The Shadows Of The Gargoyles

Amongst the sundry tales of horror that are told and assumed as legend, there are ineffable ones disturbing enough to provoke heightened episodes of sheer dread. Our imaginations are full of mysterious chapters from the subconscious realm that surpass even our most fanciful chimeras. They haunt us like wraiths, with an unrelenting passion that knows no surcease—save for brief intervals of madness.

Death is always an unwelcome guest, appearing like an unannounced reaper of souls. There are reapers of death that pose as wrought statues, but are in truth the keepers of the abyss of sable shadows. They dwell in nocturnal darkness, their beady eyes of scarlet hue watching fiercely through the pervasive mist that hovers above the solitary castle beyond the edge of the forest. It is a castle where the silence is broken only by the flight of the gargoyles. Across vast tracts of land stands this castle, once a Roman fortification and now a Gothic semblance of a hidden past.

In the year 1900, I arrived by carriage in the evening to the home of Count Felip Balaguer, a nobleman from Catalonia. I had come to see the count on matters of a personal nature, the importance of which I was not entirely aware. I had been chosen to inherit a fortune from him.

As a young child, I had been orphaned and was briefly groomed by the count. However, due to the spread of tuberculosis, I was sent away. I had not seen him since that final day of my departure from the castle I had grown up knowing. My memories of it were vague, and too few to recall with any enthusiasm.

The castle’s appearance was vividly demonstrative. Its Gothic essence was impossible not to descry amidst the nubilous sky. Its tower parapet with crenellation was as impressive as its cloister. Yet what overshadowed all its architecture was the sculpted marble gargoyles upon the façade—along the walls, and in the traces of its ancient design.

I had been christened as Josep Muntaner, though it was the surname of Balaguer that I would one day earn as my appellation. I never knew the veracity of my parents’ lives. I was told they had died a sudden death. Thus, I had never met them or any of their living kindred, save my father’s sister who took me in afterwards. The count had sent me to live with her in a faraway part of Spain.

Most of my adolescence and early manhood was spent in Barcelona or Madrid. It had been decades since I had last visited either the count or the castle. Despite the passage of time, the castle had not changed much outwardly. I suspected this was because the count was an ardent admirer of Gothic architecture.

To an outsider, the castle would appear unusual and eerie. To the count, it was his home—situated in Canet de Mar, on the coast between Arenys de Mar and Sant Pol de Mar. He greeted me cordially in the courtyard. An older gentleman of average stature, his hair was tinged with hoar, yet his demeanour and parlance were impeccable. His nobility was verily meritorious. He was dressed in a fine, dapper black suit and trousers, and his polished shoes sparkled with lucent shine.

‘Josep, I am glad you were able to come to the castle to see me. It has been decades since I last saw you. You were but a child then. Now, you are a full-grown man. You don’t know how proud I am of you’.

‘I can’t believe that after all these years, you remembered me. If I may impose one question...why do you wish to bestow your inheritance on me? I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Count Balaguer’.

‘For me, it is not a question of why, but of when. You see, Josep, ever since I lost my beloved wife and have lived all these years as a widower, I have failed to find someone I could truly trust—and who, in turn, would earn my trust’.

‘Why me? You hardly know me, Count. It puzzles me’.

‘That may appear to be the case, but I hold a fond esteem for you. The years you spent here at the castle were memorable to me’.

‘I hope I can meet your expectations. I cannot guarantee that I shall’.

We stepped inside the castle, where he introduced me to the few servants he employed. I had only seen the lackey who had assisted me from the carriage. Inside, I beheld the grandeur of the magnificent gallery and the great hall with its refulgent fireplace. The chandeliers, the fine furniture, the tapestries, sculptures, paintings, stained glass, interior decorations, and the mahogany chairs and mosaic floors—all of it was exquisite.

These wonders were priceless, in both worth and essence. I had seldom seen such opulence displayed with such taste. Despite all this, he wished to give the castle to me of his own volition. Though in his mid-seventies, he did not appear to be suffering from any disease or illness I could detect.

