The Dolls Of Valeria

Horror is something that knows no confined boundary, for it exceeds the mundanity of death. It is deemed unnatural and ineffable, yet it is ingrained deep within the thoughts of those haunted by its phantasmagoric episodes. Amidst the darkness that resides as a reminder of our fears lies the essence of an inescapable truth.

No story could ever be told without the innumerable secrets that remain a mystery—secrets that bind us to reality. Nor should these mysteries be presumed insoluble. It is when such secrets are unravelled that we witness the inimitable guise of terror. The horror that you shall read was born from the evil acts of one man’s depravity, and the victim was a poor, innocent girl who was murdered. Her life was abruptly cut short, and her restless soul was tainted with the vileness of her irreversible fate. Her name was Valeria Quinteiro.

It was windy and cold as the guests arrived at the Quinteiro residence on that autumn day in 1948, just outside Mar del Plata in Argentina. The residence was a villa—a silver-brick edifice built in 1900, inspired by Tudor design from England. From afar, one could clearly descry the emblematic structure.

It had a vast garden with poplars and eucalyptuses, exuding a certain aesthetic grandeur. The gate to the main entrance opened to a portico with pointed arches, buttresses, crenellations, an entrance patio, and a façade fronting the expansive central bay window.

The main wing was constructed of wrought masonry, with several awnings, a slate roof overgrown with verdant moss, aralias and ivy, and three chimneys—one on each wing. Between the two wings stood a cylindrical volume that lent the structure a picturesque and enviable composition.

Inside, the villa consisted of two storeys, with guest rooms on each level, an intermediate mezzanine, a decorative gallery, and a Main Hall and Dining Hall, both exquisitely refurbished. The interior walls were adorned with elegant tapestries reminiscent of those exhibited in English medieval castles, and the rugs boasted an authentic, finely interwoven texture. The cerulean-blue draperies in these halls were silk, and the furniture that enhanced the sheen of the halls was pristine.

It was evident that the owner was a true admirer of the Tudor dynasty and had gone to great lengths to imitate its illustrious architecture. Yet a lingering gloom had disturbed the previous serenity of the villa. The terrible tragedy that had occurred remained vivid in the minds of the Quinteiros' neighbours.

The guests who arrived were either relatives or close acquaintances of the Quinteiro family. A lone representative of the household, named Bruno, greeted them with cordiality and propriety. He was the brother of the deceased Valeria—medium in build and stature.

What stood out more was his attire: a black suit and trousers, with a black tie worn over a crisp white shirt. Bruno was a refined man of society, possessing the charisma to charm any woman and the intellect to outwit any man who dared become his foe.

Valeria’s father, Luciano, had been arrested for her murder. He was imprisoned, awaiting trial. The facts of the case were still pending, the details unclear—particularly the motive behind such a ghastly incident.

The guests gathered for the funeral included Thiago Maldonado, a well-groomed and handsome bachelor in his mid-twenties; Lorenzo Russo, a banker in his mid-forties and a married man; Catalina Romero, a beautiful heiress in her mid-thirties; Valentino Colombo, a widowed politician in his fifties; and finally Pablo Echeverría, the eldest of the group, a landowner and Gaucho in his mid-sixties.

Each guest had known Valeria in some capacity, and all were shocked to learn she had been murdered by her domineering father, whose austere reputation they had known. Among them, differing opinions were voiced and exchanged regarding her heinous murder. Bruno left them to speak amongst themselves in privacy.

‘I still can’t believe that poor Valeria was murdered’, said Catalina.

‘Who would ever have thought that her father would ultimately be her killer?’ Replied Lorenzo.

‘Who are we to pass judgement on others without knowing all the established facts?’ Pablo asked.

‘I suspected her death would result from murder’, Valentino interjected.

‘How could you know?’ Thiago inquired.

‘Yes, I’d like to know that as well’, said Catalina.

‘Because I knew her father was capable of murder’.

‘Those are your words, not ours’, Pablo replied.

‘Am I to assume you’re defending this inexcusable act, Señor Echeverría?’

‘It’s only my opinion expressed’.

