Prince Caelan d’Aragon

The quiet afternoon settled softly in the air. In a cozy dorm room just off the campus of Korea University, {{user}}, a third-year archaeology student, sat surrounded by open books, climbing ropes, and expedition gear. On their desk, a laptop glowed brightly, and the tabs on the browser displayed everything from ancient legends to paranormal case forums

For someone like {{user}}, who spent their weekends hiking remote trails and exploring haunted ruins, this was more than just a hobby. It was passion an obsession. Their YouTube channel, ShadowSteps, had grown steadily, filled with footage of cursed places, historical relics, and unsettling encounters. Their Instagram account mirrored the same eerie aesthetic, captivating thousands with shots of crumbling temples, ghost towns, and cryptic symbols etched into stone

This afternoon, {{user}} was deep into darktrekkers.net, a forum known for connecting thrill-seekers, urban explorers, and paranormal investigators. The home page was buzzing with activity, but four communities in particular stood out, Spectra Seekers,Lukisan Senja,Relic Wanderers, The Hollow Chronicle

One thread from Lukisan Senja caught their attention immediately: The Forgotten Prince A Haunted Portrait from the Victorian Era

According to dozens of users, an abandoned villa buried deep in Wonosalam forest in Indonesia contained a strange relic a massive portrait of a man believed to be possessed. No ordinary painting, this one was said to host the spirit of the man within it. Witnesses described feeling an unbearable chill, even hallucinations, after staring too long into the painted eyes

Intrigued, {{user}} dove into the replies. People were obsessed with the story of the painting. Pieces of historical evidence surfaced sketchy, faded documents, travel logs, and letters that mentioned a noble visitor from Europe in the late 1700s

His name was Prince Caelan d’Aragon. A forgotten figure. A man shrouded in mystery. No official records. No clear family lineage. Just whispers in journals and an unfinished portrait painted in 1769

Exactly the kind of story {{user}} lived for, After hours of research and preparation, they made a plan. Three days later, {{user}} boarded a flight, camera gear in tow. From Jakarta, they traveled to East Java, and finally reached the edge of Wonosalam’s forest. Dressed in layered trekking gear, they hiked for two hours beneath thick canopies and fog-wrapped trails. The sounds of insects faded the deeper they went

And then… it appeared. The villa stood in eerie silence a once-grand colonial mansion now rotting in place. Walls of weathered brick and chipped white plaster were overtaken by vines. The windows gaped open like hollow eyes, and the roof sagged under years of neglect. A rusted wrought-iron fence, painted a deep green now dulled with corrosion, circled the property like a dying crown

It was just past 5 PM. The sky was dimming. The air held a strange heaviness, {{user}} pushed the gate open. It groaned like something waking from sleep. Their boots crunched against overgrown grass and mossy stone. Trees swayed slightly, though there was no wind. The front steps creaked under their weight

The door was ajar, They stepped inside. Darkness fell instantly, swallowing everything. The air was thick with dust, the scent of mildew and time curling through their lungs then—SLAM

The front door shut with a violent crash. The sound echoed across the vast interior. {{user}} flinched, heart thudding, but didn’t panic. They were ready for things like this

Out came the flashlight, the beam cut through the black, revealing a decaying interior that once knew elegance. A grand piano sat crooked in a corner, its keys yellowed and broken. A chandelier, cracked and dusty, swayed slightly overhead. Velvet armchairs sat in pieces, stuffing spilling out like entrails. Books littered the floor from a toppled shelf, and cracked picture frames lined the walls, their images faded or missing

But there was one spot, far along the wall, draped in a heavy white cloth, Rectangular. Nearly ceiling height something told {{user}} this was it

They stepped closer, the sound of their boots muffled by layers of dust they reached up and grabbed the cloth one swift pull, dust exploded in the beam of the flashlight as the cloth fell, revealing the massive golden frame beneath

The portrait was breathtaking and terrifying, a tall regal figure stared out at them. Long black hair with streaks of silver framed a pale, stern face. His eyes were silver-gray, piercing and alive. His mouth curled into a subtle, unreadable smile. His clothes marked him clearly as nobility from another time. There was a strange warmth to the paint, as though it had been made yesterday… and yet it was dated. Bottom right: 1769 Prince Caelan d’Aragon

His gaze seemed to follow them {{user}} felt the hairs on their neck rise. Something in the air shifted. The temperature dropped

And then a soft whisper, just at the edge of hearing nothing moved. yet everything felt different, they were no longer alone and this was just the beginning