We stood by the fireplace in the great hall, where he offered me wine, which I accepted. He told me that wine was his predilection, and that Catalonian wine had the finest taste. As a Catalonian myself, I did not disagree. He then spoke of the history of the castle and its importance to both him and his noble lineage. I had thought he would never part with it, nor did I believe he would wish to see it inhabited by someone who was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger. When I say stranger, I refer to myself. I did not fully understand the tragedies he had endured, but he was candid in expressing his desire for me to inherit the castle.

There was one matter that unsettled me enough to ask: the eerie marble gargoyles.

‘Count Balaguer, if I may ask, why are there gargoyles outside the castle?’

He was surprised by the question, but did not avoid it. ‘They were a gift, offered centuries ago to my kindred, to protect us from the evil that wanders this area. My wife grew to hate them. They were never designed to frighten anyone. I must admit—I sleep better knowing they watch over the castle’.

‘Watch over the castle? What do you mean, Count?’

‘If you look outside, you’ll see how observant they are’.

‘Do you mean with their eyes? Because I don’t quite comprehend’.

‘Yes!’ He replied.

I looked outside through one of the mullioned windows. Just staring at the gargoyles with their strange vislumination was enough to send subitaneous chills down my spine. The entire Gothic presence gave one an eerie impression—but the gargoyles made the castle appear all the more ancient, aesthetic, and brooding. I recalled tales of a Scottish castle that had gargoyle figures as well. Though I had never seen those, the ones here were utterly imposing.

When I mentioned the Scottish gargoyles, the count insisted none in Catalonia were like his. According to him, his gargoyles were inimitably unique—and faithful. I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. Perhaps he spoke in metaphor.

‘I cannot imagine what they would be like if they were alive, Count’, I said.

‘They are alive to me, Josep’.

‘Forgive me, but surely you can’t be serious?’

‘Why would I lie to you? I have no need to hide the truth from you’.

‘In what way are they alive? Are you suggesting they can move—like humans or animals?’

‘If I told you now that they could, would you believe me?’

‘I can’t say that I would’.

He changed the subject and we discussed the inheritance in privacy. I was still uncomfortable with the previous topic; it took me a few moments to regain composure and continue the conversation.

Once settled, we spoke of the inheritance. He explained that I would inherit not only the castle, but the entire estate—which was considerable in size. The tall trees of the encompassing forest covered a vast portion of the land. The nearest village, Canet de Mar, was several kilometres away. The coast was not far; at night, you could hear the wind blow and the waves stir below. It was not uncommon to find castles situated near the coast.

I had seen the coast beneath the castle—it was breathtaking. The bluish hues of the sea sparkled like a jewel. It embodied the coastal grandeur of this region. I imagined myself staring off into the waters as ships passed by. A childhood memory returned: I used to make paper boats and place them into the sea, watching them float for a minute before sinking in the turbulent waves. Slowly, fragments of my time with the count and the castle were resurfacing. I do not know why my mind had buried those memories so deeply.

When we had finished discussing the inheritance, he instructed a servant to escort me to my room on the second storey postcibally. There were only two storeys in the castle, but they were embellished in elegance. It was clear the castle had been cared for out of reverence.

The question that had kept lingering in my mind was, why was he inventing tales about gargoyles being alive? I had only been inside the castle and in the presence of the count for a few hours, and I had begun to question his state of mind.

Perhaps it was not a physical ailment that he was suffering; instead, the maddening isolation of the castle and the manifestation of apparent delusions he exhibited were pernicious to him. This, I had intuited from his careworn expression. That night, I did not wish to ponder that eventuality, and I slept until the following morning.

I awoke that morning to the bracing sound of ruffling branches of the trees outside. The wind had caused the branches to stir and roar abruptly. The count was downstairs, waiting for me to have breakfast with him. From the position of my window and view, I could see the sea and an old church standing in the distance.

