A Birthday Wish Behind Medieval Walls
“See you on Sunday and enjoy,” my husband said as he dropped me off for my solo weekend book retreat.
This was my birthday wish: to stay in an old Spanish fortified medieval village.
Centuries-old walls protect a little white village and its castle — now a hotel — perched at the top of a hill. Despite a few inhabitants still living there, it was a quiet place. Flower-filled alleys decorate the white houses. Cobbled streets make it clear that high-heeled shoes have no use here, and the closeness of the neighbouring houses means no car can pass through.
The castle village is surrounded by nature and a dragon-like lake. It’s a place where nothing exciting ever happens — perfect for creative thinking and relaxation.
A Suitcase Full of Books (and One Questionable Bottle)
I arrived with a suitcase of books, a laptop, and a bottle of strawberry tequila. For weeks, I’d wanted nothing more than to hide from my fast-paced, demanding work life behind medieval walls, sleeping in a supposedly haunted castle.
After checking into my room, I unpacked my suitcase, stacking all the books on the bedside table. You know how some women pack their entire wardrobe, just in case they need a specific dress for a particular occasion? Well, that’s exactly how I packed half my bookshelf.
The thing is, I tend to read several books at the same time: one thought-provoking, another a page-turner; one in English, another in Spanish. Recently, I’ve added a Portuguese one — just to add to the confusion. So yes, my bedside table is always full of books, and I read depending on my mood.
I swore I wouldn’t sleep through the entire 72 hours. There was no time to waste.
A Haunted Castle Was Exactly What I Needed
Around midnight, the wind began dancing around the castle, making all sorts of noises. For creatives with an overactive imagination, this kind of thing can be deeply unsettling. You start imagining things.
Did I just see somebody outside my window?
Did I hear footsteps and whispers outside my door?
What’s that whistling noise?
Is somebody crying?
When the Wind Starts Whispering
I left the room and wandered down the hallways. As you can imagine, the castle had narrow passages, countless doors, winding stairs, and secret corners. Everything was poorly lit, adding to the so-called romantic atmosphere — or, on a stormy night like this, a distinctly petrifying one.
The fact that I’d also been researching eerie stories about the place only tightened the knot in my stomach.
Curiosity Is a Terrible Survival Skill
As I stepped into the corridor, driven by curiosity, I felt my heart sink lower and lower. I was sure that if I’d gone to the toilet at that moment, fear would have taken care of the rest. I knew it was impossible — but fear doesn’t care about logic.
Outside, the storm raged, rain bombarding the castle walls. A light breeze brushed my face, and I shivered. You know the feeling that someone is watching you? I spun around, but there was no one there.
Suddenly, the wind fell quiet.
I could hear my own breathing and see a faint mist leave my mouth. My God, is my soul leaving my body already? I shut my mouth firmly, biting my lip.
The White Lady at the End of the Corridor
Moving quietly, my feet carried me up the stairs to the top floor. Holding my breath, I walked further down the corridor, listening to the silence.
Then I saw her.
At the far end stood a beautiful woman with long black hair. Her dark eyes stared straight at me. Her white, silky, almost see-through dress traced her body. I froze — dressed in black sweatpants, a black hoodie, and fluffy reindeer slippers — unable to breathe, my mouth wide open. Had I not been scared senseless, I would have laughed at the absurdity of it all.
She looked like a ghost.
A ghost?!
She was a ghost.
The White Lady.
The very one I’d been reading about — the one said to appear near viewpoints and balconies, gliding through passageways and corridors. According to legend, the White Lady was a young woman who lived in the castle centuries ago, when Castellar was still a fortified medieval village. She was supposedly engaged to be married, but her life ended tragically before the wedding. Her fiancé disappeared, and she died waiting for him.
Fear, Thunder, and a Missing Reindeer Slipper
My brain stopped functioning. Fear took over.
I blinked, trying to process what I was seeing.
Then she was gone — vanished without a trace.
An ear-piercing clap of thunder shattered the silence, and I jumped, losing one of my reindeer slippers. By now, hail was hammering the rooftop, creating a deafening roar. With every sense on high alert, I began searching for my missing reindeer. All I wanted was to find my slipper, run back to my room, and hide under the duvet.
Scanning the floor in the dim light, I searched for my Cinderella-raindeer slipper. Suddenly, I collided with a massive body.
A real one.
The Scream That Echoed Through the Castle
I screamed so loudly I nearly deafened myself — the scream I was famous for. The one that once sent a CEO running across the office when I’d been startled by a colleague. The one that had made pit bulls turn and flee instead of attacking my furry friend.
That same signature scream made the body I’d collided with roar in fright.
When I recovered, I found myself staring at a tall, muscular Spaniard holding my reindeer slipper. A nearby door flew open, and a woman with messy hair and a black face mask appeared. She shrieked. I shrieked back. The reindeer man joined in, turning us into a screaming trio.
The hotel receptionist came running, trying to understand what was happening. All he saw was me with one reindeer slipper on, a man holding the other, a woman in a black face mask, doors flung open, and frightened guests peering out.
How to Exit a Scene in Maximum Shame
This time, I didn’t want to run back to my room. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole — preferably without anyone noticing which room I came from.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option.
So I turned to the Spaniard holding my slipper, took it from his hand, put it on, turned around, and walked back to my room without a word, leaving everyone behind to draw their own conclusions.
Morning Light
The next morning at breakfast, I saw her again.
The White Lady — in flesh and blood.
This time, her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was wearing a white cardigan and jeans. Opposite her sat an older man, holding her hand — not in a fatherly way. As I tried to piece everything together, a tall man walked in.
The one I’d bumped into the night before.
He didn’t notice me. He just smiled at her — a very telling smile.
Then it clicked.
They were lovers.
I’d caught them in the act.
Most likely hiding around a corner, quietly sneaking back to their rooms, while my imagination had done the rest.
After all, there was no ghost in the castle — just a lot of noise for no apparent reason.
Want more chaos, laughs, and unexpected moments from life abroad? Dive into Life in Translation, where every story captures the messy, hilarious, and wildly relatable reality of living in a new country. Start your adventure with “Northern Ireland: Among the Rolling Tractors” — a green, muddy, and absurdly funny tale of rural life, tractors, and the kind of confusion only an Abroadien can survive. Explore these stories and discover why being Abroadien is always better than an expat bubble.