The macabre story of the Guzmán sisters: they became their father’s lovers.

The sun was hiding behind the mountains of Oaxaca when Joaquín Guzmán’s old Ford passed through the rusty gate of the Las Áimas hacienda. The year was 1950 and after fifteen years of absence, Joaquín returned to the place where he was born, accompanied by his two daughters, Lucía, twenty, and Carmen, eighteen.

The death of his wife Teresa six months earlier had devastated the family. Cancer took her in a matter of weeks, leaving a void impossible to fill. Without a stable job in Mexico City and with mounting debts, Joaquín decided to return to the family estate he had recently inherited after his father’s death.

“Is this the house where you grew up, Dad?” asked Lucia, observing the imposing colonial structure of stone and adobe, partially devoured by vegetation. “Yes, daughter, although it has better days,” Joaquín replied, turning off the engine.

The manager, Don Esteban Rojas, a hunched man of about seventy years old, was waiting for them on the porch. His wrinkled face seemed frozen in an expression of permanent distrust. “Welcome, Don Joaquín,” he said, “the rooms are prepared as ordered.“

As they unloaded their few belongings, Carmen noticed Don Esteban staring at her intently. His deep, black eyes followed her with a disturbing intensity that sent shivers down her spine. That night the sisters shared the old room that once belonged to Joaquin’s aunts.

The walls were covered in yellowish wallpaper with floral motifs and a rusty crucifix hung above the bed. “I don’t like this place,” Carmen whispered to her sister as she unpacked. “I feel like the walls are watching us.“

“Don’t be dramatic,” Lucia replied, although she herself had felt a strange tightness in her chest since they crossed the threshold. We just need to get used to it. Besides, we had no choice. Outside, the wind carried the distant sound of chants in Nahuatl.

The indigenous workers on the hacienda performed some ceremony that the sisters did not understand. “What is that noise?” Carmen asked. “I don’t know,” Lucia replied, approaching the window. From there I could see small candlelights among the trees, perhaps some local festival.

That morning Carmen woke up startled. I thought I heard dragging footsteps in the hallway. As she sat up, she saw that her bedroom door was ajar, although she was sure she had closed it before going to sleep. An intense aroma of rotten flowers invaded the room for a few seconds, then vanished as if it had never existed.

The girl shook her sister. Lucia, there’s someone in the hallway, she whispered. But Lucia did not respond. Instead, she muttered something incomprehensible and turned over, fast asleep. Carmen got up and locked the door.

This time he would not sleep again that night as he listened to the wind seeming to whisper forgotten names against the windows of the Las Ánimas hacienda. A week after their arrival, life on the estate had settled into an uncomfortable routine. Joaquín spent his days reviewing the accounts with Don Esteban, trying to rescue the farming business that had once been prosperous.

The sisters, for their part, were trying to adapt to their new reality. That April morning the heat was stifling. Lucía decided to explore the hacienda’s library, a dusty room in the west wing that no one had used for years. Among shelves covered in cobwebs, he found diaries, accounting books, and old photographs.

“Look at this,” Lucia said when Carmen came in looking for her. He showed her an album of yellowed photographs. They are a very young mom and dad. The image showed Joaquín, barely in his twenties, next to Teresa, a beautiful young woman with delicate features. Behind them, the estate could be seen in all its splendor, with well-kept gardens and workers in training.

“And look at this one,” added Lucia, pointing to another photograph showing an older woman with a stern expression sitting in an ornate chair. It must be our grandmother, Doña Mercedes. Carmen stared at her intently. There was something disturbing about that woman, in her eyes, which seemed to penetrate the photographic paper.

“Keep turning the pages,” Carmen asked. In doing so, they found several photographs showing three young women who looked very similar to each other. In one particularly disturbing image, the three posed in identical dresses in front of the hacienda with blank expressions. Who will they be? Carmen murmured.

A voice behind them startled them. The Guzmán sisters, his grandfather Don Esteban’s sisters, were at the door, watching them with those eyes that never blinked enough. “What happened to them?” Lucia asked, trying to hide her nervousness. “They died young,” the old man replied, “all three of them, in this very house.“

How did they die? Carmen insisted. Don Esteban entered the library, approaching an oil painting that hung above the fireplace. It represented the estate seen from a distance. “Bad decisions have consequences, ladies,” the man said, deliberately ignoring the question, especially in this family.

As he left, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor, the sisters exchanged glances. “You noticed he avoided answering you,” Lucía whispered. Carmen nodded, looking back at the photographs. That’s when she noticed something else. In the background of one of them, barely visible, was a man watching the three sisters from a window.

His face was partially obscured, but there was something familiar about his profile. “There’s something very strange about this house,” Carmen said, closing the album. “And I think Dad knows it.” That afternoon, while the sisters were helping clean the main room, Carmen found a small door hidden behind a faded tapestry.

Intrigued, she tried to open it, but it was locked. “What are you doing?” her father asked, startled. Carmen flinched. “Just cleaning, and I found this door. Where does it lead?” Joaquín’s face darkened. “Nowhere important. An old storeroom. There’s nothing to see.“

“There. So why is it locked?” Carmen insisted. “There are a lot of lost keys in this house,” he replied sharply. “Some doors are better left locked.” That night, during dinner, the silence between the three of them was heavy. Joaquín drank mezcal more often than before, and his eyes seemed constantly lost somewhere in the distance.

“Dad,” Lucía began, “we found photos of your aunts in the library where Esteban said they died young.” Joaquín placed the glass on the table with a sharp thud. “I don’t like to talk about it,” she said. “Some stories are better left in the past, but we’re your family,” Carmen protested. “We have a right to know.”

Joaquín stared at her with an expression they had never seen on him before. “In this house, no one has a right to anything,” he replied, getting up from the table. “And I suggest you don’t ask any more questions about the past.” As he left, Carmen whispered to her sister, “See? He’s hiding something, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

Lucía wanted to protest, but deep down she knew her sister was right. There were secrets buried in the walls of the Las Ánimas ranch, secrets that were beginning to seep out like poisonous dampness. The month of May brought torrential rains that isolated the ranch for days. The mud made the roads impassable, and the constant patter of water against the tile roofs created a disturbing symphony that kept Carmen awake at night.

During one of those endless nights, she heard something else. Female voices that seemed to come from the walls, whispers. Barely audible voices repeated the same phrase over and over. Don’t let it happen again. Carmen shook her sister awake. Don’t you hear them? she whispered urgently.

Lucía, drowsy, was slow to react. She could only hear the rain. The voices are talking, Carmen insisted. At that moment, the voices stopped. Only the sound of the storm lashing the hacienda remained. You must be dreaming, Lucía murmured, turning over to go back to sleep. But Carmen knew she wasn’t dreaming.

