The Portrait Of The Scarlet Hue Of Blood

The cold weather sweeping over the broad hills of the river valley had reached the edge of my eighteenth-century manor in Northern Portugal. I had sojourned at the family home in the year 1909, to enjoy the leisurely days and nights of the entire spring season.

The Córdova Manor was indeed a magnificent, two-storey building with an imposing curved portico, illumined by tall windows, its embellished structure standing proud. A regal balcony jutted out above the mahogany door, flanked by two sturdy columns of masonry. The impressive coat of arms of the Marquis was prominently displayed beneath the pediment and the flat roofs of the manor. A quaint, gushing fountain adorned the cobblestone patio near the entrance.

My name is Bartolomeu Córdova, an honourable nobleman and artist of the region. The Córdova name was well known and respected throughout Portugal, its origins tracing back to the illustrious city of Córdoba in neighbouring Spain.

I remember that vivid night with such clarity, for a menacing storm had descended upon the vignoble, the evening winds whistling with a piercing birr. I can recall every minor detail, as I stand now with her memory tormenting me, an uncontrollable passion surging within me, the likes of which I had never before expressed.

And the haunting echoes of her provocative voice still plague me, even now, with a constant and unwavering fervour. The silence—that dreadful silence that once prevailed within these four walls of durance that now confine me—is broken by the strong reverberation of my accursed lamentation.

Is it the hour of my unfortunate demise, or shall I see her anon, gazing upon her spectral guise of seductive allure? Shall I ever forget that ghastly visage—that portrait—which haunts me with its dismal shade, a lingering vestige of despair? Will this prolonged madness ever abate?

It all began on that festive night at the manor, when I invited the Countess of Barcelos, Nina Montecalvo, to dine with me. She was a striking young woman and an intellectual, a member of the noble aristocracy of Portugal. Her character and appearance were most agreeable—but it was her remarkable wit that ultimately won me over.

We had taken a jaunty stroll through the garden, admiring the lovely landscape of the vineyards. I regaled her with the history of the Córdova lineage, whilst she, most eloquently, shared her own. She expressed fondness for my name, Bartolomeu, and mentioned that her grandfather had also borne that name.

This revelation amused me greatly and was exceedingly flattering to my ego. I had always borne the Córdova name with distinction and honour, as well as the reputable weight it carried within the nation. She had also come to visit so that I might contribute to the arts—for the arts could no longer rely solely upon the patronage of mere governments.

Out of deference to her, I commissioned a painter to capture her natural beauty that very night, committing her likeness to canvas.

Before we sat down to dinner, I had surprised her with this impromptu gift. She was hesitant at first, but eventually acquiesced when I assured her that the painting would remain in the manor, displayed respectfully. Indeed, once completed, the painting was divine—magnificent. The lineaments of her countenance were exquisitely personified through the graceful tinctures that imbued her with the noble aura she so effortlessly exuded.

We dined, then retired to the parlour, where we shared a bottle of priceless wine and conversed at length. I spoke of my work, of how I was a renowned artist, and how none of my paintings were ever considered incondite. That, I believe, was all that transpired that night. Yet, a terrible sense of unease lingered within me—a fear I could not name, persistent and unrelenting.

Time passed since that fateful night with the Countess, and life, as it always does, resumed its habitual course. But one night, the howling wind of another storm stirred me from my sleep. The shutters clattered back and forth in disarray, the usual silence of the night broken by the dissonant racket.

I rose and sat upright in my bed, observing the pale gleam of levin that pierced the darkness from beyond the window. I closed the shutters firmly, then returned to my bed, attempting to reclaim my slumber despite the storm’s restless clamour.

As I lay in bed with my eyes closed, I began to hear a heavy, deliberate breath brushing upon my bare neck. When I subsequently opened my eyes, I saw nothing—save for the occasional flicker of lightning that illuminated the room in fitful bursts. Was it a trick of my deluded imagination, I wondered? Or merely the peculiar effects of the tempest raging outside?

