The Statue Of Evil

"There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man's evil prying calls them just within our range." —H. P. Lovecraft

I reveal this tale of horror so that those who read this account will understand that the truth of what I witnessed was born of the accursed arcana of history—an unparalleled evil that was never meant to be grasped in any other way. It was not unnameable.

For those who doubt the existence of such an abomination, I proceed with this confession, to unveil the dark secrets lurking behind encroaching madness. Terror has many names and faces, and its eldritch episodes manifest through the vestigial fears imposed by its dauntless presence.

In the realm of reality, there are certain things inscribed in the books we read and engraved in the memory of our minds. Among these seemingly immovable and surreal things, there was a surreptitious statue—one that exuded an innocence stained by an insidious mystery, hidden behind its marble form.

The year was 1928. I had traveled to the town of Piedras Negras, Mexico, located in the state of Coahuila. I arrived by automobile at a hotel near the southernmost end of the railroad bridge overlooking the Rio Grande, the river that separates Mexico and the United States.

My name is Simon Blackwood, an American from Philadelphia. I had come to meet a local businessman named Enrique Beltran, whose family was deeply rooted in Coahuila. I represented a railroad company interested in transporting coal to the United States. Piedras Negras—"Black Rocks" in English—was known for its active mining operations: carbon, silver, gold, zinc, copper. But it was the region’s vast coal reserves that caught our attention and prompted my visit.

That afternoon, I met with Mr. Beltran to discuss my company’s interest in foreign investment. I convinced him of the seriousness of our intentions and the profit to be gained through mutual agreement. He took me to the mine to witness the coal extraction firsthand. I was impressed by the diligence of the miners and the coal’s quality.

It seemed like an enticing opportunity for our company, and the future looked bright. Beyond the mining operations lay a narrow passage leading to an opaque chamber filled with screeching bats. As we entered, a sudden gust of air swept through, and I felt an ominous presence—something unnatural lurking in the stygian chamber.

There, we discovered two peculiar relics: small statues of a strange beast from a precolonial era, alongside the archaic ruins of a buried temple that had once stood tall.

I was told the statues likely dated to the 17th century, around the time of the Spanish Conquest. Judging by the figure’s distinctive features, it may have represented a god once worshipped by a forgotten sect.

As for the temple, it too was confounding. Who were these anonymous followers? Who was this god, venerated enough to warrant an entire temple? I gave one of the statues to Mr. Beltran to keep, as a token of archaeological importance.

He told me he planned to organize an excavation as soon as he could assemble volunteers. I could only imagine what other priceless artifacts lay buried in that cavern. I had no way of knowing that what we had uncovered was something that had been purposefully buried for countless centuries.

The mining operations gave me the impression that Mexico was emerging from a chaotic past and entering an industrial era beneficial to both our nations. That evening, Mr. Beltran invited me to his home for dinner. I intended to stay at the hotel for one more night before returning to Austin, where I resided.

At the hotel, I sent a telegram to my company’s office, informing them of the agreement I had reached with Mr. Beltran. It seemed my business in town was complete. But unbeknownst to me, a lurking terror would soon involve me directly—and compel me to remain in Piedras Negras.

That evening, while I prepared to visit Mr. Beltran again, I received chilling news: the lifeless body of his daughter had been found face-down in the Rio Grande.

Her death was considered a drowning, but the hour and cause remained unclear. I was shocked. I hadn’t imagined such a tragic event would befall the Beltran family, nor that it would have any bearing on my visit. I stopped by Mr. Beltran’s home to offer my condolences.

At the time, I couldn’t comprehend that her untimely death was merely the beginning of a terrifying sequence of events—events that would ensnare me in the most heinous of circumstances. I told Mr. Beltran I would remain in town a few more days so he could focus on the funeral arrangements. I notified the hotel of my extended stay.

That night, back in my room, I pondered the strange and sudden death. I didn’t know then that something far more inexplicable was about to unfold—a ghostly presence awakened by the excavation.