During the last few weeks, she had noticed how the house seemed to change around her. The hallways lengthened at nightfall. Shadows moved when no one was watching. And then there was Don Esteban, always vigilant, always following them with his gaze. The next day, taking advantage of the fact that her father had gone out to assess the storm damage in the agave fields, Carmen decided to explore further.

She found a bunch of rusty keys in her father’s study and, without hesitating, she headed toward the small door she had discovered behind the tapestry. After trying several keys, the lock creaked. Carmen pushed open the door, revealing a narrow stone staircase that descended into darkness. “What are you doing?” Lucía’s voice startled her.

“I need to know what Dad is hiding,” Carmen replied resolutely. “Come with me or stay, but I’m going down.” Lucía hesitated for a moment, but finally followed her sister. Armed with an oil lamp, they descended the damp steps. The air grew thicker and colder with each step, heavy with the scent of wet earth and something else, something cloying and sickly.

The staircase ended in a small underground chamber with stone walls. Several antique boxes and chests lined the walls. In the center, a wooden table held what appeared to be rusted surgical instruments and jars containing unknown substances. “What is this place?” Lucía murmured, feeling a chill run down her spine.

Carmen approached one of the chests and she opened it. Inside she found identical dresses, three sets exactly the same in fine fabric, now yellowed with age, the same ones the three sisters were wearing in the photograph. “Look at this,” Carmen said, pointing to some initials embroidered on each dress: MG, CG, and EG.

Mercedes, Catalina, and Elena Guzmán, Lucía read in a small diary she had found on the table. Our grandfather’s sisters. Carmen continued exploring the trunk and found a yellowish envelope hidden among the folds of fabric. Upon opening it, she discovered several photographs that left her breathless. The images showed the three sisters in situations that neither of them could immediately understand.

They were in what appeared to be this same underground room, but transformed into a kind of makeshift laboratory. A man with his back to the camera appeared in several of the photographs, administering injections to the young women who lay unconscious on the table. “My God,” Lucia whispered, turning pale. “I think he’s our grandfather.“

The sound of footsteps overhead alerted them. Someone had returned to the house. They quickly put everything away, except for the diary that Lucia hid among her clothes. They turned off the lamp and hurried upstairs, closing the door behind them, just as Don Esteban’s voice echoed in the hallway. “Ladies, where are you?“

They looked at each other in terror, but managed to slip away unseen to their room. Once there, with her heart still racing, Lucia opened the diary. “It belongs to Catalina Guzmán,” he whispered. Dated 1920, the pages described with agonizing precision how her father, the patriarch Rodrigo Guzmán, had begun to show a morbid interest in them after the death of his wife.

First there were unusual gifts, then excessive attention, and finally, something much more sinister. “I can’t read this anymore,” Lucia said, closing the diary with trembling hands. Carmen took it and continued. As the pages turned, Catalina’s handwriting became more erratic, describing how her father drugged them with some substance he prepared himself, making them more docile, more compliant.

“He says that the three of them became his lovers,” Carmen murmured, her voice breaking with disgust, and that Don Esteban was helping him. He was his accomplice. Lucia covered her mouth, suppressing a wave of nausea. And there’s something else, Carmen continued, reading the last entry. She says that all three of them are pregnant.

The diary ended abruptly there, without explaining what happened next. But the sisters could already sense it. The young women had probably died during childbirth or from subsequent complications. “Do you think Dad knows?” Lucia asked, her eyes filled with tears. Do you think that’s why he never wanted to come back here until now?

Carmen did not respond. Her mind was processing an even more disturbing revelation. Their father’s birth date coincided with the period when the sisters had been pregnant. Lucía finally said in a trembling voice, “I think Dad could be the son of one of them and his own father.“

The ensuing silence was interrupted by a knock on the door that made them jump. Don Esteban’s voice came muffled through the wood. Your father is waiting for you for dinner, ladies. It’s not polite to make him wait. The sisters looked at each other, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty. What would they do now with what they knew?

During the following weeks, Joaquín Guzmán experienced a gradual, but undeniable, change. His moments of lucidity became less frequent, replaced by long periods of contemplative silence or outbursts of anger. He drank more than ever, and his eyes, once warm and familiar, acquired a glassy and distant quality. Lucía and Carmen tried to avoid it, spending most of the day in the nearby village or locked in their room.

The discovery in the basement had left them deeply disturbed, and suspicion about their father’s true origins tormented them. One afternoon in June, as the sisters were returning from Oaxaca with supplies, they heard shouts coming from the hacienda. They ran towards the entrance to find Joaquín violently shaking a young indigenous maid, accusing her of theft.

“Dad, stop!” Lucia shouted, trying to separate them. Joaquín turned towards her with a look she didn’t recognize. For a terrible instant, it wasn’t her father who was looking at her, but a stranger with his face. “Don’t get involved in this,” he growled, finally letting go of the girl who ran away crying.

“What’s happening to you?” Carmen asked, keeping her distance. “You’re not the same since we got here.” Joaquín ran a hand over his sweaty face. I’m tired. That’s all. This estate drains my energy. “Then let’s go,” Lucia suggested, “Let’s go back to Mexico City.” But Joaquín shook his head. We can’t leave. There’s nothing for us there.

“You’re changing, Dad,” Carmen insisted. “You’re becoming someone else.” A disturbing smile appeared on Joaquín’s lips. Perhaps I am becoming who I was always meant to be. That night Carmen woke up startled. Someone was standing next to her bed watching her. The silhouette of a man was outlined against the faint moonlight filtering through the window.

“Dad,” she whispered, sitting up. But it wasn’t Joaquín. The figure remained motionless for a few more seconds before gliding towards the door and disappearing into the dark hallway. Carmen, trembling, woke her sister. “There was someone in our room,” he said between sobs. Lucía, although terrified, tried to remain calm.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a nightmare?” He was there watching me. And it wasn’t Dad, it was… I couldn’t see his face. The sisters didn’t sleep again that night. At dawn, when they went downstairs for breakfast, they found Don Esteban making coffee in the kitchen. “Good morning, ladies,” he said in his usual monotone.

