The terrible story of Don Leandro: he used to say that a good daughter should “warm her father’s soul.”

In the year 1937, in the small town of San Miguel Allende, located in the state of Guanajuato, the Mexican Revolution had officially concluded. Yet, its scars remained deeply etched into both the landscape and the souls of the people. Among the houses of brick and stone stood the majestic estate of Don Leandro Fuentes, a man who had preserved his immense wealth throughout those turbulent times, thanks to a combination of ruthless cunning and an absolute lack of moral scruples.

The estate, known as “El Mirador,” loomed imposingly from atop a hill, allowing Don Leandro to survey his vast fields with a watchful, possessive eye. He was a robust man, distinguished by a thick beard and piercing, intense eyes capable of exposing the inner vulnerabilities of anyone who dared to meet his gaze. His wife, Doña Carmen, had passed away five years earlier during the birth of their fifth daughter, leaving him a widower with five girls to raise.

Margarita, seventeen; Dolores, fifteen; Consuela, twelve; Esperanza, eight; and Luz, the youngest at only five, grew up in the shadow of a father who became increasingly distant and tormented. That November afternoon, as a cold wind whistled through the cobblestone alleys of the town, Josefina Castro, the cook who had served the family for over twenty years, observed the gaunt face of young Margarita with growing concern.

“My dear child, are you feeling well? You look quite pale,” Josefina asked as she prepared the pozole that Don Leandro had requested for dinner. Margarita, a young woman of delicate beauty with honey-colored eyes and long, dark hair, turned her gaze away from the embroidery she held in her trembling hands. “I am fine, Josefina, just tired. I haven’t been able to sleep well lately.”

Josefina frowned, having long noticed the deep dark circles that marked the girl’s face. For months, Margarita had lost her vitality, transforming into a silent shadow drifting through the house. “Don Leandro will not be coming to dinner tonight,” Margarita suddenly said, as if she had read the cook’s mind. “He asked me to bring his meal to his study.”

The cook nodded in silence. Don Leandro was accustomed to locking himself in his office for hours, especially since his wife’s death. It was rumored in town that he had begun drinking excessively and that his already difficult character had become truly unbearable. Suddenly, the trembling voice of Margarita interrupted Josefina’s thoughts: “Do you believe in ghosts?”

The cook dropped the ladle she was using to stir the pozole and quickly made the sign of the cross. “Ave Maria, sweet child, do not say such things! Why do you ask me that?” Margarita looked out the window, where the sunset shadows stretched across the courtyard. “Sometimes I hear voices at night. I think it is Mother.”

Josefina approached the young woman and placed a hand on her shoulder in a protective gesture. “Your mother is with God, child. What you hear is the wind blowing through the ages. This house is old and makes strange noises.” Margarita offered a sad smile and nodded, but her eyes revealed that she was far from convinced.

Meanwhile, in the village, Father Tomás Herrera was leaving the church after hearing confessions. The priest, who had witnessed the horrors of the Revolution and the Cristero War, was deeply troubled. The confession of Rosario, the estate’s maid, had left his spirit with an unbearable weight: the insinuations regarding Don Leandro and his daughters were too grave to ignore.

While walking, he bumped into Dr. Ernesto Vega, the only doctor in the village. “Good afternoon, Father. You seem worried,” the doctor greeted him, a man of forty wearing round glasses. “It’s the usual troubles of an old priest,” Father Tomás replied, trying to smile. Dr. Vega scrutinized him carefully. “Have you had news of the Fuentes family recently?”

Father Tomás sighed deeply. “They haven’t come to mass for a long time.” The doctor nodded gravely. “Last week Dolores was visiting. She had bruises on her arms and back. When I asked her how she got them, she told me she had fallen down the stairs.” “Did you believe her?” the priest asked. “No, those bruises were not from a fall.”

The two men remained silent, observing the town square. “Something dark is happening at that estate, Father,” the doctor finally murmured. “And I fear there is nothing we can do to stop it.” At the estate, meanwhile, Margarita was slowly climbing the wooden staircase that led to her father’s study, carrying a tray with the steaming pozole, fresh tortillas, and a bottle of tequila.

Every step felt heavier than the last. Once in front of the carved door, she took a deep breath before knocking lightly. “Come in,” thundered Don Leandro’s gruff voice. Margarita entered with her head bowed, avoiding meeting the eyes of her father, who sat behind a massive desk cluttered with papers. The only light came from an oil lamp that cast eerie shadows against the walls.

“Put the tray down and serve me,” ordered Don Leandro without looking up. Margarita obeyed mechanically, serving the pozole into a Talavera bowl. “The accounts don’t add up this month,” the man muttered to himself. “Tequila production has fallen, and buyers are pressuring us.”

Margarita did not respond, knowing that no comment was expected. “Come here,” Don Leandro suddenly commanded, tapping his hand on his lap. Margarita froze. “Didn’t you hear me? Come here, Margarita.” With hesitant steps, the young woman approached her father, who grabbed her roughly by the waist, forcing her to sit on his lap.

Don Leandro’s breath reeked of tequila and tobacco, a mixture that turned Margarita’s stomach. “Do you know what your grandfather used to say?” he whispered in his daughter’s ear. “He said that a good daughter should warm her father’s soul.” Margarita squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. She knew all too well what would happen next.

Meanwhile, in the estate’s kitchen, Josefina was serving dinner to the other sisters when she heard a strange noise coming from the cellar. It was like a moan, a stifled cry that made the hair on her arms stand up. “Did you hear that, Rosario?” she asked the maid. Rosario, a twenty-year-old girl with a sharp face, nodded nervously. “It must be the wind, Doña Josefina.”

Josefina frowned and headed toward the door leading to the basement. It was a heavy, old door, always kept under lock and key. Don Leandro had strictly forbidden anyone from going down there, claiming he stored fine wines there. “What are you doing, Doña Josefina?” whispered Rosario, alarmed. “Don Leandro will be furious.”

Josefina was silent, pressing her ear against the door. “Don’t you hear it? It sounds like a child crying.” Rosario also approached, and both listened in the absolute silence. Indeed, behind the solid wood, the weak crying of a baby could be heard. “Holy Virgin,” Josefina murmured, crossing herself. “What has Don Leandro locked in there?”

Before Rosario could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs made them start. Quickly, the two women returned to their chores. Don Leandro appeared in the kitchen with a flushed face and bloodshot eyes. Behind him, Margarita walked with a lost look, as if her mind had abandoned her body.

“Dinner for the girls,” Don Leandro ordered harshly. “It is served, sir,” replied Josefina, avoiding looking at Margarita. Don Leandro nodded and headed toward the dining room, followed by a Margarita who moved like an automaton. Josefina and Rosario exchanged worried glances before following them to serve dinner.

The dining room of El Mirador was a spacious room with a long mahogany table. That evening, however, the silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of spoons against bowls. The girls ate with their heads down, not daring to speak. “Mr. Augusto Montero will visit us tomorrow,” Don Leandro suddenly announced. “He is an important businessman interested in investing in our tequila.”

None of the girls answered, but Margarita raised her head slightly with an expression of pure terror. “I want you to behave like educated young ladies,” their father continued, staring at each daughter. “Especially you, Dolores. Don Augusto has a twenty-five-year-old son looking for a wife.” Dolores visibly shuddered. “But, Father,” she dared to say with a trembling voice, “I am only fifteen.”

Don Leandro struck the table with his fist, making the dishes jump. “Do not contradict me!” he roared. “At your age, your mother was already married to me.” Dolores lowered her gaze, holding back tears. “Furthermore,” added the man with a crooked smile, “we need the Montero money. Our economic situation is not as rosy as everyone thinks.”

