Page 4 of Morena
They said he held them for days before the thirteenth, and then displayed them like that after he was done draining them of their blood. Only one victim was never found. After her, the killings stopped. Some believed she killed him. Others thought she was the one he had been looking for, the end to whatever madness drove him to do all of that.
All I knew was that the story lived on longer than the man. It had become as heavy as death itself.
Barcelona was full of stories like that. Some true, some not. But they were enough to make you believe in ghosts. Every house carried something hidden inside it, and every family prayed it would stay buried, praying that darkness wouldn’t come scratching at their door.
The bag with my clothes hung off my back while I smoked the last cigarette from the pack. My shoulder-length hair was tied in a half bun, loose strands falling against my skin and itching from either my sweat or the heat. I didn’t know which. All I knew was maybe it was time to take this chance, perhaps it was time to get it together for once, finally.
Being a man meant people expected you to have a roof over your head by thirty, a woman by your side, kids running around, and a life worth showing off. But I wasn’t that type of man. Or maybe I just hadn’t found the person I wanted all that with. Children terrified me anyway. Little creatures on two feet, sofragile, so needy. I could barely take care of myself; how the hell was I supposed to raise someone else? I never wanted the perfect life. Sometimes I only wanted to survive. So I was the other type of man, the coward, the nobody. As Paco said,“Don Juan of the block.”
A man approached me. Beige pants, a white shirt tucked in, a black belt, and black shoes polished to a mirror shine. A straw hat cast his face in shadow, but his scent reached me before his face did, a mix of woody cologne, sweat, and cigar smoke.
He wasn’t from here.
When he finally lifted his head, I saw an old face with a thick mustache covering a wide lip. He laughed when his eyes found me.
“Carlos,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Matteo,” I answered, stretching out my hand. He ignored it, left me hanging, and moved straight past to the door.
From his left pocket, he pulled a key and turned it in the lock. Left-handed.
He was left-handed.
The door creaked open, and the smell hit me. Rot, thick and sour, rushed into my nose and coated my throat. Inside, the house was falling apart. Mold crawled across the walls. The central staircase sagged with rot, planks eaten through with holes. Window frames, once made of wood, were pulling free from the concrete, barely holding on. I raised a hand to my mouth to keep the stench out.
“Who died here?” I muttered, half a joke.
He didn’t answer. His eyes lingered on the staircase, then down the hallway into the dark.
“It’s simple,” he said finally, turning toward me. “I want you here for five days straight. Clean up. Fix the stairs, the doors, the windows.”
That’s when I saw his left eye was clouded, white like marble, but the right one was bright, sharp, and as blue as the ocean.
“Bien,” I nodded.
“Do not touch the walls,” he added quickly. He placed a hand on the wall beside the staircase. “This is a family home. Many memories are tied to these walls.”
If his family were like mine, no wonder the walls were rotting.
“Yeah, I got it,” I said.
“Good,” he replied, then walked back to the door. “When can you start?”
“Now,” I said without thinking. “I can start now.”
He laughed. “No one stays here overnight.”
“Is there a reason?” I asked.
“Let’s just say,14fantasmas no quieren gente viva.”
My eyes widened. I didn’t believe in the living, let alone the dead. He must’ve seen it on my face, because his smirk disappeared.
“Tomorrow morning, five o’clock. Don’t be late.”
He pulled the door open again and waited for me to step out first, like he didn’t trust me.
Fair enough. I didn’t trust my own shadow most days either.
