The Crypt Of The Marquess

"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague." — Edgar Allan Poe

It was cold and eerie, as a sudden peal of thunder awakened the alabaster clouds that cloaked the sky in a portentous shade of horror. The westerly winds of the evening resounded abruptly, like a whistling shrill that echoed far and wide.

I was compelled to seek shelter in a lone palace that stood erect atop a protruding hill, near the anfractuous road, just before the patulous space of poplar trees with rustling boughs and deciduous leaves. I had been travelling on horseback when I spotted the palace on the outskirts of the city of Madrid. I had descried an incandescent lantern set in place. My intention was to ask for directions to a local inn where I could sojourn, until I had reached the city.

The tale you are about to read exceeds the superstitions of folklore, yet it is indubitably Gothic in its elements and revelations. It is said that within that unusual palace, one may still hear the cries of haunting voices belonging to the dead—those who once visited its palatial domain.

There is a solitary place beneath the structure that remains aloof, concealing the horrid secrets of a noble family’s lineage. A crypt that contains the history and legacy of a marquess. The year was 1818, and my name is Vicente Sandoval. The palace was originally built in 1790 by a certain nobleman named Diego Ruíz Armandáriz. He would eventually sell it to another aristocrat—the last recorded owner—Federico Velasco Ledesma, the Marquess of Valtierra.

The white palace had a rectangular structure, with an imposing façade on its longer side. Fine wrought masonry, ornate windows, small balconies, splendid arches, Doric pillars, and ornamental brackets adorned its visage. I entered through the towering front gate that led into the estate’s interior courtyard. A fountain of shimmering water was partially visible as I passed on foot to reach the front door.

I had expected assistance, for I had seen lit candles from outside. I presumed that someone of prominence resided there—perhaps a diplomat, a nobleman, or a high-ranking officer. To my fortune, upon tapping the front door, I was greeted by a young lady who introduced herself as Señora Elena Ribera Velasco and displayed a genuine warmth towards me.

She was the wife of the marquess who had reportedly gone missing in service to his country. That much she revealed. I told her I had travelled from Toledo and was en route to Madrid on urgent business. When I enquired about any nearby inns where I could pass the night, she insisted—without hesitation—that I stay in one of the guest chambers of the palace.

I was hesitant at first. Realising the difficulty of finding lodging outside the city, I acquiesced and agreed to stay the night, intending to depart in the morning. Señora Velasco was a striking woman, with flowing raven locks, emerald-tinted eyes, and a blue dress that denoted tasteful elegance rather than ostentation.

She had just returned from a trip to Madrid. Though coquettish by nature, she was unfailingly courteous in our interaction. Holding a lit candlestick in her right hand, she guided me through the palace. Within, the building was illumined by chandeliers and lamps, glowing with a soft candlelight. A suite of rooms unfolded before me—lavishly adorned with elaborate architecture, a grand banquet hall, gilded tables, ormolu chairs, a finely carved wooden staircase, a roaring fireplace, velvet draperies, and a vaulted roof over the great hall. Paintings of courtly life adorned the gallery walls.

One singular object caught my eye near the entrance: a marble bust of the marquess, its chiselled features capturing his chivalrous visage in stone. The furnishings were pristine, polished to a gleam. Everything seemed curiously well-preserved, as though untouched by the passage of time.

Still, a vague unease lingered in my chest. I could not discern its source, but I sensed something was amiss. Señora Velasco showed me the rooms and asked whether I preferred to sleep upstairs or downstairs.

As a gentleman, I chose the downstairs room. I was curious about her missing husband and the palace’s original owner, but she offered only ambiguous replies—revealing that her husband was a marquess and that the palace’s original owner was a nobleman as well.

When I asked whether she knew the full history of the Marquess of Valtierra, she claimed she knew little beyond what had been officially documented. She and the marquess had been married less than a month—just weeks before his mysterious disappearance. Before retiring, she offered me a curious farewell with a peculiar smile.

'I hope you sleep well, señor. Should you require anything, I shall be upstairs. One other thing—do not let the peculiar noises you may hear disturb your stay'.

'Peculiar noises, señora?' I asked.

She chuckled, then replied with a grin, “Don’t mind me—I’ve simply grown accustomed to certain sounds which my guests tend to find strange. That is all'.