The rest of the dinner passed in absolute silence. When they finished, Don Leandro retired to his study, ordering Margarita to follow him to discuss the details of the visit. Josefina watched helplessly as the young woman followed her father. In twenty years of service, she had never seen Don Leandro so out of control. The death of Doña Carmen seemed to have unleashed something dark and perverse within him.

While cleaning the dishes, Josefina made a decision: that night, when everyone was asleep, she would go down to the cellar to discover what Don Leandro was hiding. The crying she had heard gave her no peace. What if there really was a baby locked down there? What Josefina did not know was that her curiosity would lead her to discover a secret so horrible that it would change her perception of the entire family forever.

Night fell over San Miguel Allende like a heavy, dark cloak. The stars shone in the clear sky, but their light could not penetrate the oppressive atmosphere that enveloped El Mirador. The wind blew through the agave plants, producing a sound like a distant lament, as if the earth itself were weeping for an ancient tragedy.

In the kitchen, Josefina waited patiently. She had hidden a small master key that had belonged to Doña Carmen and which, according to what the lady had confided in her before dying, opened all the doors of the estate. “In case you ever need it to protect my daughters,” she had told her with a look full of care that Josefina would never forget.

When the clock struck midnight, the cook got up. Don Leandro had retired long ago, taking Margarita with him. The other girls were sleeping, or at least pretending to. With stealthy steps, Josefina headed toward the basement door. The master key fit the lock perfectly, and with a slight creak, the door opened.

A smell of dampness and something indefinable but disturbing hit her immediately. The stone staircase was poorly lit by the candle Josefina held. Shadows danced on the walls, creating grotesque figures. Reaching the bottom, the woman raised the candle to illuminate the space. The basement was large, with stone walls and a dirt floor.

Just as Don Leandro had said, there were shelves with wine bottles and tequila barrels, but in the back, half-hidden by shadows, another door could be distinguished. Josefina advanced cautiously, feeling her heart beat so hard she feared the noise might alert the entire house. As she approached, she heard that weak crying again. It was not the wind; she was sure of it.

With trembling hands, she inserted the key into the lock of the second door. She turned the key and the door opened with a squeak that resonated in the silence. What she saw paralyzed Josefina with horror. In the center of a small room, illuminated only by a ray of moonlight filtering through a tiny window, was a crib, and inside the crib, a baby no older than six months was crying weakly.

“Holy Virgin,” Josefina murmured, approaching. The baby, seeing the light of the candle, stopped crying and looked at her with large, dark eyes. He had black hair and pale skin, and something about his face seemed strangely familiar. Next to the crib was a chair and on it a note written in uncertain calligraphy.

Josefina picked it up: “His name is Joaquín. He is the son of Margarita and Don Leandro. He was born six months ago. Whoever finds this note, please take him out of here before it is too late.” The note was not signed, but Josefina immediately recognized the handwriting of Rosario, the maid. The horror of what she had discovered struck her like a knife.

Don Leandro had abused his own daughter, and the fruit of that abuse was now before her, looking at her with eyes that seemed to contain all the sadness in the world. Josefina took the baby in her arms, determined to take him away that very night. But before she could take a step toward the exit, a hoarse voice blocked her: “I see you have discovered our little secret, Josefina.”

Don Leandro was at the door of the room, blocking her path. His eyes glowed unnaturally, and his crooked smile revealed teeth yellowed by tobacco. “How could you, sir?” whispered Josefina, clutching the baby to her chest. “How could you do this to your daughter?” Don Leandro emitted a laugh that echoed sinisterly in the basement.

“To my daughter? Oh, Josefina, how naive you are. Margarita is not my daughter.” Josefina looked at him without understanding. “But Doña Carmen…” “Carmen was a beautiful woman, but barren,” Don Leandro interrupted in a cold voice. “We adopted Margarita when she was just a newborn. Her mother was a prostitute who died during childbirth. No one claimed her.”

Josefina felt her legs give way. Everything she thought she knew about the Fuentes family was crumbling before her eyes. “But that doesn’t justify what you did,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “You raised her as a daughter, and now this.” And she pointed to the baby sleeping in her arms.

Don Leandro took a step toward her, his face twisted in a grimace of anger. “And who are you to judge me, Josefina? Just a maid who has forgotten her place.” Before Josefina could react, Don Leandro struck her hard on the head. The impact made her stagger, but she managed to protect the baby.

“The baby cannot leave here,” hissed Don Leandro, snatching the little one from the woman’s arms. “And neither can you.” With the baby in one arm, Don Leandro pulled a revolver from his jacket and pointed it directly at Josefina’s head. “I have been too lenient with you, always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Josefina closed her eyes, waiting for the shot that would end her life, but instead she heard a stifled cry. “No, Father!” Margarita stood in the doorway, her face pale and her eyes wide with horror. Beside her, Dolores held her by the shoulders. “Take Joaquín with you, Josefina,” Margarita pleaded. “Please, take him away from this cursed house.”

Don Leandro turned toward his daughters, his face twisted with fury. “Go back to your rooms!” he roared. “This does not concern them, nor does it concern us,” said Dolores’s voice, surprisingly firm. “He is my sister’s son, the son you forced her to have. How can you say it doesn’t concern us?”

Don Leandro raised the revolver, pointing it now at his daughters. “Do not force me to do something I would regret… more than I already have.” Margarita stepped forward with a determination Josefina had never seen in her: “You raped me, Father. You raped me repeatedly since I was twelve years old, and when I became pregnant, you forced me to give birth in secret and then locked my son in this basement, barely feeding him.”

Margarita’s words fell like stones in the silence of the cellar. Josefina felt her blood turn to ice. Don Leandro seemed momentarily baffled by his daughter’s sudden courage, but he quickly recovered his cruel expression. “You are as ungrateful as your mother,” he spat with contempt. “I gave you a roof, food, an education, and this is how you thank me?”

Margarita emitted a bitter laugh. “I should thank you for turning me into your personal toy, for stealing my childhood, my innocence, and now my son.” While Margarita kept Don Leandro distracted, Dolores had stealthily approached Josefina, helping her stand up. The baby, frightened by the agitated voices, began to cry in Don Leandro’s arms.

“Shut up!” shouted the man, shaking the little one roughly. “Shut up, son of the devil!” It was that moment of distraction that Josefina used to pounce on Don Leandro. Despite being an elderly woman, adrenaline gave her the strength to push him against the wall. The impact caused both the baby and the revolver to fall.

Margarita rushed to pick up her son, while Dolores hurried to grab the weapon. “Run!” shouted Josefina to the young women. “Take the baby and get out of here!” Don Leandro, recovering from the blow, lunged at Josefina with a bestial roar. His hands clamped around the woman’s throat.

“I will kill you all!” he yelled, foaming at the mouth. “I will kill you and bury your bodies where no one can find them.” Josefina felt life slipping away as Don Leandro’s hands tightened on her throat. Her vision was blurring, but she managed to see Margarita and Dolores running toward the stairs with the baby.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out in the basement. Don Leandro loosened his grip and collapsed on top of Josefina with a surprised expression. A thread of blood flowed from a hole in his temple. Behind him, still holding the smoking revolver, was Consuela, Don Leandro’s third daughter. At twelve years old, she had the cold and determined look of someone much older.

“He will never hurt us again,” she said in a monotone voice, as if she were talking about the weather and not the murder of her father. Josefina sat up with difficulty, coughing. The lifeless body of Don Leandro lay at her feet in a pool of blood that was slowly widening on the dirt floor. “My God, comfort me,” Josefina murmured in horror. “What have you done?”

