'There is no exquisite beauty…without some strangeness in the proportion.'– Edgar Allan Poe
It was a memorable, cold, and damp autumn day in 1902 when I passed through the village of Penafiel, located at the confluence of the river valleys marked by the Douro, Tâmega, and Sousa Rivers, connecting the region with the Transmontane Zone. I had been travelling through the weary tracts of rural land and pastures of Portugal, hoping to reach the enchanting city of Porto, when my carriage driver was forced to deviate from the main road to seek assistance.
Apparently, one of the wheels on the carriage had broken and needed to be repaired. It was an unexpected occurrence, one that had not been planned, but I understood the necessity of fixing the wheel, even if it meant arriving later than anticipated in Porto.
I was not familiar with the surrounding area, but I had full trust in the carriage driver’s prudence and decision. The area was encompassed by an impressive forest of pine and eucalyptus trees, situated on granite rocks along the mountainous passage overlooking an estate. What I could make out of the village from a distance were scattered enclaves, rural homes, and a civil parish. They were all of a recognisable sort.
Whilst the carriage driver was occupied with fixing the wheel, we were spotted and assisted by a local peasant who volunteered to provide us with another wheel, at no cost or demands. He mentioned that he worked at a nearby estate or quinta, as they were commonly known in Portugal. There, he could give us the wheel that would allow us to continue on our journey.
Though I had been warned about thieves who preyed on foreigners or visitors from outside the village, I did not hesitate to consider or accept his courteous offer, as it seemed propitious enough to wisely accept. The carriage driver, however, had brought a rifle, just in case.
As we approached the estate, I noticed the rows of alameda trees surrounding the courtyard and patio, along with a marble fountain from which water gushed. Upon arriving at the residence of the secluded estate, we were cordially greeted by a nobleman, whose name was Baron Paulo Queiroz.
‘Welcome to my quaint quinta, Senhor. It is not often that I have many visitors these days, particularly from England, as I was informed by Lourenço, my capataz’.
‘That is very kind of you, Senhor. I am Lord Bennet, the Earl of Pembroke’.
‘Lourenço informed me that one of your carriage wheels had broken and you are in need of a new one’.
‘Indeed, that would be the case, Baron’.
‘If I may ask, Senhor, what brings you to these parts of the country? As I said, it is not often that Englishmen such as yourself visit these parts’.
‘Perhaps not, but I was heading to Porto to purchase a property there, which was recommended to me as a messuage by a gentleman of venerability’.
‘A property, you say? As you can see for yourself, Penafiel has an incredible landscape. This property has 62 hectares of splendid terrain’.
‘I do not doubt your word, Baron, for it would indeed be delightful to own property in this area, much like a demesne’.
We entered the three-storey manor, which had a translucent ashen-white colour and wings of stonework covering a pyramidal tile roof, slightly protruding over sturdy pillars. There was a terrace adjacent to a formal garden, which reminded me of the typical Portuguese gardens I had encountered on previous trips to the country. Inside, a steep spiral staircase led up to the higher floors, and a chimney bore a prestigious coat-of-arms above the blue, monochromatic marble floor.
One thing that piqued my interest was an instrument — a violin, finely purfled in remarkable golden hues. There were items of great value as well as those of a more rustic nature, but I would not dare call any of them trumperies or worthless finery.
The chimney was flanked by windows with masonry frames and plaster. The side panels had two niches, decorated with brilliant ornamental compositions in rococo style, while the side walls had opening spans framed with five windows, followed by illuminating oculi on the lower floors. The interior ceiling was also marble, with a common axial structure, decorated with pinnacles over the plinths, which arrested my curiosity. There was something somewhat unusual about the manor that gave me the impression it was preserving a secret or premonition that I could not quite describe.
The Baron was a typical Portuguese nobleman, debonair in his manner and aplomb, with a natural inclination for formalities and the intrinsic value of conviviality. Yet, I also noticed one peculiar thing about his circumspect demeanour: he seemed to marvel in relating stories and talking about historical events with studious propoundity.
These peculiarities suggested a man who had been very isolated or was fixated on details, perhaps enjoying the recherché disportment of his presumptions. He was of average stature and constitution, middle-aged, much like myself, and had a peculiar gait. His attire was befitting of his position, and he enjoyed smoking cigars imported from the exotic ports of Brazil.