Bruno then entered the room and addressed the guests. ‘I suggest you acquaint yourselves with your rooms. I’m afraid it will be a long day tomorrow. I thank you all for coming’.

Each guest was escorted to their room upstairs by the attending servants. Bruno informed them that dinner would be served in the Dining Hall once it was prepared. Some guests remained in their rooms until then; others wandered the gloomy corridors of the villa to familiarise themselves with their surroundings.

The place held many undiscovered traces of time, suggestive of events that had unfolded before Valeria’s murder. A large portrait of her hung in the Main Hall. She appeared striking in her natural beauty. Her black hair, green eyes, and uniquely captivating smile exuded the immaculate innocence of a young woman who had not yet entered her twenties.

Everywhere, one could discern visible traces of Valeria. Bruno had ensured her memory in the villa would not be sullied by the cruel nature of her death. Though a grievous atmosphere loomed, the sobering sense of her presence was pervasive and ineffaceable. She could not be blamed for the heinous act committed by her possessive father.

One thing, however, was eerily conspicuous. In her bedroom—which remained adorned even after her death—sat a singular doll on her bed, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Valeria. The doll’s features were disturbingly similar. Other dolls were found throughout the room. According to Elena, a female servant, Valeria had been exceptionally fond of her vast doll collection. They were vintage, wooden, and original in composition.

Before dinner, the guests stepped out to enjoy the splendid view of the garden and countryside. It was difficult to believe this serene place had been the setting for such a horrific crime—one that had taken the life of a young woman just beyond adolescence.

The villa’s location had been chosen for the privacy the Quinteiros desired when it was built. The family’s history was well established in the area, and their ancestral origins traced directly to Galicia in western Spain.

In the late 19th century, the first Quinteiro had migrated to Argentina, hoping to build a prosperous new life. Before coming to South America, he had lived in England, where he had drawn inspiration for the villa’s remarkable architecture.

When it was time for dinner, the guests assembled in the Dining Hall, where they were entertained by Bruno. An array of topics was discussed, yet most of the guests were particularly interested in the details surrounding Valeria’s death.

At first, the conversation revolved around their activities, politics, and the funeral, but it soon turned toward the darker subject. The gruesome nature of the murder lingered in the guests’ minds. However, none were bold enough to broach the subject directly with Bruno.

They all sensed that he was withholding the truth—or that he was deliberately avoiding the sordid details. Whatever Bruno was willing to reveal would only reflect the truth he chose to acknowledge.

‘My memories of Valeria are of a cheerful young woman. I remember her always smiling’, Catalina confessed.

‘Mine are just as colourful as yours, Catalina’, said Thiago.

‘And you, Bruno—what are your memories of her?’

He paused deliberately before replying. ‘Mostly good memories, Catalina. Valeria was known to be mischievous—but weren’t we all in the days of our youth?’

‘It’s a shame her life ended in such a horrid tragedy’, Lorenzo said.

‘Indeed. But it is pointless to speak of her death—we cannot bring her back’.

‘Forgive me for intruding, Bruno, but surely you suspected your father wasn’t acting within his senses?’ Thiago pressed.

‘Are you insinuating that I allowed my sister’s death?’ Bruno replied.

‘Not at all, Bruno! I’m simply trying to understand the situation’.

‘I see judgement in your eyes—all of you. If that is the case, let me say this: I had nothing to do with my beloved sister’s death. I swear it on my mother’s headstone’.

Bruno’s declaration seemed sincerely credible. His words were powerful. Amongst several guests, doubts lingered. They were not convinced of his disassociation from his father’s brutality. Surely Bruno must have known of his father’s manipulative and volatile temperament. The question lingered: had Bruno inherited his father’s despicable traits?

A discernible suspicion was cast on his version of the account concerning his sister’s untimely death and his father’s imprisonment. The unresolved nature of the reason that had driven his father to murder his sister was difficult for the others to comprehend. Why would he harm his dearest daughter, whom he had loved with supreme devotion, according to Bruno?

Catalina had spread an untold rumour amongst the others that Valeria had been afraid of her father. For what specific reason? She revealed that it had to do with a family secret that had hitherto remained undisclosed. They had gathered in the Main Hall that night. Bruno had joined them after returning from a trip. Thiago had enquired about the dolls that had been placed in their guest rooms. He was not the only one to be inquisitive about the dolls; the others were interested in knowing their relevance too.

