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The Wraiths Of The Calahorra
The Wraiths Of The Calahorra

The Wraiths Of The Calahorra

Franc68Lorient Montaner

'Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time we people the void with phantoms'.—Guy de Maupassant

No man could ever survive terror and narrate the ghastly tale that I had witnessed, for it is too surreal to believe, such dire occurrences as being realistic in their derivation. It is my solemn duty as an Andalusian to avow that of which pertains to the unusual nature of my country's history. As an established man of virtue and honour, I have always considered myself, a man of supreme reason and intellect, but the images of the praeternatural beings that haunted the Tower of the Calahorra in Córdoba were that of imprisoned wraiths that had manifested, as a lingering force of an ineffable realm of existence trapped indubitably in time. My name is Juan Carlos Talavera, a prisoner sent to the tower of horror in the year 1815. I had been accused and convicted of a serious crime of which I had professed my innocence. My charge was inciting the suppressed voices for independence, from the Spanish monarchy and their disenthronement.

The country had been recuperating its identity after the incursion of Napoleon, and the dominion of the French imposed upon Spain. There were just voices of dissent and clamours for the formation of a republic. Unfortunately, those who dared to be brash in their remonstrance were arrested and sent to prison to suffer a Rhadamanthine punishment, as in my case. The colonies had begun the idea of revolt also, against the hypocrisy of the aristocracy and their perquisites within the Americas, in search of their emancipation from Spanish control. The uncertainty in the progress of the country had caused many to leave and find better fortunes outside of Europe. It was my original attention to depart from the port of Cádiz, but I was unable to upon my forced apprehension. At the time, I had no wife or children to burden my lengthy sentence.

The dreaded prison that I was sent to, stood erect before a venerable Roman Bridge that was surrounded by the flowing currents of the bank of the Guadalquivir River. It was once a fortress of antiquity, built in the 12th century by the Almohad Caliphate. The prison had three impressive square towers, medieval battlements, embrasures and holes where the artillery was situated and shot from at those, who had dared to besiege the enclosure during an attack that would be repelled. Upon the façade there was a conspicuous coat of arms that had displayed vividly, the kingdom of Castille and Leon. It was a stark reminder of the downfall of the Moors and the supremacy of the reconquest of Spain by the Catholic monarchs, who had exiled them and their descendants the Moriscos from the country, with their deracination.

The first day of my imprisonment was spent watching from my cell of the dungeon, the spry egrets wading within the shallows of the river near a watermill, and listening to the devout worshipers converse openly, whilst leaving sprigs of rosemary at the small shrine of San Rafael, the patron of Córdoba. I was condemned to an isolation that would cause my mind to drift into a ceaseless despair and murk. I had no idea of the actual numbers of prisoners that were present. Those that were adjacent to me, were not much talkative or busied with idle conversations. There was an eerie silence at times, and other moments that were stirred, by maddening screams and pains of those that were in agony. It was difficult for me to ignore the resounding echoes of pleas and the incertitude that had amassed, with the unknown fate of the plight that many of us prisoners were deemed to be the face of its injustice.

The interior structure of the prison had eight chambers, three storeys and adamantine walls of wrought masonry. There were prison guards that would rotate in their strict vigilance. The screeching of the gnawing rats and hissing roaches were pervasive throughout the prison. I was the only prisoner in the sombre cell that I was assigned. Its walls were covered in the stench of putrid mould, and the floor had certain cracks that were stained in stammel blood. If there was ever a moment that was questionable, it was the hour of my death. My sentence was dictated upon me with imposition, and it would seem that the procurement of my freedom was something that was unattainable. The night had fallen and a light from the moon could be seen entering the recesses and window of my solitary cell. It was often the gleaming eye that would reveal the sinister deeds of the night, and it gave me more than a shiver and realisation of where my new abode was situated at. There was an unsettling moment, where I could see the sable silhouette of my shadow come into view.

As that vague image had manifested clearly, I then could see the singular form of another shadow that was inconclusive at the time. All I could see materialised in the perceptible veil of darkness was a shade of semblance that was either someone or something. I was not even certain that it was humanlike in its quintessential form, or if it was a spectral shadow that had trodden over the sublunary ground at will. It was the first of my numerous encounters that I would experience, with the insoluble images that would haunt me with an inscrutable ire and dauntingness. I had not known vengeance, until I had met the imprisoned wraiths that had been exiled to the prison of the tower of the Calahorra. I had heard before about the unrelenting cruelty of quondam prisoners of centuries ago at the tower, but I would never imagine the severity of the conception of its true horror in person.