I dismissed the anomaly as a coincidence—perhaps the thunderbolts and the gale had conspired to create such a daunting illusion. I reasoned that the breath I had felt was nothing more than the wind slipping through the window sill.

Yet again, I felt it—the breath, heavier now, more unrestrained and unnervingly intimate. Suddenly, it increased with every passing moment. I opened my eyes at once and beheld a ghastly vision: a hoary, corpse-like being gazing into mine with dreadful intensity. Her eyes—radiant red and oval—glared with a terrifying ghastliness, and her hair, pallid and white as canitude, flowed like a dreadful mist around her.

I struggled to free myself from the seductive grasp of her stare, and when at last I did, I rose to my feet immediately.

But as I stood, she vanished into the night, fleeing abruptly through the open window. The shock of the occurrence sapped my strength, and I collapsed, fainting to the cold floor.

When I awoke the next morning, I was discovered by my maid, Fátima. I heard her voice, soft and trembling, murmuring into my ear:

'Sir, sir—are you all right?'

When I opened my eyes, I replied, 'What happened to me? Why am I on the ground? I do not understand this occurrence. Please, tell me if you know, Fátima!'

'Verily, I do not, sir', she answered, bemused.

'Did I fall, Fátima? How?'

'Perhaps it was the storm, sir. You may have risen in the night to close the shutters. I found them left open when I entered the chamber, and I closed them myself afterwards', she replied gently.

The window appeared to be broken, as shards of glass lay scattered across the floor. Slowly, I was assisted back to the bed, while Fátima swept the fragments away. Afterwards, she departed to resume her duties within the house, leaving me to ponder—unceasingly—the origin of the mysterious incident that had transpired during the tempestuous night.

I later questioned it all in earnest. Yet, I endeavoured to forget the ordeal and resumed my daily affairs. That very day, as I walked pedetentously through the narrow corridor, I chanced upon a series of portraits belonging to the former inhabitants.

They were, unmistakably, members of the Córdova family—elegantly arranged for the admiration of guests. But one portrait in particular arrested my gaze. It was that of a woman—mysterious in mien—who bore an uncanny resemblance to the visitor of the night before.

One singular distinction set them apart: the hair. In the portrait, her locks were black as obsidian, whereas the being I had seen wore strands of grey, tinged by the sediments of time. Her eyes, too—vermeil and radiant when I had beheld them in my chamber—were painted in deepest black within the frame.

I was rendered speechless. I dared not entertain the unthinkable. Had I encountered a tormented wraith bound to the house? Had her soul manifested before me?

Daylight waned, and night returned. The tempest resumed with sudden violence—lightning and gale roaring in chaotic unison. Unbidden, the thought of the phantom’s return crept into my mind, unwelcome and cold.

All seemed eerily identical to the night before, save for the fact that this time I was awakened by a foreboding restlessness. My eyes remained alert, ever watchful of the storm—vigilant in case the intruder dared to reappear.

I lay in bed, eyes fixed on the window, expecting her return at any moment. Minutes passed. Then hours. At last, the storm abated for a short while, and a heavy drowsiness overtook me. I fought it—resisted with all my will—but in the end, my eyelids drooped and closed.

No sooner had they shut, I sensed her presence. She was beside me once more as I slumbered. The mysterious woman had returned. It occurred so unannouncedly, so suddenly, that I had no time to react. When I finally turned to confront her, I caught only a fleeting glimpse. In the next instant, she vanished—dispersed like an electric bolt of lightning in the night.

There was nothing that I could have done to prevent it, for the incident had unfolded with such unearthly swiftness amidst the tenebrous gloom of the night. What I had descried of her visage was a corpse—dead and dreadful—that left me utterly aghast in my facial expression.

Her grisly countenance remained hoary and Mephistophelian in expression. Her piercing eyes, the deep blee of scarlet, I could not expunge from my memory, nor her long, flowing hair, which was ashen and matted by decay. She wore a long white silk gown that resembled a cerement, bedoven with stammel blood and besmeared with the grime of the outside world. That was all I could perceive before she hastened into the corridor and vanished from sight. Like a black cat streaking into the dark shadows, she fled, and I, in my fright, collapsed on to the cold floor.