'I shall take that into consideration. But I daresay I’ll be too weary to notice', I responded, attempting humour.

Once she had departed, I sat upon my bed, pondering my journey ahead. I intended to remain in Madrid only a few days. Little did I know of the dreadful suspense that would unfold in the hours ahead. The wind howled fiercely, the thunder rumbled above, and it seemed inevitable that the sky would soon open to drenching rain—a dire prelude to the terror that awaited me.

The elements of that terror were of an unnatural order—impossible to comprehend in full. The guest room was uncomfortably cold, with little warmth beyond the blankets on the bed. Two three-armed brass candelabra burned steadily. I was about to extinguish the nearest flame and retire when I heard a knock at the palace’s front door.

Curious, I rose and overheard a conversation between Señora Velasco and a soldier, who appeared to be an acquaintance. Not wishing to intrude, I returned to the room. From what I gathered, the soldier likely knew the marquess. He was accompanied by two other soldiers and had been granted lodging in the palace.

It did not appear to be a rendezvous, but rather an unplanned visit. Señora Velasco entertained them with fine food and finer wine. The soldiers, weary from weeks of duty, were returning to Madrid. She had changed into an exquisite white gown, adorned with priceless jewellery that accentuated her feminine charm.

She invited me to join the gathering. Though initially reluctant, I realised that sleep would be impossible amidst the revelry in the hall adjacent to my room. Thus, I relented and joined the assembly.

The great hall was resplendent with gaudy finery: regency glass candelabra, gleaming chandeliers, and a festive atmosphere the soldiers sorely missed amidst their martial toils.

Señora Velasco was a gracious hostess, generous in both spirit and substance. The soldiers shared stories of battle and honour, and some proudly bore medals for their valour.

The first was lanky and reserved. The second, short and jovial. The third, of average stature, was talkative and inquisitive. Yet it was ghost tales that truly captivated their interest—especially those told by our host. She had a flair for storytelling that enthralled us. Her voice, expressions, and tone held our attention with spellbinding precision.

Unknown to me then, she had once been a courtesan. But she bore herself with elegance, never vulgarity. She addressed us directly:

'Would you gentlemen believe in the existence of the supernatural?'

'That depends!' Replied the first soldier.

'Believe me. It is worth your time'.

'What kind of supernatural, Señora Velasco?' Asked the second soldier.

The third soldier and I remained silent, listening.

'I speak of the dead—those who return to haunt us mortals'.

'In what form do the dead return?' I asked.

'In the form we fear most, Señor Sandoval. As spirits'.

'Is that truly possible? I’ve heard tales of spirits roaming graveyards', the third soldier said nervously.

'Indeed, it is'.

'How do you know this?' I asked with piqued interest.

'Because I have seen them myself'.

'You mean, you’ve seen a ghost?' Questioned the first soldier.

'Indeed, I have'.

'Where and when?'

'Here, in this very palace'.

'Whose ghost haunts this place, señora?'

'The ghost of the Marquess of Valtierra…and others'.

There was a sinister glint in her eye as she spoke.

'You mean your husband?' I enquired.

'You are quite perceptive, Señor Sandoval'.

'Then it is true—the marquess haunts this palace?' Asked the first soldier, wide-eyed.

'Yes'.

'But I thought he was missing?'

'That is what they wish the world to believe. To me, he is already dead'.

'But why would he haunt the palace?' I pressed.

'Ah, an excellent question. He had a fondness… for terror'.

'And the other spirits? Who are they?' The first soldier dared to ask.

'The poor souls who perished in this house'.

Her reply chilled us to the bone. She described the marquess as eccentric and flamboyant, recounting his patrilineal history in detail. The soldiers were astonished. Battlefields were rife with terror, yet something about Señora Velasco unnerved us all. Perhaps it was her sudden candour, or the eerie suggestion that her husband’s spirit wandered freely through the halls.

Perhaps it was her sudden candour that was indicative of her mien. What was disturbing was the notion that the spectre of her husband was wandering the interior of the palace at will and was dead, not lost. I would never have suspected in my wildest dreams that my stay would involve the phantasmagorical nature of the realm of the undead. Such revelations were, at best, conjured in the stories of ancient superstitions. A storm had begun to release rain and roar thunder.