A spirit long imprisoned and forgotten by time had been disturbed. And now, with its release, a chilling horror was unleashed upon the world.

While experiencing a nightmare, I heard strange noises outside my door. At first, I assumed they were merely the footfalls of other late-night guests arriving at the hotel. But the noises persisted and grew louder.

Eventually, I stepped into the hallway to investigate. No one was there. I checked the stairwell—still no one. Then I heard the fluttering wings of nocturnal doves from the veranda. They had gathered on the roof and in the tall palm trees nearby. They were the only living creatures stirring at that hour.

I dismissed the sounds as a trick of the mind—perhaps brought on by fatigue—but I could not as easily dismiss the disturbing contents of my dream.

In the nightmare, I witnessed people being burned at the stake, executed in what appeared to be a cruel, draconian inquisition. But more compelling still was the statue—the one I had brought back. I had placed it on a small table in my room.

There was something inexplicably hypnotic about its piercing eyes. For a brief moment, I felt I was under its control. The sound of the wind outside eventually broke the trance.

Was I simply mistaking the statue’s influence and the nightmare as a product of superstition? Was it just my weariness playing tricks on me? After all, I had been troubled by the death of Mr. Beltran’s young daughter.

I was not a timid man, nor one easily shaken by the preternatural. Still, sleep was difficult. The constant wind and intermittent passing of trains made rest nearly impossible. I eventually resorted to using cotton in my ears to muffle the noise.

The next morning, I occupied myself by reading the local newspaper—available in English due to the town’s proximity to Eagle Pass on the U.S. side.

The story of Mr. Beltran’s daughter was front-page news. Authorities still had no clear idea how her body had ended up in the Rio Grande. While drowning was the official cause, the police had not ruled out foul play.

It was a strange occurrence. I spent the morning walking through the narrow streets downtown. The markets were bustling with vendors selling corn, cotton, wheat, beans, and flour. The restaurants were open and inviting.

That evening, Mr. Beltran visited me at the hotel. I was surprised to see him so soon. I hadn’t expected to resume our business so quickly. When he knocked, I answered—and was immediately struck by the paleness of his face and the trembling of his hands. His eyes were wide and dilated with terror.

At first, he rambled incoherently. I brought him inside and calmed him with a glass of brandy. After several minutes, he finally managed to speak clearly.

What he confessed was almost impossible to believe.

According to Mr. Beltran, he had seen the apparition of his deceased daughter, Veronica, inside his home.

The vivid expressions on his face were authentic, but it was his account that I found difficult to accept. The idea that his dead daughter had risen from the grave to haunt him had revived in my mind the recent nightmare I’d had, involving a grim scene from the Inquisition. What followed, ironically, was the fact that he had brought with him a second statue of the creature in question.

He had pulled it from his pocket and started telling me that it was cursed—devil’s work, he called it. As a reasonable man, I assumed Mr. Beltran was distraught and still deeply affected by the tragic death of his daughter. His claims of a diabolical influence couldn’t be entirely dismissed, nor could his belief that he had seen his daughter again. However, I was concerned that his mental faculties were deteriorating, slipping into an unhinged state.

When I saw the statue, I was immediately reminded of the terrible nightmare I had suffered the night before. Even so, I found it hard to believe what Mr. Beltran was saying. He was utterly convinced of what he had witnessed and the abnormal phenomena that followed. I had never before seen a man so horrified by something he could barely articulate with any rational explanation.

He warned me of the statue’s overpowering influence, insisting it was evil in nature. He was adamant that the statue had caused the death of his beloved daughter Veronica. To him, it was clear evidence of a diabolical curse—one we had inadvertently unleashed upon the world.

I listened carefully to everything he told me, then suggested he remain at the hotel in one of the rooms to regain his composure and emotional stability. Mr. Beltran was a widower with no wife or other family.

The brandy helped calm his nerves temporarily. Yet what I couldn’t shake from my mind was his genuine fear and his firm belief in the ghost of Veronica. I wondered how much his devastating grief had affected his perception. Had it so blurred his sense of reality that he had succumbed to an inescapable terror? What connection did the statue have with his daughter’s death? Most importantly, what was the true origin of these statues?