I awoke to the distant chirping of birds echoing from the patio beyond. All was blurred at first, and I felt an acute affliction and a soporific lassitude steadily overcome me. At intervals of waning and waxing awareness, a nauseating convulsion seized me, and spasmodic tremors wracked my frame.

The entire day I remained in my bed, languishing in the throes of some febrile torment. The doctors, summoned in haste, conjectured it to be a fever of uncertain nature, yet could not ascertain whether I suffered from a mere malady or something more malign. My symptoms were manifold: a wavering pulse, deep sighs of weariness, and pains in my limbs as though struck by unseen forces.

At first, they suspected whooping cough, smallpox, or even phthisis; yet I bore no marks nor signs consistent with those zymotic afflictions. In time, I was administered a paregoric elixir, and instructed to remain in complete repose, to exert myself not at all.

Still, a grave concern oppressed my soul, for I could not rest whilst such ominous doubt lingered within me. Was this strange sickness linked to the woman in the corridor portrait? Could my inexplicable malady be attributed to the spectral figure—the harrowing guest of the night—who had returned to haunt me? The thought vexed me greatly and gnawed at the walls of my unraveling mind.

Was this ghastly encounter a bodement of my defunction?

Fátima, steadfast as ever, tended to me with touching compassion. For that, I was profoundly grateful. She and her husband João had served our family through many generations, loyal in all things and beyond reproach.

That night, I remained confined to my bed, tormented by an unrelenting anxiety and a delirium that clutched at me with tenacious claws. A fevered fire seemed to consume me from within, and the shadow of death appeared to loom over my active sentience, threatening to extinguish it entirely. I could not comprehend the truth of my affliction, and thus began to believe that I was utterly dying.

Was I truly perishing, unbeknownst to myself? What rational diagnosis could possibly account for such madness? Was I falling prey to a delirium born of my own corrupted mind—devious and untamed?

The day was cold, and with each passing hour, the night grew colder still. The fever that wracked my body had swiftly overtaken my strength, with such celerity and force that it drained me utterly. Saliva slipped from the corner of my mouth, despite my futile attempt to preserve composure. The irrepressible thought of death admitted no escape, and I was powerless to resist the pyrexial malady that disrupted my equilibrium.

Opium had been administered, yet it did little to abate the rising tide of madness—I felt its clawing grip deepen. I sank into a lymphatic state of syncope; my breath grew labored, and I could hear the pounding of my heart—thumping, thumping—as I slipped steadily into a lethargic stupor, each beat worsening the hallucinatory voyage upon which I had unwillingly embarked.

A ghastly episode of fatal delusions clouded my vision, plunging me into a state of frantic perturbation. Within minutes, I heard an unmistakable voice and beheld a suffocating caliginosity engulf me. The voice, belonging to a gruesome wraith, spoke with unsettling calm, offering no comfort for my anguish.

'The distressing madness shall be purged. The lingering effects of uncertainty are but the signs of its maturation. Do not resist me now. Embrace me, and with it, the calm redemption found through your confession, Bartolomeu'.

Those were the final words I heard before closing my eyes, the night wind stirring as though whispering my last rites. When I opened them again, I found myself confined within a damp coffin, buried beneath six feet of cold, unfeeling earth. Midnight reigned, and terror clawed at my chest. Instinctively, I cried out, a clamorous, frenzied pounding erupting against the wooden lid above.

Desperation seized me. The panic of my supposed finality surged, vast and unreal. I pounded again and again—until, at last, the lid opened. She stood there: the haunting woman in the white gown, her grey hair flowing like moonlit smoke, her crimson eyes gleaming with that unforgettable light.

She was death personified—the persistent, dreadful phantom that had haunted me from the beginning. I could not escape her relentless pursuit. She was the spectral consequence of sins long buried, of guilt that festered in the silence I had chosen.