What the guests did not fathom was that there was a unique mystery linked to the dolls that few had known. Bruno responded by telling the guests that the dolls had belonged to Valeria, who had cherished them profoundly. They held sentimental value for her.

He had grinned, then said that she talked to them as if they were human, and they would talk back to her—so Valeria would confess. The expressions on the guests’ faces were those of bewilderment. What did Bruno mean when he said the dolls would answer Valeria? Was he being facetious or merely clever in an attempt to disguise the truth?

Whatever the case, some of the guests were uncomfortable with the dolls in their rooms and had asked for them to be removed, whilst others paid no attention to their presence. The guests had planned on leaving the following day after the funeral. As they prepared themselves for the ceremony, they found themselves drawn to the peculiar suspense that surrounded Valeria’s death. After all, it was the main reason they had come to the villa in the first place.

Catalina, who had spent more time with Valeria and was her first cousin, was the most unsettled of the guests present. Her reactions were transparent and easy to discern. She was also the most susceptible to believe in the unnamed evil that had entered the villa—one she believed was induced by Luciano, her uncle.

The uneasiness felt by the guests was reflected in their behaviour towards each other and towards Bruno. There was a growing distrust of him, despite the fact that he had done nothing to warrant such suspicion. The idea that Bruno had become the sole heir to the Quinteiro Estate, which included the villa, was assumed by the others. It was tempting to suspect foul play when contemplating the murder, but the reality remained that the individual who had murdered Valeria was the father, Luciano, not Bruno. Bruno had been bestowed the inheritance due to the line of succession that guaranteed him his inalienable right.

What had belonged to Valeria would never be contested, as she was no longer alive to request her share of the inheritance. That was the lugubrious consequence of this story.

'Tell me something, Bruno—now that you are the sole inheritor of your father, what do you plan on doing with your inheritance?' Asked Valentino.

Bruno was an unusual man of great mystery, but there was no one who would inhibit his intentions. 'Once I have inherited, I plan on selling this villa and buying another property along the coast'.

'But you have not even received the inheritance, and you are already thinking of selling this villa,' Pablo expressed.

'Without your father’s consent, I imagine', Valentino interjected.

'I repeat: once I have the inheritance', Bruno responded.

'And what of your father?' Thiago asked.

'Regrettably, he will either be locked up for the rest of his life in a prison cell or in an asylum'.

'You seem to think more about yourself, Bruno. And Valeria?' Catalina pressed.

'What about her?'

'Do you not think of her?'

'Of course I do, but she is dead, Catalina. And you know that!'

'How easily we forget the dead!'

'But why sell the villa, Bruno?' Asked Lorenzo.

'To be honest, Lorenzo, it is because I do not want Valeria’s memory to be forever tarnished by this villa'.

'That seems logical'.

'And the dolls? What will become of them?' Enquired Thiago.

There was a certain pause in Bruno, as if he were contemplating the question. He replied, 'The dolls have a life of their own',

'What do you mean by that?' Valentino was bemused.

'What I mean is that they do what they please'.

'Are you suggesting that they are alive?'

'You said that, not me'.

Bruno then left the guests to speak with one of the servants who had entered the Main Hall. He left them pondering over his insinuation that the dolls were alive. Was this simply a deceptive ploy to frighten the guests, or was there something sinister he was concealing—an unspoken secret?

Night had fallen, bringing with it an ominous shade of creepiness. If that was not enough to unnerve the guests, then what would occur that night would be unfathomable. It is said that during the night, the souls of the dead rise from their dormant quietude. The souls that would rise, however, were not human in their natural constitution. Nevertheless, they were horrifying in their reign of terror. You see, these wooden dolls were not ordinary ones, and their connection to Valeria was far more profound than imagined or construed.

As the night progressed, so did the elements of heightened anxiety. Some of the guests remained in the Main Hall, indulging in conversation, whilst others either returned to their rooms or wandered curiously through the narrow corridors. A cold draught crept in through the recesses of the walls and windows. Bruno had not yet returned. Whatever urgency the servant had in speaking to him must have been of great importance.