That night, I pondered all the strange events occurring—noises in the hotel, the death of Mr. Beltran’s daughter, her supposed apparition, and my disturbing nightmare. There had to be a logical explanation for why these incidents were happening in such a consequential pattern. Another oddity soon emerged that perplexed me even further with its chilling implications.

I began to closely examine the statue I had of the unknown creature. There was something about it that compelled me to study it, as though it concealed a sinister truth within its form. A truth filled with wrath and possession. I had a strange premonition that whatever I was about to uncover regarding the statue’s ancient origin would reveal a disturbing enigma.

Then, I heard a scratching noise coming from the window beside my room. At first, I assumed it was the wind or perhaps a pigeon trying to come in. But then I saw it: the ghostly figure of Mr. Beltran’s daughter emerged in a faint phosphorescent glow, her expression twisted with malevolence and her pale eyes full of malice. I froze in shock.

I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing until the apparition suddenly vanished into the howling wind. Had I truly encountered a wandering spirit—or had my imagination betrayed me? Whatever the truth, I couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the night, as the full moon’s glow shimmered across the railway bridge.

The following morning brought more horrific news. Mr. Beltran had been found dead—his body discovered floating face down in the waters of the Rio Grande, just like his daughter’s. The news stunned me even more than her death had, especially since I had last seen him safe and sound at the hotel the previous night. Once again, the cause of death was assumed to be drowning. Was it coincidence that father and daughter had suffered the same tragic fate—or was something far more sinister at work?

I had come to the border town of Piedras Negras for business—never did I imagine that my stay would become entwined with an ancient evil, awakened by a forgotten cult whose practices reeked of lingering terror and witchcraft.

I was not a man prone to superstition or wild speculation, but the inexplicable events unfolding before me were enough to make me question the limits of reason. Could the supernatural truly exist in some form? I wasn’t sure what I had seen, or if it could even be explained. All I knew was that something unearthly had manifested before me—a revenant of some kind.

If what I saw belonged to the realm beyond nature, why had it appeared to me? Was there an underlying purpose to its presence? Whatever the case, it would not be the last time I would encounter a malevolent spirit. Two deaths had occurred, both involving people closely connected.

Being likely the last person to have seen Mr. Beltran alive, I knew the police would want to question me. I needed to investigate these matters more thoroughly. But before I could begin, there was a knock at my door. It was the police, inquiring about Mr. Beltran’s final moments. I welcomed them in and answered all their questions as honestly as possible. I had nothing to hide and no involvement in either of the reported deaths.

Still, I couldn’t tell whether my answers had raised their suspicions. Important details about both deaths were pending, and foul play had not been ruled out. There was also the possibility that Mr. Beltran had taken his own life, unable to cope with the overwhelming grief. I was asked to remain in town in case further questions arose, and I agreed.

After the officers left, I considered leaving the area, but my curiosity about the statue compelled me to continue my inquiry. I brought the statue with me and returned to the mine—where I learned that fragments of a body had recently been unearthed.

This time, the remains appeared to belong to a woman buried deep within the mine’s cavern. The bones were taken to the home of an archaeologist named Raul Cisneros. Once I found out where he lived, I paid him a visit. He kindly welcomed me into his home.

Eager to ask about the unearthed bones—and the strange statues Mr. Beltran and I had discovered—I showed them to him. He confirmed that they likely belonged to the precolonial period. The statues, as well as the bones, carried an arcane and mysterious origin.

Mr. Cisneros shared a local legend he had heard: during the late 17th century, when the Spanish Inquisition extended to the region, there were disturbing reports of witchcraft. The most notable of these tales involved a woman named Maria Navarro, accused of practicing sorcery. She had been part of a secretive cult considered demonic in nature. At the time, the state of Coahuila became a refuge for Spaniards fleeing Native raids from Texas.