The reality of her presence confounded me, and I struggled to summon any sense of coherence. My voice cracked in disbelief, 'What is happening? Who are you? Have I died... and remain unaware of it? Is this some ceaseless nightmare?'

She smiled, an expression more unsettling in its softness than any scowl could ever be. 'Now, now', she murmured. 'Do not be so startled. Soon, all shall be understood'.

'Understand what?' I breathed, barely more than a whisper.

She pressed her cold, slender hand over my mouth, silencing my rising panic—lest I alert the gravedigger above. Her breath was near, ghostlike.

'Hush. You will understand soon enough', she whispered, her tone calm but urgent. 'Hark! The night is still young, and we must depart with immediacy. You look pale... too feeble, Bartolomeu'.

The sound of my name from her lips chilled me more than the earth around us.

'How do you know my name? What is your name?' I asked, my voice quivering as she removed her hand.

Her eyes did not blink. Her expression did not waver.

'You cannot hide from your truth, Bartolomeu. Certain discomforts are incidental to its revelation'.

'Who are you?' I demanded, the weight of fear thick in my throat.

There was a pause, brief but thunderous in its silence.

'Do you not remember me?' She said softly. 'Nina Montecalvo... the Countess of Barcelos'.

The name struck me like a tolling bell from some ancient belfry—long forgotten but never erased. The echoes of a memory stirred violently in the corners of my mind.

'That cannot be. You are dead! That is the truth!'

She tilted her head ever so slightly, her crimson eyes unblinking with stammel blood dripping from her wet lips.

'You do not know the truth, Bartolomeu?' She replied, her voice both accusing and mournful.

'What other truth?'

'Truly, you do not remember?'

'What are you implying? What do I need to remember?' I demanded, my voice rising with vehemence, a flicker of anger flickering through my fevered confusion.

And then—just as suddenly—I was no longer in the coffin. I awoke in my bed, drenched in sweat, the second night in succession haunted by this unrelenting spectre. The room was dim, the moonlight casting pallid lines across the floor. My heart thumped erratically beneath my ribs.

It must have been the effects of the opium, I told myself—a dream wrought of delirium, fever and some morbid subconscious agony. A phantasm born from the tertian malady that had nearly claimed my sanity.

The fever had broken; I could feel its retreat, the defervescence gradually restoring the cold logic of lucidity. And yet my mind, far from relieved, recoiled at the memory of that dreadful vision. The thought of suffocation beneath the earth, of the coffin, of her, gnawed at the edge of my reason.

Still, a darker disquiet stirred within me—an impassive, half-mad urge to recall… to remember. Some phantom instinct pulled at me, as if memory itself was a thing buried, and now clawing its way back to the surface.

But what had I forgotten?

I could bear it no longer. With a frenzied gasp, I rose to my feet, anxiety clawing at my insides. My mental state was eroding with each moment that passed—a gradual, cruel attrition of reason. I staggered forth, listlessly, into the dim corridor ahead, my limbs weak, my breath shallow.

I stood at the foot of the grand staircase, staring up at the faded portrait of the countess. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, seemed to follow me, her lips fixed in a faint, knowing smile. The air was thick, the silence almost oppressive, yet I could not shake the feeling that something—or someone—was near.

Then, there it was: a soft whisper, barely audible at first, as if the very walls of the manor were speaking to me.

'Do you remember?' The voice asked, its tone soft, yet insistent. It was a voice I had heard too many times before, the voice of the countess, echoing through my mind as clearly as if she were standing right next to me.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The manor was empty, or so I thought, and yet the voice was so real, so palpable, that I could almost feel the weight of it pressing against my chest.

The whisper grew louder, coming from the walls themselves, winding through the air like a snake. It was as if the manor itself was alive, the walls, the floors, the very timbers of the house, all resonating with her presence.

'You cannot hide from me', the voice murmured, and I instinctively took a step back, my pulse quickening. 'I know what you did'.

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the sound, but the voice persisted, relentless in its pursuit.

Her voice was everywhere, in every corner of the manor, creeping through the walls, slipping beneath the floorboards. It followed me as I moved from room to room, lingering in the spaces where shadows clung to the furniture like old secrets. I could hear it even in the silence between the creaks of the house, in the stillness of the empty rooms.