He also had a demonstrable penchant for luxurious champagne and fine tapestries. A distinguishable ring adorned his right index finger, with a flashing ruby at its centre. I was acutely aware of his constant need to impress, which activated my heightened awareness of his persona.
My intuition led me to consider: what kind of exposure had he experienced in recent times? What was his milieu? Was he truly a gregarious man who fancied himself to be celeberrimus? I observed the house and its unique mystique, and I felt a cringing sensation creeping over me.
At that moment, I was unaware of the true relevance of the history and the preternatural secret that the house and the Baron were concealing from me. It felt like the contrariety of night and day, yet I sensed a haunting premonition as we walked outside into the garden to refresh ourselves.
It was there, in the garden, that I noticed a glimpse from afar—a person dressed in a black coat and hood, standing at the front gate. The coat was long enough to cover him from head to toe, and the hood obscured his face. I could not make out his true appearance or determine what he was doing, standing there, watching so intently.
When I asked the Baron about the figure, he paused for a moment, then dismissed the stranger as nothing more than a peasant from the village who had strayed onto his property. We resumed our conversation inside the manor, where we continued to discuss my interest in purchasing the property in private. He invited me to stay the night as his guest, assuring me that he would accompany me to Porto the following morning.
As one of the female servants prepared my chamber with diligence, I waited in the dining hall. It was then that I was introduced to the Baron's sister, who had stopped by to pay him a visit and ended up staying the night. Her name was Lourdes, a beautiful young baroness with a distinctive look and inherent charm. She was wearing an exquisite purple dress with a white silk chemise, which accentuated her flowing locks of sable hair and her graceful contours, defined with symmetry.
Her exotic eyes were of a dark tincture of mocha, and her lips bore a crimson gloss that accentuated her facial features and olive skin. When she was informed that I was a reputable earl of probity, I noticed that she took a distinct fancy to me. From what I had discerned about the intrigued baroness, she was eager to learn more about English nobility and was an admirer of English culture as well. She appeared intelligent and inquisitive, somewhat more enquiring than her brother, the baron, though I was not flustered by her rather intrusive idiosyncrasy.
There was no immediate pavidity in her demeanour that I perceived to be either overtly compelling or vapid, unlike other Portuguese women of reticence and proverbiality whom I had previously encountered. That night, unbeknownst to me, would inflict the most horrifying and inexplicable episode I had ever experienced. For you see, there are surreptitious mysteries that forever remain untold or have not yet been revealed to the populace.
What can be said of the general area is that it is enriched with the legendary stories of Lusitanian folklore. A nocturnal moon glistened, casting its beams of seduction over the extensive darkness and the estate, piercing the tenuous clouds.
I was in one of the guest chambers aligned with the west wing of the manor. My carriage driver had been assigned another room on the opposite side. We were both weary from the extensive journey and had retired for the night, but as I was attempting to rest, I heard an obstreperous noise outside my window that awoke me from my momentary stupor. It was accompanied by a gasping breath that I could not plainly discern or distinguish.
The noise captured my attention, and I peered through the window, hoping to glimpse the cause. It had echoed like a strident shriek of some kind, but the question was: what, or who, was behind this undetermined sound?
When it persisted and billowed, I immediately headed outside towards the direction of the garden, where the noise grew more audible as the dogs barked furiously. I was spotted by the lovely baroness, who had also been roused by the commotion. Yet she seemed more concerned, I intuited, by what I was doing outside in the dark than by the noise we had both heard from our private chambers.
‘Senhor, what are you doing outside in the darkness? Did the dogs bother you? If so, I apologise for this inconvenience’.
‘Baroness, you startled me at first. I see that you too were disturbed by the strange noise I heard’.
‘I was more concerned for your well-being than by that familiar noise, senhor’.
Her answer surprised me. ‘Did you say, familiar noise? Did I hear you correctly?’
‘Indeed, senhor. You are perhaps not acquainted enough with the area to know that we have wolves in these parts of the country’.
‘Wolves, you say?’
‘Yes, wolves,’ she intimated.