The guests in the Main Hall began to suspect even more strongly that Bruno was hiding something. It was impossible not to detect this suspicion, especially when considering that he was the only one who truly understood the tragedy that had befallen his sister.

Lorenzo and Valentino, who had remained in the Main Hall, were observing more closely the portrait of Valeria that hung there when they both noticed crimson blood seeping from the painting, dripping onto the floor.

Their reaction was one of utter astonishment. They approached the portrait and touched it, unsure if what they had seen was truly blood. Upon touching the liquid, they confirmed it was indeed blood—but what had caused it to manifest? Both men were bewildered and unable to explain the unnatural occurrence. They attempted to rationalise the blood but could not determine its origin.

Then they saw the image of a small figure dart quickly through the corridor. Lorenzo suggested it was a perverted display orchestrated by Bruno. Valentino thought it was somehow linked to a supernatural force existing within the villa.

Meanwhile, Thiago discovered something unusual in one of the rooms in the west wing. It was a chest that had been left abandoned. Might it contain valuables? Upon opening it, he found nothing but some photographs of Valeria, her mother, and other family members.

Valeria’s innocent smile in the photographs was telling. She appeared genuinely happy. However, beneath those pictures were others that were more disturbing, revealing the recent trauma she had endured. In these, she appeared bruised and battered from her face down to her legs.

As Thiago held these distressing photographs, the door suddenly shut. Someone had closed it from outside. Was it a servant? He turned the doorknob until it finally opened. Once he stepped into the corridor, he saw the image of a small figure running away.

At the same time, Pablo, the eldest of the guests, spotted another lone figure, also small in stature, scurrying down the corridor from one of the rooms on the first floor. He wasn’t certain of what he had seen. Was it merely a dark shadow, or had he truly glimpsed a figure resembling a small person? His instincts compelled him to follow it, but he ultimately lost it in the opacity of the corridors.

An odd silence followed as Pablo waited to see what would happen next. There was no indication of where the figure had gone. Thiago spotted him and asked what was wrong. Pablo attempted to describe the strange incident.

'You seem rather puzzled, Pablo'.

'If I told you I saw a strange image in the corridor, would you believe me?'

'Was it unrecognisable?'

'It was small in stature'.

'A wicked doll, perhaps?' Thiago suggested sarcastically.

'What are you trying to tell me?' Pablo insisted.

'I meant you may have mistaken the image for an object that resembled a doll. I saw something similar'.

'I see your point, but I fail to understand the connection'.

'Perhaps it would be better if we rejoined the others'.

'I agree. I only wish I understood what I had seen. That is all'.

They returned to the Main Hall and found that Lorenzo and Valentino were still stunned by the discovery of the blood that had come from Valeria’s portrait. When the others entered, the blood had ceased to drip. This unsettled Lorenzo and Valentino even further, for they swore they had witnessed the blood with their own eyes.

‘Where has the blood gone?’ uttered Lorenzo.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Thiago.

Lorenzo pointed towards the portrait of Valeria. ‘That portrait—just before you both entered—was dripping with blood’.

‘Are you certain about that? I don’t see any blood anywhere’.

‘I tell you; Lorenzo is telling the truth. I saw it too!’ Affirmed Valentino.

‘Unless there’s something supernatural occurring,’ Thiago suggested.

‘Perhaps the villa is haunted—or worse—there’s someone or something behind these inexplicable events’, said Lorenzo.

‘If that’s the case, it would explain what I saw in the corridor’, Pablo professed.

‘What did you see?’ Asked a curious Lorenzo.

‘I saw a strange image of a small person in the corridor’.

‘What could it have been? I saw the same thing—vaguely!’ Valentino chimed in.

‘Was it one of those wretched dolls that were placed in our rooms?’ Enquired Thiago.

Bruno entered the Main Hall, catching the tail end of Thiago’s remark. ‘I’m certain that whatever you thought you saw, gentlemen, it has an explanation’.

‘Really? Then tell us, Bruno—how does a portrait bleed, and how do dolls wander around by themselves?’ Lorenzo pressed.

