Page 9 of Morena

V.

Isabella left, and I forced myself to work.

I tore out the wooden boards someone had laid across the staircase and started from the beginning. The tools rattled in my hand. Each strike against the rotten wood brought a stench of damp and decay to the back of my throat.

This time I worked slowly. I was more careful. I could feel her watching from somewhere, but she did not show herself. And inside the house was just silence.

The last of the rotted planks gave way under the hammer. I scraped the rest clean, sanding down to the bone of the structure until only healthy wood was left.

The air in the room warmed; there was no longer the icy breath of her presence, but the sticky heat of summer. Sweat trickled down my spine, salt burning into the scratches on my arms. For once, it was only me and the work. No mirrors. No voices. No Morena. Just me. Like it always had been.

One by one, I laid new boards into place, driving nails deep into the wood.

I smoothed them down, brushed, polished, and painted.

By the time I reached the final step, the staircase stood whole again.

No more splintered wood, no more death traps.

Whatever secrets were below, now they could stay buried.

I wiped the grime onto my shirt and leaned against the banister. I couldn’t move for a good minute from exhaustion. From the street outside, the bell struck noon. It was time to go back to see Carlos.

I packed the tools, closed the door behind me, and stepped into the street.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement. A faint laugh came too close, though no one was there.

She knew I would be back.

Carlos sat at the table, his mother across from him. She stared at a single spot on the wall, eyes fixed as if something held her there. Her food sat untouched, already cold. Carlos had not touched his either.

“Sit,” he said, lifting his arm and pointing at the empty chair.

I lowered myself onto it. A plate waited for me, a slab of meat and a few potatoes beside a torn piece of bread. Before I even reached for it, Carlos pulled an album from where his mother had kept it pressed to her thighs. He set it down on the table and pressed his palm on the cover.

“I heard her talking to you about someone,” he said as he opened the album. His finger tapped against a photograph.

Morena.

“Her.”

“Yeah.” I tore off a piece of bread and brought it to my mouth. “What about it?”

“My mother doesn’t talk,” he whispered. “Not about anyone.”

I looked at her, then back at him. She had not blinked once. I shrugged, chewing slowly.

“She hasn’t spoken in years,” he went on. “But ever since she spoke with you, she’s been saying a thing or two.”

I took another bite of bread. I had no idea how to respond, so I said nothing.

“I want to offer you a job,” he said. “In two days, I’ll be out of town for a month.” He exhaled heavily before continuing. “You can take care of her. Stop by for meals, check on her.”

He paused, eyes locked on mine. “You don’t have to do much. Maria handles feeding herand changing her. It’s just…” He let the breath out again, slower this time. “I need someone in case something happens.”

“Okay.” I nodded. I needed the work after the renovation, but more than that, I needed a place to stay. “On one condition.”

His gaze sharpened. 1 “Dime.”

“I need a place to stay,” I said.

“Done.” He didn’t hesitate. “In two days, after I leave, you can take the guest room I was using. When I’m back, we’ll figure out how to find you something permanent.”

“And for two days I keep working on the construction, 2 sí?” I asked, hungry, tearing off another piece of bread.

“Sí.” He nodded. “I still need you to fix a few things there, too.”

3 “Vale,” I said. “Then I’ll do it.”

4 “Perfecto.” He laughed softly. “?Oíste, mamá? Matteo te cuidará.” 5

The old woman had not spoken the whole time. Her face was blank, empty as a photograph, but the moment he said my name, she moved her head toward me. Her smile was sudden and wide, her eyes fixed and unblinking. I swallowed the bread too hard and felt it scrape my throat.

“Very well.” Carlos stood and picked up his phone. “I’ll call María, let her know.”

As soon as he rose, the old woman reached for my hand. Her fingers closed around my wrist with a grip that was too tight for a woman her age. I could not pull away.

She leaned close and spoke into my skin. 6 “?La viste otra vez, no?”

I nodded and cleared my throat.

7 “Cuidado,” she whispered, then shook her head as if disappointed. 8 “Piensa como si nunca saliera de tu mente.”

She let go and turned back toward the door, her gaze settling once more on that single, stubborn spot on the wall. She didn’t move, she didn’t blink.

I heard footsteps again; Carlos was returning to the table. “?A comer, cabrón!” 9 he called, smiling.

I swallowed hard and gave him a nervous laugh. “Gracias.”

I hated myself in that instant. I hated the hollow ease with which I took this deal, the way I had become someone who lived on other people’s offers. But when the only choice is to survive, opinions change like the weather. Suddenly, small mercies are everything.

I told myself I needed work, a roof, but the truth was uglier.

I was a man losing himself, wearing a mask that put on a happy face while something inside crumbled.

Thought consumed me, and I feared that if I let them all the way in, if that loneliness finally swallowed me, I would disappear. Not die exactly, only stop existing.

I tightened my jaw and pushed the thought down. For now, I would keep the room, the work, and the quiet. For now, that would have to be enough.

I worked until my hands became heavy. Back in the kitchen, I pulled apart the cabinets, scraped away rot, and tossed out the mold-stained remains clogging the sink.

I repainted the cabinet doors white, a thin coat of false purity over the wood.