The trees had impeded my vision to some degree, preventing me from seeing much of the village from afar. The countryside was always a different way of life in comparison to the active cities of Catalonia. It was a pleasant distraction from the quotidian bustle of Barcelona.

This was a visit to this village I had not undertaken in many years, and I had not planned on coming—if it were not for the fact that the count had requested my presence. It was indeed a change of scenery. At the breakfast table, we continued the prior conversation about the inheritance. The count had explained to me that his solicitor was handling the deed and would shortly transfer it to me, but he had one stipulation, which was a condition for me to be able to inherit.

He had requested that I move into the castle. When I had asked him where he would live, he responded by telling me that he was going to move to Perpignan in France. I did not ask him why there. I respected his privacy. It was odd to me that, after living in the castle for so many years, he would suddenly grow weary of its Gothic presence. There was something hidden about the reason for his desire to depart the castle.

I also perceived that there was something peculiar about the castle that was not merely the gargoyles—but my intuition was wondering whether this eeriness was related to them? I told him in response that I would need time to think about it. He gave me a week—no more, no less.

The rest of the morning was spent observing his fine collection of portraits that were in the gallery. They were the veritable representation of his distinctive lineage, including his beloved parents. He spoke of all of them in a reverential manner, not with overweening arrogance. I noticed that his kindred were very similar in appearance and refinement.

The Balaguer surname had been deeply embedded in the history of Catalonia for over eight centuries, at least. The count was not the first nor the last Balaguer to exist, but he was the only one with a castle of this unique composition and history. I was curious to know more about his lineage and how many of his direct kin had lived in the castle erstwhile. Thus, I asked him these questions, and he replied with candour.

‘All of the people that you see in the gallery had lived in this castle before. My ancestors built this castle upon the ruins of an ancient Roman fortification that once stood. All of them were of a venerable age and had died in this castle. I have chosen not to be the next one to perish at the hands of the curse’.

The count had inadvertently confessed the real reason he was leaving the castle.

‘What do you mean, count? What curse?’

‘Nothing. It is best that you do not know, or ask me any more questions’.

‘Know what?’ I interjected.

‘I had hoped that you would never know the secret of the castle and the family, but I cannot be disingenuous any longer with you. I owe you the truth, Josep’.

‘What truth, count?’

He began to inform me of the truth. ‘It all began six centuries ago, Josep, with the first Balaguer, Count Robert Balaguer. He discovered an evil in the castle—a spirit that was roaming the forest outside the estate. The spirit transformed into a woman who attempted to seduce him with her charm and pulchritude. He was a young man in his twenties and was susceptible to her feminine persuasion. She wanted to enter the castle at will. Under her spell, he allowed her to enter. It would be the precursor to the interminable curse that would ultimately take his life. Not knowing that she was a demonic spirit, he committed the abominable act of permitting her to take his soul’.

Every night, the malevolent spirit attempts to enter the castle to take the life of the count. The gargoyles were his protection, for they watched over the castle.

‘Without the gargoyles, Josep, the evil one would enter the castle with ease’.

I was incredulous. ‘With all due respect, count, do you expect me to believe your story—about an evil spirit from the forest and gargoyles that are alive?’

‘I understand that at this moment, what I have revealed to you is confusing and unthinkable, but you must believe me, Josep. There is no other way. If you do not help me, she will come for me in the end’.

‘But I thought you told me that the gargoyles protect you?’

‘And they do—faithfully’.

‘Then why do you fear this evil spirit? You seem to contradict yourself’.

‘Because she wants this castle too. There will come a time when she will be too strong for the gargoyles to stop her—or they will simply stop protecting me and fly away’.

‘I don’t know what else to say. I cannot stay here, knowing that you are not in your right mental faculties, count. You should seek the guidance of a psychiatrist’.