“Your father left early. He said he had business to attend to in town.” Carmen noticed something strange about the old man’s behavior. He seemed nervous, which was unusual for him. Don Esteban, determined to confront him, began. “What do you know about the Guzmán sisters, our father’s aunts?“

The man stood motionless, his back to them. “I already told you they died young. We know what happened to them,” Lucía interjected. “We read Catalina’s diary.” Don Esteban turned slowly. His face had lost all color. “You don’t know anything,” he said softly, “and if you’re smart, you’ll leave things as they are.“

“Why are you protecting our grandfather after what he did?” Carmen asked indignantly. “I’m not protecting him,” the old man replied, approaching. I’m protecting you. The sisters exchanged confused glances. Us, from what? Don Esteban looked toward the window as if making sure no one could hear them. From the curse of this house,” he murmured, “from what’s happening to your father.“

What’s happening to him? Lucía demanded to know. “The same thing that happened to your grandfather,” the man replied in a trembling voice, “This land, this hacienda, has something evil about it. It changes the men of the Guzmán family, it transforms them.” Carmen remembered the figure she had seen next to her bed. Who was in our room last night?

Don Esteban paled even more. They saw him. Whom? Carmen insisted. The old man whispered to Don Rodrigo. He has returned through his son. The sisters were petrified by this statement. “That’s impossible,” Lucia finally said. Our grandfather is dead. “His body, yes,” replied Don Esteban, “but his spirit has remained in this house waiting and has now found a new vessel.” His father.

Carmen felt a chill. That’s why he’s been acting so strange. The old man nodded slowly. The transformation is almost complete. Soon there will be nothing left of Joaquín Guzmán, only Rodrigo. That’s crazy. “Spirits don’t exist,” protested Lucia. “Call it what you want,” replied Don Esteban. “Hereditary madness, demonic possession, the result is the same.“

“And when the transformation is complete,” he stopped, staring at them. He will come for you just as he came for your aunts. The old man’s words hung in the air like a sentence. The sisters felt the terrible weight of its meaning. “We have to leave here,” Carmen whispered, taking her sister’s hand.

“It’s too late,” Don Esteban replied. “He won’t let you go.” Just then, they heard the Ford’s engine approaching the hacienda. Joaquín had returned. That same evening, at dinner, Joaquín seemed unusually cheerful. He had brought wine and was talking animatedly about his plans to restore the hacienda to its former glory.

“New workers will be arriving soon,” he announced, pouring himself another glass. “And I’ve contacted buyers in the United States interested in our mezcal.” Lucía and Carmen barely touched their food, exchanging nervous glances. Don Esteban’s warning echoed in their minds. “Let’s make a toast,” Joaquín proposed, raising his glass, “to our family and the future of the Guzmán family.“

The sisters raised their glasses with trembling hands. Carmen noticed something strange about the wine, a slight sediment at the bottom of the glass and a sweet aroma that she had not perceived before. “What’s wrong?” Joaquín asked, noticing his hesitation. They don’t want to toast with their father. “Of course,” replied Lucia, bringing the glass to her lips without actually drinking.

Carmen, however, left her glass on the table. I don’t feel well. I think I’ll go to bed. Joaquin’s smile faded. Nobody gets up from this table until we’ve toasted properly. Something in her tone made the sisters freeze. There was no trace left of the former kindness in his voice. “Dad, you’re acting strange,” Lucia said, trying to reason with him.

“Don’t call me that,” Joaquín replied in a voice that sounded different, deeper. “I am not your father.” A shiver ran down Carmen’s spine. Don Esteban’s words were true. The transformation was complete. Now he gave the order with an authority that brooked no argument. At that moment, Don Esteban hurriedly entered the dining room.

Don Joaquín, there’s a problem in the fields. The workers have found something. Joaquín seemed momentarily confused, as if two people were fighting inside him. Finally, he got up with a grunt. “Don’t move from here,” he ordered the sisters before following the elderly administrator. As soon as she left, Carmen grabbed her sister’s arm.

“It’s the elixir,” he whispered urgently. It’s in the wine. It’s the same thing my grandfather used with his sisters. Lucia looked at her glass in horror. We need to get out of here now. They quickly poured the contents of their glasses into a nearby flowerpot and ran to their room to collect the essentials. There was no time for more.

“We’ll go to the village,” Lucia decided, putting some clothes into a small suitcase. From there we can take a bus to Oaxaca and then to Mexico City. Carmen nodded, but before they could leave she remembered something. The newspaper. We have to take the diary as evidence. Catalina Guzmán’s notebook was still hidden under Lucía’s mattress.

Carmen retrieved it and hid it among her clothes. Silently, the sisters slipped down the hallway toward the main staircase. The estate was shrouded in an eerie silence, broken only by the creaking of ancient wood beneath their feet. Upon arriving at the lobby, they heard voices coming from their father’s office. The door was ajar, allowing them to listen to the conversation.

“You can’t stop what has begun,” Joaquín said, though his voice sounded distorted, as if someone else were speaking through him. “The lineage must continue.” “This has gone too far,” replied Don Esteban. “They’re not your sisters, they’re your daughters.” A chilling laugh escaped Joaquín’s throat. “So what’s the difference? Blood of my blood. The elixir is ready. Tonight it will all begin again.“

Carmen felt nauseous. Lucía took her arm, silently indicating that they should take advantage of the distraction to escape. They headed towards the back door of the kitchen, but before they reached it, Carmen stopped. “Wait,” he whispered. “We must make sure he can’t follow us.“

“What do you mean? If we disable the Ford, it’ll buy us time to get to town before it can catch us.” Lucía hesitated, but finally nodded. They changed direction, heading for the small shed that served as a garage. The car was there, covered by a dusty tarp. Carmen, who had learned basic mechanics from her father in better times, opened the hood and quickly disconnected some wires from the ignition system.

She didn’t completely destroy it, but it would be impossible to start without repairing it first. “There,” she said, closing the hood. “Now let’s go.” But as they turned around, they came face to face with Don Esteban, who was watching them from the shed doorway. “What are you doing?” the old man asked.

The sisters froze, waiting for him to raise the alarm. However, Don Esteban glanced nervously toward the house and then gestured urgently. “Quickly this way,” he whispered, guiding them not toward the main driveway, but toward a side path that bordered the property. “This path will take you to town. The forest. It’s longer, but safer.“

Why are you helping us? Lucía asked suspiciously. The old man’s eyes filled with tears. Because I’ve lived for fifty years with the guilt of not having saved the others. I won’t make the same mistake twice. He handed them a small flashlight and a handful of pesos. Go to the Santa María convent, ask to speak with Mother Dolores. Tell her Esteban Rojas sent you. She will protect you.

Come with us, Carmen begged. The old man shook his head. Someone has to distract him. Now go before he notices you’re gone. Just like that, the sisters began to run along the dark path, barely illuminated by the moonlight and the small flashlight. Behind them, the hacienda, the souls of the dead, rose like a sleeping beast against the night sky.