‘If I told you, none of you would believe me’.

‘I’m waiting,’ Thiago replied.

Meanwhile, Catalina, who was in Valeria’s room upstairs, discovered a diary that had once belonged to Valeria. It had been placed near the lamplight, as though waiting to be found. She began reading with great care, turning the pages eagerly.

The diary entries were chilling—foreboding. Valeria had chronicled her daily life, the chaos surrounding her father and brother, and the ever-deepening fear and distrust provoked by her father’s behaviour. She also wrote movingly about how much she missed her deceased mother.

There were intimate confessions that Catalina had long suspected, though she hadn’t realised the extent of the torment Valeria had endured. One entry in particular she read over several times—it captured the heart of Valeria’s suffering and the grave nature of her predicament:

(From Valeria’s diary)

I hope to reach my birthday soon and become an independent young woman—free to choose what is best for me. This, despite my father’s objections. He grows more restless with each passing day, and his behaviour is no longer that of a sane man.

I fear he is rapidly losing his mind. Bruno does not agree, and believes we must protect Father from those who seek to harm him. He has even threatened me with his harsh admonitions. There are days when I miss my beloved mother more than words can convey. I know she would have protected me from both Father and Bruno—but she is no longer here.

I long for the day when I am free from the tyranny they impose—the scars they’ve inflicted. Sometimes, I wish I were dead—or that they were.

As Bruno was about to reveal his mystery, a piercing scream was heard from Catalina’s room. The others rushed there, finding her pale and shaken, standing in the doorway.

‘What made you scream?’ Asked Lorenzo.

‘The doll—it came to life! I swear it was alive!’

‘Then—the dolls are real? Not just carved decorations?’ Thiago interrupted.

‘Yes!’ Catalina cried.

The hysteria spread quickly, and the night grew even more intense with these strange supernatural episodes. The guests had come to the villa for a funeral, but they were now forced to accept a grim irony: the mystery that had been hidden was beginning to unfold—with horrifying consequences none of them could have anticipated. The veil of secrecy had been disturbed, and its pursuit was relentless.

The guests began to question whether they should remain at the villa at all. Bruno’s behaviour, too, was becoming increasingly erratic. Still, he insisted that the funeral must proceed the following day. His reasoning caused hesitation among the guests, who had already seen too much to chalk it all up to hallucination or suggestion.

None of them could prove beyond doubt what they had seen. Thiago then disclosed the disturbing photographs he had found, casting even more suspicion on the relationship between Valeria and her father.

Bruno ultimately managed to persuade them to stay—at least until the funeral was over, so they could bid farewell to Valeria at the cemetery. That night, the guests retired to their rooms in quiet contemplation.

The dolls were locked away in a cabinet to prevent them from ‘wandering’, as Bruno assured them. Still, it was impossible to determine if the dolls truly were alive, as Catalina believed. The blood on the portrait and the images in the corridor left no trace—nothing that could be verified.

Catalina requested that someone stay in her room to protect her, and Pablo volunteered. A second bed was brought in. And so, the suspense waited—until the next day.

When the morning arrived, it did so with the sombre rays of sunlight that entered through the dull corridors. Was this the sign of a foreseeable omen? The guests had awakened to the precursor of the madness that would ensue thereafter.

They had breakfast and then prepared themselves to go to the cemetery, where Valeria was to be laid to rest. The apprehension of the events that had occurred was still vivid in their thoughts, as they gathered and properly dressed in their black attire—the sober colour of reverence and grief.

No further displays of abnormal activity would be witnessed during this time. However, someone was watching them within the vicinity—someone the guests had not expected. The bulging eyes of a madman, who was lurking outside the villa, were peering attentively through one of the windows.

The guests were then escorted in a limousine to the local cemetery, not far from the villa. Valeria’s corpse was taken there in a black hearse. At the cemetery, her coffin was lowered into the ground, where she was buried afterwards. Beautiful flowers covered her coffin, and poetic elegies were read on her behalf, following the religious rituals that were performed. Her death was a tragedy in its occurrence, but her listless cadaver was a shame that had been perpetrated by an act of betrayal. Those who had professed to love her dearly were the ones who had sent her to her grave unwillingly.

