"The agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair."— Edgar Allan Poe.
It was the year 1849, on an evening in April, when my carriage arrived at the towering castle in the small Andalusian village of Iznájar. A cold, eerie wind from the west had begun to blow with a sharp bite, as I glanced at the impressive structure, under the phosphorescence of the faint afterglow on the horizon.
My name is Carlos Luque Cisneros, a Californian by birth, but Andalusian by descent. I had come from California to these parts in the south of Spain to visit my uncle, Count Don Joaquín Luque Gavira, the man who had raised me as a child in Andalusia.
I held great esteem and reverence for him; he was like a father to me. In fact, he had been, ever since my own father died sadly when I was a young boy. My memories of my father were vague and somber, yet I bore his lineage with tremendous pride.
My uncle had sent me a letter requesting that I pay him a visit, and I had gladly obliged, with eagerness and concern. I was not certain why he had summoned me, except that I suspected it had to do with his failing health, which he had mentioned in his lengthy letter before.
It had been several years since our last encounter. What I was not prepared for was the horrible secret of the castle and the looming shadow that was shrouded in a bizarre mystery, whose name was Beatriz. He was a widower who had lost his beloved wife to phthisis, or consumption, not long ago, as it was called in America.
The castle perched on a steep ridge that jutted over the village. It had a distinctive triangular design that appeared truncated on the northeast side, with its conspicuous side facing southward. It had a huge central space and was encompassed by a wide wall, with several flanking towers at the southeast and southwest corners standing firm.
There was a pentagonal tower at the fore, and another tower in the east that was visibly imposing in its sheer size. The castle sat at the highest point of the limestone hill where the permanent village lay and loomed over the quaint settlement of the local houses.
The steep slopes of the north and northwest of the promontory sheltered its interior façade, as an extension of a natural wall that was once part of an ancient Arab fortress. I glimpsed a colorful grotto and a river adjacent to the village.
The scenery, in general, resembled the canvas of an artistic painting of vastness, although the terrain was somewhat remote and quieter than the usual sounds of Córdoba, with which I was well acquainted—its revelry and commotion. I was greeted by my dearest uncle at the front gate of the ancient castle, with a cordial salutation and a fragile handshake.
"Welcome to the castle, Carlos. How have you been, nephew?"
"Well, uncle, but you look rather gaunt and thin compared to the last time I saw you."
"It has been a few years since I paid a visit to California."
"I hope my visit will cheer you up and make you forget the tragedy."
"Indeed! I am afraid my thoughts recently have been rather affected by the sorrow I bear over the loss of my beloved Beatriz."
"That is to be expected, uncle."
He was not much of a robust man with an imposing stature; rather, he was a willowy man. He had always been refined and fashionable, but I could visibly see the wear and tear on his countenance. He bore a melancholy that was as transparent as his clothing. He was wearing a white shirt beneath his dark green frock coat over his hourglass figure. His trousers were white too, with high collars and a necktie tied around them firmly.
His black hair was worn long, but swept to the side. He had a curly mustache and sideburns, noticeably popular at that time. His once jovial verve was reduced to a sober inquietude or resignation to the tragic vicissitude that had forever altered his life. I was saddened by this harsh realization.
Thus, I felt a genuine commiseration for his unbearable loss and situation. I could not dismiss so casually his wan or feeble condition, which, from what I had been informed, was rapidly deteriorating by the day. Not only was it difficult, but it was also excruciating to fathom his sorrowful agony.
Verily, I was determined to help him regain his prior alacrity and resilience. We stepped inside the castle to continue the conversation. Once inside, I could discern what from afar I had not been able to previously. The interior of the castle demonstrated an age-old mysticism and arrangement that reflected a somber opacity exceeding the normal placidity of decor.
Inside the main hall, there were Arab tapestries and fine Venetian draperies to be seen, along with Jacobean armchairs from the Renaissance era. The most distinctive object was the family’s coat of arms, with swords and daggers beneath, from the era of the Reconquista.
My uncle was a fervent collector of priceless antiquities and art. He had an array of exquisite paintings that preceded the 19th century, from Meléndez and Zapata to his favorite, Francisco de Goya. All were in pristine condition and worth a handsome fortune.
My uncle related to me that most of the valuable objects of the castle had been preserved during the French incursion, although some family treasures were pillaged by the French, as were parts of the castle, struck by solid cannonballs.
He had been able to repair the damage, though in some areas of the castle, the marks were still tangibly seen. What I thought remarkable was that he had managed to restore the castle in the specific areas affected. He offered me a glass of fine Spanish wine from the rich vineyards of Málaga, and we indulged in conversation on a variety of subjects—from history to art and politics.
