In times long past, when shadows lengthened and the city of Prague breathed heavily under the weight of war’s hardships, a veil of fear and despair spread over Malá Strana and Hradčany. It was in that cursed seventeenth century, during the Thirty Years’ War, when people’s fates broke like old dry branches and faith was tested in the fire of suffering. The air was then saturated with the smell of smoke, sweat, and blood, and silent prayers mingled with the harsh commands of foreign soldiers.

At that time, a calamity in the form of Swedish troops descended upon Prague. They seized Hradčany, and also occupied Strahov Monastery, where they set up camp, and their presence weighed on the souls of the people of Prague like a heavy stone. Among these northerners was one whose name has long been lost in the abyss of history, but his sinister legacy survived. He was a soldier whose heart was black as night and whose soul was possessed by an insatiable desire for foreign property. He feared neither God nor man, and his steps were guided only by greed.

This godless Swede, as he was whispered about, was not content with looting only on battlefields. He exploited the chaos and fear that reigned, and with inhuman cruelty plundered Prague’s churches, which were meant to be sacred sanctuaries. He robbed altars, took valuable relics, sacred vessels, everything that glittered and had some value. His blasphemous acts left a deep wound in the hearts of the devout Malá Strana residents and aroused in them anger mixed with despair. Silver and gold, which were meant to serve God’s honor, ended up in his dirty hands, and his face twisted into a disgusting smile with each new plunder.

The people of Malá Strana, tormented by war and foreign domination, could not endure this sacrilegious rampage indefinitely. Their patience, already severely tested, overflowed. And so it happened that one dark evening, when Nerudova Street, then still called Ostruhová, was steeped in deep shadow and only here and there a light flickered from windows, a group of determined Malá Strana residents decided to put an end to his rampage. It was in the narrow, winding alleys, where one could easily get lost or find an unexpected fate. The Swedish soldier, laden with spoils from another plundered church, walked down the dark street, his steps sure, yet careless. From behind the stone houses, which towered to the sky like silent guards, emerged those who could no longer bear his wickedness. In the ensuing brawl, in which screams, the clanging of weapons, and despair mingled, the Swede met his cruel end. His head, a symbol of his godlessness and greed, was severed, and his body fell onto the cobblestones of Nerudova Street, forever silenced.

However, death was not a liberation for the Swede, but rather the beginning of eternal suffering. His sins were too heavy, his blasphemy too profound. And so it happened that ever since, when night reaches its deepest darkness and the clocks strike midnight, something terrifying begins to occur on Nerudova Street. From the depths of the past emerges the specter of that headless Swedish soldier. He wanders the street, his headless body stumbles among the old houses, and he firmly clutches his severed head under his arm. His steps are silent, yet the air around him grows heavy with cold and the smell of old blood. Those who saw him spoke of empty eyes in the severed head, which in the silence of the night vainly try to find their way back to their place, of a mouth that opens in a gruesome grimace without uttering a single sound. It is eternal penance for his greed and the desecration of holy places.

And as if one specter were not enough to fill Nerudova Street with dread, a second one appears at midnight. It is a fiery headless skeleton, whose bones radiate a faint, yet ominous glow. Its origin is even more mysterious than the fate of the Swedish soldier. Some say it is the ghost of someone who died a terrible death in flames, others believe it is the embodiment of the suffering and destruction that war brought to these streets, or perhaps an ancient guardian who rose from the depths of the earth to remind people of the price of godlessness and greed. Its flaming bones briefly illuminate the damp walls of the houses before plunging back into darkness, leaving behind only a feeling of chilling heat and despair.

Both of these headless spirits appear in the deep night, when most honest souls sleep and Nerudova Street is deserted, only the moon looks down on the old houses and cobblestones. Their presence is a reminder of cruel times, human greed, and justice that sometimes comes only after death. No one knows when their haunting will end, for their fate is tied to the sins of the past that still hover over old Prague. And so even today, when the clocks on St. Nicholas Church strike midnight and silence descends upon Nerudova Street, many residents of Malá Strana prefer to firmly close their shutters and try to fall asleep with a silent prayer, in the hope that the horrifying specters will pass them by and their headless steps will be lost in the infinity of the night.