According to the legend, Maria Navarro declared with her dying words that she would return to the earth and restore her cult. Mr. Cisneros’ story left me even more bewildered. He advised me to leave the statues with him so he could study them more thoroughly and determine their ancient origins.

While he was busy examining the statues, I looked at the woman's remains in another room. Something about the bones fascinated me. It was hard to believe they belonged to someone who had lived centuries ago. Who was this Maria Navarro? I couldn’t shake the image of the ghost I had seen, or the tragic deaths of Mr. Beltran and his daughter. Could something truly unexplainable have been the cause?

If Maria Navarro had indeed led a demonic cult, what happened to the other members? The suspense surrounding the unfolding mystery only deepened with every new detail I learned. I left the statues with Mr. Cisneros and returned to the hotel.

Before leaving his home, he introduced me to his beautiful daughter Selina. She was in her mid-twenties, with a radiant smile and striking turquoise-blue eyes. Her figure was slender, her skin smooth, and her ebony hair soft and silky to the touch.

Back at the hotel, I learned that one of the guests had been accidentally killed by a passing train the previous night. His body had been found dismembered near the tracks. A witness named Rafael Balderas reported the horrifying event.

According to him, both he and the deceased had seen the ghostly figure of a young girl—one that he described in detail. The sheer terror caused the man to leap into the tracks, apparently to avoid the apparition.

This was the witness’s sworn statement. The police weren’t convinced, lacking any solid evidence that the man was intentionally killed. In the end, they deemed it a tragic accident. Any mention of a ghostly presence was dismissed as superstition and exaggeration.

But to me, the witness seemed sincere—genuinely convinced it was no mere accident. The string of deaths and inexplicable events couldn’t just be coincidence. Something more was at work here, something darkly connected to the statues and the specter I had previously seen.

Could the mine have once served as a burial ground or a site of persecution during the Inquisition? I lacked the full knowledge, but my instincts told me that the land’s history was steeped in terrifying episodes from the past. A past I would soon find to be even more disturbing than I could ever imagine.

Events around the hotel were becoming so alarming that guests were leaving in haste. Rumors swirled about a secret cult, though nothing had been proven. The locals, deeply religious and superstitious, were increasingly uneasy.

While I still couldn’t explain the strange occurrences, I was sure something deadly and unholy was behind them. To an outsider like myself, talk of cults and black magic had always seemed like ancient folklore—but I now found myself wondering just how real those tales might be.

As I walked through the town, I noticed that some locals were hesitant to interact with foreigners. They weren’t unfriendly, just wary—perhaps unsure of the intentions of outsiders.

Later that day, I visited Professor Cisneros again. He welcomed me into his home and eagerly shared what he had discovered about the woman’s remains. What he told me was nothing short of extraordinary.

According to the historical documents he had uncovered, a formal inquisition took place in 1610 against those accused of witchcraft. Among twenty documented cases, the most prominent was that of Maria Navarro—a young Spanish woman and a known member of a secret cult.

I had many questions, but one was paramount: why was she buried in that cavern? Based on the professor’s analysis, the most likely explanation was that the mine’s cavern had once served as a secret gathering place for the cult.

He had also suggested that the reason she wasn't burned at the stake was merely coincidental. After examining the bones closely under a microscope—particularly the neck area—he discovered no visible marks, except those that might possibly indicate drowning.

The question that lingered in my mind was: who was this woman, truly, and why did she drown in the Rio Grande River, as the professor had implied? Unfortunately, I would never know the full answer. The professor could only speak of her esoteric origins and tragic end.

The idea that a woman from the 17th century had been considered a witch was enough to send chills down my spine and transcend my limited understanding of the Spanish Inquisition in Mexico. But there was another disturbing revelation that the professor shared with me. This Maria Navarro, who had mysteriously drowned in the Rio Grande, was a direct ancestor of his.

Apparently, one of Professor Cisneros’s ancestors had married Maria Navarro’s sister in the year 1685. That was the extent of what he could share about her. When I asked what he planned to do with the skeletal remains, he told me he intended to exhibit them in a private exposition once he had gathered more information.