There was no visible presence of the ghost of the marquess, but the wind from outside could be heard blowing with such a rousing stir, amidst the flashing lightning. It was as if it were orchestrated by the presage uttered in the words of Señora Velasco.

The eeriness in the palace was so palpable, and the night progressed with mysterious sounds emitted from creaking doors, flapping shutters, the shivering of floorboards, and the swaying of chandeliers.

From the dauntless shadows then emanated a hushed sibilation that assailed my ears. I stepped out and went to the fireplace to keep warm. The soldiers were still being entertained by Señora Velasco in the great hall, too distracted to notice the distinctive sound. It was getting late, and midnight was quickly approaching, yet the festive gaiety expressed by the soldiers and Señora Velasco would not cease in its merriment.

The soldiers continued to drink, and were served more wine and even hard liqueurs such as brandy, to hasten their intoxication. They were men who would gallivant when not dutiful. I imagined many nights in the palace had been spent in bacchanalian frivolity.

I had drunk only sparingly and was the only sober man among them. I noticed that Señora Velasco was not inebriated either. This, I thought, was very peculiar. Was she accustomed to the carousing effects of wine and liqueur? Or did she simply not consume as much as the soldiers?

The thought that she was the wife of an eccentric man, and was probably accustomed to lavish parties, entered my contemplation. She continued to intrigue me with her comportment. Perhaps I was overreacting, or perhaps there was something else about the woman that I was not yet privy to—something unique about her. One thing was clear to me: the palace appeared to be a place where ghost tales were not only abundant, but convincing.

What I was unaware of was the terrible secret hidden within the crypt of the Marquess of Valtierra. I had felt suspicious that night when I left the fireplace and began to walk the solitary corridors of the palace. The others remained distracted by their delights. I had originally planned to return to the guest room where I was to stay the night.

I stopped to listen to the sound of a piano playing in one of the nearby chambers. I went to investigate, and as I approached the door, I could still hear the sound of the piano. It seemed as if someone were playing notes at such a late hour. Who could it be, since only the three soldiers, Señora Velasco and myself were present? Was I merely hearing noises that my mind had mistaken for the piano?

I remembered the emphatic words of Señora Velasco, when she had mentioned that peculiar noises were common in the palace. Her servants did not sleep there, but lived nearby in Madrid. At this point, the suspense of the night superseded the disportment of the wassail.

I headed for one of the adjacent balconies to hear the storm that had emerged from behind thick, roaming clouds. The rain was cool as I touched its moisture with the tips of my fingers. I took a deep breath and stared at the landscape of Madrid, lying in proximity.

From a distance, I could see the faint image of the waning moon. It was there, on the balcony, that I perceived the presence of someone observing me. I heard what sounded like murmurations. For a moment I thought it was likely just the wind. Was it a noctivagant ghost I was witnessing? Or was it my awareness perceiving something queer, despite its lack of manifestation? Whatever it was, it soon vanished.

The conspicuous noises began to affect me, making me question my new surroundings. I felt a churning sensation in my stomach, as though someone were hiding behind the velvet draperies. I started to hear the peculiar sound of doors opening and closing in the suite rooms. A cold breeze brushed against me as I walked forth, conscious of what I was experiencing. I sensed the presence of elusive shadows hovering over me, their images projected onto the walls with flickering lambence.

Something else then captured my attention. It sounded like the resonance of a dreadful whisper, which startled me momentarily. It was coming directly from the cellar beneath my room. At the time, I could not tell if it was a cellar or a crypt. My imagination could only guess in approximation of the truth. It was unusual to see such a grand palace be so vast and surreptitious.

The walls seemed almost hollow, yet were sturdy in their masonry. Fascination compelled me to seek beyond the boundaries of the spirit world. I held a candlestick with a bright flame that guided me, as I continued my search with growing curiosity. What I did not know was that the door to the cellar was already ajar. I proceeded to descend the stairway cautiously.

At the bottom of the steps, I beheld the drear and dim sight of what appeared to be a subterranean vault or crypt. There were also numerous casks of fermented wine, exuding their Spanish aroma. It was apparent that the marquess had been not only a connoisseur but also a distributor of fine wine from the country’s most prestigious vineyards.