‘It sounded more like a heavy shriek or a scream to me’.
‘Perhaps what you heard was one of the goats or sheep crying out from a nearby estate’.
‘I am not entirely convinced that is the case, for it sounded more like a wild beast’.
‘As I stated before, senhor, we have many wolves on the prowl in this area. They come out at night to feed on cattle and other animals’.
As I could not be completely certain that it was not, indeed, a prowling wolf behind the noise, I was forced to acquiesce and dismiss the oddity of the sound for the time being. The baron himself soon joined us in the garden and interjected when he overheard our conversation.
‘Senhor, the baroness is correct. We do have our fair share of Iberian wolves in this region. Unfortunately, it is part of our culture and land’.
For some apparent reason, the unusual sound dissipated, but it did not quell my persistent doubt. In the end, I simply tried to assuage my concern and thought it practical not to continue with my growing intrigue. Little did I know that it would develop into a disturbing recurrence that I would regret not pursuing further.
The baron and baroness both retired to their chambers, and I proceeded to do the same. However, I could not easily be dissuaded from believing that something mysterious was transpiring at the manor and on the grounds of the estate.
Once I returned to my chamber, I contemplated whether I had indeed heard a shriek from a person or that of a roaming animal. A few hours elapsed, and I was awakened once more by the daunting noise of a shriek. This time, the noise was accompanied by a loud cry that I assumed to be human. Immediately, I rose from my bed, my countenance distressed, and, holding an oil lamp, I made my way towards the vicinity of the uproar.
Outside, I vaguely saw a lone, shadowy figure—or what I perceived to be a man—fleeing from the scene. As I approached the mysterious stranger, I came upon the atrocious discovery of my carriage driver’s body. His lifeless form lay near the trees, torn into shreds and drenched in carmine blood, as though some wild animal had attacked him with ravenous fury.
My instinct compelled me to follow the attacker towards the thick boughs of the murky forest, which lacked any clear luminescence. When I reached the edge of the entrance door that led back into the manor, I was able to see more, thanks to the reflection of the moonlight piercing through the opacity.
Although I continued with my persistence to locate the beast, I was becoming somewhat wary of proceeding further into the formidable, wooded area without knowing its exact boundaries. My footsteps were extremely calculated, as I advanced gradually, with precautionary intent.
Once I had ventured deeper into the fold of the forest at my own discretion, I began to sense that something or someone was watching me closely. What I did not realise at that moment was that, indeed, a stranger was observing my every move. I heard a heavy and unnerving breath increasing in intensity as I walked, carrying the oil lamp.
As the breath intensified in volume and tone, the limpid glow of the moon was shaded by the sprawling branches of the trees. The breathing then morphed into what seemed a bizarre grunt, though it was not definite. Even more unsettling was the fact that the stranger I was pursuing had yet to materialise before my attentive gaze. I stopped in my tracks, as any trace of the stranger was becoming more unclear the further I walked.
What was even more distressing was that I had no weapon to defend myself, only the oil lamp I held in my hand. Unbeknown to me, the stranger was following me and appeared just as I tripped naively on a fallen branch. Once I had risen to my feet, I stood before the beast, which loomed out of the darkness like an imposing figure from the harrowing legends of foolish peasantry or raffishness.
What I descried was a horrific image of a rabid beast or a deformed man. It stood upright, with an imperious stature that intimidated with its frightening appearance of stark terror. It appeared to be male, from what I could discern.
His fingertips dripped with crimson blood, like acid whiskey burning carnal flesh. His razor-sharp teeth were bared; his ebony eyes and cold breath, his curls thick and woolly, and his sinister smile made me cringe with sudden apprehension.
His tongue burned like hot embers of coal, and his beady eyes glowed with a ruby-red gloss of unforgettable menace. We stared eye to eye, as though I were the prey and he the hunter of drasticity. It was then that he roared a loud shriek that deafened my ears and startled the group of crows perched on the branches, observing the unfolding scene in apparent amusement.
Before the beast could harm me, or attempt to, a gunshot rang out and scared away the dreadful creature. It was the baron, along with some of his labourers, who had located me wandering in the forest so late at night. I dusted the wrinkles and dirt from my clothing, perplexed and disturbed by the lethiferous encounter.