“It is what I had to do,” replied the girl, lowering the weapon. “It was what everyone in this town wanted to do, but no one dared.” Margarita and Dolores, returned after hearing the shot, watched the scene with a mixture of horror and relief. The baby, now calm, slept in his mother’s arms.

“We must leave here,” Dolores said finally. “Let’s take what we can and get as far away as possible.” “And what will we say about what happened here?” asked Josefina, pointing to Don Leandro’s corpse. “The truth,” Margarita replied firmly. “We will tell the truth about what this man did to us. And if no one believes us, if we are judged, so be it. I prefer prison to continuing to live in this hell.”

The sisters and Josefina climbed the stairs in silence, leaving the body of Don Leandro Fuentes behind. None of them knew at that moment that what had happened in the basement would only be the beginning of a much darker and more disturbing story. Arriving in the kitchen, they found the younger sisters waiting, frightened, assisted by Rosario.

“What happened?” asked Esperanza. “We heard a shot.” Margarita looked at her younger sisters, wondering how to explain to them that their father, the man who should have protected them, was actually a monster. “Father had an accident,” Consuela finally said, putting the revolver in her dress pocket. “He will not hurt us anymore.”

The children seemed to understand the hidden meaning behind their sister’s words because they did not ask any more questions. “We must prepare to leave,” said Josefina, taking charge of the situation. “Gather only the essentials: clothes, some food, and all the money you can find. We will leave before dawn.”

While the sisters dispersed to gather their things, Josefina remained alone with Margarita and the baby. “Where will we go?” asked the young mother. “To Mexico City,” replied Josefina. “I have a sister there who will help us. We can start over, far from this city and its memories.”

Margarita nodded, but a shadow of doubt persisted in her eyes. “And if they come looking for us? And if they find out what happened here?” Josefina took Margarita’s hands in hers in a maternal gesture. “Then we will face everything together. But I don’t think anyone will mourn the death of Don Leandro to the point of investigating too deeply.”

What neither of them knew was that the body of Don Leandro Fuentes would never be found, because while they prepared their escape, something strange was happening in the estate’s basement. The pool of blood around Don Leandro’s corpse seemed to move of its own accord, expanding and contracting as if it were breathing.

And slowly, imperceptibly, the body began to sink into the ground as if the earth were swallowing it whole. When the sun began to rise, no trace of Don Leandro Fuentes would remain in the basement, only a dark stain on the dirt floor, like a persistent shadow that refused to disappear.

It would disappear even decades later, when the El Mirador estate would become a ruin and its history a legend whispered with fear by the inhabitants of San Miguel Allende. Meanwhile, Dr. Ernesto Vega woke up with a start in the middle of the night. He had had a disturbing dream in which he saw Don Leandro Fuentes walking the streets of the town, his face covered in blood and a bullet wound in his chest.

The doctor got out of bed and went to the window. The night was silent, but something in the air gave him a feeling of unease he could not explain, as if the air itself were heavy with a sinister omen. In the village church, Father Tomás was also awake. He had spent the night praying, tormented by the confessions he had heard.

The priest knew that he should have done something earlier, that he should have reported Don Leandro to the authorities. But who would have believed him? Don Leandro was one of the most powerful men in the region, with friends in the government and the police. What would have happened to those poor girls if he had tried to intervene and failed?

Father Tomás knelt before the altar, asking for forgiveness for his cowardice and praying for the souls of Don Leandro’s daughters. As he prayed, a cold breeze passed through the church, extinguishing some candles. “May God have mercy on us all,” the priest murmured, making the sign of the cross.

What the priest did not know was that at that precise moment, Josefina, Margarita, Dolores, Consuela, Esperanza, Luz, and little Joaquín were leaving the estate on a carriage driven by Pedro, the stableman who had always felt sympathy for the Fuentes sisters. They were heading toward Mexico City, leaving San Miguel Allende and the horrors they had lived behind.

They did not know that the past could not be avoided so easily, that the sins of Don Leandro Fuentes would haunt them like a dark shadow, even beyond death, because some things, once done, cannot be undone and some horrors, once lived, mark the soul forever.

Mexico City, in 1937, was a melting pot of life and contrasts. While the upper classes enjoyed modernity in elegant neighborhoods like Roma and Condesa, in the popular neighborhoods, poverty was cruelly evident. The Revolution was officially over, but its consequences remained in every corner of the capital.

It was in a small house in the Guerrero neighborhood that Josefina and the Fuentes sisters found refuge, welcomed by Dolores, Josefina’s younger sister. At only thirty years old, Dolores Castro was the widow of a railroad worker and lived modestly on her husband’s pension and what she earned as a seamstress.

“It’s not much,” she had said, welcoming them, “but there is room. Enough for all of us if we tighten our belts a bit.” Three months had passed since their escape. Three months in which they had tried to adapt to their new life, far from the opulence of El Mirador, but also far from the horrors they had lived.

Margarita, who now called herself María to avoid being recognized, had found work as a clerk in a small haberdashery. At seventeen, with a nine-month-old son, her face had lost the freshness of youth, marked by deep dark circles and an expression of permanent alertness, as if she were constantly expecting something terrible to happen.

Dolores, the second sister, had resumed her studies, attending evening classes while during the day she helped at home and took care of little Joaquín. She had developed a special bond with the baby, whom she affectionately called “my nephew-brother.” Consuela, for her part, had become extremely silent since the night she shot Don Leandro.

At twelve, she rarely spoke, and when she did, her voice was monotone, devoid of emotion. She spent hours staring out the window, as if looking for something on the Mexico City skyline. The little ones, Esperanza and Luz, seemed to have adapted better to the change, attending a nearby public school and making friends in the neighborhood.

Josefina worked as a cook in a nearby restaurant, where her Guanajuato-style cooking was highly appreciated. Although the work was hard and the hours long, she felt satisfied being able to contribute to the support of the family she had formed with the Fuentes sisters.

That February afternoon, as Josefina was returning from the market, she noticed something strange. A man in a hat and dark trench coat was watching her from the opposite corner. When their eyes met, the stranger quickly looked away and hurried off. Josefina felt a chill run down her spine.

It was not the first time she had the feeling of being watched in recent weeks. Were they looking for them? When she returned home, she found Margarita rocking Joaquín, who was crying inconsolably. “He has a fever,” explained the young mother, her face worried. “It started this morning and hasn’t gone down despite the cold compresses.”

Josefina placed the groceries on the table and approached the baby. Indeed, the little one was burning up and his breathing was labored. “We must take him to the doctor,” she said, making a quick decision. “I know one who works nearby and doesn’t ask too many questions.” Margarita nodded, wrapping Joaquín in a blanket.

At that moment, the door opened and Dolores entered, followed by Consuela. “What’s happening?” asked Dolores, seeing the worried expressions. “Joaquín has a fever,” explained Josefina. “We’re taking him to the doctor now. You stay here and wait for Esperanza and Luz to return from school.” Dolores nodded, but Consuela took a step forward.

“I’ll come with you,” she said in one of those rare moments when she broke her silence. “I want to make sure Joaquín is okay.” Josefina had no time to argue. The baby’s fever seemed to increase from moment to moment, and his crying had turned into a weak moan, which was even more worrying.

Dr. Morales’s office was a few blocks away, on a narrow and poorly lit street. He was an elderly doctor who had lost his license years ago due to alcohol problems, but continued to treat residents of the neighborhood for modest prices. Upon their arrival, they found the waiting room empty.