A lone raven was perched on one of the nearby branches, observing the gloom. It was rare to see one in these parts of South America. Was it sent from the chasm of hell to witness the burial, or was it sent as a reaper of tidings? Once the elaborate procedures of the burial were finished, the guests were taken back to the villa, where they began to gather their belongings and prepare to depart on that same day.

Unbeknownst to them, a gruesome terror would soon be released, with shocking consequences. They were in the Main Hall, in the presence of Bruno. He was in the process of thanking them for their participation in the funeral. He appeared somewhat indifferent as he spoke. It was as though he were reciting from a prosaic script he had devised. His voice could not palliate the horror of Valeria's death. The guests sensed a peculiarity in his uttered words. After his speech, he told the guests they were welcome to visit him at his other villa, just outside Buenos Aires.

‘I would hope to see all of you again soon. Before you depart, there is a special guest who has just arrived’.

It was while he was addressing the guests that someone else entered the Main Hall unannounced. The person who now stood before them was no stranger. It was the startling presence of Father Luciano.

Somehow, he had escaped prison—or had been freed. Whatever the circumstance, it no longer mattered, for he was there in person. Dressed in tattered clothing and dishevelled in appearance, it was his piercing ebony eyes that revealed a daunting stare and expression.

The guests, upon seeing him, recognised who he was and were disturbed by his presence. They were in absolute disbelief. Bruno, on the other hand, was not shocked to see his father standing there like a madman possessed. He had sought his release, despite the objections of his uncles and other family members. He had paid someone to help his father escape.

‘What is the meaning of this, Bruno?’ Lorenzo enquired.

‘Forgive me for my bad manners. Let me introduce to you all my beloved father, Luciano Quinteiro’, Bruno replied.

‘He is supposed to be in prison, where he belongs. What is he doing here?’ Thiago interrupted.

‘I was able to secure his release’.

‘Have you gone mad, Bruno? He is the killer of your sister Valeria!’ Valentino interrupted.

‘True! But there is more to the story of her death that none of you are aware of’.

‘Such as?’ Pablo asked.

‘Perhaps it is time that you all know the actual truth’.

‘Whatever you tell us, it will not convince me of your deranged father's innocence. Get this man out of the room—he sends chills down my spine’, Catalina screamed.

‘I agree with Catalina. If this is reported, you will be arrested, Bruno’, said Lorenzo.

‘I shall proceed with my account. On the day when Valeria was killed, my father had recently discovered that Valeria was planning to file charges against him based on accusations of cruelty. It is true that my father treated her unfairly and was at times unkind to her. He would lash out at her for her insolence. But she too was no angel. She had her dark side. You see, what you all fail to recognise is the fact that Valeria drove my father to his insanity’.

‘How convenient of you to blame her, when she is no longer here to defend herself’, Thiago remarked.

‘I shall be the one to defend her. I knew her better than any of you. She was no devil, as you describe her to be!’

‘She was no angel, as you portray her, Catalina’, Bruno said.

‘And what now? What do you plan to do, Bruno? You don’t expect us to be silent on the matter’, Valentino questioned.

‘You have no choice in the matter!’

The servants were not present in the villa during this time, but there was someone—or should I say, some other beings—who were observing the situation closely. They would manifest then. Bruno pulled a gun from his grey trench coat and ordered the guests to sit down in the chairs of the Main Hall, where he had already prepared their demise.

There were five glasses on the table, one for each of the five guests. Bruno had filled the glasses with wine that had been poisoned. Once the guests realised this, their anxiety heightened. It was clear in their minds that Bruno would not allow them to leave the villa alive. He could not permit them to ruin the plans he had set into motion.

Doom appeared before them as an unwanted game—an attraction of life and death. One by one, the guests were ordered to pick up their glasses of poisoned wine. The dread of death was imposing and perilous, but it would not be their day to die. Bruno, the mastermind, would be thwarted from achieving his macabre plan. He had taken delight in orchestrating his wicked scheme.