‘Lord Bennet, are you all right? What are you doing here in the forest at this late hour of the night?’ The baron enquired.
When I had recomposed myself, I uttered in response, ‘Did you not see the beast that was hovering above me like a wild animal?’
‘A beast? It was probably a wolf, my lord, that tried to attack you’.
‘A wolf, you say, Baron Queiroz? By no means was it a wolf; it stood on its two feet like us humans. Bloody hell, it appeared to be some strange hairy thing, like a deformed wild man’.
‘Perhaps. We do have stragglers or beggars who occasionally roam this area’.
‘Whatever it was, it defied mere description’.
‘I must be candid with you—it is not wise to be out late in the woods by yourself, for the woods can be very perilous, particularly to those unfamiliar with the area, unlike we locals’.
‘I tell you, what I saw had some distinct element of humanity. If the being that attacked me was a man, then he was a frightening figure that bore a limpid semblance which jangled my nerves so hauntingly’.
‘I think it would be best, Lord Bennet, if we left the forest and returned to the estate at once, before we catch cold’.
I agreed, and we returned to his estate, where the baroness awaited our return with sudden intrigue. After we conversed briefly about the incident in the woods, we all retired to our chambers and attempted to resume sleep. However, I was still visibly affected by the event and could not truly sleep for the remainder of the night or early morning.
It was simply impossible for me to forget the horrifying encounter I had with that anonymous beast or wild man. I had heard tales of wild men in the South Pacific or Africa before, but I was not cognisant of such stories in Portugal. I was not even certain if it was factual or merely the janglery of local villagers, confabulated into legend. The urgent need to discover the truth behind the person or animal that attacked me became a pressing matter. It was enough for me to delay my trip to Porto for at least another day or two.
In the morning, I was awakened by the obtrusive sounds of cackling crows that interrupted my sleep. The baron and the baroness were already awake and conversing in the intimacy of the garden along with the vadelect when I joined them.
My intention was to enquire about the incident, but the baron was not keen on discussing it further or elaborating in detail. Was this an obvious use of circumvention, a dilatory distraction or a tactic of his own contrivance? I thought it prudent not to exasperate the baron, for I did not wish to exacerbate the ordeal.
‘Good morning, Lord Pembroke. I hope you are feeling better this morning?’
‘To be frank, Baron, I slept very little; I could not erase from my mind the terrible scene that occurred with that horrendous beast or man, whatever it was’.
‘I think it would be better if we discussed something more pleasant, such as taking a trip into Penafiel. I am afraid I won’t be able to have a carriage driver escort you to Porto until the afternoon’.
‘Pardon my intrusion, Baron, but is it not prudent to advise the local authorities about the heinous death of the carriage driver?’
‘No need to worry about that matter, for I have already advised them. I sent one of my labourers to carry out that unfortunate task. Regrettably, there is not much more that can be done for him. Here in Penafiel, we are accustomed to the daily menace that surrounds us’.
The candid expression on his face was telling and extremely daunting, as if his words were a portentous omen meant to be heeded. I could not suppress my fascination with understanding why there was such blatant secrecy in the baron’s manner when discussing the beast or wild man, along with the mystery cloaked by his omission of revelatory details.
This behaviour began to make me distrust him and question further what else he might be hiding. I noticed in his eyes that he was a very shrewd man. The question I then pondered: was he ultimately my friend or foe? I could not afford to linger in suspicious uncertainty much longer.
As for the baroness, she too displayed, in lesser measure, the same qualities as her brother, though less overt. Her fondness for me was the clear manifestation of a woman longing for intimate company. It was the baroness who offered to accompany me into Penafiel, which I thought a noble gesture. Considering that I had no other option but to await the arrival of the new carriage driver, I acquiesced, though with timid hesitation—not enough to refuse her invitation.
After all, the baroness possessed an exquisite charm that was both admirable and influential. It also served as a welcome distraction from the cumbersome anxiety I was experiencing at the quinta. We visited a monastery church with an arresting Romanesque façade and a dilapidated medieval castle with a dried moat—a vestige of a once glorious time, now reduced to austere simplicity. We spoke of many things related to the incredible history of the village, including the lineage to which she and her brother belonged; however, she was evasive when speaking of her siblings.