For the rest of the night, I had pondered the origin of the shadowy figure that had appeared, as I had listened to the grating on the rusty hinges of the iron bars of my cell resound. Was I dreaming, or did I actually see a genuine apparition reveal itself to me clandestinely? It was impossible to sleep, due to the sporadic noise of the fluttering pigeons outside and the nightly revelry of the locals, who would carouse with prostitutes at the bank of the river, under the Roman Bridge. The life of a prisoner at the Calahorra was a life of unbearable torment and hell. It had seen many men perish and exit in the loneliness of a wooden coffin. Was this to be my ultimate destiny? I was a man without family of my own, but I had not forgotten the woman that I had loved and once married, my beloved Sofia. Time would separate our irreversible course of fate as well. That I had believed.

The first rays of sunlight I would feel caress the pallid lineaments of my countenance, were precisely the morning thereafter. It was the surreal indication of the indiscreet nature of my circumjacence. I had awakened many times before to the soothing effects of the auburn sun in my life as a traveller. However, the drear and dull effects of my imprisonment had rendered me unable to enjoy a fain sunlight or moonlight anew. From the day I had stepped inside the forlorn prison, they would both be the reflection of the irony of my presage. I had quickly realised that my days of felicity were tainted then, by the baleful obtenebration of my solitude and tremulant silence. Henceforth, it had been only a matter of time before I started to succumb to the bane of insanity. I could not submit to that inconceivable notion volitionally.

As a prisoner, my time was occupied in menial toils that had involved the maintenance of the tower inside during the day or the restricted confinement of my reality at night. None of which I had preferred or had conceived, as being the routine that would mark my life with its onerous consequence. Life in this prison soon resulted in the cessation of years for many, or the prolongation of the suffering for others. Neither one of these circumstances was a benefit nor a blessing. It was just the stark reality that each prisoner faced upon his ill-fated stay at the Calahorra. I was a middle-aged man of a medium build and height. Whatever misery that had occurred to me would be attributed to the wrath of the chastisement imposed upon me. The prison had so many untold secrets of concealment and unresolved enigmas that had remained elusive.

We were fed morsels of bread and meat, but treated no better than the mongrels that had guarded the outer walls of the prison at night. They were the intimidating enforcers of observance that were there to prevent our possible escape or attempt. Their incessant barking and intense howling could be heard, within the nocturnal eeriness that was engulfed by the shroud of mist that was encompassing the landscape, as the horses of carriages passed. A gradual gloom would accompany the nights and follow the predecessor of the fainting twilight. Bohemian Gypsies would sing, as the strings of a Flamenco guitar resonated with such fervent passion. There was never a night that I did not experiment the cruelty of my confinement, and the certain irony of that was well-illustrated in the lack of animation that was seen in the faces of the prisoners abreast my cell. We were considered dissolute people.

One day I recall precisely, whilst I was in one of the corridors cleaning, I could see the image of a stranger in one of the upper towers. It was a tall shadow that had emerged from the opacity that was blurry at first. It then had materialised into a man dressed in distinct robes of an inquisitor of the days of yore. I looked on uncertain of what I had seen. The figure did not move or attempt to do anything. He just gazed into my eyes with a selcouth fixation, before he had disappeared. Was it another spectre that was wandering aimlessly in the Calahorra? The more that I thought about it, the more I had started to think that perhaps the confabulatory stories of ghosts haunting the prison were indeed credible in their relevance. If not, then what else could be better utilised in the description for these abnormalities?

The large towers were covered in thick slime of fungus and ivy. The insoluble mystery of their past was forever linked to the nature of the inquisitors that had doomed men and women to their abandoned isolation. I could smell the earthy moss exuding, like a seeping scent that was fading with the passage of time. The Andalusian nights were haunted by the presence of spectral shapes of tenebrosity. From one of the chambers beside me, I could hear the plangent wails of a faceless and nameless woman. I did know why the woman was brought to the prison, or what was her ultimate fate. Whatever it was, it was certainly not one full of felicity and mirth. History would relate the horrors of the abominable acts of the inquisitions, inscribed in records that were secretly kept from the masses of the general public. Few inquisitors would pay for their injustices imposed upon the prisoners of the Calahorra.