His daughter Selina then showed me a marble statue made in the likeness of Maria Navarro. It was remarkable in its lifelike detail. Seeing it stirred a morbid sensation in me, as the statue bore an uncanny resemblance to Selina. I was utterly perplexed by the striking similarity.

The professor had commissioned an excellent sculptor to create the statue. It was almost impossible to believe that Selina shared these exact, detailed features with her ancestor. The connection to her lineage became immediately clear.

What remained hidden was the mystery surrounding the life and circumstances of Maria Navarro’s death. There was still so much to uncover, and so little time to explore the bizarre fragments of the past. I couldn't dismiss the ominous presence that the statue—and the remains—seemed to embody.

He handed me one of the smaller statues, telling me that in case anything happened to him, I would at least have one in my possession. I didn’t ask him to explain; I simply accepted it. He also asked that I send the larger marble statue of Maria Navarro to a museum in Saltillo if he were to die. At first, I thought he might be overreacting—but after experiencing the strange supernatural phenomena, I understood his concern.

I left the professor’s house and returned to the hotel, feeling changed. On the road back, I couldn’t stop thinking about Selina and her ancestral connection. I stopped at the Rio Grande and stepped out of my car. Something was whispering in my ears, urging me toward the river.

I was being pulled by some inner compulsion, a force from an otherworldly realm of evil. The whispers intensified with the wind, drawing me to the edge of the water. The current churned restlessly, like echoing gurgles from the depths. Then, from the riverbed, rose a pair of decrepit, bony hands—hands stripped of flesh. I saw her—her ghastly figure emerging from the very waters that had once condemned her.

She moved toward me as I stared in stunned disbelief. Her face was smeared with the filth of the river. She paused, then let out a horrific shriek before vanishing into thin air. I stumbled away from the riverbank, deeply shaken by what I recognized as a tormented phantom. It was impossible to comprehend the sheer terror released upon the world by the unearthing of Maria Navarro. No one knew that her ghost had risen to exact vengeance on the living.

What I had first imagined to be a young, innocent woman condemned to death now became something far more fearsome. That night, in my hotel room, as I stood before the mirror unbuttoning my shirt, I suddenly saw the image of a ghastly woman dressed head to toe in 17th-century black garments.

Her eyes were filled with terrifying intensity—dark and foreboding. At first, I stood frozen, unable to process what I was seeing. Then I reacted. Her terrifying image hovered for a moment before vanishing into the mirror. I had the strong sense that she had appeared for a specific purpose—one unknown to me.

She was a chilling reminder of the wandering spirits that roam the night, unbound and unrelenting. But this was only a prelude to the horrors that would follow. Nothing could prepare me for the relentless terror that would soon unfold.

What did her apparition mean? Had I truly seen the spirit of Maria Navarro?

If so, then what was happening to me—and to others in the area—was directly connected to the supernatural realm of immortal beings, dwelling in boundaries that defy human understanding. Who would believe me if I told them? How could I explain something so monstrous?

The hour of Maria Navarro’s wrath had come. And with it, the most horrifying consequences. Within an hour, another death would be reported. This time, it was Professor Cisneros.

Yes—the very professor who had revealed Maria Navarro’s origins to me.

His body was found floating lifeless in the Rio Grande.

I learned of his death when the police came to my hotel to ask about my visit. They knew I had been to his home, and they were curious about the nature of my visit.

Although I wasn’t considered a suspect, I knew they were watching me closely. It was disturbing to realize that those who had died were people I had either met or seen. I couldn’t shake the fear that I might somehow be implicated. I didn’t trust the local authorities with my safety.

So I resolved to leave the next morning, no matter the circumstances. I was convinced that if I stayed any longer, I would eventually be arrested. I didn’t share this decision with anyone—not even the police—for fear I’d be seen as a fugitive.

I no longer had the statues. The visions I had seen were disturbingly vivid and unique in their clarity.

As the trains roared past, I stood alone in my room, haunted by the deaths and apparitions that were now becoming a grim reality. I had a growing sense that I could be the next to die.