They hadn’t gone two hundred meters when they heard a heart-rending scream coming from the house. Then silence. Don Esteban, Carmen whispered, stopping. We can’t go back, he said. Lucía took her by the arm. “Your sacrifice will be in vain if they catch us.” With tears in her eyes, Carmen nodded, and they both continued their escape through the woods as darkness enveloped them.

The forest surrounding the Las Ánimas ranch was a labyrinth of shadows and nocturnal sounds. The sisters stumbled forward, guided by the weak light of the flashlight and their instinct for survival. The path Don Esteban had shown them narrowed at times, almost disappearing into the vegetation. “Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” Carmen asked, panting from the effort.

“No,” Lucía admitted, “but any direction that takes us away from the ranch is the right one.” They had been walking for almost an hour when they heard a noise that stopped them in their tracks, the unmistakable sound of an approaching engine. “It’s not possible,” Carmen murmured. I disconnected the cables from the Ford.

“There must be another vehicle at the ranch,” replied Lucia, pulling her sister along to resume driving. Quick, we need to get off the path. They ventured into the trees, moving blindly. The branches scratched their faces and arms, but fear prevented them from stopping. The sound of the engine was getting closer and closer.

Suddenly, a beam of light cut through the darkness. Lighthouses that swept the forest looking for them. “Get down,” whispered Lucia, dragging her sister behind a thick fallen log. From their hiding place they saw an old military jeep pass by a few meters away. Joaquín was at the wheel, but his posture and the way he drove were not the usual ones.

There was something rigid, almost mechanical, in his movements. “Do not stop now, my daughters,” she shouted in a voice that was not entirely her own. The game has only just begun. The vehicle continued along the path, moving away momentarily. The sisters remained motionless, holding their breath. “It’s not Dad,” Carmen whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s him, Grandpa.“

Lucía nodded, unable to speak. The reality of their situation was so monstrous that it defied any rational explanation. “We must keep moving,” she finally said, “but not along the path. He’s watching over it.” Using the moon’s position as a guide, they tried to head south, where, as they remembered, the town should be.

The terrain became increasingly difficult, with steep slopes and ravines that forced them to take detours. After what seemed like an eternity, they glimpsed lights in the distance. The town of San Cristóbal de las Casas lay in the valley about two kilometers away. “We made it,” Carmen sighed with relief, but her hope was short-lived.

The sound of the jeep echoed through the night again, this time much closer. The headlights illuminated the trees behind them. “He’s found us!” exclaimed Lucia. “Run!” The sisters sped down the slope, slipping and falling several times. Their hands and knees bled from blows against stones and branches, but terror gave them superhuman strength.

The jeep couldn’t follow them through that steep terrain, but they could see Joaquín get out of the vehicle and follow her on foot. Despite being almost fifty years old, he moved with surprising agility, as if propelled by an unnatural energy. They won’t escape, they heard him shout. This story was already written before they were born.

Carmen tripped over a root and fell, rolling several meters. Lucía ran towards her, helping her to get up. “I can’t take it anymore,” Carmen said, her ankle visibly swollen. You go ahead, seek help. “I won’t leave you,” Lucia replied firmly. We’ll get through this together. Supporting their sister, they continued moving towards the village.

Every step was agony for Carmen, but the fear of what was chasing them was greater than the physical pain. Finally they reached the first houses of the village. The streets were deserted at that time of night, barely illuminated by scattered streetlights. In the distance they saw the silhouette of the convent that Don Esteban had mentioned, with its bell tower standing out against the starry sky.

“We almost made it,” Lucia said, heading in that direction. But as they turned a corner, they found the jeep parked blocking the street. Beside him was Joaquín, or what had once been his father. His face, illuminated by the dim light of a streetlamp, displayed a smile they had never seen on him before.

“My precious girls,” he said in a voice that seemed to come from beyond the grave. They truly believed they could escape their fate. The sisters backed away looking for a way out, but Joaquín advanced towards them with deliberately slow steps, enjoying their terror. “The lineage of the Guzmán family must continue. It remained pure, without external contamination. That’s how it’s always been. That’s what it will be like.“

“Our father would never allow this,” Lucía said, trying to buy time. Joaquín’s smile widened. “Your father. Joaquín was always weak. He tried to escape his heritage, but in the end, blood calls to blood. He is me, and I am him. Two bodies, one spirit.”

“You’re a monster,” Carmen spat. “I’m a visionary,” he replied. “You’ll understand when you taste the elixir. It opens the mind, releases primal instincts, and allows you to see beyond absurd social conventions.” He moved closer, extending a hand toward them. “Come with me of your own free will. It will be easier for everyone.”

At that moment, the convent bell began to toll, breaking the night’s silence. It was a strange, untimely sound that seemed to surprise Joaquín as much as the sisters. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Lucía pushed her sister into a side alley. “Run.” Limping, Carmen followed her sister as they heard Joaquín’s footsteps behind them.

The alley was narrow and dark, but it led to the main square, where the town’s church stood. “To the convent,” Lucía gasped. “It’s our only hope.” They crossed the square at full speed, heading toward the imposing colonial structure. The convent doors were closed, but Lucía pounded desperately. “Help us, please.“

Joaquín’s footsteps drew inexorably closer. They could already see his silhouette entering the square. When all seemed lost, the convent door opened. An elderly nun, her face etched with wrinkles, looked at them with piercing eyes. “Esteban Rojas sent us,” Carmen said, her voice trembling. “Please, help us.“

The old woman nodded, stepping aside to let them in. Just as Joaquín reached the convent steps, the door slammed shut. “You’re safe now,” the nun said as she slammed the heavy bolt. “No Guzmán can enter consecrated ground.” “How do you know that?” Lucía asked, still trembling.

The nun looked at them with a mixture of compassion and sadness, because I knew their aunts. I am Dolores Hernández, and I was there when it all began thirty years ago. The Convent of Santa María was a haven of peace amidst the chaos they had left behind. Mother Dolores led them through quiet corridors to a small room with two cots, a table, and a crucifix on the wall.