Dr. Morales, a man of about seventy with a white beard and eyes reddened by alcohol, made them come in immediately. “What’s wrong with the baby?” he asked, examining Joaquín with hands surprisingly steady for someone with his history of alcoholism. “He’s had a fever since this morning,” explained Margarita.

Dr. Morales nodded, listening to the baby’s chest and checking his temperature. “It looks like bronchitis,” he concluded finally. “It’s not serious if treated properly, but it must be monitored closely. I will prescribe a syrup and some steam baths.” As he wrote the prescription, the doctor observed the three women carefully.

“You’re not from the neighborhood, are you?” he suddenly asked. Josefina felt all her muscles tense. “My sister Dolores and I live on Via Soto,” she replied, trying to sound natural. Dr. Morales nodded slowly, as if he were evaluating the truth of her words.

“It’s curious,” he said, handing them the prescription. “A few days ago a man came asking about a family that had just arrived from Guanajuato. A woman with five sisters and a baby. He showed me a photograph.” The three of them froze. Consuela instinctively brought her hand into the pocket of her dress, where Josefina knew she still kept the revolver.

“I don’t know any family like that,” Josefina replied firmly. “He must have mistaken us for someone else.” Dr. Morales stared at her for a few seconds that seemed like an eternity before nodding again. “It must be so. In any case, you can buy the syrup at the corner pharmacy. And take care of the little one. The first months of life are the most delicate.”

They left the office with their hearts pounding. Who was looking for them and why? Don Leandro was dead; there was no doubt about that. Consuela had shot him point-blank in the head. “Or someone is following us?” whispered Margarita as they hurried toward the pharmacy.

“Today at the haberdashery, a man watched me for hours,” added Margarita. “And this morning I saw a man watching the house,” confirmed Consuela. “We must leave,” decided Josefina. “Change cities, maybe even the country. We must talk to Dolores and organize our departure as soon as possible.”

But just as they turned the corner toward the pharmacy, they came face to face with the same man in the hat and trench coat that Josefina had seen before. This time he did not look away, nor did he move away. On the contrary, he smiled in a way that made Josefina’s blood run cold.

“Miss Margarita Fuentes, what a coincidence to find you here,” said the stranger, taking off his hat with a gesture that was meant to be polite but sounded like a threat. “Oh, I should say Miss María, right?” Margarita clutched Joaquín to her chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied with a trembling voice. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

The man emitted a laugh that was anything but friendly. “I don’t think so. I know the daughters of Don Leandro Fuentes very well, especially you, Miss Margarita. Your father spoke very well of you.” Josefina stepped forward, positioning herself between the stranger and Margarita. “Who are you and what do you want from us?” she asked with all the firmness she could find.

The man looked at her as if he had just noticed her presence. “Augusto Montero, at your service,” he introduced himself with a slight bow. “And what I want is very simple. Justice for my dear friend Leandro Fuentes, who disappeared three months ago under suspicious circumstances.”

Augusto Montero. The name echoed in Josefina’s memory. It was the businessman Don Leandro had mentioned on the night of his death. “Don Leandro had an accident,” Josefina said calmly. “He fell down the basement stairs and hit his head. We had to flee because we were afraid they would blame us for his death.”

Augusto Montero smiled again. A smile that did not reach his cold and calculating eyes. “An accident. Very convenient.” “And where is my friend’s body, if I may ask? In the basement where he fell?” Josefina answered, sustaining the man’s gaze. Montero shook his head, as if disappointed by such an obvious answer.

“That is the strange thing, madam. I was at the estate. I searched every corner, including the basement. There is no trace of Leandro, not his body, nor his blood, nothing that indicates that an accident occurred there.” Josefina felt the earth shake beneath her feet. How was it possible? She herself had seen Don Leandro’s body with a bullet hole in his chest and a pool of blood around it.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured, genuinely confused. “We saw it.” “You saw him die,” finished Montero with a malicious glint in his eyes. “Or you killed him.” Before Josefina could respond, Consuela stepped forward, confronting Montero directly. “I killed him,” she declared with a clear and firm voice.

“I shot him in the head because he deserved it, because he was a monster who abused his own daughters, because he locked the son he had with Margarita in the basement like an animal.” The harshness of the confession left Augusto Montero momentarily speechless. He looked at the twelve-year-old girl with a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

“You have guts, little one,” he said finally, “but I fear your confession comes too late. Leandro Fuentes is alive.” The words fell like stones on the three women. Margarita emitted a groan of horror, while Joaquín began to cry again. “It’s not possible,” whispered Josefina. “Consuela shot him point-blank.”

“And yet, he is alive,” insisted Montero, “seriously injured, unrecognizable, but alive, and he wants to recover what is his.” With a quick gesture, Montero pointed to the baby in Margarita’s arms. “That baby is the legitimate heir to the fortune. Don Leandro wants me to return to the estate where I belong.”

“Never,” cried Margarita, backing away, “I will never hand over my son to that monster.” “I fear you have no choice, Miss Margarita,” said Montero, pulling a revolver from his trench coat. “Will you come with me now, or will I have to resort to less gentle measures?”

But before he could point the gun, a shot rang out on the deserted street. Augusto Montero staggered with a surprised expression on his face before falling to his knees. A red stain was spreading rapidly on his shirt at chest height. Consuela held Don Leandro’s revolver in her hand, that same one with which she had shot him three months earlier.

“Run,” she said to Margarita without taking her eyes off the wounded man. “Take Joaquín and run.” Margarita hesitated for only a moment before doing what her sister ordered. With the baby tight to her chest, she ran down the street. Josefina, however, did not move. She could not leave Consuela alone.

“Go with her,” ordered the girl. “I will catch up with you later.” But Josefina knew it wasn’t true. If she stayed there, Consuela would be captured and accused of double murder. “I won’t leave you,” she said firmly, taking the girl by the arm.

“Let’s go now, before someone comes,” said Consuela, allowing Josefina to drag her away, leaving Augusto Montero lying on the sidewalk, his blood mixing with the dirty water of a puddle. They ran through narrow alleys, trying to lose any pursuers, until finally they reached Dolores’s house.

Margarita was already there, explaining in a hurry to her sisters what had happened. “We must leave immediately,” said Josefina, catching her breath. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.” “Where?” asked Dolores. “To Veracruz,” decided Josefina. “From there we will take a ship to Cuba. I have savings. They should be enough for the tickets.”

While the sisters hurried to gather their few belongings, Josefina approached Consuela, who sat in a corner with the revolver still in her hand. “I can’t believe Don Leandro is alive,” muttered the girl, her gaze lost in the void. “Maybe Montero was lying,” suggested Josefina, although she herself doubted that possibility.

Consuela shook her head. “No, he was telling the truth. Don Leandro is alive and he will find us, no matter where we hide.” The certainty in the girl’s words sent a chill down Josefina’s spine. “How are you so sure?” she dared to ask.

Consuela looked at her with those dark eyes that seemed to have seen more horrors than a girl her age should have. “Because I see him in my dreams. Since the night I shot him, he appears in my nightmares. At first I thought they were just nightmares, but they are becoming more and more real.”

“I see him crawling out of the basement with the head wound, bleeding but alive. I see him looking for us, following our tracks like a bloodhound, and I hear him calling my name, promising that he will find me.” Josefina instinctively crossed herself. What Consuela described could not be a simple nightmare.

“In town,” Consuela continued, “there were legends about men who made deals with the devil to gain wealth or power. Men who could not die a natural death because they had sold their own soul. I wonder if Don Leandro was one of them.”