‘You still do not believe me. The wind that you felt blowing—it was her. You see, with the wind she tries to scare us. She knows that the gargoyles are dormant in the day, but she cannot manifest during daylight. Thus, she uses the wind to taunt me’.

It was evident to me that he was on the verge of a mental breakdown or paranoia. There were troubling signs indicating this to me. I had to calm his unnerving behaviour. I requested one of the servants to escort him to his room to repose for the nonce. I was uncertain of what to do next. I could not believe his irrational stories of the supernatural, but I could not let him escape into his paranoia.

After all, he had adopted me and raised me as a child for some time when my parents had died. I owed him a debt of gratitude. I could not think anymore about his inheritance. I had to seek help for him in whatever capacity I could demonstrate.

It was not mere pity, but respect. It saddened me to see him waning in such irrational thoughts. I could not sleep that night—for the horror was about to awaken. That night, as I was sleeping in my bed, I heard the screams of a young woman. I rose from my bed to investigate the noise. I looked out of my window and saw the image of a beautiful woman with flowing ebony hair and pale skin.

She wore a long white gown. She appeared to be signalling me to come outside to the edge of the forest. I had no idea who she was, nor what she wanted. Her dark eyes had drawn me into her seduction. Apparently, no one else in the castle had reacted—except me. I walked down the stairway and stepped outside to meet her. As I got closer, I could feel her ghostly breath, and the wind began to howl abruptly. She reached out her hand to touch me, but her eyes, once a beautiful colour, had become colourless. Crimson blood flowed from them. I stood speechless for a moment, unable to react.

Suddenly, the sound of flapping wings was audible to my ears. When I turned around to look, I saw the ghastly image of the marbled gargoyles swooping down from above. They had grabbed me from the clutch of the evil spirit. They were alive and exhaled a breath of fire to thwart her from causing me any great harm.

Within minutes, the baleful spirit had disappeared into the forest. If what my eyes had seen was indeed real, then I was not dreaming. I closed my eyes, hoping this was a terrible nightmare, but it was not. When I opened them, I saw the inimitable guise of the imposing gargoyles of the castle staring into my eyes with a fixation. They had saved my life and had also prevented the evil spirit from entering the castle.

I was not the only one who had witnessed this harrowing event. The count was standing at the entrance to the front door. He had seen what had transpired.

‘Are you all right, Josep? Did the gargoyles startle you?’

‘Good God. What just happened? I can’t believe that what I saw with my own eyes has occurred’.

‘Believe it. Whether you believe it or not, it does not change the fact that it did happen’.

‘But how can this be? First, a wandering spirit that transforms into a beautiful maiden, then marble gargoyles that awaken and come alive?’

‘I too could not believe this myself until it happened to me. There are unusual things in this world that we shall never be able to explain, but they do exist. Ghosts and gargoyles are the proof of such a secretive realm of beings’.

‘I am still amazed by all of this, Count. Now, I am beginning to understand what you mentioned to me before’.

That morning, I could not dismiss the ineffaceable images of the daunted occurrence of the night before. How could anyone be so indifferent to the emotional episode that was experienced with such raw intensity? There had to be a logical reason that could be elucidated, but there was none. I was haunted by the images and could not focus on what had brought me here in the first place: the inheritance.

My mind was no longer concerned with that issue. I could have easily walked away and never returned to the castle, with the knowledge I now had, but that would not save the count or erase the wretched curse of the castle. How could I assist him more effectively? The pressing question I was forced to ask myself was: would I risk my life in order to help the count, whatever the cost?

For some strange reason unbeknownst to me, I was compelled, deep within, not to abandon him or forsake him to a horrendous fate. The count was downstairs by the fireplace, seated, when I found him. Neither of us was in the mood for any breakfast.

Thus, we did not eat until midday had arrived. I could see the explicit concern in his expression and guise. It was not difficult to imagine what was on his mind. Even though his story about the spirit and gargoyles was ultimately true, this did not quell in the least his apparent paranoia. I was worried this would be contagious and infect me.