He was a perceptive man who always displayed great enterprise and was willing to speak about these matters with a measure of approbation; yet when it came to his beloved Beatriz, he was reluctant to discuss her, except to divulge small details.
Even the thought of her memory stirred a profound effect in him that he could not avoid transmitting—that bittersweet yearning for her that was quickened instantaneously. His once youthful aspect was racked by the continuity of his weariness and sorrow.
"Carlos, Beatriz was the most beautiful woman I ever met. She had sparkling onyx eyes, long flowing silky hair. Her figure was thin but curvy, and her lips were as round as a spring tulip. Her skin was olive and Mediterranean. Her smile had a pearly luster, and her voice was as sweet as the harmonies of morning sparrows. She was from Córdoba originally, before she moved to Málaga."
"The perfect woman, from what you are describing."
"Indeed. She could dance like a ballerina as I played the violin. She could glide like the wind. Her voice had an angelic euphony I adored. You know, she enjoyed Italian violinists and composers such as Giovanni Battista Viotti, Alessandro Rolla, Bartolomeo Campagnoli, amongst others."
"She must have been beautiful in person."
"Sí. Do you see the paintings there above the mantel?"
"I see them."
"That is her in all her true beauty. That is my beloved Beatriz."
He was extremely proud of her lasting loveliness and grace, and I had the impression that he genuinely loved her. His mourning was also genuine in its sentiment and consistency. He spoke of her with earnest affection and devotion.
"It must still be difficult to not be with her, uncle."
There was a sorrowful look in his eyes as they welled up with tears. "It is too much to bear. I carry the pain still within me, fresh, as if her tragic death were only yesterday."
"Forgive me. I do not mean to bring you more anguish than what you have suffered already."
He looked into my eyes and said, “I shall never overcome this suffering, while she is still in my heart. I cannot go into her room yet. That is why I had it sealed with a stone wall.”
At first, I was going to ask him the reason for the wall, but I thought it wiser not to press him on the subject. So, I changed the conversation to my recent endeavors as we continued sipping wine.
“For some years now, I’ve been interested in investing in the exportation of wine from the Americas to Spain. I’ve heard many wonderful things about the vineyards in Andalusia. There’s gold to be found in California, but at the moment, I much prefer the vineyards.”
“I too have heard these stories of America. I once traveled to what was then known as New Spain, with my parents when I was a boy. Those are fond memories I still cherish. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to rekindle that happiness since Beatriz’s untimely death.”
“That’s understandable. It’s not every day a man loses his dear bride.”
“Are you single? Have you not found a woman to love?”
I pulled out a locket and showed him her daguerreotype.
“She’s beautiful. You’re very fortunate to have her. What’s her name?”
“Sofía. She’s from Córdoba.”
“From Córdoba. The women there are certainly beautiful.”
He also presented a vintage locket with the hair of his beloved Beatriz. He sighed, a glum look reminding me of his present affliction and state of mind. “Do you not think she’s lovely as well?”
“Yes! She’s truly beautiful.”
“I wish I could just move on, but without my Beatriz, I’m lost in her haunting shadow that torments me. I take comfort at least in knowing she still walks this castle with her slender grace.”
“Haunting shadow, you said? What do you mean by that, and that she still walks the castle?”
“Nothing. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Are you hinting at a phantom?”
“Perhaps we should leave this conversation for another time. Right now, you should get some rest. You’ve had a long journey from California.”
I was curious, and at the same time concerned about what my uncle had been referring to. Yet I was tired and wanted to change my clothes and rest for a bit in my chamber. There were few servants inside the castle; most were outside tending to my uncle’s affairs, as he was a count. He had one of the servants, named Paco, see to my accommodations. I no longer saw the fire in my uncle’s eyes, the fire that had once burned brightly.
He was now a troubled man, alone in a towering castle that exuded an eerie tranquility—misleading in its stillness—and accompanied only by his obedient servants, all locals from Iznájar. Andalusia is a vast land of ancestral history and folklore, which had enamored me since childhood. Iznájar was mostly a village of peasants rather than gentry, but the nobility had its share of estates in the area.
I was eager to take a morning stroll the following day and enjoy the countryside. Yet I felt uneasy about my uncle’s condition and thought it best to delay that whim until I better understood his situation. After all, that was my main concern upon arriving.
I stepped outside my chamber for a moment when I felt the strange presence of someone watching me. I heard a faint whisper, a woman’s voice. At first, the voice startled me with its soft sighing, but I was curious to listen more closely. I couldn’t make out the words no matter how hard I tried.
Cautiously, I followed the sound until I reached the area of the wall that sealed the former chamber of my uncle’s dead bride, Beatriz. The wall was solid brick masonry, imposing in its sheer size. It was the mysterious voice that had led me there.
