Page 4 of Morena

II.

ONE DAY BEFORE

I used to dream of coming home. Somewhere. Someday. But I was nowhere. Always far away. If you passed me on the street, you would see a man who looked happy, someone living his life. But a smile does not mean my burdens are light. You don’t know me at all.

And here I am now, sitting on a park bench, waiting for morning.

Waiting for the chance to work, or maybe to slip into the old man’s property and spend a night or two.

I know he wouldn’t like it. He had warned me that the house was a place of many ghosts.

Still, something else pulled me there, something I couldn’t name.

When the clock struck four, I rose. I slung the black trash bag over my shoulder and started walking toward the house.

It did not take long. Fifteen minutes on foot, maybe less. As soon as I turned onto the street, I saw him. The old man. A cigar clenched between his teeth, smoke curling in a soft cloud around his face. He leaned against the wall of the house and stared towards me.

As I approached, he met my eyes. “I knew you would be early,” he said. His voice rasped like gravel. “You seem like that type.”

I only nodded.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a key. The lock turned with a sharp click, and the heavy door creaked open. I glanced back once more. The old man was leaning in the door frame, his body half-lost in the shadow of the house.

“Start with the stairs,” he said. “Tools are inside.”

I nodded again and stepped farther in.

“I will be back around lunchtime. You look like you could use one.” He blew smoke past me, and the sour air filled my lungs, mingling with the house’s stale rot.

1 “Gracias,” I murmured, lowering the bag of clothes against the hallway wall.

He did not answer, he just closed the door.

I listened to his footsteps fade until silence was all that remained. It pressed in on me; it hit heavy. I started to wander around.

The kitchen was on the left. Its doorway was spread wide, with no door to separate it from the hall.

Cabinets hung open, gutted and bare. A single pot sat in the sink.

And its stench kept me hovering at the threshold, but something else pulled me forward.

The table; dark stains spread across the wood like dried blood.

My feet wanted to move closer. My eyes wanted to see. Something was pulling me toward it, but I forced myself back.

Something bad had happened here. I could feel it in my bones.

A cold chill brushed past me, raising goosebumps on my arms, and the wind pushed my hair toward the staircase. I stood in front of it, staring. Three middle steps were gone. They were not broken, nor taken. The wood had simply rotted away.

I tested the first step, then tapped the next with the tip of my boot. When I leaned toward the gap, I saw only darkness. I took another careful step and crouched low, checking how bad the wood had rotted. That was when something caught my eye below. A faint glimmer.

I leaned closer, too close, and slipped forward.

2 “Puta madre,” I cursed, grabbing the railing to keep from falling.

Cold air rose from the hole and brushed against my face. My heart hammered in my chest. There had to be a basement under there, deeper than the wall that held the staircase.

I stepped back. A sudden crash came from the kitchen, and I stumbled into the wall, palms braced against the brick.

Slowly, I turned towards the noise. The kitchen. Then another clap of wood came. This time, I saw it was only the wind driving the shutters against the wall.

“Just the wind,” I muttered, closing my eyes.

When I opened them again, something seemed to pass by me, like an invisible brush against my skin.

I made a sign of the cross, touching my forehead, left shoulder, right shoulder. 3 “Dios.” My fingers found the silver cross around my neck, and I kissed it.

Whatever lived here was not blessed. It was haunted.

I returned to the staircase and grabbed the hammer from the tool bag on the first step. Kneeling, I struck the rotted wood. It crumbled easily. Piece by piece, I tore it away until I could see the space below.

It was a basement. Empty one. A few sagging shelves, dirt spilling onto the floor, and nothing else. Nothing to explain the cold breath that rose toward me.

I stood, leaving the hammer by the railing. When I turned, Carlos was already in the doorway.

A white plastic bag dangled from his hand, and the smell of warm bread filled the air. He stepped inside and shut the door.

“I thought you would need this now more than later.”

I laughed softly. “Yeah, gracias.”

He pointed toward the kitchen and carried the food to the table, ignoring the dark stains across the wood.

“ Mi mamá liked to drink wine,“ he said, gesturing to them.

Wine stains? I doubted it. Something in me refused to believe.

I only nodded. When he sat down, I dragged out a chair on the opposite side and joined him.

He unwrapped two sandwiches, setting one before me. He bit into his, speaking with his mouth half full.