I knew that she and the baron were brother and sister by blood, but what I did not know was whether there were any other siblings of whom I was unaware. Eventually, I was able to convince her and gain her trust sufficiently for her to divulge more about her immediate family. The baroness explained that she had no sisters but another brother, who had sadly died due to complications from his failing health.
When I pressed her on the topic, she merely stated that his name was Thiago and he was married to a woman by the name of Maria Oliveira, who was from Lisbon. I asked her why she herself was not married. I could not believe there was no man to gallantly profess his redamancy to her, after beholding her wondrous smile and feeling her comforting embrace.
‘Pardon my boldness, but if I may enquire, Baroness, why have you not married? You are a beautiful and captivating woman to be still single’.
‘And you, Lord Pembroke, may I ask the same of you? Are you not married?’
‘I suppose I have not been fortunate enough to find that special lady’.
I gave her a white, waxy jasmine that I had plucked and said afterwards, ‘If you ever have the chance to visit England, I would hope that you visit me’.
She simply smiled and responded, ‘I would be honoured’.
Our common interests had blossomed into a rapport betwixt us that was indeed refreshing and delightful to reciprocate, yet I could not assuage my solicitude for her safety, due to the savage man or beast that had attacked me yesternight and was lurking in the adjacent area of its boundaries.
When I mentioned this to her, her reply was a display of her ingenuous wit. She told me that she was more preoccupied with helping manage the estate of the Baron than with the looming fear of the intruder or the pack of wolves that could prove dangerous. Was this to be interpreted as a sign of her assurance, or rather, an acceptance of the perils that existed in this part of the country?
After we finished our conversation, we returned to the estate, whereupon the Baron had been waiting for our return. Coincidentally, he had just come back from speaking with the local authorities—presumably regarding the death of the carriage driver, or so I assumed. What I was unaware of was the duplicitous facility of the Baron and his covert oppugnation.
I had been led to believe that he had spoken to those authorities, but no semblance of affirmation could be confirmed. Was I merely a pawn in a version of blind man’s buff? If so, then he had devised a hoodwinkable game with masterful execution. Was the mystery of the Baron and his manor aligned with acts that were, in the end, not ignoscible?
The Baron informed me that he had contracted a carriage driver who would take me to Porto, and that the carriage was waiting at my request. Originally, I had decided to stay at least another day, but there was something about the imperant look in the Baron’s eyes and his comportment that convinced me, perhaps, it was better to leave.
Indeed, he was an assertive and superbious man, wont to impose his authority on others. Though stern with his servants, he had displayed towards them a genuine care, and they, in turn, showed great assiduity. Their sedulity was rewarded and highly valued by the Baron.
My necessity to discover the truth behind the mystery of the manor and the attacker had not waned, yet there were more pressing matters to consider, such as reaching Porto alive and not falling victim to the creature or wild man who had previously attempted to murder me.
Thus, it was decided that I would depart the estate, and I did so, offering my gratitude towards the Baron and Baroness for everything they had done for me. I bid them both a token farewell and was offered an invitation to visit the estate of the Baroness in the future. However, as the carriage departed and was on the road leading out of the estate, the ineffable beast attacked once more.
The attack occurred as we were passing through the rows of towering trees in the forest. The assailant lunged out of nowhere at the carriage driver, killing him instantly and causing the carriage to lurch into a patch of mud. Miraculously, I survived with some injuries from the crash, but I managed to thwart the creature’s attack with a sword I retrieved from my belongings—a sword I had intended to donate to one of the local museums in Porto. Once more, I beheld the abominable guise of the attacker of salebrosity, those beady eyes and that mad expression on his face.
The one thing I could not forget was the piercing shriek that deafened me. Whatever it was, it tried to bite my right arm. The attacker scurried away, but it exhibited imperdible determination. Fortunately for me, a peasant passing by on horseback saw the carriage tipped over and heard my groans of agonised pain. I was able to tell him, in my broken Portuguese, to take me back to the Baron’s estate at once so that the Baron could summon a doctor. He did exactly as I instructed, then departed the estate in a tantivy.