To those reading this account: know that I was not mad. On the contrary, I was fully aware of the danger I faced. I wasn’t an expert in the supernatural, but I had come face to face with a being that fit every definition of evil.

The concept of madness cannot be explored rationally when truth itself is bound to unspeakable horror. And that horror had not been created by me—but by something far darker.

How could I stop these fatal manifestations or prevent more deaths? I decided to stay in my room, in the two-story hotel, knowing full well I might be the next victim. Time passed with every ticking sound from the hallway clock, amplifying the dread.

I could barely eat or drink, wary of another spectral encounter—whether from Maria Navarro or another wicked spirit from some unknown dimension. I had no control. All I could do was wait for their return. But waiting brought no comfort—only deepening anxiety.

Soon, I could hear the thumping of my own heart, faster and louder, as the wind from outside blew the silk curtains inward. From my window, I could see the Rio Grande and hear the echo of the passing train—a chilling sound that would stay with me forever.

The fluttering wings of the pigeons had echoed, and then the phonograph in my room began playing music. Immediately, my intuitive sense told me that something beyond the strangeness of its nature was happening to me. I wanted to shout and inform the police officers who were patrolling the hotel and its perimeter, but what could I tell them that wouldn’t make them think I was paranoid or worse, insane?

I was helpless—I could do nothing, except wait and wait for the inevitable to arrive. To think that all of this began with a small statue. So many rapid thoughts were entering my mind, becoming more irrational than rational, more unclear than lucid.

As the minutes passed, the situation was evolving into an unbearable reality. The thought of destroying the statues, including the one made of Maria Navarro, was becoming a sign of my growing hysteria and lack of understanding of the supernatural realm of malediction.

I only had a vague understanding of demonic cults and witchcraft. In my university days, I had studied the arcana of mythology and the history of pagan religions. There was an unusual enigma lacking in its natural transparency. So far, it had burdened my consciousness and soul. Trying to rationalize with the unknown and the immortal seemed futile, and I had concluded in frustration that I could not decipher the significance of what was more than coincidental.

It was close to midnight when I left the hotel and headed towards the private residence of Professor Cisneros. I had managed to elude the watchful eyes of the policemen at the hotel. I sneaked through the veranda and into my car. The policemen were occupied with another guest at the time. Once I arrived at Professor Cisneros' house, I was able to enter through the back door that was mysteriously left open. There was no one present in the house, and I had checked before entering to ensure there was no one watching who might assume I was trespassing.

I proceeded cautiously as I walked through the spacious rooms of the house. I was uncertain about what would happen next. The only certainty I had was that the marble statue of Maria Navarro had to be destroyed immediately if the horrific curse was to be avoided.

I felt nervous as I finally approached the room where the statue was located. An eerie silence surrounded me, save for the sound of my footsteps. There was also a sense of the unknown, a factor that was increasing my fascination.

I stepped into the room and came face to face with the intimidating marble statue of Maria Navarro, but I would discover something shocking. There, lying on the floor, was Selina. The police had been alerted of my whereabouts and had arrived. I rushed to her to see what was wrong. It appeared that she had fainted suddenly. When I woke her, she was mumbling something about the marble statue. She then pointed at it with a horrified look in her eyes, her eyes bulging with sheer dread. I turned around to witness the monstrosity that was the animated statue.

The statue had come to life and began moving toward us. The devious spirit of Maria Navarro was attempting to enter Selina’s body, which lay lifeless. I could sense what was happening, and I grabbed Selina to snap her out of the powerful trance that had hypnotized her.

Seeing that I could not break the intense influence of Maria Navarro, I grabbed a metal rod I found and tried to strike the statue with all my force. But the statue stopped me, shoving me to the ground. When I regained my composure, it seemed it was too late. The wicked spirit of Maria Navarro had entered Selina’s body, possessing her physically in the mortal sense through black magic. The demonic spirit, dressed in 17th-century garb, began to laugh at us, as if to taunt us with devilish ire.