He had amassed a great fortune. It was difficult to fathom the sort of life this man had lived. His life was a mystery to me, and the circumstances of his whereabouts were unknown at that time. I eventually located, through a narrow passage, a massive crypt—the supposed burial place of the marquess. The sight unnerved me. The name 'Frederico Velasco Ledesma' was written above the wooden coffin, a haunting reminder of his mortal existence.

I had been raised with the superstitious belief that one ought not disturb the dead in their repose, yet my intrigue compelled me to open the coffin and view the remains of the Marquess of Valtierra. There was no cadaverous stench from it.

What I discovered were the delicate bones and skull of a man who had once been a nobleman of immeasurable prestige, now reduced to anonymity by the discretion of time. Unbeknownst to me, I had unveiled a secret—a manifestation of truth hidden in the obscuration of night. He was no longer lost, but dead, laid inside a coffin.

I sensed that the vague circumstances of his death had been concealed by his astute wife. I was a man who relied on intuition and rationality in matters of inexplicable occurrences. I was determined to resolve the mystery of his death.

The question that disturbed me most was: why had he been buried in such abhorrent solitude? Unless, of course, he had requested such a burial. Though uncommon, I could not rule out the possibility. For a moment, I wondered whether he had been killed and left there to rot in despair. The thought was indeed macabre. Life is never fair, and death is but an inevitable course of mortality.

I had never truly believed in the preternatural existence of immortal spirits. However, could the ghost of the marquess truly haunt the palace, as a cruel irony? The revelry from the great hall above me had ceased. I ascended the stairs once more, burdened by a morbid sensation.

When I rejoined the others, it was midnight. What I discovered next would shake me to my core. There, lying in the great hall, were the corpses of the three soldiers. The candlelight revealed a rutilant display of blood that gave me an immediate shiver. Who had killed these brave men?

Upon examination, there were signs of poisoning followed by their throats being slashed. Señora Velasco was nowhere to be found. I called for her, but there was no reply. Eventually, I found her in the gallery, standing alone before a portrait. Her hands were stained with blood, and her white dress was drenched in a noticeable scarlet hue. She held a chalice of blood, which dripped from her insatiable lips.

Before I could speak, there was a knock at the door—it was the local police. Señora Velasco answered and let them in. She accused me of the heinous murders of the soldiers and of attempting to murder her.

Somehow, during my time in the crypt, she had managed to summon the police. Her accusation left me in a troubling state of stupefaction. The police arrested me, despite my insistence on my innocence and my claim that Señora Velasco was the true culprit. She had successfully deceived the authorities.

I was taken to a local prison in Madrid, where I awaited the magistrate’s judgement. I immediately requested a barrister. Despite the charges, there was no concrete evidence to incriminate me—only the testimony of the marquess’ wife.

In my solitary cell, I reflected on the maddening succession of events that had transpired at the Palace of Valtierra. There was no doubt in my mind that the source of the terror was Señora Velasco’s evil influence and her abominable acts.

Her eyes bore an insidiousness, and her cunning manner convinced others of her evocative narrative. There was no temperance in her craving for crimson blood. She was either a vampiric leech or a madwoman who delighted in the perverse thrill of imbibing human blood.

That realisation was perturbing. I could not allow myself to be condemned for a crime I did not commit. When the morning light came, I awoke to the bustle of Madrid’s streets. I had slept little. My barrister, Gustavo González, had arrived, and I immediately confessed all I knew.

I told him that I had been in the subterranean vault during the time of the murders, and that I had discovered the crypt of the marquess, with his skeletal remains.

'What you are telling me, Señor Sandoval, cannot be possible'.

'Why? I have seen his remains with my own eyes'.

'It cannot be, for the Marquess of Valtierra has been reported missing for about a year, according to the newspapers'.

'If that is true, then whose skeleton did I find in that atrocious crypt?'

'That I do not know. But if we can locate it, we can prove your version of events'.

'You would need me to assist you—but how can I, if I am in prison?'

'I believe I can help. I shall speak to the police and request that you escort them to the crypt. That may allow us to prove your innocence and her guilt'.

'I would be in your debt if you could accomplish that, Señor González'.

The barrister departed, and I waited impatiently for news. Around midday, he returned and told me he had convinced the police to escort me to the burial chamber.

The marquess was a man of high repute, and the discovery of his whereabouts was of great significance. His wife had reported him missing, but no further knowledge of his fate was known.