“Rest,” she told them. “You are safe here.” “He’ll come for us,” Carmen said, still trembling. The old woman shook her head. “He can’t come in here. This place is protected.” “Protected?” Lucía asked skeptically. “Against what exactly?” “Against the darkness that dwells at the Las Ánimas hacienda,” the nun replied, sitting heavily in a chair, “a darkness I know all too well.“

The sisters exchanged glances. There were many unanswered questions, and this woman seemed to hold the keys. “You said you knew our aunts,” Carmen began. “Our grandfather’s sisters.” Mother Dolores nodded slowly. “Mercedes, Catalina, and Elena, three beautiful young women who had the misfortune of being born into the wrong family.“

“What really happened to them?” Lucía asked. “We found Catalina’s diary, but it ends abruptly.” The old woman’s eyes clouded with painful memories. “I was the cook at the hacienda back then. I was barely twenty, but I saw things, I noticed changes. Don Rodrigo had always been a hard man, but after his wife’s death, something changed in him.“

She crossed herself before continuing. He began to seclude himself in the basement for hours at a time. He brought back strange herbs, chemical compounds. The indigenous people who worked on the hacienda murmured about witchcraft, but no one dared confront him. “The elixir,” Carmen murmured. The nun nodded. She called it the essence of the Guzmáns.

She said it was the key to preserving the lineage, to keeping the family blood pure. What did it contain? And, Lucía asked, no one knows for sure. Unknown plants from the region, minerals, and, according to some, human blood. Don Rodrigo experimented for months until he perfected it. Carmen felt nauseous and used it on her own sisters.

First, in small doses, Mother Dolores continued. She mixed it with their food or drink. They began to change, to become more docile, more compliant, and then the real horror began. The old woman paused as if it were difficult for her to continue. He made them his lovers, all three of them. He said it was divine will, that the pharaohs of ancient Egypt did the same to keep their bloodline pure.

Lucía squeezed her sister’s hand, seeking strength, and they became pregnant. “Yes,” the nun confirmed. “Mercedes was the first.” Don Esteban, who was then Don Rodrigo’s personal assistant, asked me for help when the delivery began, but something went terribly wrong. “Did he die?” Carmen whispered. “Worse,” replied the old woman.

The baby was born healthy, but Mercedes changed. The elixir had altered something in her. He began to behave erratically, speaking in unknown languages, attacking anyone who approached him. Don Rodrigo locked her in the attic of the hacienda. The sisters listened in horror. With Catalina it was different, continued Mother Dolores.

Her pregnancy seemed normal, but during childbirth she suffered terrible seizures. The baby survived. But she remained in a catatonic state and Elena, the old woman, closed her eyes as if trying to erase the image from her mind. Elena committed suicide before giving birth. She hanged herself in her room, but for some reason the baby survived. Don Esteban extracted it and managed to save his life.

“Three babies,” Lucia murmured. “What became of them?” Don Rodrigo raised them as his own children, Joaquín, Roberto, and María. He told them that their mother had died giving birth to them, which was not entirely false. Carmen felt like the world was spinning around her. “Our father is the product of incest.“

“And more than that,” the nun added, “he is the son of a cursed union corrupted by the elixir. That’s why the darkness was able to possess him so easily. The seed was already planted in his blood.” What happened to the others? Lucia asked. Roberto and Maria. Roberto died young in an accident, or so they said.

Maria managed to escape, fled to the United States, and never returned. And Don Rodrigo, our grandfather, lived many more years controlling the estate with an iron fist. But something strange happened. As he grew older, his obsession with family lineage intensified. He spoke as if he himself were the embodiment of all the Guzmáns who had ever existed, as if he were a spirit that passed from generation to generation.

Carmen remembered her father’s words in the forest. He is me and I am him. Two bodies, one spirit. When she finally died, Mother Dolores continued. We thought the nightmare was over, but now I understand that I was just waiting, waiting for our father to return to the ranch, Lucía concluded.

The nun nodded solemnly. The Las Ánimas estate has an ancient power, predating even the arrival of the Spanish. The indigenous people considered it cursed land, a portal between this world and the afterlife. Don Rodrigo discovered that power and corrupted it with his experiments. “And what will happen now?” Carmen asked.

What can we do? Staying here safe? the old woman replied. At least for tonight. Tomorrow I will contact some people who can help them travel to Mexico City, far from here, far from him. He got up with difficulty. Try to get some rest. I’ll leave a sister watching your door. When Mother Dolores left, the sisters were plunged into a thick silence.

The story they had just heard was so horrifying that it seemed like something out of a nightmare, but it explained so many things. The oppressive atmosphere of the hacienda, the changes in her father, the voices that Carmen had heard in the walls. “Do you think it’s true?” Lucia finally asked. All this about elixir and possession.

Carmen took Catalina Guzmán’s diary from among her clothes. This diary confirms much of what he said. And you’ve seen how Dad has changed. There is no other explanation. But possessions, curses, it’s hard to believe. “Right now, all I know is that he’s no longer our father,” Carmen replied, “and that we should stay as far away from him as possible.“

Outside, the night was slowly progressing. From their window they could see the town square, dimly lit by a few streetlights. There was no sign of Joaquín, but they both knew he was there somewhere waiting. Dawn arrived with a thick fog that enveloped the town like a shroud. The sisters, who had barely been able to sleep, woke up startled by the sound of the bells, calling for morning prayer.

Mother Dolores entered her room shortly afterwards with a somber face. “He’s been hanging around the convent all night,” he said bluntly. The guards and several neighbors have seen it. “Dad,” Carmen asked. “What’s left of him?” the old woman replied. He has tried to enter several times, but the consecrated doors keep him out.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Lucia said. “That won’t be necessary,” the nun replied. I sent a message to Mexico City. A vehicle will come to pick them up this afternoon to take them to Oaxaca, where they will take a bus. The sisters felt a momentary relief, but Mother Dolores’ expression indicated that there was more to it.

“What’s happening?” Carmen asked. There’s more to it, isn’t there? The old woman sighed heavily. There was an incident early this morning. A young man who worked on the farm was found dead in the plaza. Dead, “How?” Lucia asked, feeling a knot in her stomach. His neck was broken, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that next to the body they found a message written in blood.

What did it say? Carmen insisted. Hand them over or more people will die. The sisters were petrified by this news. “The police are investigating,” Mother Dolores continued. “But in a small town like this, with so few resources.” It’s our fault, Lucía murmured. “That young man died because of us.”

“No,” the nun replied firmly. “It’s the responsibility of the darkness that dwells in the Las Ánimas estate. A darkness that has been feeding on suffering for far too long.” Carmen went to the window. From there, there was a small commotion in the plaza, probably related to the discovery of the body.

“And if we surrender,” she suggested, “to prevent more deaths.” “Carmen!” Lucía exclaimed in horror. “It would be a useless sacrifice,” Mother Dolores interjected. “What it wants is not to kill you, but something much worse. And after you, it will find new victims. The cycle must be broken once and for all.”

“How?” Lucía asked, “If we don’t even know exactly what drives it.” The old woman seemed to hesitate, as if considering whether to reveal anything more. Finally, she sat down on one of the cots. “There’s something I didn’t tell you last night,” she began, “something about the elixir of the Guzmán.”