The policemen tried shooting at her, but the bullets didn’t penetrate or harm her. They were ineffective, and her immense spell began to seduce them with a possessive attraction that was hard to resist. It was then that the figure from the small statue came to life suddenly and grew to its full size. It was no longer a statue—it was a demon, with sharp claws and long nails. Its teeth were those of a wild beast, untamed, and its eyes were a reddish hue.

It attacked the policemen and killed one of them, while the other sought refuge behind a wall. The creature then lunged at me, but something unexpected happened. As it lunged, I accidentally knocked over the original statue, and it broke into pieces, causing the demonic beast to disappear into the stir of the night.

This gave me the idea that if I destroyed the original statue of Maria Navarro, she too would disappear for good and be cast back into the chasm of hell from which she came. As she was evoking the wandering spirits of her ancient cult to return to Earth, one by one they materialized.

Sensing she was distracted, I quickly destroyed the marble statue. It was too late for her to stop me. She could only curse me and resist, but to no avail. Her spirit exited Selina’s body, and her once-beautiful form faded into the mist of the night that had accompanied her return to the world of the living. A loud scream echoed as she vanished suddenly.

Gone was the wicked spirit of Maria Navarro, along with the other members who had materialized. I looked on in complete disbelief and consternation. I went to check on Selina, and she was her former self again. But she was clearly shaken by the ordeal and the events that followed. She was able to explain to me in concise details what she had been doing before she fainted.

She had heard a whispering murmur that called her to the room with the statue of Maria Navarro. When she entered, she was horrified to discover that the statue was alive, and she saw it move. That was all she told me about what happened. It was difficult to explain the evil that had manifested and to express the reality of the horror that was Maria Navarro.

All I can say is that she was from a bygone period long forgotten, and her spirit displayed an evil nature in its purest form. Whatever origin that evil came from, only time would reveal the true history of the account.

There were still the remains of Maria Navarro's bones to deal with. I had promised Professor Cisneros that I would send the bones to the city of Saltillo to be displayed at a public exhibition, but after experiencing the evil they represented, neither Selina nor I thought it was wise to hand the bone fragments over to the museum.

Thus, it was agreed between the two of us that we would destroy them by burning them in the furnace at the mine. No one saw us, and there was no mention of the incident to the local police or newspapers. I left the town of Piedras Negras and returned to Austin, but I would never forget the incredible and irrefutable events that occurred during my time there. The gruesome memories are still fresh, and every time I stay at a hotel, I am reminded of the irrepressible terror that was Maria Navarro.

Three days later, I found myself once again making my way back to Saltillo. The city, once quiet and almost picturesque in my previous memory, now seemed burdened with an ominous weight. My thoughts were clouded, and a gnawing sense of unease gnawed at my insides. I had hoped the burning of the bones would have been the final chapter, the culmination of everything I had endured. But the phone call from the museum curator had shattered that illusion. The events were far from over, and the thought of revisiting the scene where Maria Navarro’s curse had begun sent an icy shiver down my spine.

The town was as I remembered, though the air felt thicker now, filled with a kind of heavy stillness. I checked into a small hotel near the museum. It was far from luxurious, but the anonymity it offered was something I had grown accustomed to. There was no need for recognition, no need for conversations that could stir the painful recollections I had tried so hard to bury. I sat in the hotel room, the ticking of the clock loud in the silence, my mind racing with possibilities. The curator’s words had left too much unsaid, and the weight of their implications was almost unbearable.

That evening, I made my way to the museum. The building stood as a somber monument to the past, its grand stone façade softened by the quiet decay of time. The streets were nearly empty, and a veil of mist clung to the ground as though it had been summoned by something ancient. Inside, the dim lighting cast long shadows that danced on the walls. As I moved deeper into the exhibit, the museum’s air grew dense, and the walls seemed to close in, as if some unseen force was drawing closer with each step I took.

Luis Morales, the curator, had left no trace of his presence in the museum, and the eerie silence only amplified the dread creeping over me. It wasn’t long before I found myself standing before the eldritch exhibit that I had hoped to never see again—the remnants of the bones of Maria Navarro. The display case was dark and unassuming, but something about it felt wrong, as if the bones themselves were staring back at me, waiting.