I scrubbed the table, but some stains never lifted.

They had sunk deep into the grain, scars the wood would never forget, memories of whatever nightmare had happened here.

To cover the ghosts of those marks, I painted the table and chairs black.

Time slipped away. When I looked up again, the light outside was disappearing. It was already close to six.

The house was silent. Haunted or not, it felt lonelier without her.

No trace of Morena, not even in the corners.

As much as she made me afraid, her absence made the walls feel emptier.

I told myself I would leave for now, waste time at the park, wander the streets until night came, then slip back in to go to sleep.

Maybe she was calling me. Maybe she was only resting, waiting to return in my dreams.

Did ghosts even sleep?

She had stirred something I thought I buried. Fear. Fear of being awake and blind to what stayed in the dark. Fear of being asleep and seeing too much. Fear of waking one day not here, but somewhere else, perhaps in hell, chained to my own past.

And above all, the fear of what I had done in the Dominican Republic in May of 1996.

No one knew about that day. Even for me, it blurred in places, fractured into pieces I could not hold together. I only knew I had done something, something I had been running from ever since.

The past hunts in silence.

I once read that you should never do anything you might regret, because regret is a ghost that will haunt you forever. I had done many things. But only one pressed its weight on my soul.

My thoughts slipped away when I noticed Carlos leaning against the kitchen wall, watching.

“I’m impressed,” he said. “This place already looks good.”

“Yeah.” I gave a short laugh. “House has potential.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. 10 “Esta casa tiene fantasmas. Así que…”

“Sí?”

“Any idea why Isabella wants you fired?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Nah.” I shook my head.

11 “Isabella tiene los rasgos de su padre,” he said. 12 “No la hagas enfadar demasiado.”

“I’m just not the man for her,” I said. “She’ll find someone else.”

Carlos gave me a look . “ 13 La mente no elige a quién amar. El corazón sí. Y el suyo te eligió a ti.”

I did not want to admit that it was her body that pulled me, so I only smiled.

There was no love between us, only lust, a sick hunger, and her obsession with not letting me go.

She wanted something she could not truly possess, and once she had it, she grew bored easily.

She loved the game of cat and mouse, but she did not understand that I was not a mouse.

I was more like a dog, either a stray or a loyal one that would stay for life.

Everyone else saw me as a fuckboy, a Don Juan , but that was not the whole truth.

“My advice,” Carlos said, “find a nice girl to spend the rest of your life with.”

I nodded without arguing.

“I missed my chance,” he added. He smiled then, but his eyes were on the window. “I had someone once.”

I leaned on the edge of the table, curiosity sharpening me. Was that girl Morena?

“What happened?” I asked, lifting a brow.

“I lost her in the eighties,” he said, still watching the street.

“Did she die?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. “Maybe. I do not know. She chose someone else.”

“ 14 Amor loco, yo por ti y tú por otro,” I said, because the old lines stuck in my mouth.

“ 15 Amor de nino, agua en cestillo,” he chuckled. “We were young and I was stupid.”

That sounded like a motive to me.

I walked toward him. He followed slowly, both of us moving toward the door. In the hallway, something moved, the air snapping cold. My heart pushed against my ribs.

She was here again. Morena.

Carlos turned, searching the dark to see what I had seen, but when he couldn’t, he faced me and asked. “I have been meaning to ask, did you notice strange things around here?”

I raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Voices,” he whispered. “They come from the walls.” He turned, eyes running along the plaster. “Things move on their own. The air gets colder. It feels like the walls have ears.”

I swallowed. “No,” I said, then corrected myself, “No ghosts haunt this place.”

We stepped outside. He reached to lock the door. When I glanced up the staircase, I saw her standing there.

Something inside demanded I run and never return. Something else called me back, and I couldn’t resist.

Some ghosts are scary, some demons are evil, but people are bigger monsters, and I believe, in life, bad things happen to everyone, and no one knows everyone’s story.

Even monsters deserve love. Even demons deserve wings to try to fly.

Even ghosts deserve to be seen so they can move on.

You will never know what life is if you keep hiding in the dark.

And I kept hiding, unsure whether I was even worthy of the light.

I waved at Carlos and crossed the street, heading for the park.

Maybe I would sleep there tonight. For years, I had told myself I deserved the scars and the bruises, that punishment fit the sin.

But maybe the truth was different. Maybe I deserved the healing that came after.

Scars are what make me a better person, and even if I am not healed, it’s part of who I am. Even if I don’t know who I am.

I am another lost man looking for purpose. For now, that purpose is simple and ugly and beautiful all at once: to find out who she was. Maybe by finding her, I will find myself.

Maybe the map to her is the map back to me.

1. Tell me.

2. Yes?

3. Good.

4. Perfect.

5. Did you hear, mom? Matteo will take care of you.

6. You saw her again, didn't you?

7. Be careful.

8. Think as if she would never leave your mind.

9. Time to eat, bastard!

10. This house has ghosts. So…

11. Isabella has her father's features.

12. Don’t make her too angry.

13. The mind doesn’t choose who to love. The heart does. And hers chose you.

14. Mad love, me for you and you for another (sayings in Spanish)

15. Childish love, water in a basket (proverb for something fleeting)