As the weeks had transpired, I began to fear that rationality would cause me to lapse in profound episodes of apprehension and consternation. These weeks had felt like a ponderance of years and had lost the urgency to mark the passing of my capture. I thought mostly about the past than the present or future, because the present was just as opaque and direful as my future. It was in the past, where I cherished mainly my life. The hours were inescapable, as were the redounding sounds that were vociferated by those whose redoubtable valour had been broken and defeated. I took notice of the men who were around me. Their unhealthy and haggard guises reflected the uncouth nature of their condemnation. From amongst the prisoners, there were not only men of nobility, but also, thieves, heathens and political prisoners such as myself.

Upon one night, the cimmerian shadow of the apparition had reappeared to me in my deplorable cell within an ebon hue. Its materialisation was much more evident than the previous occasion. It was apparent that it was a ghostly figure that had emerged from the harrowing shadows of the restless nights of the Calahorra. Had it come to torment me or seek revenge? I slowly rose to my feet, as it stood over me towering, as I held a candle in my hand nervously. I was hesitant to react, because I was unsure of what was occurring in front of my eyes. If it was an actual revenant whose spirit had returned to the world of mortals, then how many others were still lurking in the drear shadows of the Calahorra unannouncedly? My first impression was of sheer fright, but this would be replaced by the immediate urge to discover the truth. I would have to wait until another meeting. The ghost would disappear suddenly in the thin air. However, before he did, he had scribbled on the wall clearly his name and surname, which was Ismael Medina. A wisp of smoke had risen from the candle for several minutes after I blew it out.

When the next morning had arrived, I had asked myself who was this Ismael Medina, and why was he tormenting me? At the time, I had suspected that he had been a prisoner at the Calahorra, and somehow unbeknownst to me, he had perished inside its fortified structure. This was of little consolation to me. I needed to know more about him, if I was to understand the authenticity of his story. The only thing that I could relate to possibly, was the ordeal of his imprisonment, which I had imagined was as heinous as my own, or perhaps worse. Regrettably, for me, there were no living survivors of his time period that could offer any credible testimony. I would have to wait to see if the apparition would eventually speak to me, in pronounced words that I could fully interpret.

My time imprisoned had given me thoughts to contemplate, and it was difficult to spend them wisely, when confronted by the veracity of my situation. I had often allowed the sounds outside of my cell to distract myself when possible, but the metallic sounds of the bells of the cathedral nearby announcing the vespers and the zephyrs of whispers were an irrepressible reminder of my confinement. Hitherto, my world was nothing more than the unpleasant isolation that had surrounded me daily. How much could any reasonable man endure, before the unwavering strength of his mind was overcome by the destructive bouts of surreality? Within the span of two months of my time there at the Calahorra, I saw things that no man should have to witness or listen to the countless cries and pleas of other men, who were rapidly losing their grip on reality and fading into their whirlpool of madness.

The indiscernible nature of the origin of the ghost would continue to linger in my thoughts, and the trammels of gloom penetrated like a sharp dagger. The poor quality of food that we were served was ripping away my incisive bones, and the shred of garments we were issued were rags of cloths that would tear at the seam of the edges. It was a graduation of death that was unavoidable and intentional. My time as a prisoner did not break my resolve and conviction, as those who had imprisoned me were determined to exact their punishment upon me. Verily, my trial was unfair, and I was never given the opportunity to defend myself before the tenacious judges, who had condemned me to the four walls of my solitary cell. On the account of that injustice, I was sent to serve my sentence at the prison of the Calahorra without delay.

The dull and dusky shades of the walls of the cell would sometimes cast a crude reflection of the sun or the moon. This was a sobering sign that despite my captivity, I still dwelt amongst the mortals that were present. After all, I was human in my natural constitution. However, there were distressing moments when I was treated like an untamed beast unnecessarily. I made few acquaintances at the prison, but none of which I had confided my intimate secrets to. Prison was not a place for convivial gatherings, for it was a harsh environment to tolerate and accept unwillingly. Death was an every day occurrence. I had no solemn occasions to remember the names of those who would die. As soon as one man's body was taken out of the prison of the Calahorra, another man would be entering, as a new prisoner destined to his inevitable misery.