Ever since I entered the castle, I’d felt a veil of secrecy, a palpable sensation I couldn’t easily dismiss. After a while, the whispers faded, and a servant noticed me standing before the wall, lost in thought.
“Are you lost, señor?”
“You startled me. I didn’t hear you approach. I was just walking, and I saw this massive brick wall. My uncle told me it was built to close off his deceased bride’s chamber.”
“That’s correct, señor.”
“I’m just amazed by the sight of it—it’s colossal.”
“Indeed. It has been like this ever since the poor Lady Beatriz passed away, so regrettably.”
“It’s certainly tragic, but I can’t imagine living alone in a dreary, damp castle with a wall sealing off a chamber. I must admit I’m worried about my uncle’s declining health.”
“There’s a draft that moves through the castle, and as for your uncle the count, despite his pallor, he is never truly alone. We are here—and so is she.”
“She…what do you mean, she?” I asked, intrigued.
“I mean Lady Beatriz. She’s with him.”
I was even more confused. “Forgive me, but frankly I don’t understand. How can that be, if she’s dead?”
“Her spirit isn’t.”
“Are you talking about a ghost?”
She paused, then continued. “Her spirit, señor, lives on through her music.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You see, señor, every night the count plays the violin in her memory.”
“I see. It must be some small comfort for him, knowing she’ll never return.”
“She never left. She isn’t gone.”
“Excuse me—she’s dead.”
The servant smiled. “But not her spirit!”
Her response left me flabbergasted. She excused herself, and I returned to my chamber, still pondering the words spoken by the servant. In the morning, I spoke with my uncle, who mentioned he wanted to sell some of his prized paintings, though he was adamant about not selling any by his beloved Beatriz, whom I had not known was a painter herself.
He had several of her paintings displayed throughout the inner castle. I could feel the profound devotion he still held for her; it was evident in his expressive manner and solicitous gaze. Oddly enough, he did not discuss with me the incident involving the wall from the previous night.
Apparently, it was neither relevant nor something out of the ordinary, as I had perceived. Nevertheless, I remained conscientious about his physical and mental condition. I did not think it was prudent for him to live isolated in a castle perched upon a towering steep hillside, without family nearby.
After breakfast, he led me to a chamber that had been part of a garrison destroyed by the French. Only a few cannons remained intact, serving as solemn reminders of that terrible invasion. While we were there, I noticed a dark and damp passage leading to a dungeon. When I inquired about it, my uncle confirmed that it indeed led to an old, abandoned dungeon. We entered the passage and proceeded toward the dungeon, but we did not go inside, as one of the walls was partially crumbled.
As I listened to him speak, I suddenly heard the familiar voice of a woman whispering, emanating from inside the dungeon. I then saw a strange image—an outline or semblance of a sable shadow—that I interpreted as the spectral shade of a distinctive woman.
The image appeared only briefly, but it captured my attention enough to make me pause and look. My uncle noticed that I seemed distracted.
“Are you all right? You seem lost in thought.”
“I thought I heard a whispering voice—a woman’s—and saw a mysterious shadowy figure inside the dungeon. But it was probably just the howling wind and the shadow nothing more than a dreary reflection of the dungeon’s darkness.”
“It was no wind or eerie shadow you saw, young man,” he replied gravely. “That was the presence of my beloved Beatriz. She roams the castle at will, day and night. Her spirit shall never rest until—” He stopped suddenly.
“Until what, uncle?” I prompted.
He remained silent for a moment. Then he uttered, “It is too late.”
“Too late for what? I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. You speak in riddles at times—riddles that are hard to fathom. Could you be more direct?”
“In due time. In due time, you will understand the whole story. For now, I must speak with one of the servants. I hope you enjoy your day. Diego will escort you by carriage into the village below if you wish. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He began to cough, and I could visibly see his deteriorating health—likely due to his affliction. I feared he was displaying signs of the dreadful consumption, although the doctor who visited him the day before my arrival did not diagnose him with that parlous contagion.
It was a daunting reminder of reality, and I remained cautious about his daily progress. I had never doubted his sanity before, but his devotion to his deceased bride, Beatriz, was undeniable. Soon, I would be confronted with the realization that his disturbing behavior was leading to something far more unsettling—beyond mere eccentricity—a pattern that pointed to madness.
As for the wandering specter I thought I had seen, it was too inconclusive to determine what I had actually witnessed in the dungeon. The mere thought that Beatriz had risen or never died was incomprehensible and daunting to accept as a realistic possibility.
I had heard stories of obsessed men and women who claimed to be haunted by deceased lovers, but these were tales of others—never of anyone I personally knew or had witnessed.