What would ultimately be uncovered would be gruesome in nature—evidence of a wicked perversion devised in the most despicable fashion. I was aware of Señora Velasco’s duplicity, but I could not yet fathom its full extent.

Her feminine licence had extended the notion of any restraint upon her proclivities for murder. I did not doubt her capability. After all, she had most certainly killed her husband. It was abnormal to expect a woman to be a ruthless killer in the society and period in which we were living. Men were considered the murderers, not women. However, that perception would change in the years to come—and Señora Velasco would be the one to bring that daunting possibility into the idle gossip of the aristocracy.

The hour of truth had arrived, and if I was to eschew a prison sentence—or worse, a hanging—then I had to be precise and meticulous in my choice of words before the agents of the police. Señora Velasco had not been informed of our visit. When we arrived at the palace, she was preparing her luggage. It appeared that she was planning to depart on a trip. She was visibly surprised to see me accompanying the police.

When she enquired as to the nature of the visit, she was informed that the police agents wished to inspect the cellar. She was reluctant to comply.

‘Excuse me if I ask’, she said, ‘but why do you want to check the cellar? It seems a rather strange request’.

‘We have been informed that in the cellar there is a crypt containing the remains of the Marquess of Valtierra’.

She was stunned to discover that they knew of the crypt, but she quickly regained her composure.

‘I have no objection whatsoever. I must remind you again that my husband disappeared’.

‘Then whose wretched bones are lying in that coffin, Señora Velasco?’ I interjected.

‘There are no bones to be found there, Señor Sandoval. That is your imagination’, she replied with a devilish grin.

She then turned to question the agents of the police who were present.

‘I see that you are easily swayed by the madness of a man who has murdered three proud and valiant soldiers’.

‘If you do not fear us checking, then we shall proceed with our investigation’, one of the policemen replied.

I gladly escorted the men to the cellar and down the steps, where I led them to the crypt where the coffin of the Marquess of Valtierra lay hidden. When they opened the brunneous coffin, they discovered his skeletal remains. This confirmed my account. The agents also saw the engraved name of the Marquess above the coffin.

Their intention was to take Señora Velasco into custody in order to question her about the skeletal remains inside the wooden coffin. But when we returned upstairs to the great hall where she had been, we were met with a shocking surprise—she had vanished completely. She had not left the house, as there was no trace of her carriage having departed. Thus, she had to be somewhere within the palace.

The agents were utterly baffled. There were no scantlings of clues to be detected. They searched thoroughly for any hiding place, but to no avail. Every corner had been examined. Of the three agents who had accompanied me, one went outside the estate to search in case she had escaped. I remained with the other two—both middle-aged men of medium stature.

We remained attentive to the eerie sounds echoing through the house and the gusts of wind that blew. One of the agents went off to check a suite of rooms. As we conversed, the sound of footfalls echoed from upstairs, from one of the bedchambers. The other agent wished to investigate, but I attempted to dissuade him. He would not heed my warning.

Instead, he ascended the staircase and entered the room. There, he would meet his end. I could hear his agonised cries before he stumbled out of the room and tumbled down the flight of stairs. I rushed to assist him, but it was too late. He was dead on the spot—murdered by the notorious Señora Velasco herself. She had pierced his heart with a long, sharp sword, now dripping with the profusion of the agent's blood.

The villainess appeared before me, descending the stairs slowly with a triumphant glint in her sadistic eyes. She had planned the murders but had failed to plan for what happened next. Before that moment, she ensured I was witness to her incisive manipulation. The other agents who had accompanied me were occupied, and the thought that they too had been murdered by Señora Velasco entered my mind with dreadful clarity. I could not underestimate the extent of evil demonstrated by this provoked woman. She had no conscience or regret.

‘I must admit, Señor Sandoval, I never thought you would discover the crypt. But I see that you are a very inquisitive man—one who saw what he should not have seen in the first place’.

‘What I saw, Señora Velasco, were the remains of a man you once professed to love—whose love you buried alongside his body in a wretched place’.

‘You don’t know what I went through. Besides, there is nothing you can do now. I shall remove the coffin and destroy the crypt before anyone else discovers it’.

‘But the police already know!’ I replied.