'You thought you could forget', the voice taunted, its tone now tinged with something darker, more accusatory. 'But I am here. I have always been here'.

I stumbled into the drawing room, desperate to escape the whispers, but they followed me. The air felt thick with her presence, her malevolent gaze weighing heavily upon me. I could almost see her standing there, just beyond the edges of my vision, her ghostly form barely discernible in the dim light. Her figure seemed to flicker in and out of existence, as if she were no longer bound to the rules of the living world.

'How long do you think you can hide? The voice asked, its tone mocking. 'You cannot run from the truth. You cannot run from me'.

I pressed my hands to my ears, trying to block out the sound, but it was no use. The whispers were inside me now, echoing through my thoughts, pulling me deeper into the madness I had tried so hard to escape.

As I sank to my knees on the cold marble floor, the voice softened, almost as if it were pitying me.

'You are not alone', it whispered. 'I am always with you. Always!'

And then, as suddenly as it had started, the voice fell silent. The manor, which had been alive with the sound of her whispers, was still once more. But the silence was not comforting. It was oppressive, heavy with the weight of all that had been revealed.

I knew that the countess’s voice would never leave me. She would haunt me, follow me, and in the end, there would be no escape.

Lo and behold—she stood there.

Present. Waiting.

Her figure was shrouded in the same inscrutable terror that had plagued my dreams. That unsightly guise, neither living nor dead, neither wholly woman nor entirely wraith, fixed me with eyes that knew too much.

I resisted—oh, how I resisted—the implicit temptation to succumb. But for how long, I muttered to myself, can a man defy the gravity of his own guilt?

The implication of her presence was too tangled in mystery to be unraveled easily. Madness, like some unseen serpent, began to inject its venom into my veins. The ordeal, once wavering, now swelled into something impossible to quell. The nefarious voices—those daemons I kept sealed within—rose in clamorous uproar, imploring answers.

'Why do you resist the truth?' The voice asked—not hers alone, but a convergence of hers and the many hidden in the shadow of my soul.

'What truth?' I cried.

'My death', she replied—calm, cutting, irrefutable.

She raised her arm then, slow and deliberate, and offered it to me.

'Accept the truth. You cannot abscond from impunity forever, Bartolomeu'.

'No—' I shouted, the word erupting from my throat like a curse, 'I shall not falter to this maniacal whim of yours!'

I paused, trembling, then demanded through gritted teeth,
'Why do you haunt me, ghost?'

'Do you not remember that dreadful night?’

‘What are you talking about? What dreadful night do you speak of?’

I was succumbing to her induced persuasion and my precarious madness. The intensity of the ordeal had begun to drain my mind in enervation. Senseless moments of fear and apprehension had suddenly aggravated me. My countenance was wan, and my vigour had become too weak. Impervious to my reasoning was the potential extrication from the danger I so yearned to escape.

The manor had always felt suffocating, but a creeping unease seized me more than ever. As I wandered through the decaying hallways, my eyes grazed over objects that should have seemed ordinary—yet there was an inexplicable weight to them. A forgotten portrait, a torn rug, a candle holder frozen in time. Something was calling me.

In the midst of my restless search, I found it: a small crimson key tucked between the pages of an old book of folklore, its cover faded and curling at the edges. I could not say why I had never noticed it before—why this book had never caught my eye. But as my fingers wrapped around the cold metal, I felt a sudden jolt of fear course through me. A sense of wrongness that gripped my throat and tightened around my chest. It felt almost as if the key had been waiting for me—waiting for me to find it.

I could not remember ever seeing this key before, nor the lock it might open. Yet there was a compulsion, something within me, that knew I had to find that lock. I had to unlock it. And so, like a desperate man pulled by an invisible force, I set out to search the manor.

I moved through the creaking rooms, the flickering shadows casting fleeting figures on the walls, my mind growing hazier with each step. I tried to recall the layout of the house, but the more I searched, the more the walls seemed to close in around me. The key seemed to grow heavier, its weight pressing into the palm of my hand, making it harder to breathe.