That day, I spent my time mostly within the vicinity of the castle. Later, I ventured into the village below and took in its wonderful setting and vibrant ambience. I first admired the spectacular view of the beautiful lake and the rolling hills, dotted with rows of olive groves.
From afar, I saw the traditional white houses typical of Andalusian architecture gleaming under the sunshine, nestled in the deep valley below. Once in the quaint village, I marveled at the old medieval church with its impressive bell tower. I passed under an artistic archway and admired the plaza behind the parish church, with its mosaic tiles and flowerpots, as I strolled along the cobblestones of the narrow, winding streets.
I was particularly impressed by the colorful patios near the Torre de San Rafael. There was only one local inn in the entire village for visitors, who mostly came during Semana Santa or Holy Week. I became fond of the wine and flamenquín, indulging in these delights during my visit.
Upon returning to the castle, my uncle awaited me in the main hall. He inquired about my trip. “How was your time in the village, nephew? I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
“Indeed, uncle. It was good to see the village and meet the locals. I only wish you were strong enough to have joined me. You need a distraction from the gloom of this castle.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he replied. “I am not alone. I have this wonderful castle, the servants, magnificent paintings, and musical instruments that play such sweet harmonies. But above all, I have her—Beatriz.”
Once again, he invoked the name of his deceased bride. I began to seriously believe his devotion was turning into a dangerous obsession, growing stronger in his speech and thoughts.
“With all due respect, uncle—Beatriz is dead. She’s not coming back from the chasm of death.”
His smile faded, replaced by a piercing stare, and he raised his voice, vexed. “Nonsense! Beatriz is not dead. She is alive, I tell you!”
Sensing it was unwise to antagonize him further, I allowed him to have the last word, realizing his mental faculties were consumed by his devotion to Beatriz. Still, my consciousness urged me to be even more observant of his fragile condition and erratic behavior.
He invited me to hear a special rendition he played for his former wife on his violin. I listened as he performed with tender precision. His fingers caressed the strings, and his eyes welled with tears, full of melancholic passion for his beloved Beatriz.
It is said that no man can truly know another’s heart without bearing his pain. If I could assign meaning to his love, it would be something inexplicable. Few men could ever know how deeply the heart bleeds without knowing its regret. I supposed his curse was to endure her absence. When he stopped playing, he spoke in a somber tone of his undying love.
“If men knew how lonely the days and nights are without their beloved wives, they would understand why so many have taken their own lives. So many fools have done so, but I am fortunate. Beatriz remains with me in spirit, and for that, I am grateful. I admit that at first, I suffered profound intervals of madness. But now, I understand everything, nephew.”
“Uncle, you must learn to let go. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but soon. I know the grieving process is still fresh in your heart, but you must regain your vigor. I fear your health is failing.”
“I am no longer grieving, for I know deep within my heart—Beatriz has not left me.”
It was impossible to reason with him when he was so resolute in his conviction. I desisted, letting him rest. His coughing worsened, and he needed repose.
When I suggested calling the doctor again, he flatly rejected the idea, insisting he was not grievously ill. I disagreed, but his reticence and obstinacy were unmistakably evasive.
The question that haunted me was why he refused to face reality. I resolved to do what was necessary to alleviate his suffering, and I concluded he needed to leave the solitary castle, which had become a prison and exile.
His unyielding attachment to everything associated with Beatriz clouded his reason. Some may see my conclusions as harsh, but having witnessed his condition firsthand, I knew the truth.
The rest of the day, we conversed about his wine collection and my plans to expand my business, importing the best wines from California to Andalusia—a goal I had before planning this trip to southern Spain. I didn’t regret my decision, but I felt a hint of apprehension about the future.
That night, however, I would experience another unimaginable encounter—with the unannounced presence of my uncle’s spectral bride. It would be an unforgettable moment, deepening my suspicions about Beatriz’s death and haunting.
The mysterious circumstances of her passing had not been fully revealed to me, nor had my uncle ever offered a complete explanation. In time, my fascination would lead me to uncover the truth of what really happened to Beatriz in her final days at the lethean castle.
The rest of the day I spent conversing with my uncle about his wine collection and my particular interest in entering the business of purchasing and transporting the finest wine from California to Andalucía. I had initially planned to expand my business even before arranging the trip to Southern Spain.
I wasn’t second-guessing my decision at all, yet there was a small measure of apprehension hovering over my thoughts. What I had not anticipated was his generous offer to sell me a piece of land he owned just outside Seville.