It was then that I noticed something that sent a chill through my spine: the bones were no longer in the state I had left them. The fragments, once burned beyond recognition, had somehow reassembled themselves. They lay perfectly in place, as though the flames had never touched them at all. The reality of what I was seeing sent my pulse into overdrive. There was no rational explanation for this. The act of destroying them had felt final, had felt like the end of this nightmare. But now, standing before me, the pieces had returned—intact, whole, and ominous.

A lingering presence seemed to fill the room, as if something had awoken. The atmosphere had become oppressive, heavy with an ancient power that had remained dormant for too long. I stood frozen, unable to move, my mind frantically searching for an explanation that simply did not exist. It was then that I felt it—a tug, almost imperceptible, pulling me towards the case. Not physically, but something deep inside me, as though a force was guiding me, compelling me to engage with what I had tried so hard to destroy.

I backed away, attempting to regain control over the panic rising in my chest. But my retreat was cut short when I heard the soft, almost imperceptible sound of footsteps behind me. I spun around, heart racing, expecting to see Luis or some other museum staff member. But there was no one. Just the shadows, stretching longer with each passing moment, as if they were alive.

The next few hours were a blur of strange occurrences—shifts in temperature, shadows that flickered when there should have been none, and an overwhelming sensation that something dark and powerful was watching me. It was clear now that the destruction of the bones had not vanquished Maria Navarro. Her presence had simply been waiting for the right moment to resurface, to claim what she believed was hers.

I spent the night in the museum, unable to leave and move. I was utterly perplexed. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the curse had once again been awakened, and that the dark forces surrounding Maria Navarro had not only survived the flames but had grown stronger. The ancient magic that had once bound her to the mortal world had reasserted itself with a terrible vengeance.

As the night wore on, I realized that the only way to break this curse for good—if such a thing were even possible—was to confront it directly, to finally destroy the remnants of Maria Navarro’s power. But there was a catch: to do so would require more than physical force. The curse was rooted in something far more ancient, something that transcended time and logic. It was tied to the intrinsic essence of the statue, to the spirit that had once been trapped within it.

I left the museum early the next morning, my thoughts distorted by an overwhelming sense of urgency. The pieces of Maria Navarro’s bones still lay in the display case, as if waiting for me to do something. But I knew now that any attempt to physically destroy them would be futile. The curse wasn’t bound by the physical world. It was bound to something deeper, something that no mere destruction could undo.

I made my way to the outskirts of Piedras Niegras, to the abandoned mine that had long been closed off to the public. This was the place where the ancient rituals had once been performed, where the dark powers had been invoked and bound. It was said that the earth here was tainted with the remnants of old magic, a place where the veil between worlds was thinner than anywhere else.

There, in the heart of that forsaken place, I would have to find a way to banish Maria Navarro once and for all. It wasn’t a matter of destroying physical remains anymore—it was a matter of severing the tie between her spirit and the mortal realm. And for that, I would need to face something far more terrifying than any demon I had ever encountered.

The journey to the mine was not an easy one. The landscape seemed to shift as I walked, the ground beneath my feet uneven, as if I were being led by an unseen hand. The closer I got to the mine, the stronger the pull became. It was as if the earth itself was beckoning me to come, to witness the final act in this twisted tale.

As I descended into the mine, the air grew colder, and the silence was absolute. It was a feeling I had not experienced before, a quiet so deep that it felt as though all sound had been swallowed whole by the earth. I stood at the entrance, knowing that the moment of reckoning had arrived.

This would be the final confrontation, the one that would either destroy Maria Navarro’s curse for good or let it consume everything in its path. The flames of destruction, the darkness of the curse—it all led to this moment. And whether I emerged from it unscathed or not, I knew one thing: I would never again be the person I once was. Black Rocks would forever be stitched in my mind, and Maria Navarro would be an inescapable memory.

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