‘The only ones who knew were the policemen who came with you—and I have disposed of them. That only leaves you, Señor Sandoval. Your death will be merciless’.

‘Then you have murdered the other agents of the police?’

‘If you must know—yes, I have murdered them as well’.

As she stood on the last step, laughing at my predicament, a pale stranger pierced her heart from behind. It was none other than the revenant of the Marquess of Valtierra. Señora Velasco gasped and collapsed to the floor, dead. Blood poured from her mouth as she reached for my hand in desperation. It was surreal to witness her death—but the image of the ghost was even more haunting.

It was the Marquess himself. His eyes burned with a flaming red glow. He was dressed in the same attire in which he had been buried within the tenebrous crypt beneath the palace. He said nothing—only fixed me with a stare of incomparable intensity. I shall never forget that dreadful gaze; it was indelible in its haunting authenticity.

The agent who had gone outside returned and saw the ghost of the Marquess. He was not dead, but alive. The agent was thunderstruck and recoiled in disbelief. At that moment, the ghost disappeared into the secret realm of the immortals of the palace. Where he went—I had no clue.

I explained to the agent what had transpired, and he corroborated my account. Though he did not witness Señora Velasco’s death, he had seen the ghost. It was later revealed that the Marquess’s wife had been involved in a secret cult and linked to a series of murders in the region. Some dared to call her a witch—or a vampiress—who had corrupted the Marquess and caused him to abjure his old beliefs.

I shall refrain from making any definitive claims about her untamed desires and only profess the nature of the horror that occurred within that palace. I was a witness to these events—they were unthinkable, yet entirely realistic in their outcome.

Señora Velasco met the same fate as her victims: death. The only difference was that she had murdered those poor souls after gaining their confidence. Perhaps she was a black widow—one as sinister as the devilish acts she committed.

I departed the palace of the Marquess of Valtierra a free man, exonerated of any charges once imposed upon me. The soothing rays of the sun cast a reflection upon my sober countenance. The garden, once roseate, was now filled with drooping blooms—a telling sign of the transformation that had taken place. The menacing sounds had dissipated, and all I heard were the favonian caresses of the fading wind.

There, amidst the obnubilation of the clouds that veiled the secrets of the dead, were the umbras of those whose immortality was forever sealed in the superstitions of mortals. I returned to Toledo after concluding my business in Madrid, yet I had not forgotten the forlorn chamber hidden in the penumbral shade of darkness—the crypt of the Marquess of Valtierra. I suffered vivid nightmares that persisted and tormented me, burdening me with the memory of those harrowing facts. In time, I learnt to accept they were only conjured in my mind—but were they really?

Despite my earnest efforts to settle back into the life I once knew in Toledo, I found myself plagued by an unrelenting malaise. My soul was wearied, not by physical exertion, but by the haunting residue of what I had witnessed. The face of Señora Velasco, contorted in her final gasp, returned to me in my dreams—those hellish dreams where she stood laughing with her mouth full of blood, extending a hand not for salvation, but to curse me with her final breath.

As the weeks turned into months, my rational mind sought to explain these visions as mere psychological remnants, traumatic echoes of the grotesque affair I had survived. Yet some deep, more instinctive part of me—the part that whispered during storms and lingered in the silence of dusk—told me that unfinished business lay in that cursed estate. There was a pull, subtle at first, like the soft tide of the sea upon a distant shore, yet growing with each restless night.

I resisted, until one particular evening in late autumn. A dense fog had fallen upon the city, and the bells of Toledo’s cathedral tolled through the mist like the mourning cry of an ancient ghost. I stood by the window, watching the lamps flicker in the gloom, when I heard it—a voice. It was faint, almost inaudible, but unmistakably hers.

“Come back…”

The whisper reached me not through the ears but through the marrow of my bones. That same night, I resolved to return.

Upon returning to the estate at Valtierra, I was met not with resistance, but with silence. The authorities had long since abandoned any further investigation. The house, though infamous, had been left in bureaucratic limbo. Its contents remained as they were, for no heirs had come forth to claim it, nor any local bold enough to enter. I presented a fabricated letter of inquiry and was granted access for 'historical purposes'.

It was as if time itself had halted within those walls. Dust had gathered in thick layers; cobwebs hung like funerary veils upon the chandeliers and bannisters. The once-illustrious tapestries had faded into vague outlines, their colours lost to sorrow. The air was dense, not with the mere scent of neglect, but with the unmistakable odour of secrets long buried.