The sisters looked at her expectantly. Don Rodrigo didn’t create it out of thin air. He based it on ancient manuscripts he found in the ruins of a Zapotec temple on the hacienda’s lands. Texts that spoke of a ritual to prolong life, to transfer the essence of one person to another. “A ritual of immortality?” Carmen asked incredulously.

“Something like that.” But what Don Rodrigo did not understand, or did not want to understand, is that the ritual had a terrible price: for one essence to live, another must die, a balance that cannot be broken. Are you saying that our grandfather is still alive somehow in our father’s body? Lucia asked.

“Not exactly alive,” the nun replied. His body died, but his essence, his spirit or whatever you want to call it, found a suitable vessel in Joaquín, a vessel prepared before he was born by the elixir. Carmen felt a chill and now she seeks us out to continue the lineage, Mother Dolores added, to create new receptacles that can house her essence when her current body deteriorates.

A heavy silence fell over the room. The monstrosity of the plan was so overwhelming that it was difficult to process. “There is a way to stop it,” the old woman continued after a moment. “The manuscripts themselves speak of how to reverse the ritual, how to return the essence to the world of the dead.“

“How?” both sisters asked in unison. Destroying the source of power, the place where the original ritual was performed, where the first elixir was prepared. “The basement of the hacienda,” Carmen murmured, remembering the underground chamber they had discovered. Mother Dolores nodded. “That place must be purified with fire and salt. Only then will the bond be broken.“

“Are you suggesting we burn the estate down?” Lucia asked, surprised. “I’m suggesting you do whatever is necessary to free yourselves from this curse once and for all, for yourselves and for all the victims, past and future.” Before they could answer, they heard a commotion from outside, shouts, and the sound of breaking objects.

The nun went to the window. “My God,” she murmured. The sisters joined her to see what was happening. In the square, a group of men armed with sticks and agricultural tools confronted the few nuns who were trying to protect the entrance of the convent. At the head of the group was Joaquín, although his posture and gestures were those of a stranger.

“Hand over Guzmán’s daughters,” one of the men shouted, or there will be more bloodshed. They are workers on the farm, explained Mother Dolores. He must have convinced them that you are responsible for the young man’s death. What do we do now? Carmen asked, terrified.

The old woman looked at them with determination. There is a secret passage beneath the convent built during the religious persecutions. It will take them to the outskirts of the town, near the road to Oaxaca. From there they will have to find their own way. “And you,” Lucia asked, “will you come with us, right?“

Mother Dolores shook her head, “My place is here, protecting my sisters.” She added with a sad smile, “I’m too old to run away.” There was no time for arguments. The nun quickly led them through side corridors to the chapel, where she lifted a slab of the floor, revealing a narrow stone staircase.

“This tunnel was dug more than two hundred years ago,” he explained, handing them an oil lamp. “Keep going straight ahead, don’t take any detours. The road is long, but it will lead them safely.” “Thank you for everything,” Carmen said, hugging the old woman.

“There’s no time for goodbyes,” replied Mother Dolores, gently pushing them toward the stairs. “Go, and may God protect you.” The sisters began to descend the narrow steps as the nun replaced the slab in its place. Darkness enveloped them, only eased by the faint light of the lamp.

So what now? Lucia whispered as they moved through the damp tunnel. Carmen looked at her with a determination she had not shown until then. Now let’s put an end to this once and for all. Let’s go to the ranch. That? But we just escaped from there. It’s the only way to stop it. If we run away now, it will continue to pursue us, and if it’s not us, it will be others. The cycle must be broken, as Mother Dolores said.

Lucia remained silent, considering her sister’s words. Finally, he nodded. You’re right. We have to end this nightmare. With that resolve they continued advancing through the tunnel, not towards freedom, but towards the final confrontation with the horror that had tormented their family for generations.

The tunnel under the convent was a labyrinth of narrow passageways and stuffy air. The sisters advanced slowly, guided by the dim light of the lamp and their instinct for survival. After what seemed like an eternity, they glimpsed a ray of natural light, the exit. They emerged in a small clearing in the forest about two kilometers from the village.

The sun was high in the sky, indicating that it was close to noon. From there they could see the silhouette of the hacienda in the distance, outlined against the blue sky like a sinister fortress. “We need a plan,” Lucía said as they caught their breath. “We can’t just walk in through the front door.”

Carmen nodded thoughtfully. Mother Dolores said we had to destroy the place where the original ritual took place—the cellar. But won’t he be monitoring the hacienda? Not if he thinks we’re still in the convent, Carmen reasoned, or if she thinks we’ve fled in the opposite direction. Lucía considered this possibility.

There’s a service entrance at the back, near the kitchen. The workers used it to come and go unseen. Do you think it’ll be open? There’s only one way to find out. Cautiously, the sisters began to skirt the edge of the property, keeping hidden in the vegetation. As they got closer, they could see that the hacienda seemed deserted.

There was no visible movement, not even in the fields were the farmhands working. “Where is everyone?” Carmen whispered. “Probably in town,” Lucía replied, searching for us. They finally reached the back of the hacienda. The service entrance, a small wooden door, darkened by the years, was indeed unguarded.

Lucía tried to open it, but it was locked. “Let me try,” said Carmen, taking out the bunch of keys she had taken from her father’s office days before. After trying several, one fit perfectly. The door opened with a creak that seemed deafening in the surrounding silence.

The interior of the kitchen was shrouded in gloom. Abandoned pots and utensils suggested a hasty departure. On the table, food scraps had dried out, attracting flies. “Let’s go,” whispered Lucia, leading the way to the main hallway. They moved silently through the house they once considered their home, which now seemed like a foreign and hostile place.

Every creak of the wooden floorboards, every whisper of the wind at the windows seemed like a threat. Finally they arrived at the main hall. The carpeting on the basement door remained in place as if no one had disturbed the secret it held. “Ready?” Carmen asked, taking out the keys again.

Lucia nodded, although her face showed a fear she could not hide. The door opened with the same key they had used before, revealing the narrow staircase that descended into the darkness. They descended cautiously, illuminating their path with the lamp. The basement was exactly as they had left it: the trunks with the dresses, the jars with unknown substances, the work table where the elixir had been prepared.

So what now? Lucia asked. How do we destroy this place? Carmen approached the table, examining the jars and containers. We need something flammable and salt, as Mother Dolores said. Lucia recalled the kerosene cans in the shed. They used them for lamps and tractors. And there must be salt in the kitchen.