Before long, my strength began to weaken, and I lapsed in and out of consciousness due to a bump on the head sustained in the fall. I was rushed to the chamber where I had been staying, awaiting the doctor’s arrival, while a desperate look was tangible in my eyes.
I found myself submerged in an unbearable state of obfuscating daze, my head ringing. The Baroness tried to pacify my anxiety and surging pain with her care and experience. She had served as a nurse in Lisbon and knew how to tend to my afflictions and wounds without any tarriance.
Once the doctor finally arrived, he was able to prevent my wounds from deteriorating into a severity that would have required urgent hospitalisation. Thankfully, I would ultimately recover from this brutal attack, but I would soon face an even more daunting reality—the realisation that my nightmare had not yet abated in its sheer magnitude. I was confined to my chamber to repose for the remainder of the day, with the hope that I might be ready to travel to Porto in the morning if I was recuperating well.
Although the Baron seemed uneasy about my continued presence on his estate—especially because of the lingering threat of the attacker—he did not object to my remaining a bit longer as his bidden guest. The ongoing attacks were beginning to unsettle him, and he knew they were becoming increasingly recurrent. Yet what he did not perceive was that the local villagers were also in pursuit of the attacker.
They had grown weary of his menacing wrath and were soon encroaching at the entrance of the baron’s estate, demanding justice forthwith. The baroness stood loyally and tenderly by my bedside as I lay resting in my chamber. I noticed that her charm appeared genuine, unlike that of the baron, whose charm was of a wheedling nature.
Our conversation was pleasant at first, as we discussed the one thing we discovered we shared—a passion for the arts—but soon it strayed to the threat of the wretch, who had attacked me and already killed several others, including my two previous carriage drivers.
I could sense the discomfort gnawing at her, as a weighty measure of guilt began to rack her mind gradually, with the indisputable preponderance of facts that could no longer be dismissed as mere ironies. What had previously seemed contrarious now stood as a telling portent. What I had yet to discover was the location of the attacker’s hideout in the murky depths of the labyrinthine forest.
As the sun descended upon the estate, casting elongated shadows of reflection through the grand windows, I found myself restless, the events of the day weighing heavily on my mind. Seeking solace, I wandered the dimly lit corridors of the manor, my footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. It was then that I noticed a faint glimmer of light seeping from beneath a door I hadn't previously observed.
Curiosity piqued, I approached and gently pushed the door open, revealing a study bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. Shelves lined with ancient tomes and peculiar artifacts adorned the walls. At the center stood a massive oak desk, cluttered with parchments, maps, and what appeared to be a family tree.
Drawn in, I stepped closer, my eyes scanning the documents. The family tree detailed the lineage of the Queiroz family, but what caught my attention was a branch that had been hastily scratched out. The name beneath the smudges was barely legible, but I could make out "Thiago."
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind me. I turned swiftly to find the baroness standing in the doorway, her expression a mix of surprise and apprehension.
'I didn't mean to intrude', I began, gesturing towards the desk. 'I was merely...'
She raised a hand, silencing me. 'It's quite alright, Lord Pembroke. Few are permitted in this room. You should not have entered this room alone, without being escorted'.
'I apologise for my intrusion baroness', I replied.
The study, it seemed, held the concealed remnants of a past the family had tried desperately to forget.
Meanwhile, the baron was preoccupied with his brooding thoughts and the looming matter of the wild man, or madman, who was attacking people—particularly near the village. The suspense was increasing by the minute, as word reached the baron of the enraged mob heading towards his property to apprehend the savage killer.
Any trace of his established decorum was soon forsaken in desperation as the unfolding events threatened to spiral out of control. Gruesome news reached the baron and his servants that the attacker had murdered an innocent young peasant girl from Penafiel.
Without delay, the baron was forced to act to manage the situation before the determined mob burned down his estate. He ordered his loyal men to arm themselves, in case the mob insisted on proceeding with their vengeance and defiance.
‘Senhor, the mob from the village are approaching the front gate of the estate. They seek justice for the murdered girl and saw the killer enter the property’.
‘Gather all the rifles you can and join me at the front gate. I’ll try to pacify them with my presence. They respect me and my family above all’.