The idea was so absurd that Josefina would have laughed in any other circumstance. But after what she had seen in the last few months, she was no longer so sure. “Whatever it is,” she finally said, “we are not staying to find out. We are going far away, where he won’t be able to find us.” But as she spoke these words, Josefina felt she was not convinced.

An hour later, Dolores Castro’s house was empty. The Fuentes sisters, Josefina, and little Joaquín had disappeared. The old Dolores, too old to undertake such an uncertain trip, had decided to stay, promising to deny knowing them if anyone came looking for them.

On a night train to Veracruz, Margarita watched the dark landscape rushing by out the window. Joaquín slept in her arms, unaware of the danger that loomed around them. Beside them, Dolores and the children, Esperanza and Luz, dozed, exhausted.

Only Consuela remained awake, her gaze fixed on the darkness that extended beyond the glass. In the reflection, Josefina could see the girl’s dark eyes, alert like those of a hunted animal. “He won’t leave us in peace, will he?” asked Consuela without taking her eyes off the window.

Josefina did not answer immediately. She did not want to lie to the girl, but she also did not want to fuel her fears. “I don’t know,” she said finally, “but we are six against one, and we have something he wants but cannot have: freedom.” Consuela nodded slowly. “My mother used to say there are things worse than death,” she murmured. “I think I understand now what she meant.”

Outside, the February night wrapped the train in its dark cloak. The moon, just a thin sickle in the cloudy sky, cast a faint light on the fields they passed. “Somewhere,” Josefina thought, “Don Leandro Fuentes is looking for us.” Dead or alive, real or as a ghost in Consuela’s nightmares, his presence continued to haunt them like a shadow that refused to vanish.

Veracruz, March 1937. The port was in full swing under the relentless sun of the Gulf of Mexico. Cargo and passenger ships came and went continuously, bringing goods and travelers from all over the world. Among the crowd that moved along the docks, five women and a baby tried to go unnoticed.

They had arrived in the port city three days earlier and were staying at a modest boarding house near the port. The money Josefina had saved would allow them to pay for passage on a merchant ship that would sail for Havana that very night. From there they hoped to continue to the United States, where they hoped to start a new life.

“Are you sure we’ll be able to board the ship without problems?” asked Margarita to Josefina as she rocked Joaquín. “The captain is a friend of my late husband,” replied Josefina, although her voice betrayed a certain restlessness. “They will take us as unregistered passengers. No one will know we were on board.”

“Or if they are watching us,” insisted Margarita, looking around nervously. Since the incident with Augusto Montero, she hadn’t stopped feeling as if invisible eyes were following her everywhere. “We have been careful,” intervened Dolores, who in recent weeks had shown a strength that surprised everyone.

Consuela, sitting on a nearby bench watching the sea horizon, did not participate in the conversation. Since arriving in Veracruz, she had barely spoken a word. Her eyes, dark and deep, seemed to be constantly vigilant, as if she expected Don Leandro to appear in the crowd at any moment.

The little ones, Esperanza and Luz, played not far away, unaware of the gravity of the situation. For them, the trip was an adventure, an opportunity to see the sea for the first time. Their innocence was the only thing that brought a little light into the darkness that enveloped the family.

“We should go back to the boarding house and pack our bags,” suggested Josefina, checking the small watch she wore around her neck. “The ship sails at midnight and we need to be at the pier two hours before.” The sisters nodded and started back toward the boarding house. They hadn’t gone far when Consuela stopped suddenly as if she had seen something that had alarmed her.

“He’s here,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on a point in the crowd. Josefina followed the direction of her gaze, but saw only the usual dockworkers, fishermen, merchants, and tourists. “Who?” “Him,” replied the girl with a tone of voice that made Josefina’s blood run cold. “Don Leandro is here.”

Margarita emitted a groan of terror, clutching Joaquín to her chest. “It can’t be,” muttered Dolores. “It must be your imagination, Consuela.” But the girl denied it vehemently: “It’s not my imagination. I saw him. He was there near the barrels watching us. He was wearing a hat and had his face bandaged, but it was him. I would recognize him anywhere.”

Josefina felt fear seize her. Was it possible that Don Leandro had followed them all the way to Veracruz? And how could he have found them so quickly? “Let’s not lose our cool,” she said, trying to make her voice sound firm. “Let’s go back to the boarding house taking a different route.”

They took an alternative path, winding through narrow alleys where the smell of fish and salt permeated the air. Josefina led the group with a determined but cautious step, turning occasionally to make sure no one was following them. Consuela closed the line, her right hand constantly in the pocket of her dress, where she kept the revolver.

“I don’t think anyone is following us,” whispered Josefina when they finally reached the boarding house. An old two-story house with walls peeling from dampness and sea air. The owner, Doña Remedios, an elderly widow who didn’t ask too many questions as long as she was paid on time, greeted them from the small reception desk.

“You have a visitor,” she announced, pointing to a man sitting in a corner of the hall, partially hidden by shadows. “A gentleman who claims to be a relative.” Josefina’s heart leaped. Without thinking, she positioned herself in front of her sisters like a human shield.

The man stood up slowly and walked into the light. It wasn’t Don Leandro, but his face was equally familiar: Father Tomás, the priest from San Miguel Allende. “Thank God I found you,” said the old man with exhaustion. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, as if he had been traveling for days without stopping.

“Father Tomás,” murmured Josefina, surprised and alarmed. “How did you find us?” The priest looked around nervously before answering. “Not here,” he whispered. “We must speak in private. What I have to tell you must not be heard by indiscreet ears.”

They climbed silently to the room they shared. A spacious but simple room with three beds and a small balcony overlooking a side street. Once inside, with the door closed and after checking that no one was on the balcony or in the corridor, Father Tomás finally spoke.

“Don Leandro is alive,” he said bluntly, confirming Consuela’s worst fear. “I know,” replied the girl with a calmness that contrasted sharply with the horror her words provoked in her sisters. “I saw him in my dreams and today at the port.” Father Tomás looked at Consuela with a mixture of surprise and sadness.

“I don’t know if what you saw today was really him, but he is alive, although not in the way we knew him.” “What do you mean, Father?” asked Josefina. The priest sat heavily on one of the beds, as if the weight of what he was about to reveal was too much for him.

“After you fled, there were rumors in town about what had happened at the El Mirador estate. Some said Don Leandro had been murdered, others that he had run off with a mistress, but no one had entered the estate to check. Until Augusto Montero arrived.”

Father Tomás nodded. “Yes, Montero arrived a few days after you left. He entered the estate with several armed men and they searched it from top to bottom. The strange thing is that, according to the workers who were still on the property, they found nothing. No trace of Don Leandro, no blood, no sign of a struggle. It was as if he had vanished.”

“But I shot him,” intervened Consuela in a monotone tone. “I shot him in the head. I saw him fall. I saw the blood.” “I believe you, daughter,” the priest assured her. “What happened after that is what I cannot explain, nor can anyone else in town.”

“What happened, Father?” asked Margarita, rocking Joaquín, who was beginning to stir. The priest made the sign of the cross before continuing. “Three days after Montero’s visit, on a moonless night, Don Leandro appeared in the village. Several witnesses saw him walking through the main square as if nothing had happened.”

“But there was something strange about him,” continued the priest. “He walked in a rigid, almost mechanical way, and his face… his face was pale, expressionless, like that of a corpse.” “My God,” murmured Dolores, embracing Esperanza and Luz protectively.

“He went straight to the church,” continued Father Tomás. “I was praying when he entered. At first I didn’t recognize him. He seemed different, not only because of his expression, but because something fundamental had changed in him, something I can’t describe in words.”