One day I was assigned to clean the towers of the Calahorra, and once more, I would see the dreadful image of the inquisitor. This time, he would manifest before me plainly. I did not see him, until I had felt his immediate presence. There was a cold draught, and I had sensed something odd, as I turned around to see. Naturally, my expression was of utter disbelief. I had called on him, asking him to reveal his name, but he did not make any disclosure of his identity. Instead, he had uttered the words of "Repent of thy sins, before thou art sent to purgatory!" It was a direct warning given to me so vividly. I had tried to make sense of the words he had ejaculated and the occurrence also, but they were incomprehensible and too ambiguous to decipher. Thus, the mystery had prolonged, and with it were the innumerable revenants.

I had received a letter from Sofia. We were given few privileges, yet the one that I would cherish would be receiving letters. No one from my immediate family, whose surname I bore had written me before. Sofia was the only one. In the letter, she had expressed her regret for not believing in me and for not standing by my side, through the trial. Her reason was more out of fear and retaliation to her family. I had forgiven her and wrote to her demonstrating that genuine intention. I was so content to read her words of admission, and more importantly, her devotion still for me declared. I had not stopped loving her, in spite of the laden tribulation that I was to tolerate. Her affection for me was the only thing that had inspired me to continue to live, when the drowning voices of suicide were always present and nigh.

It was during one morning of autumn, when I was visited again in my cell, by the terrible spectre that would roam the halls of the Calahorra, with heavy shackles that were rattling, along with other uninvited phantoms. He appeared before me, as previously he had, but he was becoming more apparent in his appearance. I could make out his attire, but not his countenance. He was dressed in eccentric garbs that were from the 17th century. This time, I was less frightened and more fascinated with the encounter. I wanted to know about him, his story, his plight, his time as a prisoner. I knew only of his name and surname, but I did not know his appellation to which I could address him personally. I began to speak to him as Señor, with the hope that he would utter words of lucidity that I could realise their actual signification.

He had remained mute and aloof in his comportment towards me. He did not seek to intimidate me. Instead, he wanted to communicate with me, through the medium of words that he would scribble on the walls. I was extremely attentive and patient, as he began to scribble words that were evidently tangible to be read. In the end, what was written were the words of "I have come to you, so that you may know of me and who I was in the world that I once was a part of. Beware of the eyes of the others who roam the prison with ire and evil". That was all he wrote. There was an urgency in him, as if someone was following him. He had quickly disappeared once more into the confines of the prison walls, but before he left he had released a phantasmagoric shriek that had deafened my ears. There was a haunting and conticent expression in me thereafter, as if my mind was absorbing the disturbing perils of death.

The winter had arrived and with it, a new prisoner to share my once solitary cell of banishment. The poor soul whose name I would be told was Don Pedro. He was a frail man of constitution and was a devout monk, who had revolted against the hierarchy of the Catholic Church in Córdoba. Nothing more I knew of him, nor did I care to enquire. It was obvious to me upon seeing his fragility that he would not live much longer, under the harsh confinement of the prison. Our conversations were centred more on our political views and our passion for the just cause of liberty. He asked me how long I had been a prisoner. I had answered with candour—too long. I had tried to animate his gaunt face, for his pallor was much more transparent than mine. I had a great measure of respect for him, not because I was a practitioner of his faith, but I admired his conviction and struggle.

The prison guards were not less lenient towards him and others who were old and fragile. He was expected to toil in the arduous travails of others. This was the horrendous imposition of the cruelty that was enforced upon us all who were prisoners. Many of us had endured the invasion of Napoleon and his legion of soldiers, with resistance and valour when we were summoned to defend the homeland. Not even Napoleon could eradicate the corruption within the government of Spain. For centuries the country had stolen the enormous riches of the Americas to be then be seized by the French afterwards. How quickly my good fortune had be reversed, and I was suffering under the wrath of my own rulers, who would usurp the opulence of the noble classes and impose taxes on the less distinguishable lower classes devilishly.

The monk would spend manifold hours in the cell praying in the evening, whilst I would spend my time attempting to devise in my mind the mystery about the Morisco ghost. He would perceive my distraction and asked me about what was affecting me at that time. I had addressed him as Don Pedro.

'What is on your mind my friend?'

'Where do I begin to tell you?'

'Naturally, from the beginning'.

'Do you believe in phantasms Don Pedro?'

'That all depends. As a man of fate, I believe that the souls of those who have perished are in a state of purgatory'.

