Page 14 of Castle of the Cursed
I lived in a remodeled attic with my parents in Durham, North Carolina, while Mom wrote a string of stories on Duke University’s women’s soccer team and their undefeated season. The space had a small triangular window, and I loved looking through it and watching the wind whisper to the golden treetops, scattering their coppery leaves across the air.
I stare as Felipe is swallowed by the light, and I think of Alice going down the rabbit hole. Except in the real world, girls don’t follow strange boys into attics.
I reach for one of the books featured in the Leyendas Locales display. It’s glossy and thin. In fact, all of these la Sombra books are brief. They’re more accurately booklets with hard covers.
I flip through the pages. They feature mainly artistic photographs of the castle’s exterior and the town of Oscuro. There’s no more information in here than what’s in the Wikipedia entry. After centuries of existence, this town has less public history than most new businesses. I feel the ghost of a tickle in my gut as I consider how many secrets that adds up to—
“Are you looking for the real history of la Sombra?”
For a moment I wonder if I’m speaking out loud. Then I look at Felipe, and I remember he’s not just a strange boy. He’s also a bookseller.
I nod in assent.
“We have better books, but they aren’t for sale. They’re my family’s private collection. I can show you, but you’ll have to come upstairs.”
He climbs the ladder again, and the light overhead flickers, like clouds eclipsing the sun. I have the strangest sense of déjà vu, but I shrug it off. Felipe might be my first lead here.
I climb all fifteen rungs, and I see a desk, a couch, a wall of filing cabinets, a kitchenette, and bookshelves crammed with tomes that seem too old and in too much disrepair to sell. Overhead, a skylight illuminates every corner of the attic.
Felipe sinks onto one of two stools at a high table in the kitchen area. There’s just a sink, microwave, and fridge. I slide onto the stool next to his and see that a book has already been placed on the table. I don’t realize I’m reaching for it until the text is in my hands.
The cover is a faded black, void of text or images. I open it and finger the rough pages. There’s no title. No author. No printing or copyright info.
“It’s made of leather stretched over wooden binding,” says Felipe, and I nod like that means something.
Even though the book seems weakened with age, it doesn’t feel fragile. It has a sturdiness, like it was bound in a time when words had more heft.
“We can start our Spanish lessons here if you like,” says Felipe, and I set the book back down on the table. “This is the first text of record published about castillo Brálaga. It dates back to the 1600s.”
The first few pages are blank, marked only by the yellowing of time. Then the first line of ink appears:
La maldición del castillo
I tap the sentence, waiting for him to translate.
“The curse of the castle,” he says. “Maldición means curse.”
I flip the page, and Felipe says: “This is the author’s introduction, but they never reveal their name. They write that this book is the result of years of research and interviews, made up of witness accounts, diary excerpts, news articles, and personal correspondence.”
We spend hours poring through the opening pages.
Since the Spanish is so archaic, Felipe only stops to point out a word or a phrase now and then, but mostly he’s just translating the content. I doubt the outdated language would be relevant today.
At long last, we make it to the first chapter. “Chapter one,” he translates. “The earliest written record I could find appears in a journal approximated to be from the 1300s. Are you hungry?”
I frown, confused by the author’s writing. Then I look up from the page to see Felipe is asking me a question. I shake my head, but my stomach dissents loudly.
He chuckles and grabs a sandwich from the fridge that’s already parted in half. He gives me one part and chomps on the other as he scans the next lines and inwardly translates them before speaking.
I stare at the baguette on a small plate in front of me; from what I can see, it has a filling of ham, tomato, and cheese. I inhale, and I’m hungry—but by my exhale, I’m nauseous. It’s been like this on and off for so long.
“The journal describes a black castle”—Felipe translates, pointing to the page where it says castillo negro—“at the crest of a cliff. There isn’t much else until the 1500s,” he reads, “when the place became known for flinging its doors open for full moon parties—fiestas de luna llena—that would go on for days.”
Felipe falls silent again as he wolfs down his half in three bites and reads ahead. “Whatever happened at these parties remains a secret,” he translates after swallowing, and when he glances at me, I glean a warning from his gaze. “Anyone rumored to have attended a full moon party was never heard from again.”
My eyes feel extra dry, and I force myself to blink a few times.
Felipe closes the book. “I think this was the wrong place to start. I have some workbooks—”
