Page 73 of Castle of the Cursed
It’s almost like this room has been waiting for me, and I wonder if maybe it’s not supposed to stay hidden. Maybe it’s meant to be found.
I sit down. The message has been inked in a cursive so perfect, it could be a computer font. It’s in Spanish, but as I focus on the words, they morph into English in my mind, as if I were viewing them through a phone camera’s translation app.
This is the castle’s doing, not mine.
Dear Grandchild,
If you are reading these words, you are my descendant.
I leave you these books so you may fill their pages with your stories and spells, to be preserved and passed down for posterity.
My power will be inherited only by those born with a living reflection: the identical twins. Brálaga magic comes in pairs, with each sibling keeping the other in balance.
Remember that great power comes only with great sacrifice. For those who dare to pursue greatness, there is a spell enclosed in a red book that provides passage to the other castle, my home, for a child of no more than five years of age. The other twin must remain as an anchor.
I prophesize that one day, one of these children will become the first Earth-born supernatural being. When that happens, Brálaga blood will be the building block of magic on Earth.
This is our legacy.
Your grandfather,
Brálaga
My palms are itchy, my breaths are shallow, my heart is racing.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
I see the black flames again, consuming the purple wallpaper, and if I weren’t already sitting down, I would fall.
Now I know why I never felt the fire’s burn in my memories. I could see it, but I couldn’t feel it. The perspective was wrong: I was watching the scene, not experiencing it.
And not because I was disassociating—but because I was witnessing.
I think of the photos and the death certificate in the purple room. My expression in the smiling picture has been bothering me since I saw it. I thought it had to do with the person behind the lens, but now I know why my smile felt wrong: I never had a chip in my front milk tooth.
I wasn’t the girl in the black fire.
She was my twin.
12 YEARS AGO
“UNO, DOS, TRES, CUATRO, CINCO, seis…” I count off in a game of hide-and-seek. “¡Siete, ocho, nueve, diez!”
I turn around when I get to ten, my vantage point lower than usual.
“Lista o no, ¡aquí voy!” I say, to the tune of Ready or not, here I come!
I dart down a crimson corridor and pop out by the dining hall. I look under the long table, but no one’s there. The aroma of garlic and onions frying in oil invades my nostrils, and I slip into the kitchen, where two women in uniform are dicing vegetables on the counter while something bakes in the oven.
“La señora said to keep el señor’s meal salt-free.”
“I know. The chocolate cake is almost ready.”
They’re speaking in Spanish, but I understand every word. I’m tempted to glide a pinkie across the chocolate icing when I glance out the window and see something that makes me run from the castle.
The heavy front door is already open, and I rush to the garden. It’s vibrant and healthy and well-tended. I approach a plant with floppy leaves. “Outside doesn’t count,” I say in Spanish.
A voice identical to mine floats out from the foliage. “You said you wanted a real challenge for a change.”