“What did he say to you?” asked Josefina, becoming increasingly anxious. “He asked about you. He wanted to know where you had taken his son.” A heavy silence fell in the room. Margarita clutched Joaquín tighter. “And what did you answer him?” asked Consuela, her gaze so intense that it made the priest look away.

“The truth is that I didn’t know. You fled without saying where, but he didn’t believe me. He approached and placed his hand on my forehead.” Father Tomás shuddered at the memory. “His hand was cold, so cold that it burned. And then, somehow, he was able to see into my mind, he saw my memories, my conversations with you, Margarita and Rosario’s confessions, everything.”

“How is that possible?” murmured Josefina, finding it hard to believe what she was hearing. “I don’t know,” admitted Father Tomás. “All I know is that after that, Don Leandro smiled. It wasn’t a normal smile. It was as if something non-human was using his face to mimic a human expression.”

“‘Thank you, Father,’ he said to me. ‘Now I know what I need to know.’ And then he left. But before leaving the church, he stopped near the baptismal font. The holy water started to boil while he approached.” The priest’s story left everyone speechless. What he described went beyond understanding, beyond what was natural.

“The next day,” continued Father Tomás, “we found Augusto Montero’s body in Mexico City. He had been killed by a gunshot to the chest.” Consuela and Josefina exchanged an alarmed look. No one else knew that it was Consuela who had shot Montero.

“How did he find out?” asked Josefina cautiously. “Because his body was sent to San Miguel Allende, where he had family. And because Dr. Vega, who examined the corpse, noticed something strange. Although Montero had been dead for less than twenty-four hours, the body was in an advanced state of decomposition, as if he had been dead for weeks.”

Josefina covered her mouth, stifling a scream of horror. “And that’s not all,” added Father Tomás. “On Montero’s chest, right where he had been hit, someone had carved a symbol with a knife or something similar.” “Which symbol?” asked Consuela.

“A five-pointed inverted star, surrounded by a circle,” replied the priest, crossing himself. “A pentagram, the symbol of the devil.” Margarita emitted a groan of terror and pain. “After that,” continued Father Tomás, “I started investigating. I spoke with the village elders who knew ancient stories, legends that went back to the time of the conquest.”

“I discovered something about the Fuentes family, which I fear explains what is happening.” The priest took a small, worn leather book from his pocket and opened it to a marked page. “This is the diary of Friar Alonso de Benavides, one of the first missionaries to arrive in the region in the 16th century.”

“According to his writings, the first Fuentes, a conquistador named Diego, made a pact with dark entities to obtain wealth and power. In exchange, he promised to sacrifice his firstborn when he turned eighteen. But Diego Fuentes did not keep his promise. Instead of sacrificing his son, he sacrificed several natives, thinking that this would appease the entities.”

“It was not so. The night his son turned eighteen, something entered the estate he had built, something that was not human. The next day they found the entire Fuentes family dead, except for the eldest son who had disappeared. Months later, the young man returned, but he had changed.”

“His eyes, Friar Alonso says, no longer reflected a human soul, but something ancient and evil. Since then, according to legend, every generation of Fuentes must renew the pact. The firstborn must sacrifice their offspring, or if they don’t have any, they must find a way to procreate and then sacrifice that son.”

“If they don’t, whatever possesses the body of the Fuentes patriarch will take steps to ensure the pact is respected.” Josefina listened incredulously; it all sounded like superstition. “Father,” she finally said, “with all due respect, this sounds like fairy tales. Don Leandro is an evil man, yes, but to believe that he is possessed by something supernatural…”

“I thought the same thing,” interrupted Father Tomás, “until I saw it with my own eyes, until I felt his hand on my forehead and experienced something inhuman probing my mind.” “Are you saying Don Leandro wants to sacrifice Joaquín?” asked Margarita, her voice trembling.

“Not only that,” replied the priest. “According to legend, the sacrifice must be performed when the baby turns one year old and must be executed by his own father, in this case, Don Leandro himself.” “Joaquín will turn one in three months,” murmured Margarita, embracing her son protectively.

“That is why I came to warn you,” said Father Tomás. “Don Leandro is looking for you and will not stop at anything to find Joaquín before he turns one. If he succeeds…” the priest didn’t finish the sentence, but everyone understood what he meant. If Don Leandro found Joaquín, the baby would die in the most horrible way imaginable.

“What can we do?” asked Dolores, whose usual composure seemed to have vanished in the face of the scale of the threat. “Flee,” replied Father Tomás. “Flee as far away as possible and never stop. Don Leandro cannot be everywhere at the same time, even if whatever possesses him gives him powers beyond human.”

“But we are already fleeing,” said Josefina. “Tonight we will take a ship to Cuba and from there we will go to the United States.” Father Tomás nodded. “It is a good plan, but you must know that you will not be completely safe until Joaquín turns one. If you manage to keep him away from Don Leandro until then, the pact will be broken and whatever inhabits Don Leandro’s body will lose its power over him.”

“And then Don Leandro will die?” asked Consuela in a tone that made it clear this was exactly what she expected. “I don’t know,” admitted the priest. “The legend doesn’t specify, it just says the container will be empty.” A heavy silence fell on the room while everyone processed what they had just heard.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, painting the Veracruz sky in shades of orange and red. “There is more,” said Father Tomás after a few moments. “Something that can help protect you.” He took a small cloth bag from his pocket and handed it to Josefina.

“Inside are Saint Benedict medals, blessed specifically to protect from evil, one for each of you. Carry them with you always, don’t take them off even to sleep.” Josefina opened the bag and took out the silver medals. “I also brought holy water,” continued the priest, extracting a small glass bottle. “If you see Don Leandro, do not hesitate to use it and pray, pray without ceasing.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Josefina, putting the medals and the holy water in her bag. “But there is still something I don’t understand. How did he find us here in Veracruz?” Father Tomás’s face darkened. “Rosario, the estate maid, went to confession a few days ago. She told me she had received a letter from you saying you were in Veracruz and planning to take a ship to Cuba.”

“But we didn’t write to Rosario,” said Margarita, alarmed. “I know,” replied Father Tomás. “I realized something was wrong and started asking questions. I discovered that Rosario had disappeared from San Miguel Allende the very day she received that supposed letter. No one has seen her since.”

The implication of his words fell like a ton of bricks on all those present. “Don Leandro used her to get information,” murmured Josefina, feeling the fear coming back crawling. “And then…” “We cannot be sure,” said Father Tomás, although his tone suggested that he too feared the worst for the young maid.

“But it is very likely that Don Leandro knows you are in Veracruz. And if he knows, it is only a matter of…” “It will take him time to find us. We must leave immediately,” decided Josefina, standing up. “We can’t wait until midnight.” “And where will we go?” asked Dolores. “The ship won’t sail for several hours.”

“To the Mexican consulate,” replied Josefina. “I know the consul. He is an honorable man who could give us shelter until we can board.” Father Tomás nodded, approving the plan. “I will come with you. I will accompany you until you are safe on the ship.”

They hurried to gather their few belongings. While they did so, Consuela approached the window and watched the street, which was beginning to darken with the arrival of night. “Someone is watching the boarding house,” she suddenly said, her voice tense. Everyone stopped and looked where the girl was pointing.

Indeed, on the opposite sidewalk, partially hidden by the shadows of a door, they could distinguish the silhouette of a man. Although the distance and the increasing darkness prevented them from seeing his face, there was something in his posture, in the way he stood motionless staring at the windows, that was disturbing.

“Is it him?” asked Josefina, approaching the window. Consuela nodded slowly. “It’s Don Leandro. He found us.” Panic threatened to seize them all, but Josefina remained calm. “The boarding house has a back exit that leads to an alley,” she said. “We can use that route to avoid him.”