I was honored by his proposal and told him I would consider it, naturally after I had the chance to see the property in person. The plot of mystery only thickened, with suspenseful and sudden occurrences unfolding. It was extremely difficult for me to watch my uncle, once a brilliant businessman, deteriorate into a recumbent shadow of the man he had been. The aura in his eyes, so vivid to me as a child, had now diminished to fleeting glimpses of a glorious man I had always admired and revered.
He was fading rapidly, in a manner I had never witnessed before in a close relative. Yet I felt compelled to assist him in whatever way I could to fulfill his desires or intentions. I was alone in my chamber attempting to relax when I again heard the familiar sound of echoic whispers and singing that I had become accustomed to. That unmistakable voice—feminine and haunting—came from the area where my uncle had concealed the wall.
The impenetrable wall that led to the sealed chamber of Beatriz.
I was drawn once more to the irresistible fascination of that enchanting voice, as though it had cast an eternal spell. Her spirit seemed to roam the castle like a forsaken ghost doomed to immortality.
As I approached the vicinity of the enclosure, I felt Beatriz’s presence intensify, as if she were observing me. Suddenly, I heard a peculiar, lugubrious sound—sobbing that seized my attention. Then, once again, I saw the ghostly figure of my uncle’s spectral bride. Her piercing raven eyes unsettled me as she emerged from the shadows in her virginal white bridal gown, yearning to be heard.
A fathomless utterance escaped her lips, but her ominous words were mostly incomprehensible. What I could decipher sounded like: “Help me!”
Her desperate expression was chilling. Within moments of her appearance, she disappeared again into the dreary darkness from which she had emerged.
That night, restless and haunted by my uncle’s unsettling behavior, I found myself unable to sleep. The castle, vast and cold, seemed to breathe with its own life, exhaling groans and creaks that reverberated through the stone walls. Moonlight spilled through the high windows, casting eerie shadows across my room. I decided, with a mix of dread and curiosity, to wander the halls—hoping perhaps to unravel some hidden truth or, at least, to still my racing thoughts.
As I stepped into the corridor, the silence was oppressive. My footsteps echoed in the emptiness, each sound swallowed quickly by the darkness. I wandered aimlessly at first, but soon, without quite realizing how, I found myself before a door I had never noticed before—an ancient, iron-clad door partially concealed behind a heavy tapestry.
Drawn by something I couldn’t explain, I pressed my ear to the cold wood. A faint murmur, almost like a woman’s sobbing, reached my ears. My heart pounded. Hesitating only a moment, I gripped the rusted handle and pulled. The door groaned open, revealing a narrow spiral staircase descending deep into the earth.
Lantern in hand, I descended slowly, the air growing colder and damper with each step. At the bottom, I discovered a hidden chamber—a room unlike any I had seen before. Its walls were lined with shelves of ancient books, yellowed letters, and relics of the past. At the center stood an altar of black marble, upon which lay an open book and a withered bouquet of once-white roses. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something else… something metallic, like old blood.
On the walls hung portraits of Beatriz—dozens of them—capturing her in every stage of life: a child with bright eyes, a maiden in full bloom, and, most haunting of all, a series of paintings depicting her as a bride, her expression growing progressively more sorrowful in each. But one painting chilled me to the bone: it was a full-length portrait of Beatriz standing next to my uncle, their faces pale, their eyes hollow, and their hands clasped in a grip that seemed almost desperate.
Shaking, I turned my attention to the open book on the altar. It was my uncle’s journal. Its pages, filled with erratic handwriting, spoke of rituals, invocations, and desperate pleas to bridge the realms of life and death. He had been planning this resurrection for years, driven mad by grief and guilt, convinced that Beatriz’s spirit cried out for release.
Then, at the final entry, I froze. The ink, fresh and smeared, read:
"Tonight, she will return. Tonight, I complete the bond that death could not sever."
A chill ran down my spine. This was no mere obsession—it was a dangerous delusion, one that threatened to consume us all. I slammed the journal shut, heart pounding, and extinguished my lantern, leaving the chamber in darkness as I fled back up the stairs.
Above ground, I gasped for air, my mind racing. Whatever was about to happen tonight, it was clear now that my uncle had crossed a line that should never have been touched. I knew then that Beatriz’s ghost would not rest until the truth was faced, and the shadows of the past were finally put to peace.
An entire week passed, and the encounters with Beatriz’s revenant became almost daily occurrences. I had not anticipated confronting an apparition in the castle; yet what was more alarming was my uncle’s stark and rapid decline.
I had never dealt with a situation as dire as his. It was profoundly disturbing and painfully evident to witness. I was uncertain whether he was afflicted by consumption, but one thing was clear: I was beginning to question his sanity.