I made my way back to the crypt, where the coffin of the Marquess had lain. I half-expected the revenant to reappear, yet the crypt was now empty. The coffin had vanished. Only a deep gash in the stone where it once rested remained. I knelt to examine it—cold, smooth, and undisturbed since the day the ghost had emerged.

It was then, whilst contemplating the mystery of the missing coffin, that I noticed something peculiar. A narrow door at the far end of the crypt, concealed behind a crumbling pillar. It was made of oak and iron, the kind used in monasteries and fortresses of old. The keyhole was jagged, ancient, and rusted. By some strange compulsion—or perhaps intuition—I reached into my coat pocket and found the iron key I had removed from the hand of one of the murdered agents. At the time, I had taken it as a morbid keepsake, but now it seemed providential.

The key turned with resistance, groaning with protest. The door creaked open, revealing a hidden corridor.

What lay before me was not just another part of the estate—it was another world entirely. A forgotten wing of the palace, sealed away for decades, if not centuries. The air was even colder than the crypt, heavy with an indefinable presence. The corridor was lined with paintings—grotesque and unflattering portraits of figures I did not recognise, each bearing the same piercing eyes, not unlike those of the Marquess himself. Their expressions were twisted in judgement, or perhaps torment.

I pressed on, my lantern flickering with every breath I took. At the end of the corridor was a chamber—a circular room lit faintly by a stained-glass dome above. There was no natural light outside; yet the colours danced across the floor as though it were noon. In the centre was a large table, shaped like an altar, upon which were spread an array of arcane symbols and worn tomes bound in dark leather.

I stepped forth, careful not to disturb the dust, and studied the pages. They were written in Latin—a language I knew only modestly, but well enough to glean the nature of their content. Rituals. Necromantic rites. The summoning of spirits. The binding of souls to flesh.

And there, beside the books, lay a lock of black hair tied with crimson ribbon.

It was hers.

As I reached for the hair, something stirred in the chamber. A low sound, almost imperceptible at first—like the moaning of the wind across hollow graves. The glass of the dome above flickered with a strange distortion. I turned my lantern towards the edge of the room and saw it: a large, tarnished mirror, partly covered with a velvet cloth.

Drawn to it, I pulled the cloth away—and recoiled.

The reflection it cast was not mine.

It was her.

Señora Velasco stood within the mirror, dressed in black, her eyes glowing with that same sadistic triumph I had seen before her death. Her mouth did not move, nor did her form emerge. She remained trapped within the glass, yet conscious, aware. Her stare was directed solely at me.

I stepped closer, irrationally curious. Her lips parted slowly, and though no sound issued from them, I heard her voice in my head—an echo from some place beyond.

'You have seen too much, Señor Sandoval. You know what cannot be unknown'.

The surface of the mirror began to ripple, as though the glass had become water. I reached out instinctively—but the moment my fingers brushed its surface; a searing pain shot through my arm. I withdrew it, horrified to see a crimson mark, freshly burnt into my skin—an ancient sigil, the same as one I had seen in the tomes.

The voice returned, fainter this time.

'You are marked. The crypt was only the beginning'.

The image faded. The mirror once more reflected only the room. The sigil on my arm glowed faintly before subsiding into my skin, leaving behind only a shadow of its outline.

I fled the chamber with haste, retracing my steps through the hidden corridor and back to the crypt. I locked the ancient door behind me, but the air of dread followed. As I ascended the steps and emerged once more into the grand hall, I realised something dreadful: I had not escaped the horrors of Valtierra. I had only unearthed their root.

For what had transpired was no singular tale of murder and madness. It was the exposure of an ancient pact, a lineage steeped in blood and darkness. The Marquess, his revenant, the hidden chamber—all were fragments of a greater truth.

And now, I bore the mark.

The estate would be sealed again. I ensured the authorities received false reports of its instability, of landslides and structural decay. It was to be declared unsafe and condemned.

But the truth remained. Somewhere beneath the rotting wood and crumbling stone of Valtierra, something still lingered. Watching. Waiting.

And I, Señor Sandoval, must now carry the burden of its haunting secret for the rest of my life.

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