The castle had a number of odd little towers which leaned precariously over the ivy covered walls, and little piles of shattered rocks testified to the incredibly unstable nature of this stone beast.
Rows of huge black birds crenelated the walls, and large black cables snaked around everything like strangling vines, humming with diabolic power.
Unfortunately for the local optimists, the Count returned one dark, stormy day, and it became obvious to all that he had finally gone round the bend, no longer eccentric, he was now fully insane. His typically unkempt hair had gone completely white, and he rode the largest hound any had ever seen.
He rode through the village, returning from parts unknown, and once again, took up residence in his black abode, crumbling though it was.
Rumor was quick to fill the town with gossip, telling fantastic stories about the Count's adventures, each more outlandish than the last, but none of them found any doubters. The Count was just the sort of man one would imagine in such ridiculous exploits as were retold over every pint of foamy beer, or hinted at over every cup of black and boiling tea.
While the town muddled their heads with these tales of high adventure and dark deeds, the Count never once appeared again outside the walls of his castle.
Inside, he began construction on a vast machine which extended from the basement to the highest spire atop the highest tower. None but he knew the purpose for this machine, and none but he ever touched it, those unfortunate few who delivered him his supplies never ventured beyond the entrance, and could learn nothing of value.
One day, late in the fall season, after the harvest, another storm gathered, similar to the one which carried the Count back home not long ago. This storm stopped directly over the castle, and seemed to wait there for something.
Inside, the Count was muttering in an unknown tongue, something written inside an ancient tome, pages and pages of mysterious text and pictures which appeared to move in the dim light which filled the room.
Now the Count poured a vial of a thick red liquid into a glass tube, and the machine rumbled to life.
Most of the village sheltered from the storm, the castle and whatever went on inside were the last things on the minds of the inhabitants, but one. He was driving his sheep to safety from the storm, and noticed that the storm appeared to halt directly above the castle, so after the wooly sheep were taken care of, he returned to his cottage, and ate a loaf of bread with some cheese, while he watched the storm tumble and rage over the castle.
As he watched, fingers of lightning seemed to reach down, and grasp the castle itself. The ground rumbled and shook, and before his very eyes, the castle began to rise into the air, and stand on stony feet.
"What devilry is this?" The shepherd thought, he shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and stared. Sure enough, the castle stretched out arms, legs, even stony fingers extended from the structure. Two lights on the top shone like eyes in the darkness. The castle shook several boulders free, with vines and cables dragging, the strange castle walked away into the darkness, and the boiling storm followed.
The next morning, the villagers stood around and stared at the hilltop where the castle should have been, but this bright morn, naught was left but the ancient foundations, surrounded by piles of what had been walls.
When the shepherd told his story, none believed him. The Count may have been the devil himself, but there was no possible way a castle could come to life and simply walk away.
A hundred years passed since that day when the Castle Rourke blew away in that frightful storm, and the Count had no doubt long since given up the ghost, but Rumor has told me stories of huge buildings which appear out of nowhere, and leave just as mysteriously and quickly. They are typically said to haunted, and in one particularly unbelievable story, one stands up and fights off an invading army, as if it were alive.
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