Go after them, Carmen said. I will look among these things. Perhaps there is something that will help us better understand what we are up against. Lucia hesitated, reluctant to part ways with her sister. “I’ll be fine,” Carmen reassured her. “Hurry before they return.“

Finally, Lucia nodded and quickly went upstairs. Carmen, meanwhile, began to examine the contents of the basement in more detail. Carmen approached a small shelf that they hadn’t noticed on their previous visit. It was covered in dust, but the books and documents it contained appeared to have been consulted recently.

He picked up one of the volumes, an old leather-bound journal with the Guzmán coat of arms engraved on the cover. It was Rodrigo Guzmán’s diary. Carmen opened it with trembling hands, turning pages until she reached the entries that described her first experiments with the elixir. The handwriting was precise, meticulous, that of a man obsessed with documenting every detail of his macabre investigation.

“The extract of the plant the natives call pantley must be combined with powdered cinnabar under the light of the full moon,” Carmen read softly. “The creator’s blood seals the pact with the ancients.” The following pages detailed the elixir’s refinement process with notes on its effects on various indigenous laborers on the hacienda, Carmen realized with horror before arriving at the final formula she had used with her sisters.

One paragraph in particular caught her eye. The elixir not only opens the mind to new possibilities, but also prepares the vessel for transference. The spirit can leave the weakened flesh and inhabit a new body, provided the blood is compatible. The blood of my blood will be my new home when this body withers.

My God, Carmen murmured. She really had planned all of this from the beginning. She heard footsteps on the stairs and hurriedly closed the book, stuffing it into her clothes. Lucía appeared with two jugs of kerosene and a packet of table salt. “I found it,” she said, panting from the effort. “And you?”

Carmen showed her briefly, the diary. Evidence. It might be useful if we survive this. They began working quickly. They scattered salt throughout the room, concentrating on the table where the elixir had been prepared and in the corners where the ingredients were stored. Then, Carmen began dousing the furniture, the trunks with the dresses, and the documents stacked on the shelves with kerosene.

We must make sure everything burns, she said with a determination that surprised her sister. Nothing should be left. When they finished, the room was permeated with the smell of fuel. The sisters looked at each other, aware that once the fire was started, there would be no turning back. Do you have the matches? Carmen asked.

Lucía nodded, taking a small box from her pocket. I found them in the kitchen. Good, light the fuse and let’s get out of here. Lucía soaked a strip of cloth in kerosene and stretched it from the coffee table to the stairs. She was about to strike a match when they heard a noise that made their blood boil—the sound of a car engine approaching the hacienda.

“They’re back,” Lucía whispered, paralyzed with fear. Carmen grabbed her arm. “There’s no time, do it now.” With trembling hands, Lucía struck the match and held it to the makeshift wick. The flame ignited instantly, racing along the soaked cloth toward the center of the room.

“Run!” Carmen shouted, pushing her sister toward the stairs. They raced up as the fire began to spread through the cellar. Reaching the top, they closed the door behind them, hoping it would hold the flames long enough for them to escape. But as they turned around, they came face to face with the last person they expected to see: Don Esteban.

The old man was pale and disheveled, his clothes stained with blood, and a deep cut on his forehead. He looked as if he had aged ten years since they last saw him. “Don Esteban,” Carmen exclaimed in surprise. “We thought you were dead.” “Almost,” the man replied weakly. “They left me for dead, but I’m tougher than I look.“

“Where is he?” asked Lucía, glancing nervously toward the window. “Outside with the workers. He saw me arrive and he’s coming this way.” Don Esteban looked around, noticing the smell of burnt fuel. “What have they done?” “What you should have done years ago,” Carmen replied. “We’re destroying the source of all this.“

An orange glow was beginning to seep through the cracks in the basement door. The fire was gaining strength. “They won’t get out of here alive,” the old man said, not as a threat, but as a statement of fact. He will not allow it. “Then you will help us,” Carmen decided. You owe us that after everything you have allowed.

Don Esteban looked at her for a long time, as if he were evaluating his options. Finally, he nodded. “Follow me. There’s another way out that even he doesn’t know about.” He quickly led them to the library, where he moved a bookshelf revealing a small door concealed in the wall.

This leads to the tunnels that mezcal smugglers used during prohibition, he explained. They go out into the forest one kilometer from here. At that moment they heard the front door open violently and the voice of Joaquín or the entity that controlled him echoing through the house. I know they’re here. I can smell them.

“Go,” urged Don Esteban, pushing them towards the passageway. I’ll distract him. “Come with us,” Lucia pleaded. The old man shook his head. It’s too late for me. I have been complicit in this evil for far too long. This is my chance to redeem myself. Without giving them time to protest, he closed the secret door behind them, leaving them in the darkness of the tunnel.

The last thing they heard was his voice fading away, drawing Joaquin’s attention to the opposite side of the house. “We have to keep going,” Carmen said, taking her sister’s hand. His sacrifice cannot be in vain. They groped their way through the narrow tunnel, guided only by instinct and desperation. Behind them, the fire must have already been consuming a large part of the ground floor of the estate.

After what seemed like an eternity, they saw a point of light at the end of the tunnel. The exit was blocked by branches and undergrowth, but they managed to make their way outside. They emerged in a small clearing in the forest, from where they could see columns of black smoke rising from the Las Ánimas estate. The fire had spread rapidly, devouring the ancient wooden and adobe structure.

“We did it,” Lucia whispered, still unable to believe it. Carmen did not respond. She was staring at the burning hacienda, as if hypnotized by the sight. “Carmen,” her sister called, worried. “It’s not over,” he finally said in a distant voice. “He’s still alive. How can you tell?“

“I’m sorry,” Carmen replied, placing a hand on her chest. “Here, as if something were calling me.” Lucía looked at her alarmed, remembering what Mother Dolores had said about the blood of the Guzmán family, about how the elixir prepared the victims for possession. “It’s just fear,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as her sister. Let’s get out of here now.

But before they could move, they heard the branches creaking behind them. They turned around in terror to find the charred and smoking figure of what had once been Joaquín Guzmán. His clothes were largely burned, his skin blackened and blistered by the flames, but the most terrifying thing was his eyes, completely white, without iris or pupil, shining with an unnatural light in his destroyed face.

“My precious girls,” he said in a voice that no longer sounded human, a harsh whisper that seemed to come from beyond the grave. Did they really think fire could stop me? Carmen and Lucía instinctively recoiled at the sight of their father’s charred figure. The smell of burnt meat and kerosene permeated the air, mingling with the smoke that continued to rise from the burning hacienda.

“It’s not possible,” Lucia murmured. No one could survive that fire. The creature that had been Joaquín Guzmán emitted a sound that could have been a laugh. “This body is dying, that’s true,” he said, advancing stiffly toward them. But I cannot die, not while the blood of the Guzmán family exists.