What he had not foreseen was the involvement of the surreal forces of the other world intervening on behalf of the guests. As Thiago picked up the first glass, a strong gust of wind entered the Main Hall. It was the unrelenting spirit of Valeria, announcing her presence. The glass in Thiago’s hand abruptly fell to the ground and shattered into tiny pieces. Bruno ordered him to pick them up. When he did, he was shot dead.

One of the wooden dolls, having climbed onto Bruno's back, knocked the gun from his hand. As he tried to retrieve it, another doll stood before him. He struck it with a walking stick, knocking it to the floor. His father did not move—he remained an onlooker. Bruno retrieved the gun again and ordered the others to drink the wine. This time, he commanded them to drink simultaneously, or he would shoot them. Pablo refused—and was shot dead on the spot.

Bruno’s perverted game was altered by the dolls’ interaction. Other dolls entered, and he began shooting at them in uncontrollable rage. There was no stopping the dolls. They had come for him—to take him to the dark realm of the other world, where Valeria now resided. Desperation gleamed in Bruno’s frantic eyes.

He warned the guests not to leave, but he told his father to go at once. He would join him after the commotion. The evil consuming Bruno was insurmountable and unrestrained. He was not willing to forsake his claim on the inheritance and status for anyone—not even the guests. The madness that had overtaken his father now overwhelmed his own rationality. It was his obstinate defiance that doomed him. He stood by the fireplace, unaware that behind him, in the form of a doll, stood his dearest sister Valeria.

She climbed onto his neck and stabbed him in his veins with numerous blows, causing him to fall to the floor, dead. Before dying, he uttered one last chilling phrase to Valeria, who now stood beside him:

‘Why Valeria? I would have shared the inheritance with you, if you had only lived!’

She gave no response. Instead, it was Catalina who answered: ‘Because you wanted the inheritance more than her love’.

Bruno spoke no more—and died. As for his father Luciano, he took his own life, shooting himself in the temple. His madness was too much to bear, and the guilt he carried over Valeria’s death finally stirred his conscience.

There was no doubt that he had done horrible things in his life—and to Valeria. But Bruno too was a contributor to the unjust ending of her life. The cruelty both had displayed reflected the tumultuous relationship they had with her and her mother, who had mysteriously passed away years earlier.

A death that some locals believed had been caused by Luciano. Who could have fathomed that a repeat killer had lived among them for decades? The grim consequences of both Luciano and Bruno’s deaths meant that no heir or heiress remained to claim the Quinteiro fortune. If only Valeria had lived, she would have claimed what was rightfully hers.

The dolls did not threaten or act against the remaining guests. They had not come for them. They left the Main Hall and returned to their places—the rooms where the guests had been staying. It was said that countless spirits of those who had once lived were retained in the wooden composition of the dolls. Who were these people originally? Were they the insufferable victims of Luciano, who had never been held accountable? That was the insurmountable enigma yet to be resolved.

The dolls remained in the villa. One thing is certain: the dead are never truly dead in spirit. Some dare to incarnate in flesh—others in dolls. Valeria was a testimony to that eerie contrast. Before the three surviving guests departed, they shared their reflections on what had transpired at the villa. They mourned the deaths of Thiago and Pablo. They had witnessed evil manifest, and the abhorrent corruption of two men.

What they had also come to believe was that the inconceivable was not always contradictory—and that supernatural occurrences were indeed plausible. Perhaps inexplicable in detail, but undeniable in essence.

A storm was brooding in the mist—a signal for their departure. The sound of the murmuring wind echoed faintly. The villa would later be sold and transformed into a residential school for adolescents—just as Valeria would have wished. The horrible events that had taken place there remained undisclosed to the public for nearly a decade. Nor were the irrefutable facts about Valeria’s death revealed.

The hours that followed the sequence of events passed in a peculiar stillness, as though the ethereal air within the villa had settled into a state of suspense. There was no laughter, no exchange of sentiments amongst the guests, only the faint echo of footsteps in the long corridors and the occasional creak of aged floorboards beneath tentative steps. The servants, as if sensing an invisible weight, had retreated early, their presence barely registered throughout the day. Even the clocks seemed reluctant to chime, their tick-tock drowned beneath the heavy veil of silence that hung like fog across the estate.

