Page 19 of Castle of the Cursed
“These are all the real estate records from that time, tracing the town’s growth.” Felipe has flipped to his next place marker, and I stare down at a ledger of properties.
My gaze snags on castillo Brálaga.
In 1712, it belonged to a man named Juan Carlos Fernando Brálaga. In 1733, it was passed on to Rogelio Antonio Brálaga. In 1750, Mauricio Homero Brálaga. I skim along the names of ownership—and a chill races down my spine.
The ominous feeling I got when Beatríz and Felipe welcomed me here makes more sense now. According to historical records, my bloodline binds me to la Sombra. Is this the fate Mom was running from? Is this why Beatríz brought me here now?
Am I the castle’s new heir?
Yet it’s not just the surname Brálaga that unsettles me; it’s the dates of inheritance.
Our life spans seem strikingly short.
Felipe’s finger draws my focus as he taps on another property: Calle Nube 32. Beside it is the date 1705 and the owner’s name—Luis García Sarmiento. The next entry is a proper five decades later: 1758, Ángelo Cruz Sarmiento.
1812, Sancho Aurelio Sarmiento.
1860, Romano Héctor Felipe Sarmiento.
This is Felipe’s family, I realize. Their life spans are longer, but the surnames are the same. I skim the other properties’ ledgers—all of them have been handed down through generations of the same family. This whole town is a relic of the past, perfectly preserved, down to the bloodlines.
“Something else,” says Felipe, and while I’m still processing the second page marker, he flips to the third. Before I can see what’s there, he covers the page with his hand.
“Have you noticed what Oscuro is missing?” he asks me.
I used to play this game with Dad. He said it was harder to see what’s not there, so sometimes when we would revisit a place, he’d ask me to identify things that were different from last time.
So what is Oscuro missing? A lot of things. A movie theater, for one. Mom and I used to love going in the middle of the day, while the rest of the world was working or studying. A library, an art gallery, a school—but that’s all typical of small towns. Residents visit the nearest bigger town or small city.
What should be here that isn’t? I’m usually good at this, but my mind is still jittery from last night, like I’m hopped up on caffeine, and I can’t focus on this game. I shrug in hopes Felipe will illuminate me.
He moves his hand away, and at the sight of a cross in a heap of rubble, the answer is obvious.
There’s no church.
“I don’t know how it is in the United States,” he says, “but in Spain, there’s a church at the center of every town, especially one with a castle. It was the first thing people built when they settled somewhere.”
I didn’t grow up with religion, but I remember the small towns we visited in the U.S. having this in common—a place of worship.
“Each of these stickers marks every attempt to build a church in Oscuro.” Felipe thumbs through the pages, no longer translating the Spanish to English, but summarizing. “Every construction attempt ended in tragedy.”
I’m not sure what frightens me more—Felipe’s words or their delivery. The way his amber eyes shine reminds me of how some of the residents at the Rainbow Center would look when they were having an episode.
“La Sombra is by default our most sacred symbol,” he says. “It’s our holy place.”
I narrow my eyes, not loving his choice of words.
“I wasn’t sure before,” he says, almost whispering, “but after what happened to you, I believe.”
I want to leave and not hear his next words, but I’m caught in the beam of his stare.
“I think you’re here because the castle wanted you back.”
I leave my bedroom as soon as I think Beatríz is asleep.
Felipe’s lesson today messed me up. At the clínica, I could barely manage the mindless task of digitizing patient files because I’d seen the last name Ángel in the property ledger. It’s hard to fathom that everyone here belongs to a founding family.
Dad’s last name—Amador—isn’t in the clínica’s files, which means he’s an outsider. Does that have anything to do with why we moved away?