‘Senhor, I warn you; they are angry and this time they will not heed your words or accept what you say’.
‘I know the people of Penafiel, and they must hear me out. My family has served this community well for decades’.
‘Senhor, I beg you, do not go! You have not seen the fire in their eyes. They will not tolerate your idle reassurances or sermons’.
The baron replied, ‘I must, for there is no other recourse. Come, we must hurry, before they force their way in’.
The baron tried to halt the advance of the rabble along with his men, but he failed to prevent their entrance into the estate. Once at the front gate, he ordered the mob, with urgency, to turn back and leave his property, but they would not acquiesce. Instead, they insisted. They demanded to enter and seize the attacker who had viciously killed the young peasant girl.
There was nothing the baron could do to dissuade the mob from entering the manor grounds. Thus, he was forced to abandon his fruitless endeavour and flee back to his manor. The mob quickly entered the grounds, meeting little resistance from most of the baron’s men, who, sensing they were outnumbered, dropped their rifles and scattered, except for a few loyal men who began shooting at the villagers.
The villagers were undeterred and continued pressing forward. The baron and I were still in our chamber when we heard the escalating commotion outside. The baroness went out into the garden to assess the situation. I managed to rise to my feet and look out of the window, where I saw the baron and the baroness urgently discussing what had transpired.
At first, I did not see the invading mob until I peered closely at the area near the front gate. As I stood gazing through the window, suddenly, the wild man burst into the room, knocking down the door with his full strength. I was completely stunned by the intrusion and utterly unprepared to react. I was defenceless, with no weapon at hand, and at a clear disadvantage.
The wild, hirsute man stood before me with a maniacal look; I could see the intense rage surging in his eyes as he stared at me with a wrathful expression that was utterly shocking. A chilling sweat trickled down my face, and my hands began to tremble uncontrollably.
I thought I would not live to see another day nor escape his terror anew, but I slowly stood firm, knowing that any sign of cowardice or fear would provoke him to pounce like a ravenous wolf. Indeed, it felt as if I were confronting a wild beast; yet, as I looked deeper into his eyes, I sensed he wanted to tell me something.
For some unknown reason, he did not attack me as he had in our previous encounter. Why, I did not know. I began to step away from the window while he simply stood there, staring at me. It was then that the baron and the baroness entered to inform me of the mob outside.
‘Lord Pembroke, we must leave the manor at once!’
Upon entering, the baron immediately saw the wild man. Little did I know that the wild man—the attacker—was actually the baron’s younger brother. The baron had his rifle with him. When he saw the wild man, he ordered him to flee the manor and estate at once, but the attacker refused to comply.
‘Who—or what—in God’s name is this poor soul? Are you going to kill him or let him escape?’ I asked.
The baron looked at me and finally admitted the manor’s dark secret. ‘You would not understand, senhor, even if I told you’.
‘I must know! For heaven’s sake, tell me now, before that mob bursts in!’
‘It is my brother, Thiago’.
‘Your brother?’
The baroness then spoke. ‘Yes, he is our dearest brother’.
‘And what does this have to do with this wretch you call your brother?’
‘Everything. Thiago was once married to a beautiful young lady. Do you remember me mentioning this in our prior conversation?’
‘Yes, I remember’.
‘What I did not tell you was that he murdered her out of jealousy. He tried to burn her alive, along with the manor. Maria was killed, but in his failed attempt, he burnt himself and went mad. All these years, he has lived in the dense forest like a wild man’.
‘Good God, how could you let your brother live like a savage all this time, knowing he was behind these murders? Have you no shame?’
‘Yes, but there was no other way’, the baron replied.
He then said, ‘There’s no time to waste—we must leave at once. The mob is approaching the garden. They’ll find us here!’
Panic ensued. The villagers surged forward, breaking through the gates, their torches illuminating the path as they stormed the estate. Chaos erupted as the baron's guards attempted to hold them back, but the sheer number of the mob overwhelmed any resistance.
Alas, it was too late. The mob had cornered and surrounded us. There was only one escape route—a latch door leading to the cellar below, where supplies were stored. The baroness and I were fortunate enough to escape, yet the baron and his deformed brother Thiago were not so lucky. They both perished in the infernal flames, falling at the hands of the mob, who set fire to the manor.
