Page 15 of Morena
But I kept the notebook. I needed to know more. I needed every word, every secret.
So I waited, crouched in the shadows, until the first light of dawn.
I sat on the front porch, waiting for Carlos. The sun had already begun to rise, burning across my skin, and the white shirt clung to me, damp with sweat.
Not fifteen minutes passed before I saw him at the end of the street, walking toward me with that unhurried gait. The first thing out of his mouth was, “Uhh, you stink.”
“I…” My voice caught. I looked down at myself, then back at him.
“Someone from Paco’s crew came by last night. Patched the hole, laid down two wooden boards. You can reach the second floor now and take a shower.” He pinched his nose, unlocked the door, and handed me a key. “Once you finish, bring this back. Come by for lunch.”
I nodded, murmuring,1“Gracias.”
Even if Carlos wasEl Trece, he played the part too well. Always kind, always helpful. But aren’t they all charming first, before the switch flips, before they show the killer beneath?
I walked straight up the stairs. Whoever had been here last night knew about her clothes. They hadn’t come just to patch the floor. They wanted the basement hidden from me.
The black trash bag with my own clothes still leaned against the stairwell. I grabbed it and crossed the narrow boards to the second floor. The hallway was lined with closed doors. One by one, I tried them. Each swung open except for one that was locked tight.
The bathroom opened easily. The stench of bleach hit me at once; it was so wrong for a house that was slowly rotting. The tiles were white, and even a bar of soap, still wrapped, waited on the sink.
I stripped and climbed into the tub, turning on the water. It came out cold, but I didn’t care. The chill burned my skin, washing away sweat, dirt, and exhaustion. I worked the soapacross my body, noticing bruises everywhere, scratches, cuts hidden in the folds of skin. I looked so beaten.
The water swirled down the drain, carrying the suds away. Slowly, the steam thickened, rising around me, though the water hadn’t warmed. The surface of the mirror above the sink blackened with fog. Letters carved themselves across it, one by one, as if a finger dragged through the mist:
“Mirror black and water still,
Morena waits to feel the kill.
One for sorrow, two for flame,
Say her name and play her game.”
My heart lurched. The house was silent. Too silent. Only me inside. Only her voice written in steam.
I should have been afraid. God, I wanted to be.
I shut off the water, stepped out dripping, and wrapped myself in a towel pulled from the bag. I slung the bag over my arm and reached for the door.
It did not open.
I twisted the knob again. Nothing.
“Fuck.”
The light snapped off.
Only a thin strip of sun slipped through the small window above the toilet. It cut across the bathroom and shone on the still water in the tub.
The surface rippled.
Her head rose slowly from the water, hair plastered to her face, strands clinging to her skin. Hollow eyes stared through me. My vision blurred until it dimmed completely, and I was forced to close my eyes. Tears ran hot down my cheeks, but the pain was unbearable, like fire burning its way out of me.
I lunged for the door. My hands fumbled on the knob, but this time it turned. I pushed it open and slammed it shut behind me, collapsing against the wood and sliding to the floor.
The pounding started again. Slams shook the door, and the knob rattled. I pressed my weight into it with everything I had, eyes clenched tight.
The sound faded. Silence pressed in.