Hours passed, or perhaps it was mere moments—time had lost its grip on me as I wandered. At last, I found it.

Behind a faded tapestry, the wood felt colder than the rest of the manor. My heart thudded in my chest as I pushed it aside. A door, small and worn, appeared as though it had been concealed for years. No handle, no sign of its purpose—just an old keyhole waiting to be opened. My breath quickened.

I had not expected this. This door, this lock—it could not have been here before. Could it?

I hesitated for a moment, the key trembling in my hand. But there was no turning back now. I inserted it into the lock. It fit perfectly.

The door creaked open, its hinges groaning in protest. A long, narrow staircase descended into an unseen depth, a darkness so thick it seemed to swallow the faint light of my candle.

My instincts screamed at me to turn away. To leave the door closed, locked, and buried in the forgotten past. But my hand gripped the railing, and I began to descend. The steps were slick, as though coated with something I couldn’t see—something ancient and repellent.

I made it halfway down before I stopped, my feet frozen in place. I couldn’t remember why I was there. I couldn’t recall what I was supposed to find. My breath came out in shallow gasps, and a cold sweat ran down my back. The air was thick—unnaturally so—pressing against me, as if the very walls of the stairwell were closing in. My mind throbbed with a dull pain, like something trying to force its way through, to break free.

But what? What was it?

I dropped the key. It clattered down the stairs, echoing in the suffocating silence. The sound seemed to stretch out far longer than it should have.

I couldn’t move.

I shouldn’t be here.

For a moment, I thought I could hear something—a faint whisper, perhaps—but I couldn’t discern the words. All I knew was that the very air seemed to carry a threat, something sinister waiting for me at the end of that staircase.

And yet, even in my terror, there was the unmistakable feeling that I had been here before. That I had always known this place existed, but had simply forgotten its significance until now.

As the weight of the key’s absence pressed on my mind, a cold, sharp realisation began to form. The door had not been opened by me—it had always been waiting, locked, for me to find it. For me to open it. For me to remember.

And then, just as quickly as it had started, the realisation vanished. The darkness of the stairwell seemed to pull back, leaving me standing at the threshold, unsure of what I had found—or what I had lost.

I could not bring myself to go further. But something deep inside me knew that if I had continued, I would have never been able to return.

I paced to and fro, pondering in memory, as I passionately absorbed those unique impulses of sentiency and vehemence that had begun to emerge. I had sensed this from the start, as it had quickened my perceptive faculties thereafter. I was uncertain and distraught as to what course of action I should take, or how long I would remain in this state of conflict. Post-haste, my intuition compelled me to contemplate: had I, indeed, committed murder—furtively?

In the end, the answer and the shocking truth would be revealed to me. Swift flashbacks began to invade my mind, as I recalled that horrific night to which the menacing wraith had referred.

In the corridor, I saw her portrait—and there was blood dripping from the eyes of the countess. I was horrified, and had begun to walk swiftly towards my chamber, away from the corridor, when I saw João and Fátima standing placidly in the hall. I had called out to them, for I had seen a faint glimmer from their candle.

They did not respond, but merely stared at me. I was aghast at the consternating image I had descried.

The onerous thought of madness began to invade the voices in my head with great force. I started to reflect upon the tormented countess, and her implications of a hidden truth—some family secret yet unrevealed. I knew of her immense and unbridled powers of mesmeric persuasion over me, but the problem was then compounded by the fact that I had remembered why she was haunting me in the first place.

These insurmountable fears I was acquiring swiftly. I knew that my deliverance lay in my own hands. Nervous—extremely nervous—was I, that I had lost myself in the insanity of the intolerable predicament in which I found myself. And worse still was the reality of my conflicting condition. I was going mad—yes—mad; and slowly, my body was overtaken by a languid stupor I could no longer resist.