“I heard about you and Isabella.”

I almost choked on my bite. I swallowed hard and nodded.

“What did you hear?” I asked, clearing my throat around the bite.

“That Paco caught you two.” He laughed. “I am surprised you are alive.”

I chuckled nervously. “Yeah, me too.”

“Paco is a good man. He had a difficult childhood. Both of us did.” His gaze drifted to the kitchen window. “He does not want that life for Isabella.” Then he turned back to meet my eyes. “Nor do I.”

I swallowed hard, choking on the weight of his words. “I understand.”

“Good.” He stood.

His steps carried him to the hallway, where he paused by the staircase. “So many good memories in this house. Qué pena 4 . Now it is only memories.”

“Sometimes memories are all we need to hold onto. Not people. Not houses,” I said, rising from my chair.

“You speak like a man who never had anything but memories.” He chuckled. “You need more than that.”

“Memories are the only thing that keep me moving.” I held his eyes. “When I look back and see how happy life was, it gives me hope that maybe it will be again. Maybe I do have only that. Maybe I am not a rich man, but I have rich memories.”

“Wise words from a man with no roof over his head.” He laughed. “Finish this job, rich man , and maybe I will get you one.”

My fist clenched at my side, nails digging into my palm. I swallowed my pride and only nodded, biting my tongue as he walked away and closed the door. His laughter echoed in my ears.

5 Maldito. It is always the ones who have everything who find the audacity to joke about the ones who have nothing.

I leaned against the wall, jaw tight, listening until his footsteps faded outside. The silence that followed was worse than his laughter.

The air felt colder now. It was the kind of cold that did not belong to the hour or the season. It was midsummer, yet the house breathed winter. The chill seeped from the gaps in the wood, from the floorboards, from the dark place beneath the stairs.

I edged closer to the staircase. My palms pressed against the wood as I leaned forward, trying to peer down again. Then the step beneath me gave way.

The world dropped out from under me. My body struck the floor below with a bone-shaking thud. My ears rang. My vision blurred. The white square of light above faded to nothing. Darkness pressed against my eyes. My breath slowed. My eyelids sank.

I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

Then light split the dark. A hand reached out from it, delicate, nails painted black. It pulled me upward, and I was no longer in the house.

I stood barefoot on a shore. The sea breathed against my feet. She was waiting there.

Her black curls fell long to her hips, whipped by the salty wind.

A white dress clung to her bronze skin, wet and heavy from seawater.

She belonged to this place, to Barcelona’s oldest stones, to the secrets buried in cathedrals and sea caves.

Her hair was the night and her skin the fire of the sun, but her eyes, storm-tossed jade fractured with silver, were something else.

They did not simply look at me. They saw me. Through me.

Her lips moved in a whisper. Her cheeks flushed. And for a moment, I forgot this was a dream. I wanted her. I wanted to come home to her. In her, I saw life itself.

We have a saying for women like her, women with dark and striking beauty. We call them morena. No word could hold her, but still the whisper left my mouth.

“Morena.”

This time, she turned. Her eyes locked with mine. They filled as though with tears, yet no water fell. Blood slipped down her cheeks. Her bronze skin paled and drained to a grayish hue. The storm in her eyes turned white. When I blinked, she was suddenly in front of me, screaming.

My heart thundered. For a moment, I thought this was heaven, but heaven was turning into hell.

Her voice cut through the roar. “Nino perdido, si me deseas de regreso, pronuncia mi nombre dos veces más.” 6

Her name.

What was her name? What if I did not want to go back? What if I wanted to stay?

But my lips parted, and her scream tore through my ear. The high-pitched voice made my eardrum ache and bleed. I had no choice but to guess. “Morena.”

I called her twice. The screaming stopped.

She began to drift away. The beach dissolved into a black swamp. Crows circled overhead, their cries shrill, and the mud pulled at my legs until I could not move.

What is happening? What is happening to me?

The crows landed on my shoulders. One pecked my cheek, sharp enough to draw blood. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it to end.

7 “?Oh, ojos tristes, si temes perder tu visión, pronuncia mi nombre una vez más!”

I shouted with everything in me.

“Morena!”

And I was back in the basement. My lungs gasped for air. My chest heaved. I coughed hard, dragging reality back from the twisted dream. Splintered shelves surrounded me. I must have fallen on them when I crashed through the staircase.