Without wasting another second, they finished gathering their things and headed toward the door. But before they could open it, someone knocked three times. “Who is it?” asked Josefina, with a trembling voice. “Doña Remedios,” replied the owner’s voice. “You have another visitor, a gentleman who claims to be a relative.”

Josefina looked at Father Tomás with alarm. The priest shook his head, indicating not to open the door. “Tell him we are resting and that we will receive him later,” replied Josefina. There was a moment of silence and then Doña Remedios’s voice returned, although now there was something strange, as if she spoke under some sort of duress.

“Mr. Fuentes insists on seeing his daughter Margarita and his grandson Joaquín immediately.” A chill ran down Josefina’s back. Don Leandro knew exactly who was inside the room. “Pass through the window,” whispered Father Tomás, indicating the balcony. “I will stop him here.”

“No,” replied Josefina firmly. “I will not let him face that thing alone.” “There is no time to argue,” insisted the priest. “You must take Joaquín to safety. It is all that matters now.” Before Josefina could protest, there was a loud bang against the door. The wood creaked ominously.

“Go,” ordered Father Tomás, taking a crucifix from his cassock and positioning himself in front of the door. Now another blow, stronger than the previous one, made the hinges start to give way. They had no choice. Quickly, Josefina helped her sisters out onto the balcony. First Margarita with Joaquín, then Dolores with Esperanza and Luz, and finally Consuela, who resisted leaving Father Tomás.

“Go with them, Josefina,” said the priest, while a third blow made the door partially fall off its hinges. “I will keep him busy as long as possible.” With her heart sinking in her chest, Josefina went out onto the balcony. From there she could see the side alley, where her sisters were already waiting.

The jump was not too high, but enough to be dangerous. “I’ll jump first and then help you,” said Josefina. But before she could, one last, devastating blow made the room door collapse. Through the window, Josefina could see a figure entering the room.

It was not Don Leandro, or at least not as she remembered him; it was something that used his body, but moved unnaturally. The face, partially bandaged, revealed pale, waxy skin like that of a corpse. And the eyes—the eyes were not Don Leandro’s; they were completely black, without irises, without pupils, like wells of infinite darkness.

“In the name of Almighty God, I command you to stop,” exclaimed Father Tomás, holding the crucifix before the creature. The thing that had been Don Leandro stopped momentarily, observing the priest with an expression that seemed almost amused. Then, with an incredibly quick movement, he grabbed Father Tomás by the neck and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.

“Your God has no power here, priest,” he said with a voice that was not Don Leandro’s, but something older, deeper, and much more terrifying. Josefina knew she had to jump, join her sisters, and flee as fast as possible, but she could not abandon Father Tomás.

Without thinking twice, she took out the holy water the priest had given her and returned to the room. “Leave him alone!” she shouted, throwing the holy water directly into the creature’s face. The effect was immediate. Don Leandro’s skin started to smoke where the holy water had touched it, as if it were being burned by acid.

The creature emitted a sound that was neither human nor animal, but something indescribable and horrible. It released Father Tomás, who fell to the ground, coughing and struggling to breathe. The creature clutched its face, where the skin was still smoking. “Run, Josefina!” shouted Father Tomás. “He won’t be able to stay for long.”

This time Josefina obeyed, helped the priest get up, and together they went out onto the balcony. Below, her sisters waited for them with expressions of horror and worry. “Jump,” ordered Josefina to Father Tomás. “I’ll follow you.” The priest, although weakened by the attack, managed to jump and land in the alley with the help of Dolores and Consuela.

Josefina was about to follow him when she felt a cold hand clasp around her ankle. “You aren’t going anywhere,” hissed the creature’s inhuman voice. Josefina tried to free herself, but the grip was like an iron vise. Slowly, the creature dragged her back into the room.

“Run!” shouted Josefina to her sisters and Father Tomás. “Take Joaquín to the ship, don’t look back.” “I won’t leave you!” cried Margarita, passing Joaquín into Dolores’s arms and approaching as if she wanted to help Josefina. “Do it for your son,” insisted Josefina, struggling against the creature’s grip. “Save him.”

At that moment, Consuela pulled out Don Leandro’s revolver and pointed it toward the balcony. “Move aside, Josefina,” she ordered with a cold voice. Without waiting for an answer, she fired. The bullet did not hit the creature, but the hand with which it held Josefina’s ankle.

The impact made it momentarily loosen its grip, enough for Josefina to free herself and jump into the alley. There was no time to celebrate. The creature was already recovering and looking out from the balcony, its black eyes glowing with supernatural anger.

“Run!” shouted Father Tomás, and this time everyone obeyed. They ran through the labyrinth of Veracruz alleys, moving away from the boarding house and heading toward the port. Night had completely fallen and the streets were barely lit by gas lamps that cast ghostly shadows.

“Do you think he’s following us?” asked Margarita. “Without a doubt,” replied Father Tomás, “but the holy water temporarily weakened him. We have a head start, but it won’t last long.” “What will we do now?” asked Dolores. Josefina decided to stick to the original plan: go to the consulate and from there to the ship.

“And if Don Leandro already knows where we’re going?” asked Consuela, who closed the line. The revolver was still in her hand, ready to be used if necessary. “It’s a risk we have to take,” replied Josefina. “We have no other option.” They continued to advance through the increasingly deserted streets of Veracruz.

As they approached the port, the sound of waves and the smell of sea salt became more intense. On the horizon, they could see the lights of anchored ships, including the merchant ship that was supposed to take them to Cuba. “We almost made it,” murmured Josefina, pointing to a stone building with the Mexican flag flying on the façade. “That’s the consulate.”

But when they were only a few meters away, a figure emerged from the shadows, blocking their path once again. It wasn’t Don Leandro, but a young woman with a gaunt face and empty eyes. “Rosario!” whispered Josefina, recognizing the maid. The young woman was unrecognizable. Her skin, once smooth, now had a grayish tone and was covered with small wounds and scars.

Her eyes, once lively, now seemed like two empty, lifeless wells. “Don Leandro wants to see his grandson,” said Rosario in a monotone tone, as if reciting words she didn’t understand. “Rosario, what did he do to you?” asked Margarita, horrified. Rosario did not respond.

Instead, she stepped toward them, extending her arms as if she wanted to take Joaquín. “Don Leandro wants to see his grandson,” she repeated in the same tone as before. “The pact must be renewed.” Father Tomás stepped forward, positioning himself between Rosario and the group. “This woman is no longer Rosario,” he said with a grave voice. “She is just an empty shell controlled by the same thing that controls Don Leandro.”

“Is she dead?” asked Dolores in a whisper. “I don’t know,” admitted the priest. “But I know we can’t help her now. We must move forward.” They tried to go around Rosario, but the young woman moved with surprising speed, blocking their path again.

“Don Leandro wants to see his grandson,” she repeated for the third time, and now there was something threatening in her tone. Consuela did not hesitate; she raised the revolver and pointed it directly at Rosario’s head. “I don’t want to hurt you, Rosario,” she said firmly. “But if you don’t move, I’ll shoot.”

“Wait,” intervened Father Tomás, taking a small silver cross from his cassock. “Let me try something first.” He approached Rosario with the cross held high. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he recited, “I command any evil entity that inhabits this body to leave it immediately.”

For a moment it seemed that nothing would happen, but then Rosario’s body started to convulse violently. A guttural sound, more like the growl of a beast than the voice of a woman, emerged from her throat. “You cannot stop it, priest,” she finally said with a voice that was not her own. “The pact must be renewed. The baby must die.”