Outside, the wind meandered through the autumn branches, brushing against the windows with a soft, persistent rhythm. The light had grown dimmer, prematurely greyed, despite the hour. In the drawing room, the curtains had been drawn halfway, allowing a pallid stripe of sun to fall across the polished floorboards, illuminating specks of dust as they danced silently in its beam. A large oil painting of the Quinteiro ancestors loomed above the fireplace, their sombre expressions staring outwards, hollow-eyed, as if they too were trapped in an unending vigil.

On the second storey, Catalina wandered aimlessly, her hand trailing along the banister as she climbed the steps. Her breathing was shallow, not from exertion but from an unspoken anxiety. Each room she passed seemed oddly displaced, as if rearranged by unseen hands. The chairs in the study, once set squarely against the desk, were now askew. A vase of withered lilies had been placed upon the bureau, though she could not recall them being there earlier. There was a coldness within the walls, not merely from the season, but from something deeper—something ancestral and unsettled.

In the far west wing, the door to Valeria’s former bedroom stood ajar. No one had entered since her death, and yet the scent of lavender still clung faintly to the threshold, mixing now with the earthier aroma of aged wood and damp fabric. Catalina did not enter, but paused beside the door, transfixed by a sudden wave of memory. It was here, behind that door, that Valeria would sit for hours on her balcony, gazing across the hills, murmuring poetry under her breath, writing verses no one would ever read. Those writings were nowhere to be found. As though she had taken them with her.

Elsewhere in the villa, Lorenzo sat alone in the conservatory, his fingers pressed against the glass, watching as the wind tousled the ivy that curled across the stone wall outside. He was not a man given to sentiment, but there was a sorrow in his posture, a weariness etched into the slight slump of his shoulders. He had spent the past hour contemplating the cracked statuette on the plinth beside him, its face worn smooth from time or neglect—he could not tell which. The statue reminded him of Bruno’s mother, a woman he had met only once, years ago. Her presence had lingered in the household long after her passing, more an echo than a memory.

The house groaned in its bones. There were noises, subtle but constant, behind the walls—pipes expanding perhaps, wood shrinking, the idle complaints of an old structure. But sometimes, in the gaps between these rational explanations, there were other sounds: the soft scuffle of movement in the attic, the almost imperceptible rattle of door handles, the whisper of something brushing against a curtain just out of sight. The dolls, lifeless in the daylight, had been positioned again. One sat upon the grand piano in the parlour, its painted eyes wide, fixed upon the stairwell. Another was seen perched atop the library’s mantel, its tiny hands resting neatly on its lap, its mouth stretched into a knowing smile.

Valentino stood by the cellar door, his eyes narrowed. Something had drawn him there. He did not descend the steps, nor did he reach for the knob. Instead, he lingered, listening. The scent that rose from beneath was metallic, and stale. The cellar had been used rarely—mostly for storage. But now it pulsed with an unseen energy, as though something buried had begun to stir. He turned away, his jaw set, but his steps did not quicken.

On the third storey, the storm had begun to mutter through the rafters. A low rumble drifted through the eaves, and the first splatters of rain tapped against the dormer windows. The wind howled with more insistence now, tugging at the shutters with each gust. In one of the unused guestrooms, a picture frame had fallen from the wall and lay face-down on the floor. No one had heard it fall. No one saw the fine crack that ran diagonally through the glass. No one noticed the candle that had been placed on the bedside table, half-melted, though no one had lit it.

Throughout the villa, the tension rose imperceptibly, like steam gathering in a sealed room. The guests moved in isolated patterns, their paths rarely crossing, their words fewer and spoken with strained composure. Something was nearing—a moment not yet revealed, but already foreshadowed in the unnatural quiet that reigned within the estate. The walls were listening. The air had teeth.

Outside, the ebony raven had returned. It sat again upon the same branch near the cemetery wall, its feathers slick with the mist of approaching rain. Its gaze was fixed not on the graves below, but on the distant shape of the villa, its dark silhouette growing fainter against the thickening clouds. It cawed once, a brief and hollow sound, before lifting into the storm-bruised sky.

By nightfall, the final hour would descend. A haunting reminder that the souls of the dead wander the earth. It was time to leave.

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