It was madness that began this story and madness that would eventually end it—a tragic tale of a troubling secret long concealed by a prestigious family from a remote part of Portugal. We managed to escape the manor and mob, aided by a rifle and lantern, and evaded detection. Emerging from the cellar, we found ourselves in the woods, far from the frenzied crowd. It was surreal to fathom the events that had unfolded; I had to recompose myself several times as we pressed through the dense forest.
The forest was thick with shadows, its towering trees arching overhead like silent sentinels as we fled from the blaze and the angry roar of the mob behind us. The baroness clutched my arm, her breath ragged, her fine gown torn by brambles and streaked with soot. We moved swiftly, the orange glow of the burning manor dimming with each step deeper into the woods, swallowed by the oppressive darkness.
For a long while, we said nothing; the only sounds were the crunch of dead leaves beneath our feet and the distant crackle of flames. Then, at last, we slowed, collapsing against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, gasping for breath.
'I—I can’t believe it’s gone', the baroness murmured, her voice hollow. 'The manor…my home…everything'.
I said nothing at first, staring into the murky woods, my ears straining for any sign that the mob had followed. The forest seemed alive with whispers, every rustle and snap setting my nerves on edge. The baroness buried her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling not just from the cold, but from grief.
'We’re safe—for now', I finally managed, though I scarcely believed it myself.
Suddenly, a chilling noise echoed through the forest—a low, mournful howl, unlike any animal I’d ever heard. The baroness stiffened beside me, her eyes widening in fear.
'Did you hear that?' She whispered.
I nodded grimly, gripping the old rifle we’d salvaged. 'We need to keep moving'.
We stumbled onwards, deeper into the heart of the forest, until we came upon a clearing bathed in eerie moonlight. At its centre stood a crumbling stone well, half-hidden by ivy and moss. The baroness paused, staring at it with a strange intensity.
'This…this is where it began', she said in a hushed tone. 'Thiago’s madness...it all started near here. My father told me he used to come to this well, long before he lost his mind. He said…he heard voices'.
A shiver ran down my spine. The place felt heavy, charged with an unseen force. I approached the well cautiously, peering over the edge. Blackness stared back at me, impenetrable and deep.
Suddenly, the baroness grasped my arm, her eyes filled with tears. 'Do you think... do you think it’s truly over now? That he’s...gone?'
Before I could answer, a gust of wind swept through the clearing, extinguishing the lantern’s flame and sending a flurry of leaves swirling around us. And then—clearer than before—a voice, distant yet unmistakable, called out from the woods:
'Maria…'
The baroness gasped, clutching my arm tightly. My heart pounded in my chest. We stood frozen, staring into the forest’s depths where the voice had come from, but saw nothing.
We walked for several kilometres until we reached a dirt road leading out of the village. A carriage passed by and, seeing us standing at the roadside, kindly offered us a seat. It was heading towards Porto.
We could still see the flames engulfing the manor, burning it down to rubble—a grim reminder of the horrific events that had transpired. Dishevelled from our ordeal, we remained unnoticed by the carriage passengers, who were from Lisbon and unaware of the events at the manor.
Nothing could be done to save the baron or his wild brother. This I realised during the journey to Porto. Yet the haunting truth that the savage attacker was not only related to the baron and baroness—but was their long-forgotten brother—remained difficult to accept. Many questions still lingered unanswered, and I wondered how many more victims had fallen to Thiago’s hand, known all along by the baron and baroness since my arrival.
It was daunting to imagine such cruelty and indifference, but who was I to enforce my morality upon her, when I myself was guilty of failing to report these murders to the authorities? The unforgettable encounter with the wild man—this so-called beast—would evolve into a recurring nightmare I could never dismiss.
I would never return to the village of Penafiel. The very thought of it stirred neither nostalgia nor desire. I kept in touch with the baroness through letters, and we often discussed her plans to visit England, though she rarely spoke of the horrific events that had befallen the estate.
My assumption was that she wished to forget the ordeal and resume her life as best she could as a baroness. By sheer twist of fate, through these tragic circumstances, she became the sole heiress to the Queiroz fortune.
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