In ancient times, when Prague’s alleys were even narrower and darker than they are today, and when the shadows of lanterns danced across the damp cobblestones like treacherous spirits, many legends were told. One of the most chilling concerned the headless horseman who appeared in the gully that stretches from Pohořelec down to Nerudova Street, and whose fate was a warning to all who neglect their sacred duties.
High above Malá Strana, in Hradčany, stood the majestic Strahov Monastery from time immemorial, its walls concealing not only piety but sometimes human weaknesses. And it was from this monastery that a monk came, whose name time had long since swallowed, but whose sins remained carved into the stone of Prague’s legends. He was a man who had taken a vow of purity and devotion to God, yet his heart was treacherously bound to an earthly passion – the game of dice.
Every evening, as soon as the sun set behind the horizon and the monastery walls plunged into darkness, the monk discreetly slipped away. His steps led him down from Pohořelec, where in a secluded inn, permeated with the smell of beer, tobacco, and sweat, he found refuge for his secret vice. Here, at a wooden table, amidst the clinking of coins and boisterous laughter, he forgot his monastic robes and his duties. Hours flowed like water as he intently watched the rolling dice, his mind consumed by the vision of easy gain.
One Friday night, as fog descended upon Malá Strana outside and the wind played with the branches of old linden trees, the monk sat in the inn again. The game was in full swing, his luck seemed to be at its peak, and a feverish gleam burned in his eyes. Suddenly, the inn doors burst open, and a breathless boy, the neighbor’s son, ran in, his face pale with fear. “Father monk!” he gasped, barely catching his breath. “Please, come quickly! My father is dying! He asks for the last rites before he departs for eternity!”
The monk barely looked at him. His gaze was fixed on the game board. “Wait, boy,” he replied impatiently, waving his hand, and without interrupting the game, added: “Just one more round and I’ll come right away. Or perhaps after dinner.” But the boy insisted, his voice trembling with urgency. “There’s no time, Father! His breath is already weak! Every minute counts!” Yet the monk remained unyielding. The thought of leaving the ongoing game was unbearable for him. He refused, promising to come later, after he finished playing and a completed dinner gave him strength. The boy, desperate and crying, turned and disappeared into the fog.
Hours passed. The monk finished his game, ate his dinner, and only then, as the inn began to empty and silence crept into its corners, did he feel the weight of remorse. He stood up, put on his hat, and hurried out. He mounted his black horse, which was impatiently pawing the ground in front of the inn, and spurred it into a fast gallop. He felt he had to rush to make up for lost time, to perhaps still manage to fulfill his duty.
On the way, he plunged into the dark gully that wound steeply down to Nerudova Street. The horse galloped over uneven cobblestones, its hooves slipping on the damp stones. The monk’s mind was full of anxiety and haste. Suddenly, on the steepest descent, the horse stumbled over a loose stone. The monk, surprised and unprepared, lost his balance. In an instant, he found himself in the air, and then with a dull thud, he hit the ground. His neck broke with a snap, and his head, separated from his body, rolled down the stone steps of the gully. At that moment, in that terrible instant of death, his soul found itself in hopeless emptiness.
Meanwhile, in the dying neighbor’s house, the last candle of life went out. The man died alone, without the spiritual comfort and blessing that the monk had refused him.
Since that fateful night, the monk has been condemned to eternal wandering. Every Friday midnight, when the moonlight barely penetrates through the clouds, he appears in the gully from Pohořelec to Nerudova Street. He rides his black horse, which sometimes looks as if it has only three legs, and under his arm, he clutches his own severed head. His ghostly figure moves at a silent gallop, only occasionally is a muffled clatter of hooves heard, which disappears before a frightened night walker can comprehend what he has seen.
His spirit is pursued by punishment for his sins – for the gambling that consumed him, and for the neglect of sacred duties. It is said that this headless horseman does not wander aimlessly. He seeks someone brave enough, someone who would not be afraid and who would free him from his curse. The only path to salvation lies in someone stabbing him with his own sword directly into the heart. But who would dare such a horror? Who would approach the headless phantom, who clutches his own face under his arm, and perform such an act?
And so the monk continues to ride, an eternal phantom of Prague nights, a silent witness to ancient sins and a reminder that even the smallest duty, when neglected, can have far-reaching and eternal consequences. His story is whispered to this day, when darkness falls in the gully and the wind begins to whistle between the old houses.