'Do you mean in a state of nowhere?' I asked.

'Not exactly, for it is indicative of a place where judgement day shall be imposed'.

'Imposed? Where?'

'Here on the earth'.

'If I told you that I have been visited by a certain ghost, would you believe me? Or would you think that I was insane?'

'I myself have not seen one, but there is always the possibility of one appearing before our eyes'.

'Well...I tell you Don Pedro that I have been visited by one, and his name is Ismael Molina'.

'Are you certain about that?'

'Yes indeed!'

As we were talking, the recurrent revenant had returned. His ebony shadow had emerged from the adamantine walls of the cell. Immediately, I knew it was him. The monk was so startled by the apparition that he unfortunately, suffered a heart attack and would be dead then. I tried to revive him, but to no avail. The ghost had come to warn me in a message about an ominous presence. Once more he had started to scribble on the walls sporadically. The words that I would read were the following in their contents, "Beware of the inquisitor, for he is approaching nigh. Quick, prepare yourself, for he will not be kind to you. He is evil—the Devil incarnated". That was the extent of his admonition. Where could I find refuge from a praeternatural being that roamed the halls of the Calahorra that I had seen on two occasions?

I took with a serious regard the warning of the Morisco ghost, even though, the daemonic one that he had forewarned had not yet materialised to me. Who was I to doubt such a terrifying being of an insidious nature, after encountering him? Amidst the impenetrable darkness that had pervaded over the structure of the towers there were plenty of imperceptible phantoms that were haunting the area. I had begun to have vivid nightmares about the evil one mentioned to me, and they were indicative of an impending doom. There was nothing I could do to prevent the materialisation of this abominable entity. Thus, I could only prepare myself for the inevitability of this encounter if it was to result true. The world that was my palpable reality had long since vanished, when I had entered the prison that would condemn me.

New prisoners were brought, whilst others were taken away in bags that would be taken to a graveyard to be buried, or that was what I had believed, until I would learn afterwards that this was not the case. Everything that I thought rational about humanity was no longer conducive to the realm of reality that I was surrounded with its constant horrors. It was impossible to not be affected by these horrors, when one was confined in such a limited space that was my cell and the structure of the towers. This medieval fortification was never intended to be a prison. I was reduced to being a savage than a man, and my health was gradually deteriorating even more by each passing day. It was only a matter of time, before I would completely yield to the unbearable exploitation of my physical strength. This I would ponder in my deliberation day and night.

For the remainder of my duration at the Calahorra, I would not share the cell with another prisoner. Due to the winter, I could feel the bitter and grim effects of its coldness. There were no hearths or fireplaces to heat one's shivering body. There was a furnace that was added in one of the chambers to burn to brands and ashes the dead. This had become the normality, which was abhorrent in its usage and practice. Thus, was this my ultimate fate? We were given extra blankets, but not even these cloths were sufficient to warm oneself during the cold nights. The prison guards would have the refuge of their homes to return to. We who were prisoners, on the other hand, were not that fortunate in our accommodations. Our sentence had deprived us of that possibility. There were times when I had assumed of my death than my freedom. I do not know, if these were the actual derivations of delusions concocted, or my depleting mental faculties displayed.

I had waited in anticipation for the phantom of the Morisco to reappear. However, weeks would transpire and no visit from him. Was he suddenly vanquished to the abode of the immortals from whence he originated? Or was there something more sinister that was awaiting me that I was unaware of its presence? I had tried to not think about the bad things that were conjured in my mind. How could I avoid something that was not from this world of the living? Something that was concealed deeply within the mysterious realm of the unnatural. I had grown up hearing about ghosts all my life. It is not a question of whether they are existential in our world or where they come from solely? Instead, why do they haunt us the living? I suppose that only time could reveal that secret eventually.

I had received another letter from Sofia. It came at a moment, when I had been sinking into the deep sorrows of the sullen solitude that was my hollow cell. What she had written had invigorated my senses. She had again declared her love for me. I was not certain that what I was reading was true, but in the end, it was enough for me to cling on to a convincing measure of hope. Even when that hope had appeared to be dismal in its aspiration. It was a temporary response to my gnawing solicitude. I had decided to write her back an especial letter, emphasising my token of appreciation and acceptance of this affection. Sadly, it was the only thing that I could occupy my pleasant dreams, for they were rare. Most of the time, they were too depressing and miserable to be considered relevant.

