In the heart of Prague, amidst its cobblestone streets and gothic spires, there’s an old legend that haunts the city—a story passed down through generations, whispered in the shadows of night. It is the tale of The Black Angel of Vyšehrad, a figure that guards the ancient fortress, known to some as a protector and to others as a harbinger of doom.
Long ago, during a bitter winter, there lived a young artist named Jan. He was drawn to Prague by the city’s rich history and the allure of its winding alleys. In the cold months, when the city seemed to exhale mist from its very bones, Jan would wander, his sketchbook in hand, searching for the perfect image to capture the city’s spirit.
One evening, while walking near the Vyšehrad Castle, Jan was captivated by the sight of an angel statue overlooking the Vltava River. Its wings were broad and heavy, cast in dark stone, but it was the figure’s eyes that transfixed him. They were hollow, black as the midnight sky, and seemed to follow him wherever he moved.
Feeling a strange pull, Jan decided to sketch the angel, but as he did, the shadows around him began to stretch unnaturally. The air grew cold, too cold for winter, and the distant hum of the city faded into an eerie silence. His pencil froze mid-motion when he heard a voice—a whisper in the wind, too soft to understand but heavy with an unspoken warning.
"Leave now," it urged. But Jan, eager to finish his work, ignored the voice and continued to draw.
As the night grew darker, the angel’s gaze grew sharper, and Jan could feel something watching him—something not from this world. When he glanced back at his sketch, the angel’s wings were no longer stone; they seemed to move, shifting like living creatures, casting eerie shadows across the page.
Suddenly, the air around Jan turned oppressive. His breath came in short gasps, his hands trembling. He turned to leave, but the angel’s voice stopped him. "You have seen me," it said, not in words, but in his mind. "Now you must stay."
Panicked, Jan tried to flee, but the night seemed to twist, closing in on him. The city, once so familiar, now felt foreign and hostile, as though the streets themselves were designed to trap him. The angel’s figure loomed larger, the darkness creeping closer with each passing second.
As Jan reached the gates of Vyšehrad, a heavy hand grasped his shoulder. Turning, he saw no one, only the dark figure of the angel, now standing beside him. Its wings stretched far beyond its stone form, and its hollow eyes stared deep into his soul. The voice again, soft and chilling, filled his mind: "This city is mine. You belong to me now."
The next morning, when the sun finally rose, Jan’s body was found at the foot of Vyšehrad’s walls. His eyes were wide open, filled with terror, but there was no mark on him, no wound—just the unmistakable feeling that something unspeakable had taken him.
Legend has it that on cold, misty nights, if you stand near Vyšehrad and listen closely, you can hear Jan’s voice, trapped forever between the realms of the living and the dead, calling out to anyone foolish enough to wander too close. And they say that if you look up at the statue of the Black Angel, you might see its eyes follow you—just as they followed Jan.
And if you’re unlucky enough, you might hear that same voice, whispering your name, beckoning you to join him in the shadows.
