Page 6 of Morena
When the clock struck four, I rose. I slung the black trash bag over my shoulder and started walking toward the house.
It did not take long. Fifteen minutes on foot, maybe less. As soon as I turned onto the street, I saw him. The old man. A cigar clenched between his teeth, smoke curling in a soft cloud around his face. He leaned against the wall of the house and stared towards me.
As I approached, he met my eyes. “I knew you would be early,” he said. His voice rasped like gravel. “You seem like that type.”
I only nodded.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out a key. The lock turned with a sharp click, and the heavy door creaked open. I glanced back once more. The old man was leaning in the door frame, his body half-lost in the shadow of the house.
“Start with the stairs,” he said. “Tools are inside.”
I nodded again and stepped farther in.
“I will be back around lunchtime. You look like you could use one.” He blew smoke past me, and the sour air filled my lungs, mingling with the house’s stale rot.
1“Gracias,” I murmured, lowering the bag of clothes against the hallway wall.
He did not answer, he just closed the door.
I listened to his footsteps fade until silence was all that remained. It pressed in on me; it hit heavy. I started to wander around.
The kitchen was on the left. Its doorway was spread wide, with no door to separate it from the hall. Cabinets hung open, gutted and bare. A single pot sat in the sink. And its stench kept me hovering at the threshold, but something else pulled me forward. The table; dark stains spread across the wood like dried blood.
My feet wanted to move closer. My eyes wanted to see. Something was pulling me toward it, but I forced myself back.
Something bad had happened here. I could feel it in my bones.
A cold chill brushed past me, raising goosebumps on my arms, and the wind pushed my hair toward the staircase. I stood in front of it, staring. Three middle steps were gone. They were not broken, nor taken. The wood had simply rotted away.
I tested the first step, then tapped the next with the tip of my boot. When I leaned toward the gap, I saw only darkness. I took another careful step and crouched low, checking how bad the wood had rotted. That was when something caught my eye below. A faint glimmer.
I leaned closer, too close, and slipped forward.
2“Puta madre,” I cursed, grabbing the railing to keep from falling.
Cold air rose from the hole and brushed against my face. My heart hammered in my chest. There had to be a basement under there, deeper than the wall that held the staircase.
I stepped back. A sudden crash came from the kitchen, and I stumbled into the wall, palms braced against the brick.
Slowly, I turned towards the noise. The kitchen. Then another clap of wood came. This time, I saw it was only the wind driving the shutters against the wall.
“Just the wind,” I muttered, closing my eyes.
When I opened them again, something seemed to pass by me, like an invisible brush against my skin.
I made a sign of the cross, touching my forehead, left shoulder, right shoulder.3“Dios.” My fingers found the silver cross around my neck, and I kissed it.
Whatever lived here was not blessed. It was haunted.
I returned to the staircase and grabbed the hammer from the tool bag on the first step. Kneeling, I struck the rotted wood. It crumbled easily. Piece by piece, I tore it away until I could see the space below.
It was a basement. Empty one. A few sagging shelves, dirt spilling onto the floor, and nothing else. Nothing to explain the cold breath that rose toward me.
I stood, leaving the hammer by the railing. When I turned, Carlos was already in the doorway.
A white plastic bag dangled from his hand, and the smell of warm bread filled the air. He stepped inside and shut the door.
“I thought you would need this now more than later.”