After waiting and waiting for the Morisco apparition for months, I had begun to doubt that he would ever come back. The apparent decline in my health had returned, and I was unable to concentrate on reasonable thoughts that I struggled to keep that had accompanied me, during lonely nights of mundane despair. To describe the sensation was analogous to the vaguery of the presentiment that torments a prisoner, with a vengeance. I could hear from my cell, the continual dew drops of the fallen rain of the morning. Were the pluvial pools the precursor to the abatement of my obnubilate nightmares or the nature of my fate? Had my mind reached the impassable point of no return? Whatever is to be explained of the succession of events that had occurred thereafter, know that I can bear witness only to those of which I had part been of its concurrence, as the quantifiable truth.

It was upon the last day of winter, when I had managed to regain my vigour afresh for a brief period of time. Enough to allow me to write a final letter to Sofia. I knew of my limitations, but I did not know for how long I could continue to resist with my ailing health. Every minute was as precious, as the recent or last experienced. I could feel the air of my breath, like a vapour of steam that had caressed my cheeks. When I had finished writing, I had remained seated in the bed of my chamber reflecting on the possibility of my death. The recurrent theme of insanity had seized my fears and consternation. It was an intense battle, between rationality and hysteria that would pursue me on to the utmost limits of reality. I had believed that my sanity was kept intact, and the utility of my knowledge was extremely vital to my percipience.

During that time of my contemplation, a creeping phantasm had appeared before me, and it happened to be exactly, the one that I was forewarned by the Morisco, the inquisitor. The precarious nature of my ordeal was superseded by the presence of this dreaded spectre, who would appear unannounced to me. His towering, dark shadow was threatening and intimidating, without a doubt. Had he come for my soul? Had he sought revenge? I had looked on with absolute amazement, as he stood in front of me. He had uttered the words of "Repent of thy sins or be cast into hell!" He had forced a stridulous noise that was deafening to my audition. I fell to the ground immediately, as there was silence afterwards. It was interrupted by the realisation that I was still alive. I had survived the wicked presence of the puissant inquisitor. This effectual admission I disclose had enlivened my spirits and made me ponder the impermanence of human existence.

In the morning, I had awakened to the violent stir outside that was caused by a tumultuous revolt, unbeknownst to me. People had entered to liberate the prisoners from their unjust condemnation. My cell was opened, by a stranger who did not identify himself. He was just an anonymous man, who had reacted to the clamour of injustice evoked. Along the way, I could see the dead faces of some of the guards that were killed lying on the ground of the first storey. The others had escaped through a secret passage. I had happened to see them flee. No one had seen me enter this passage. Once I had entered, I had discovered chests of treasures that were gold in their substance and abundance. I was astonished by this discovery. I had opened one of the chests and had grabbed, as much as I could have of the gold with a goblet that was inside. I had put the pieces of gold coins and jewelry that encrusted the rings with gems, inside my garments and then had exited the prison stealthily. The Morisco ghost had reappeared one last time. It was as if, he knew about the treasures. He had looked at me, then he vanished to be never be seen again by me. There are some people who say that the antagonistic ghost that haunts the towers and had appeared to me as the infamous inquisitor was no other than Gonzalo Jiménez de Cisneros. The irremissible villain.

There was so much commotion that no one who had entered the prison from outside had dared to check on the passage. The revolt would be ultimately quelled, and some of the prisoners who had managed to escape were apprehended anew. As for me, I had eluded capture. I had left the city of Córdoba and headed towards Portugal, whereupon I had left on a ship that departed for South America, in particular Brazil with Sofia on a new adventure. I would leave with the gold I had discovered. Before I had left, I had been told that the Moors had hidden in the Calahorra priceless treasures that they had amassed, during the glorious reign of Al Andalus, which was Islamic Spain. I had a headstone in a cemetery erected, engraved with the proud name of Ismael Medina. This was done in his honour and appellation. The Calahorra would no longer serve as a prison and was converted into a fortification once more. I never returned to Córdoba, but my memories of my homeland were always embedded in my thoughts considerably. My health had slowly improved, but the scars that would suffer in my imprisonment mental and physical had haunted me afterwards. I did not forget the valiant men that had perished in that horrific prison, for the sake of posterity. Nor the shadowy souls that roamed the days and nights of the Calahorra.

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About The Author
Franc68
Lorient Montaner
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