, its gentle hum a guardian against the unknown.

Yet even as I spoke the moon slipped behind clouds plunging the room into deeper shadow. The safety of the cottage felt fragile. My friend’s gaze fell on the doorway.

“No ghoul can enter without an invitation,” I said as if repeating the words could ward off the growing dread.

She looked at me, her eyes dark with fear. “But what if the beast is already inside?”

A cold finger trailed along my nerves. I glanced around the dim room probing its corners for any lurking presence. Shadows flickered across walls and the spindle, tucked in its lonely corner, stood still, as if waiting.

“What if, indeed,” I muttered, barely audible, as I began to murmur the words of an old protection spell I’d once heard from a sorceress. I hadn’t believed in it then. But tonight, as the wind howled through the dark woods and the snow fell heavy, blocking all roads, I clung to the ancient words with all the faith I could muster.

-----

About the author:

Patricia Furstenberg grew up in Bucharest but moved to South Africa in 2000. There, she went on to pursue her love of writing while also running a blog where she advocates her love for Romania. She writes contemporary novels, children's books, short stories, and poetry. 

Her most recent books are in the Romania in 100-Word Stories, Folklore and History: Dreamland, Banat, Crisana, Maramures and Transylvania's History A to Z. Her upcoming historical fiction tetralogy will deal with the missing, lesser-known years from Vlad the Impaler’s youth.

Readers can find Patricia Furstenberg on her website and blog or on social media, especially X, but also on Instagram, Facebook, or LinkedIn.

She previously shared a special poem dedicated to the night of Saint Andrew with Romania-insider.com - here and an interview - here.

Irina Marica, irina.marica@romania-insider.com

(Photo source: Anna Shalamova/Dreamstime.com)