A horrible desperation had entered into me, as the opiate effects of delirium took hold. There seemed to be no return from the truth: the lovely Countess of Barcelos had been killed. That was the undeniable truth I had failed to accept and realise since the murder. Blinded by my hysteria, I was no longer capable of thinking clearly or rationally enough to confront the horror of that night.

She, the brazen and dominant phantom, had calmed my fear—like a mother would calm her dearest child. She placed her arms around me, her voluptuous contours pressing close, her long, flowing black hair soothingly brushing my cheeks to comfort me. A distressful disquietude obsessed my mind and obstructed all deliberation. For a fleeting moment with her, I had found solace—solace that eased my mortification.

How was I to suppress the unstoppable compulsion of madness that was so tenacious and unbroken within me? Conflictive thoughts grew insupportable, as memories of that hideous night began to return, detail by agonising detail.

Thus, the night had at first transpired ordinarily, as I invited the countess to accompany me to the hall. A pressing penchant compelled us to share a glass of wine together—and we did, passionately. She was in an inebriated state, and so was I. I left her in the antechamber, having drifted into sleep upon the settee in the parlour.

When I awoke, I discovered that she was dead. Apparently, João had violated her—enticed by her feminine persuasion and lubricious allure, drawn in by his perverse limerence. Her natural contours were extraordinarily attractive, and her mien vivacious; but none of that merited her death.

He had left his home that morning, following an argument with Fátima, after which he killed her, and then murdered the countess in a manor of blood and gore. He took his own life before my very eyes, after confessing to both murders. His startling confession astounded me and pierced the very core of my soul.

My crime—my horrible crime—was that I failed to report the murders to the authorities, out of attainture and cowardice. I buried the countess in a patch of earth in the cellar, deliberately and with trembling hands, clad in the bloodied white gown she had worn that fateful night. As for Fátima and João, I buried them too, within that same cryptic cellar. For this act of moral cowardice and lack of rectitude, I was to pay.

I began to hear voices in my head urging me to descend to the cellar immediately. I obeyed. A dim shadow of horror had seized dominion over the gloom below, and as I opened the heavy door, I began to unearth the ghastly remains of the countess, João, and Fátima. There, in that awful and deplorable cellar, lay their bones and skulls.

A commination had doomed my perpetual soul to demise. The avatar of death was present in the scarlet hue of blood that had been spilt on that tragic night. The nameless portrait that haunted me resembled the very one once painted of the countess.

Since that memorable night, the house had stood abandoned in utter ruination. Nothing remained but dust and viscous cobwebs strewn across the fragmented remains of the manor. The once-elegant stairway was now reduced to dilapidated walls and rickety, decaying steps.

All the once-permanent beauty and character of the manor had become a spectral illusion—a ghost of the former grandeur of the Córdova estate, now exposed in stark conspicuity. The illusion was at last broken. I had accepted the truth. I was free of her implacable dominion, and I bore no further sin to remit. I longed to believe in that comforting falsehood, and desperately tried to convince myself still of my innocence.

What followed next was beyond belief.

Eventually, I confessed to my part in the murders and was arrested. Madness was deemed the true culprit. I was imprisoned and sentenced to be interned in an asylum in Lisbon by the local judge, who saw no signs of regression in me. I was examined and found to be mentally incompetent, for the severity of the crimes was too heinous and bloodthirsty—and I had entirely lapsed into my own world of phantasy.

The mere thought of madness had compelled me to trust my erroneous perception of reality over the consequential irony that had long burdened me. And thus, it was within that vague irony that I discovered the true nature of the suspense which encompassed the boundless threshold between truth and falsehood—framed behind a portrait. The embedded essence of madness is construed through the presupposition that manifests in the realistic form of verisimilitude.

The traces of that reddish blood I still see vividly in my mind. The vengeful voice—the voice of the countess—resounds ceaselessly in my thoughts, day and night, within the hopeless dungeon that is my infernal, earthly Hades. She is not dead—for I hear her ghostly footsteps near, echoing beyond the adamantine walls of this wretched asylum.

God, have mercy on my poor soul, laden with damnation and guilt!

Recommend Write a ReviewReport