Although he had rejected the idea of seeing a doctor, I managed to arrange for his physician to visit and examine him. He was not expecting the doctor’s impromptu arrival and initially resisted, but he eventually acquiesced after I convinced him—for his own sake and for the devoted servants who cared for him. I waited anxiously in the main hall until the doctor finished his examination. After pacing nervously in the corridor, the doctor finally emerged, ready to share his diagnosis.
“I believe your uncle is suffering from the rapid effects of phthisis. His health is deteriorating by the day.”
“Good God. And his mental faculties? I fear he is gradually losing his mind.”
“Why do you say that young man?”
“Doctor, he talks to his deceased wife. Worse, he insists she roams the castle at will.”
“You mean, like a ghost?”
“Yes...like a ghost! I’m concerned because he appears to be gripped by some kind of delusion.”
“Delusions? Perhaps. In my professional opinion, if that’s the case, we must prepare for the worst.”
“You mean, the worst is yet to come?”
He looked me directly in the eyes and candidly replied, “Yes.”
“What should we do then? Should we move him somewhere healthier?”
“I’m afraid if we don’t, he will surely die here.”
“My uncle is obstinate and refuses to leave Beatriz behind. How can we convince him to let go of her memory?”
“That I cannot answer. But I can tell you this: if he continues like this, he will certainly die.”
After the doctor left, I spoke with my uncle, who sat alone in an ormolu chair, his pensive look and deteriorating state painfully clear. I wondered whether he fully grasped his condition or had already sunk into oblivion.
Perhaps it was an inopportune time to raise these matters, but I had no choice. In the privacy of that familiar room, I decided to broach the subject, though I feared triggering his temper. I also knew I had to try to make him face reality.
“Uncle,” I began, “the doctor tells me you are unwell, and that staying here in the castle is not good for your health.”
He interrupted, “No need to say more. I know what he said and what’s good for me. What neither of you understands is that I cannot leave this castle—never! I can’t abandon Beatriz in her sorrow. She needs me.”
“If you remain here, you will meet the same fate she did—death.”
“If that is my fate, then I am ready to face it. You see, in this world, I’ve learned one harsh truth: just as we are destined for birth, so are we destined for death. Once, I was destined for greatness; now, I am destined for isolation—a prisoner of my fate.”
“Then you admit the castle is your prison?”
“You may see it that way, but I see it differently. To me, this is the sacred abode of my happiness. Beatriz is my happiness.”
“How can that be? We both know she is dead. Any sane man would acknowledge that.”
“I do! Are you calling me insane?”
“What you’re describing is insanity. Spiritually, perhaps, but not in the physical world.”
He paused, then responded directly, “But she is, nephew. She is still in the physical world.”
“How? She’s dead—buried six feet under. Listen to yourself.”
“Soon, I shall introduce you to Beatriz. Be patient.”
His forthright admission sent a chill down my spine. Still, I could not allow him to remain trapped in his obsessive devotion. His intractability was a clear sign of his declining sanity. I chose not to argue further but instead turned my attention to the servants, knowing I needed their help for my uncle’s welfare.
I gathered them discreetly in a narrow corridor while my uncle rested in his chamber. They were puzzled by my summons.
“I know you wonder why I’ve gathered you here. I won’t keep you long—I know your dedication. But I cannot stand by and watch my uncle fade away. I need your help.”
The footman replied, “Pardon, señor, but what can we do? We are only servants. We cannot interfere in his affairs.”
“Yes, I know. But surely you can assist me.”
“In what way? We owe everything to Don Joaquín. We cannot betray his trust.”
“I understand your loyalty. But if we let him continue like this, he will die. His health is worsening every day.”
After consulting among themselves, they reluctantly agreed. I instructed them meticulously.
“Once I return from my trip to Córdoba, we’ll proceed. Do not reveal this conversation to my uncle—remember, it’s for his own good.”
Though I was reluctant to leave, I traveled to Córdoba to consult the family lawyer about my uncle’s health and business affairs, as he was too unwell to handle them himself.
I entrusted his care to the servants. When I returned that evening, I was eager to see my uncle—but what transpired that night was beyond anything I had imagined.
The servants did not greet me upon arrival, nor did my uncle. From outside the castle, I heard the sound of music with a strange, lilting cadence. Entering, I heard my uncle’s voice, speaking to someone. But who?
I found him in the main hall with the servants—and to my horror, his ghastly guests. The tables were lined with skeletons, dressed as if for a grand soirée. My uncle played his violin, conducting a phantom orchestra. Seeing me, he turned and said:
“Carlos...welcome to tonight’s ball. How kind of you to accept my invitation.”
“What is this macabre spectacle? Why are these skeletons dressed up? Have you gone mad, uncle?”
“Not at all. They are tonight’s honored guests.”
“What are you talking about? Whose celebration?”