His inhuman white eyes fixed on Carmen. And you, my dear granddaughter, are the perfect vessel. You always have been, from the moment you were born. Haven’t you felt the call, the whisper in your veins? Carmen trembled, remembering the voices she had heard in the walls, the feeling of being watched, the inexplicable connection she had felt with the estate since her arrival. Everything took on a terrible meaning.

“Don’t come near me,” Lucia warned, standing protectively in front of her sister. “Whatever you were, you’ll soon be nothing.” “This body is dying,” the creature confirmed, pointing to its wounds with a hand burned to the bone. “But I don’t need it anymore.” With a surprisingly swift movement for its condition, it lunged at them.

Lucía shoved Carmen out of its reach, taking the full impact. They both fell to the ground in a desperate struggle. “Lucía!” Carmen cried, frantically searching for something to help her sister. She found a thick branch and swung it at the creature’s head with all her might. The impact was sharp, but the creature barely seemed to notice.

Its charred hands closed around Lucía’s neck as she struggled to breathe. “Let her go,” Carmen ordered, striking it again. “Let her go, or I’ll kill you.” The creature turned its disfigured face toward her. “You can’t kill me, child. I am eternal. I am all the Guzmáns who have ever existed and all those who will ever exist.“

Carmen then remembered the diary she had hidden among her clothes. She hastily pulled it out and searched through the pages for any clue, any weakness. “The transfer requires the voluntary acceptance of the recipient,” she read aloud, recalling a passage. “Or complete submission through the elixir.“

The creature momentarily released Lucia, who fell to the ground coughing and gasping. “Very cunning!” he said, sitting up with difficulty. Do you think reading my secrets will help you? This knowledge only makes you more valuable as a vessel. Carmen continued frantically flipping pages. The ritual can be reversed, he read. If the last vessel rejects the essence before physical death.

Enough! The creature growled as it advanced towards her. “Is that what you fear?” Carmen asked, stepping back. “That my father, the real Joaquín, will banish you.” For the first time, she saw something akin to fear in those inhuman eyes. “Joaquín no longer exists,” the creature replied. “His will was broken long ago.”

“You don’t know that,” Lucía interjected, having regained some strength. “Not while there is any life left in my body.” The creature roared in frustration and launched another attack. This time, Carmen was prepared. She dodged the blow and, in a swift movement, pushed the creature against a tree trunk.

“Papa!” she cried, looking directly into those white eyes. “I know you can hear me. Fight against him. Don’t let him use you to hurt us.” For a moment, something seemed to change in the burned face. A glimmer of recognition perhaps, or of human pain. “It’s useless,” said the creature, though its voice sounded less certain. He is weak, he always has been.

“You’re wrong,” Carmen replied. He loved us. He protected us. He fled the estate to keep us safe from you. And yet, here they are, the creature mocked. He returned like all the Guzmáns. Blood always returns to its source. He came back because he had no choice. Lucia intervened, joining her sister. But even then he resisted. He kept you at bay for months.

The creature emitted a guttural sound, as if it were fighting with itself. The charred body began to fail, shaking uncontrollably as life drained from it. “It’s now or never,” Carmen told her sister. We must make Dad wake up, make him reject this monster before he dies. How? Carmen thought quickly, going over everything they had discovered about the ritual and the curse.

“Blood,” he finally said, “it’s all about blood.” Perhaps if we mix our blood with his. Without hesitation, she took a fragment of glass that had fallen from his pocket, part of a broken bottle during his escape, and cut his palm. Lucia understood and imitated her. They approached the creature that was writhing on the ground, growing weaker by the minute.

Her white eyes gradually lost their shine as life left her shattered body. “Dad,” Carmen said, pressing her bleeding hand against her burned forehead, while Lucia did the same with her chest. “Remember who you are. Remember when you took us to the park on Sundays, when you read us stories before bed.“

“Remember Mom,” Lucia added, her voice trembling, “how much you loved her. How did you promise to always protect us?” A spasm ran through the dying body. The white eyes blinked and for an instant the sisters thought they saw the familiar color of their father’s eyes.

“Girls,” said a voice they recognized as weak but unmistakable. “Forgive me, Dad,” Carmen asked, her heart racing. “I don’t have much time,” Joaquín continued, visibly struggling to maintain control. “He’s strong, and I’m dying.” “Fight him,” Lucia pleaded. “Expel him.“

“I try,” Joaquin replied, “but I need you to do something for me, something terrible.” The sisters exchanged glances, understanding what their father was asking before he even put it into words. “This body must be completely destroyed,” Joaquin said, “and my remains must be separated, scattered. The salt, the salt will prevent the essence from finding a new vessel.“

“We can’t,” Carmen sobbed. “Dad, there has to be another way.” “There isn’t,” he replied with a clarity that contrasted sharply with his physical condition. It’s the only way to break the cycle forever. Another spasm, more violent than the previous one, shook his body. For a moment, the eyes turned completely white again, and the voice that emerged was once more that of the creature.

Stupid. They cannot destroy me, I am eternal. But as quickly as it came, possession faded, leaving Joaquín in control again, albeit visibly weaker. “There’s no time left,” he gasped. They must do it now. Please set me free. Free yourselves. The sisters, with tears running down their faces, nodded.

They understood that it wasn’t just about ending a nightmare, but about giving their father final peace, trapped in a body and mind that no longer belonged to him. “We love you, Dad,” Carmen said, bending down to kiss his charred forehead. “Always,” Lucia added. With a determination born of desperation and love, they fulfilled their father’s last wish, using the leftover salt and the remaining kerosene, completing the purification ritual that would free Joaquín Guzmán from the curse that had haunted his family for generations.

When it was all over, the fire at the Las Ánimas estate had almost completely consumed the old structure. Only a few blackened walls and the stone fireplace remained standing as a monument to the horrors that had occurred there. The Guzmán sisters, physically and emotionally exhausted, observed the ruins from a distance.

Rodrigo Guzmán’s diary burned in a small bonfire at his feet, its secrets turning to ashes that the wind scattered. “Do you think it’s really over?” Lucia asked. Carmen looked up at the sky, where the smoke from the hacienda continued to rise, gradually fading into the deep blue.

“Yes,” he replied with a certainty that he didn’t know where it came from. “It’s over.” Holding hands, the sisters turned their backs on what remained of their past and began walking towards the village, towards an uncertain future, but free from the shadow that had darkened their lives.

Behind them, among the smoking ruins of the hacienda, the wind whispered among the blackened stones. But this time there were no voices in that whisper, only the silence of the dead who had finally found rest.