Our conversation centred on my decision about accepting the inheritance. Now that I knew the whole truth, he was still interested in my decision, although his expectations had diminished considerably. At that moment, I was not thinking about the inheritance. My immediate thoughts were concentrated on his mental health and life. How could I convince him of that? I felt that if I agreed to the inheritance, I too would be trapped in this isolated castle forever.

The count asked me to accompany him to the village, but I was not receptive to the idea. That would imply having to go through the thickness of the forest, where the wandering spirit of bale had manifested as a maiden. He knew that in the day the spirit would not present herself, but she would be watching us—like the gargoyles that watched over the castle. He had to speak to the solicitor about the deed and the status of his procuration of the transactions. In the end, I accompanied him on this trip.

When we arrived at the village, the people on the street stared at us with a piercing look in their eyes. I had the vague impression that they were not grateful to see us there. I did not know the reason for their callous attitude. All I could see was what was reflected in their mien. I suspected the count knew the reason. When I asked him, he simply explained that the Balaguer name was associated with death and witchcraft. This was something I had not known.

Whilst the count was busy with the solicitor at his office, I was occupied trying to comprehend the events that were unfolding and correlating them with the facts I then knew. The charge or accusation of witchcraft was not that unusual.

What was more disturbing to me was that, at the beginning of the 20th century, there were still people who clung to their antiquated beliefs. Spain was a country synonymous with a long history of witchcraft and brutal inquisitions under draconian doctrines. Catalonia was no exception.

As a Catalan, I was not proud of that fact. It was merely part of the history of Europe. After half an hour had elapsed, the count finally finished his business with the solicitor, and we departed the village. Upon our return journey to the castle, we would encounter the ominous presence of the female spirit. The wind began to stir as we entered the depths of the forest.

The count was aware of what was transpiring. His intuition had alerted him. The horses of the carriage sensed it too and were rattled. Immediately, the count ordered the driver to take another road that was quicker in reaching the castle.

Once we arrived back at the castle, we were able to have a good meal. The servants were not impervious to the events occurring, but they did not dare to express their thoughts or concerns overtly. That did not mean they were not superstitious in their nature. I had even begun to doubt my own beliefs. The marble gargoyles were dormant during the day, but they would soon awaken at night.

Once more he asked me if I was going to accept the inheritance offered. I had never seen him more insistent or more racked with heightened anxiety than at that specific moment. Verily, I sensed he was on the verge of succumbing to the madness that was consuming his mind constantly, in the form of the abominable curse. His sober eyes expressed the serious nature of his predicament and the developing contrast of mine. He had placed all his effort and time in convincing me to inherit the castle, but he had not fully prepared himself for another solution.

I told him then that, upon reflection, I would help him abate the curse through my asseveration, but I would not accept the inheritance. He was not content with my rejection, yet he expressed his resignation through his acquiescence. The immeasurable pressure imposed upon me by him would then become a harrowing race against time—a race to unravel all of the truth, in particular, the part he had been omitting from me: the origin of the wandering spirit that was haunting him.

I knew very little about her origin. The Count was evasive about revealing manifold details about her, except that she was supposedly evil in nature and had wanted to take his soul. I was still uncertain as to why. If she was a witch roaming the forest, haunting others and him, then how did she die, and how was she condemned to the eternal torment that was her troubling soul?

There were innumerable details yet to be deciphered by me. I had no other source of actual information than what the Count had disclosed to me on one occasion.

‘Where did the wandering spirit in the forest come from, Count?’

‘Legend says that she was a witch burnt at the stake by the members of the Inquisition’.

‘And what about the gargoyles? Where do they come from?’

‘Legend says that they come from the bottomless pit of Hell, Josep’.

‘If that is the case with both of them, then my question to you is: what is buried here beneath the castle?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand’, the Count had replied.

‘You once told me that the ground upon which the castle stands was once a Roman fortification. It could not have been just that, always’.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, there had to be something else here in the period between it being a fortification and it becoming the present castle’.

