Sedlec Ossuary- Kutná Hora, Czech Republic
The supernatural and the macabre have always held a special place in my heart—and when the opportunity arose to visit one of the most haunted churches in Europe, I was practically howling, “Bring on the hellhounds!”
This spine-tingling Roman Catholic chapel, Kostnice v Sedlci, lies in Sedlec, a suburb of Kutná Hora in the Czech Republic. It’s home to the skeletal remains of more than 70,000 plague victims. Yes, little ghosts and ghouls—you read that right. This bone-filled chapel is also one of twelve UNESCO World Heritage Sites in the Czech Republic. So, if you’re the kind of traveler with a bucket list full of historic wonders, you’ll want to pencil this one in with extra ink.
Kostnice v Sedlci was actually my third bone-chilling destination. I had already visited the haunting Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini in Rome, and the legendary Catacombs of Paris during my Europe trip in December 2014. (I’ll share those creepy tales in another post—pinky promise!) But as we made our way to this infamous ossuary, I couldn’t help but wonder—would this one still impress me?
Our journey began early in the morning with a train ride from Prague. I was a little grouchy—who wouldn’t be? But I managed a nap en route, so the complaining quickly ceased. Once we arrived, we trekked on foot for about half an hour. And yes, in case you're wondering, I do enjoy walking—as long as there’s no blazing sun and the temperature stays below 10°C. Thankfully, the day was perfect. The sun was out, but the air was crisp—a divine balance that felt like nature's personal air-conditioning strapped to my forehead.
The area was silent, a refreshing contrast to the buzzing streets of Prague. That quiet solitude wrapped around us, inviting a kind of peace I didn’t know I’d been craving. It was almost meditative. Very Zen. Ohm.
Approaching the chapel, I noticed it was undergoing minor exterior restoration. Honestly? The building wasn’t much to look at—no dramatic buttresses, no gargoyles leering from above. But that day, I learned an important lesson: Never judge a house by its exterior. Because what waited inside the Sedlec Ossuary was truly unforgettable.
The story begins in 1278, when Jindřich, the abbot of the Sedlec Monastery, was sent to the Holy Land by King Otakar II of Bohemia. Upon his return, he brought back a handful of soil from Golgotha—the hill where Christ was crucified—and scattered it across the local cemetery. That single act instantly transformed the ground into sacred earth, making it one of the most sought-after burial sites in all of Central Europe.
Over the years, aristocrats from across the region were laid to rest there. Then came the Black Death. In 1318, over 30,000 victims were buried in Sedlec’s hallowed ground. A Gothic church was built at the heart of the cemetery in the early 1400s, with a vaulted upper level and a lower chapel. This lower chapel was repurposed into an ossuary, as thousands of bones were unearthed to make space for new burials.
In 1511, a half-blind Cistercian monk was tasked with organizing the chaotic piles of bones. Under his care, he constructed six pyramids of human bones, four of which still stand today. According to author and photographer Paul Koudounaris, these pyramids symbolized heavenly mountains, each topped with crowns representing the Kingdom of God.
In the late 18th century, Emperor Josef II dissolved many monastic orders, and the Schwarzenberg family purchased the property. While they turned most of it into a tobacco farm, they retained ownership of the cemetery and ossuary. In 1870, the family commissioned a woodcarver named František Rint to renovate the ossuary and design sculptures entirely out of bones.
And he didn’t just stack them—oh no. To ensure a cohesive aesthetic, Rint painstakingly bleached every single bone for visual consistency. That’s one intense case of artistic perfectionism. Or…obsessive-compulsive commitment to the macabre.
As I descended into the lower floor of the chapel, I was immediately struck by its methodical design. The layout was clean and deliberate—divided into thirds, with massive piles of bones and skulls in each corner, creating a central cross-shaped clearing.
But it wasn’t the bones in the corners that held me spellbound. It was the center of the room. The chandelier.
Here’s a hauntingly vivid description by John Connolly from The Black Angel, which captures exactly what I felt:
“Initially, there is something unsettling about Sedlec. It's probably the collision that occurs in the mind between the structures themselves and the materials used to create them. After all, that is clearly a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and those are candelabras beneath it, yet the items in question are made not from brass or crystal but from human remains...”
“The chandelier is reputed to contain an example of every bone in the human body... Above them is that most extraordinary chandelier... Breathtaking yet profoundly disturbing, a work of art created from the dead as a message to the living.”
And it truly was. In this strange, sacred space, bone became both architecture and art, an unsettling monument to those long forgotten. Their names are lost. Their stories erased by time. But in this chapel, they found an afterlife—not in silence, but in structure.
What began as a chaotic heap of remains was transformed over three centuries—by a monk, an architect, and an artist—into a haunting hymn to life and death. The chandelier, the candelabras, even the bone coat-of-arms—they aren't just morbid curiosities. They are tributes. Warnings. Whispered prayers.
In the end, I did not regret visiting Kostnice v Sedlci. It reminded me—death is not the end, but a necessary part of the journey. And if we let it, death can teach us to live better. To reconnect. To cherish what we often take for granted.
Na shledanou! Mějte se! (Until we meet again! Take care!)