Page 9 of Castle of the Cursed
The woman who steps out is tall, yet she’s dwarfed by the doorframe. She has the same shape as Mom—a narrow hourglass—and similarly sharp features, including high cheekbones and a straight nose. But that’s where their similarities end.
Mom was always in jeans, and her favorite tops had vivid colors and asymmetrical patterns. She also preferred to wear her hair loose and untamed, but my aunt keeps her curls corralled in a tight bun that tugs on her face.
Wearing a floor-length, long-sleeved black dress that hugs her figure, Beatríz looks exactly how I would envision the owner of this castle—a few centuries ago.
She gives me two kisses, one on each cheek.
“Bienvenida, Estela.”
She must see something in my expression because she follows up her Spanish greeting with slightly accented English. “Welcome home at last.”
Tension closes in my stomach like a fist. Something about the words feels like more than a greeting. As if this were not just my first home, but my final one.
She looks down at my solitary duffel and studies the area for more bags. But on the road, you learn to let go of material possessions. They only slow you down.
She surveys the street beyond the iron fence, and I wonder if she’s looking for the driver. After a moment, she gestures for me to follow her inside.
There’s nothing warm about Beatríz’s demeanor, and any hopes of Mom’s sister being like her are dashed.
As I step into la Sombra’s entrance hall, it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. Illumination comes from what must be candles bracketed high up on the walls. I can’t see if they’re real or electric because they’re encased in thick crystal that obscures their flames. All that’s visible is a red light, waxing and waning in a slower way that makes me think of the vintage lava lamps at a cabin we once rented in Oregon.
“I asked how was your trip?”
Beatríz is staring at me expectantly, as if we’ve been having a conversation.
“Estela?” She tips her head, concern deepening her voice. She scrutinizes me with the same disappointed look as the doctors at the center. Like I’m a defective model.
“I see they were serious when they said you don’t talk.”
After another moment’s examination of my face, she leads me to the next room, and I nearly gasp.
The red-tinged air brightens as we enter the most majestic space I’ve ever seen. The high arched ceiling has ribbed vaults that crisscross it like an exoskeleton, as if we’re in the heart of the castle, enclosed within its rib cage.
Stained glass windows span the length of the back wall. The main illumination comes from a massive fireplace, and every kind of seating option fills the hall, from velvet armchairs to leather couches. Hanging above the mantel is an elaborate crest that’s a deep bloodred color and features an inversely mirrored full moon and black castle.
The fireplace casts shadows across the crest. Its blaze is hidden behind a crystal dome barrier, just like the lights bracketed along the walls. The flames lap around the frame, distorted by the filter, like a sea of blood—
“That’s our family escudo,” says Beatríz, and I blink, breaking my trance.
“Shield,” she amends, like she’s just located the right word. “It has hung here since the castle’s original construction, eight centuries ago.”
The silhouette matches la Sombra’s architecture, but I wonder what the significance of the full moon is.
As we pad down another crimson corridor, I’m overcome with the feeling that I’m retracing old steps. Like déjà vu, mixed with a hit of nostalgia. Yet nothing about this castle is familiar. It’s hard to synthesize.
I nearly freeze at the sight of a pair of gargantuan gargoyles as we’re met by a grand staircase that branches up in a Y shape. The gargoyles are on the ground and seem to be guarding the steps, their wings unfurling into swooping banisters that reach up to the next story.
I looked up Gothic architecture and read that gargoyles were used to ward off evil spirits, especially from holy places. They were placed on a construction’s exterior to symbolize that demons were without and salvation was within. So seeing these monsters’ faces inside the house isn’t exactly reassuring.
Beatríz keeps us moving past the stairs, and we reach a dining hall with a wooden table that could seat twenty people. Only two places have been set at one end.
“Do you need to wash up? The bathroom is to your right.”
I bring my duffel with me, and when I come back out, there’s food on the table. I slide into the high-backed seat across from my aunt, in front of a bowl of red soup. Between us are three small plates of olives, cheese, and chorizo slices, alongside a platter of a dozen breaded balls and half a loaf of bread.
“Have you had gazpacho before?”
I nod in assent. My parents loved this Spanish tomato soup, so we had it often.