“We are celebrating Beatriz’s birthday. Today is her birthday.”
He raised a glass of wine, “A toast—to my beautiful bride.”
I was aghast. “Uncle...please stop this at once!”
He stared at me with wild eyes. “Carlos, you don’t believe me, but wait—I shall bring her to you.”
“Bring who?”
“Beatriz.”
At that moment, a servant brought forth the corpse of Beatriz, wrapped in a heavy shroud, dressed in her bridal gown. I stood frozen in horror as I realized my uncle had kept her decaying body hidden behind the wall all this time.
Apparently, he had destroyed the wall and had meticulously planned this day—Beatriz's birthday—to resurrect her from the realm of the dead into the world of the living. What was more shocking was the terrible secret of the castle. Beatriz had not been buried at all, as I had assumed. His dominance over the servants was evident and imperious.
Immediately, I ordered the servants to comply with my authority. I did not falter in my posture or instructions. "Remove all these skeletons now. Do as I say. You should all be ashamed of this unseemly behavior. Leave my uncle and me alone to speak!"
"You have gone too far this time. I'm going to take you away from here. This horrible castle is driving you mad!"
"I shall not leave this castle—or Beatriz!" He replied with brash defiance.
Just as we were arguing, a mournful glow suffused the darkened corridor, and a ghostly image suddenly magnified before us. Lo and behold, it was the unmistakable image of Beatriz, dressed in her memorable bridal gown, weeping as she walked barefoot.
Her ashen white face was covered in tears, her limpid eyes reflecting an ineffable pallor of death. The fabric of her gown floated around her as though stirred by unseen tides, and her wails echoed through the cavernous chambers like the lingering whispers of a requiem. I found myself frozen, rooted to the spot by a blend of terror and awe. It was the most unbelievable thing I had ever witnessed: she stood before me, the embodiment of an eternal revenant. She uttered words easily understood as a grave, ostentatious manifestation, transcending any visceral reaction and striking to the core of the soul.
"Let me rest in peace. Bury me, Joaquín!"
As she spoke, a sudden gust of wind scattered the candles' flames into darkness, plunging the hall into pitch blackness for a brief, breathless moment. When the light returned, she was already scurrying away toward the castle walls. My uncle, eyes wild with longing, rushed after her, and I, driven by duty and dread, pursued them both.
But as I reached the entrance to the tower stairs, a strange compulsion overtook me. Something—whether the chilling air, the spectral glow that still lingered, or the castle’s own brooding presence—seemed to beckon me elsewhere. I found myself turning away from the pursuit, drawn instead to the ancient crypt beneath the castle, where the heart of its mystery seemed to pulse in silence.
Descending into the depths, I was swallowed by shadows. The stone steps felt alive underfoot, worn smooth by centuries of sorrow. At the bottom lay a heavy oak door, slightly ajar, exhaling the stale breath of earth and decay. I hesitated, every instinct urging me to turn back—but my resolve, forged by fear and fascination, pressed me onward.
Inside, the chamber was vast, its walls encrusted with moss and age-old effigies of forgotten saints. Flickering torchlight caught upon something astonishing: rows upon rows of coffins, some ancient and crumbling, others curiously well-preserved. Among them stood a massive sarcophagus adorned with the likeness of Beatriz, her carved face serene and noble. My heart pounded. This was the place—her true resting place—hidden all along beneath our feet.
I stepped closer, my breath catching as the silence thickened into something almost tangible. Then, without warning, a tremor coursed through the chamber, and the lid of the sarcophagus shifted ever so slightly, releasing a whisper of air that smelled of time itself. I stumbled back, eyes wide with dread, half expecting Beatriz herself to rise before me.
But instead, something more subtle—and more chilling—occurred: faint, melodic whispers began to echo from the walls. They seemed to rise from nowhere and everywhere at once, weaving together in a mournful hymn that spoke of love, betrayal, and unfulfilled promises. The melody seeped into my bones, into my very soul, until I felt as though I, too, had become a part of the castle’s tragic tale.
For what felt like an eternity, I stood entranced, caught between terror and revelation. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the song faded, replaced once more by silence. I knew then, with a clarity that shook me to my core, that Beatriz’s spirit would never find peace until her body was properly laid to rest—until the wrongs of the past were righted.
With renewed determination, I fled the crypt, the whispers still echoing faintly in my ears. I raced up the tower stairs, my mind now set on ending the curse that bound my uncle and his beloved to this mournful place.
The climb to the tower was agonizing. Each step on the winding staircase seemed to echo with the cries of the past, the very stones weeping beneath my feet. When I reached the top, the chilling night air whipped around us. My uncle stood perilously close to the edge, his arms outstretched toward the spectral form of Beatriz, who hovered just beyond the battlements. The moon cast a silver sheen upon her, lending her an unearthly beauty that made her seem almost alive.