“Never!” cried Margarita, hugging Joaquín even tighter, while the little one began to cry. The thing that had been Rosario lunged suddenly toward them with hands outstretched like claws. But before she could reach them, a gunshot rang out in the night.

Rosario, or what was left of her, collapsed to the ground with a smoking hole in her forehead. Consuela slowly lowered the revolver. “There was no other option,” she said simply. No one disputed her statement. Everyone knew that whatever had happened to Rosario, the young woman they had known no longer existed.

What remained was simply a tool of Don Leandro, or rather of whatever inhabited his body. “We must continue,” urged Josefina, looking away from Rosario’s body. They continued toward the consulate, but when they were about to arrive, Father Tomás stopped suddenly.

“No,” he said, looking toward the building with an alarmed expression. “It’s not right. There is something, something evil waiting for us there.” “How do you know?” asked Josefina. “I’m sorry,” replied the priest, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s as if the air itself were contaminated by his presence.”

“Is Don Leandro at the consulate?” asked Margarita with a trembling voice. “I don’t know,” admitted Father Tomás. “But there is something there, something we shouldn’t encounter.” “Then we’ll go straight to the ship,” decided Josefina. “Captain Mendoza will wait for us at the main pier. If we manage to reach him, we’ll be safe.”

They changed direction, moving away from the consulate and heading directly to the port. The main pier was lit by lanterns and several boats swayed gently in the calm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Among them was the Esperanza, the merchant ship that was supposed to take them to Cuba.

“Here is Captain Mendoza,” said Josefina, pointing to a robust man waiting near the gangplank. They hurried toward him, feeling that freedom was within reach. But halfway there, a figure emerged from the shadows of the pier, blocking their path once again.

Don Leandro, or what was left of him, was waiting for them. His face, partially burned by holy water, showed living and decomposing flesh. But more terrifying were his eyes, completely black, reflecting the light of the lanterns like obsidian mirrors.

“Hello, Margarita,” he said with a voice that was and was not Don Leandro’s. “Won’t you introduce me to my grandson?” Margarita backed away terrified. “He’s not your grandson,” she replied, with a trembling but resolute voice. “He is my son, and I will protect him with my life.”

The thing that had been Don Leandro emitted a laugh that echoed unnaturally through the deserted pier. “Your God is worth nothing, child, and the baby’s blood belongs to something much older and more powerful than you or God.” Father Tomás stepped forward again with the crucifix held high.

But before he could finish the sentence, Don Leandro made a dismissive gesture with his hand and the priest was thrown backward as if struck by an invisible force, ending up in the water with a splash. “Your God has no power here, priest,” repeated Don Leandro. “This territory belongs to the ancient gods, gods who asked for blood long before your God appeared.”

Consuela raised the revolver once more and fired without hesitation. The bullet hit Don Leandro in the middle of his chest, but he didn’t even blink. “You’ve already tried it, little girl,” he said mockingly. “Don’t you learn from your mistakes?” With another flick of his wrist, the revolver flew from Consuela’s hands and fell into the water, disappearing into the darkness.

“Now, if you have finished with your pathetic attempts at resistance, you will hand over the baby,” commanded Don Leandro. He extended a hand toward them. Josefina knew they were cornered. Father Tomás was in the water, perhaps drowning. The revolver was gone, and the thing that had been Don Leandro seemed immune to bullets and holy water.

But then she remembered the Saint Benedict medals that Father Tomás had given them. She took them from her bag and quickly gave one to each of the sisters. “Put them around your neck,” she ordered. “And pray, pray like you have never prayed before.” The sisters obeyed and began to pray in low voices.

Don Leandro watched the scene with an expression that was both amused and disdainful. “Do you think a piece of metal blessed by a mortal priest can stop me?” He mocked. “I am older than your religion, older than your saints, older than civilization itself.”

But while he was speaking, something strange started to happen. The Saint Benedict medals started to shine with a golden light that intensified as the women’s prayers became more fervent. The light seemed to form an invisible barrier between them and Don Leandro.

“Impossible!” roared the creature. His voice lost its mocking tone and acquired one of authentic surprise and pain. He tried to advance toward them, but the light of the medals seemed to push him back. Every step he took forward forced him to retreat two, as if he were fighting against an invisible current.

“You can’t escape!” he shouted. His voice was now a mixture of fury and despair. “The pact must be renewed, the baby must die.” But the barrier of light continued to strengthen, pushing him further and further away. Josefina realized they had a chance, perhaps the only one they would ever have.

“To the ship!” she shouted, pointing to it as a beacon of hope. Now the sisters ran toward the gangplank, where Captain Mendoza awaited them with a confused expression, clearly unable to see what was really happening. “What’s going on, Josefina?” asked the captain. “Why all this rush? And who is this man who is chasing you?”

“There is no time for explanations, Ricardo,” replied Josefina, pushing her sisters toward the gangplank. “We must set sail immediately. It’s a matter of life or death.” The captain, although clearly stunned, nodded. He had known Josefina for years and trusted her. “Get on board,” he ordered. “We will sail as soon as you are on board.”

The sisters quickly climbed the gangplank with Margarita and Joaquín in the middle, protected by Dolores, Consuela, Esperanza, and Luz. Josefina was about to follow them when she remembered Father Tomás. “The priest!” she exclaimed, looking toward the water. “We must help him.” But before she could do anything, she saw Father Tomás emerge from the water coughing and gasping, helped by a sailor who had dived in to save him.

“Father!” shouted Josefina. “Over here!” The priest, although wet and weakened, managed to reach the gangplank with the sailor’s help. Together they climbed onto the ship, which was already starting to move away from the pier. Don Leandro, or what was left of him, watched. He watched helplessly from the pier as his prey escaped.

The barrier of light created by the Saint Benedict medals continued to hold him at bay, preventing him from approaching the ship. “It’s not over,” he shouted, his voice resonating in an otherworldly way over the water. “I will find them. It doesn’t matter where they hide, I will find them. The pact must be renewed.”

But his threats were lost in the wind as the Esperanza sailed out of the port of Veracruz, carrying the Fuentes sisters, Joaquín, and their protectors toward an uncertain future, but for the moment free from Don Leandro’s shadow. On the ship’s deck, Margarita watched the lights of Veracruz shrinking in the distance.

Joaquín slept in her arms, unaware of the nightmare they had left behind and the dangers that might still lurk in the future. “Do you think we really escaped?” she asked Josefina. The elderly woman looked pensively toward the port that was vanishing into the night.

“I don’t know, daughter,” she replied honestly. “What dwells within Don Leandro is ancient and powerful, as he himself said. But if we manage to keep Joaquín safe until he turns one, perhaps the pact will be broken, as Father Tomás said.” “And if not?” asked Margarita in a whisper.

Josefina had no answer. Instead of answering, she embraced the young mother and her child, as if with that gesture she could protect them from the horrors they had lived and those that might still await them. The Esperanza navigated through the dark waters of the Gulf of Mexico, moving away from the coast toward the vastness of the sea.

On board, six women, a baby, and a priest prayed silently, clinging to the hope that the terrible story of Don Leandro Fuentes had finally come to an end. But in the port of Veracruz, a solitary figure continued to watch the horizon long after the ship had disappeared from sight.

His eyes, black as bottomless wells, glowed with supernatural determination. “The pact must be renewed,” murmured Don Leandro, or what had once been Don Leandro, “and it will be renewed, whatever the cost.” The terrible story of the man who said that a good daughter should warm her father’s soul was not over; it had just begun.