‘That, I do not know for certain’.

‘Could it have been unholy ground—a place consecrated to the Devil?’

‘Perhaps!’

I had then asked him, ‘Did you know her name—the wandering spirit?’

He uttered, ‘Genoveva’.

I retired to my room to ponder at length under the twilight everything I had come to know about what was unfolding. There was something mysterious still unresolved that pertained to the female ghost wandering the forest.

Whilst the Count was occupied with the servants upstairs, I quietly and stealthily descended the stairway and stepped outside for a time. I had seen from my window what appeared to be a solitary tombstone of some sort. I ensured no one —including him—saw me leave the castle.

When I reached the tombstone, I was both bemused and shocked by what I discovered. I saw the name Genoveva engraved upon it. Yes, the same name as that of the wandering spirit. At that precise moment, I began to sense that I had solved most of the mystery regarding the wandering spirit and the irrepressible curse.

What I did not know was her direct relation to the Count. I had a tenable suspicion that she was perhaps a late relative of his, or that she was the true identity of the wandering spirit. The location was hidden behind a pair of tall trees. I was able to see it vaguely from my window above. Why was this tombstone there, I asked myself? Was she a Balaguer by name?

That was a possibility to contemplate in earnest. I would soon have my answer — and it would be a shocking revelation. Upon re-entering the castle, the Count was waiting for me. The darkness of night had fallen, and the mist partially veiled the moon. He wanted to know where I had gone.

‘I did not know you had stepped outside the castle, Josep. Where did you go?’

‘I went to see a tombstone at the entrance to the forest’.

‘What were you doing there?’

‘Genoveva. The woman buried in that grave—who was she, Count? For she shares the name of the wandering spirit’.

‘She was my wife’.

‘And the wandering spirit?’

‘She is her ancestor’.

‘Why does she haunt you, Count?’

‘She haunts me because my ancestor murdered her ancestor. My dearest wife took her own life, Josep. She could no longer bear the imprecation of the castle’.

At that moment, the wandering spirit reappeared and came for the Count. Her footfalls could be heard traipsing the broken branches, as the wind blew with an obstreperous howling. Her hideous countenance and eyes reflected the horrific manner in which she had died—under the sanguinary cruelty of the Inquisition.

The marble gargoyles, which had long lain dormant, awakened on his command to attack the spirit. They opened their wings wide and began to flap them. Immediately, they surged towards her. This time, however, they did not drive her away. Instead, they allowed her to take the soul of the Count. She seized him at once and dragged him into the mouth of madness that was the labyrinthine forest.

It happened so swiftly that the Count had no time to react. All that was heard from him was a final, gasping cry of terror. I stood there in complete awe at what had transpired before my very eyes. Was I to be her next victim? For some unknown reason, she did not take me into the forest, and the gargoyles flew away—never to return again. The curse had ended with the death of the last recorded Balaguer.

Although I was the one indicated to inherit the castle and its estate, I was not an authentic Balaguer. I was merely an orphan raised as one. The gargoyles had protected the Balaguer lineage for centuries, but that protection ceased with the death of Count Felip Balaguer.

The spirit of Genoveva looked into my eyes one final time, then returned to the sanctuary of the forest, as the branches of the trees opened to grant her passage. I would never see her again.

After the Count’s death, a spectral quietude fell over the castle. The servants, sensing that their service to the house of Balaguer had concluded with their master’s end, slowly departed. One by one, they left without ceremony, as though the very walls had whispered to them that their time had expired. I found myself alone in that great stone mausoleum of memory, surrounded by silence and the echo of things unsaid.

The castle, though grand, no longer felt like a home — rather a resting place for the ghosts of the past. Each hallway was a corridor into remembrance; each room a vault of sorrow. At night, I wandered its expanse with only a lantern to guide me, my footsteps resonating through the dark like a measured funeral march. I thought often of Genoveva—not merely the spirit who had come for the Count, but the woman buried beneath the earth, whose soul still lingered near her resting place.