"Beatriz, my love," he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "Do not abandon me again! Let us be together!"
She raised a hand, her ghostly fingers brushing against the night sky. Her expression was one of sorrow, her eyes shimmering with infinite grief. For a fleeting second, I thought she might embrace him, but instead, she whispered words carried off by the wind, lost to the mortal ear. I stepped closer, desperate to pull him back from the brink.
"Uncle, please," I begged, my voice thick with emotion, "come down. She's not meant for this world. You must let her go."
But he seemed deaf to my pleas, entranced by her presence. As he took a step forward, his foot slipped on the dew-slick stone, and in one horrifying instant, he plummeted, his cry merging with the night as he fell to his untimely death below.
I rushed down the tower, my heart pounding in my chest, but when I reached him, his body lay still, his face serene as if he had finally found the peace that had eluded him in life. Above us, I thought I saw a fleeting vision of Beatriz, her arms now welcoming, her sorrow lifted, as if reunited at last.
In the end, he joined his beloved bride in the subliminal realm of immortality. Some will say he succumbed to his irrefrangible devotion to Beatriz, a devotion that forever altered the state of his unhinged mind. His insanity was incurable, but not his hidden soul. He was laid to rest the following morning in the local cemetery, next to his beloved Beatriz.
They both received a proper Christian interment with a requiescat, and the doleful peal of the bell accompanied their funerals. The last image of his face was an angelic semblance of serene clarity. I was thankful his throbbing madness had concluded, and he would suffer no longer. My final glimpse of the castle, as I departed Iznájar for good, was of both my uncle and Beatriz at the massive tower, while sparrows sang their aubade.
Perhaps some will not believe the account I have related, but I attest that what I experienced in that castle was as real as I am. The castle was eventually sold to a wealthy nobleman from Seville. I had the paintings of Beatriz distributed to members of her family. There was one painting of her and my uncle that I kept, as a fond reminder of their beautiful love story.
Eventually, I settled in Córdoba and took residence in Andalusia with my fiancée, Sofía, where I continued the successful lineage of Spanish winemakers. Yet sometimes, in the quiet of dawn, when the morning mist clings to the vineyards, I find myself haunted by distant echoes of that fateful night—whispers of love and loss that will linger forever in the chambers of my memory.
I found myself drawn back to the castle one last time, compelled by a feeling I could neither explain nor resist. Though I had vowed never to return, the weight of unfinished business—and a lingering sense of guilt—pressed heavily on my conscience. I needed to confront the remnants of that dark chapter and say a proper farewell.
Arriving at dusk, I stepped through the towering gates, the castle looming in the fading light like a silent sentinel of forgotten sorrows. The air was crisp and heavy with the scent of rain, and the castle seemed unchanged, yet somehow different—quieter, as though it was holding its breath.
I wandered through the grand halls; my footsteps hollow on the marble floors. Each room I passed seemed frozen in time, draped in sheets and shadows. But as I ascended the spiral staircase to the highest tower—the place where my uncle had met his tragic end—I felt a familiar chill, as though unseen eyes were watching me, following my every move.
When I reached the tower’s summit, I stood for a long moment, gazing out across the misty hills and valleys. The wind whispered through the broken stones, and in that silence, I felt it: a sudden, almost tangible presence. Slowly, I turned—and there they were.
Not in full corporeal form, but as faint, shimmering apparitions: my uncle and Beatriz, standing side by side in the soft glow of twilight. He held her hand gently, his face serene and unburdened, his eyes filled with a peace I had never seen in life. Beatriz, too, radiated a quiet grace, her once-troubled visage now calm and luminous. They looked at me not with sorrow or anger, but with a profound sense of gratitude and farewell.
I found my voice, trembling though it was. “Rest now, both of you. May your souls find the peace you so desperately sought.”
In response, Beatriz inclined her head, a single tear sliding down her translucent cheek, while my uncle offered a faint, bittersweet smile. Then, slowly, their forms began to dissolve into the evening air, merging with the growing shadows until they were gone—leaving behind only the whisper of the wind and the deep hush of twilight.
For the first time in many months, I felt a deep sense of release, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I descended the tower steps with a quiet heart, knowing that the castle’s ghosts had finally found their rest—and that, at last, I could begin to heal.
I departed the castle that night for the final time, casting one last look at its ancient stones, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. The sparrows, ever faithful, sang their soft aubade as I made my way back to the world of the living, carrying with me the memory of a love story that transcended time itself.
Recommend Reviews (1) Write a ReviewReport