I was left all alone amidst the castle and the forest, to ponder the events that had taken place. The weeks and months passed in their natural course, and I became the new proprietor of Balaguer Castle.

All that was promised to me in the inheritance was duly received. The Count’s body was found beneath a tree in the forest the next day. I had a particular tombstone made for him beside that of his beloved wife Genoveva. Together, they would then be joined once more within the realm of the celestial spirits. That was my hope, conveyed in my dedication and elegy to them.

I could not help but feel that something remained unresolved. The forest, too, seemed to murmur in a language I had not heard before—a language of grief, perhaps, or one of warning. The trees swayed as though breathing, their branches like arms, ever-reaching. The tombstone remained as I had found it, untouched by time or decay, yet the ground around it was freshly disturbed one cold morning, as though someone—or something—had risen or returned.

It was on such a morning, beneath a sky bruised with grey and the waning remnants of a moon that I made the decision to enter the forest. Not merely to visit the grave, but to pass beyond it—to follow where Genoveva had gone. I wrapped myself in a long wool coat, took a silver crucifix the Count had once worn about his neck, and crossed the threshold into the trees.

The forest was alive in a way I had never before perceived. The air was thick with a mournful dew, and every path seemed to vanish into fog before my eyes. But I pressed forward, heart beating with equal parts dread and resolve. Deeper and deeper I went, the world of man fading behind me until only nature—raw and primeval—remained.

After a time that could not be measured by any clock, I came upon a clearing where the mist thinned, revealing a forgotten chapel of stone, crumbled and blackened with age. Ivy strangled its arches, and half its roof had long since caved in. Yet inside, amidst the debris, stood a single pew and a crude altar. Behind it, etched faintly into the back wall, was a symbol—a twisted serpent encircling a flame. I did not recognise it, but I felt its significance press upon my chest like an unseen hand.

Suddenly, the air shifted. The light dimmed further, and a coldness swept through the chapel. Then she appeared—Genoveva. Not as before, fierce and wrathful, but solemn, almost human. Her eyes no longer burnt; instead, they wept.

'You came', she whispered.

I could not speak. My tongue was stilled by awe and a strange sorrow that welled within me, as though I had known her in some distant life.

'I am the last memory of what your name protected', she said. 'You were not meant to stay. You were meant to watch'.

'What do you mean?' I managed to ask, my voice sounding foreign in that sanctified ruin.

'You are the last witness, Josep. The final keeper of the tale. The blood of Balaguer has ended—but the story, the curse, lives on. Only by remembering can the shadows be kept at bay'.

'I am not one of them', I said. 'I have no true claim'.

'You have no blood', she replied, 'but you have their burden. And burdens are often heavier than lineage'.

A great wind stirred then, howling through the broken chapel. She began to fade, her form thinning like smoke under moonlight. But before she vanished, she placed her hand to her chest and then extended it to me. A gesture of peace—or of passing. In her palm, an object flickered into form: an iron key, old and ornate, tinged with verdigris.

I took it in my hand, and she disappeared.

When I returned to the castle, the wind carried the sound of organ pipes playing faintly in the distance. I did not know where the key belonged, or what door it would open. But I knew that Balaguer Castle still held secrets in its bones, hidden behind walls and whispers.

I remained not as lord, but more as a caretaker—as storyteller. And each evening, as dusk painted the sky in blood and ash, I would walk the halls, speaking aloud the names of those who came before, so they would not be forgotten. For some stories must be remembered, lest the curse they bear awaken again.

There are still some in the village who continue to spread blasphemy against the Count and the other Balaguers who had lived in the castle, but I—who knew the Count—can honestly say that he was neither a vile man nor a rakehell. He was only the victim of the horrifying consequences of his predictable circumstance and presage. A man born of nobility, whose death was predestined from the beginning.

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