The Hacienda(33)

Then it went out.

A low no escaped Andrés’s mouth as darkness fell over us.

“Back to the parlor,” he said. “I face back; you face forward.”

We moved as one, our backs against each other, facing the darkness. We had no copal. No weapons to defend ourselves. Nothing to shield us from whatever it was that seethed inside the house, whatever it was that pursued us like the weakened prey we were.

There was no candlelight. Only Andrés’s hand crushing mine. It was not enough. Not when the house was all around us. There was no running from it; there was only running deeper into its bowels, and the cold pulling at my legs like mud as we fought toward the parlor where we had left the copal.

I relied on memory to carry me to the fork in the hall, past the staircase, too terrified to reach out to the walls and feel my way forward, for what if they crumbled beneath my touch and revealed new horrors? It was becoming difficult to lift my feet, difficult to breathe, as if something heavy were pushing on my chest. The cold, the dark, was heavy, so heavy . . .

A girlish laugh lilted toward us from the direction of the collapsed wall, faint and wavering, as if carried on a breeze from far away.

Juana, the laughter called, birdlike and thin. Juana.

“Go, go.” Andrés picked up speed, forcing me forward into the dark. His hold on my hand was so firm I could barely feel my fingers. My feet knew the way, and carried us into the main hall, past the dining room . . .

Juana, Juana . . .

The door of the parlor was shut, though we had left it open. I reached for the handle—it was locked. Of course. God damn this house.

Andrés collided with me, pushing me against the door. My teeth jarred against one another and I cried out as my candle fell to the floor. It cracked against the stone floor and rolled away in pieces.

“Carajo,” Andrés said. “I’m so sorry, I—”

Juana. Less faint now. It was following us, dropping in pitch, becoming less singsong, less girlish. Its ring was dissonant, setting my teeth on edge. Juana.

It drew closer.

“Can you open it?” Andrés’s breathing came in rough gasps. My heart throbbed in my throat as I fumbled with the key; finally, we fell forward into the dark room. Andrés slammed the door shut behind us with his shoulder.

The copal sputtered out. All the candles were extinguished. He released my hand. “Lock the door. I’ll light candles.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice. I did so, then followed him as he stumbled forward into the room.

There is nothing more beautiful than the sound of match against paper, the sharp spark of amber and gold, the small crackle of a wick taking flame.

My body shook uncontrollably as I lowered myself to my knees next to the first three candles. He lit ten or eleven in all, his movements sharp with fear as he scattered the thick tallow candles about the room to illuminate every corner. When he was done, he turned his attention to the three copal censers. He placed two on either side of me and the third between us and the door. Then he sat at my right side, breathing heavily, legs pulled to his chest so he could rest his chin on his knees—mirroring how I sat.

His hands trembled.

Slowly, smoke rose from the censers, filling the air with the sharp spice of copal. Andrés sat so close to me our arms brushed.

I was not alone. His presence calmed my racing heart. I was not alone.

Andrés drew a long, shaky breath. “I . . . I did not expect that.”

His attention was fixed on the door. Beads of sweat were drying on his brow.

“I told you.” The words slipped from my mouth before I could stop them.

“And I believed you.” His shoulders tensed as a shudder went down his back. “But it is one thing to believe. It is another to see.”

We sat in silence, staring at the door. Watching the copal curl toward the ceiling. Slowly, my heartbeat returned to its normal pace.

“I will stay here for the rest of the night,” Andrés said softly. “Whenever you are ready, you may leave to sleep. I will be safe.”

“You think I’m leaving this room?” The indignant pitch of my voice made him jump. “You might be safe, but may I remind you which direction I have to walk to go upstairs? Would you want to walk that way alone?”

The shadows made his frown seem deeper than it was. “I could escort you.”

“No,” I said firmly. I don’t want to be alone. “I’m staying here.”

He shifted, tightening his hold around his knees. He kept his gaze fixed on the door. He was uncomfortable about something; that much was clear.

“If this is about spending the night in a room with a woman,” I said, “I might remind you that I am married, and moreover am your host in this horrible place, and therefore I decide what is appropriate or not.”

His head snapped to me in surprise. “Cielo santo, no, do?a,” he said, having the infuriating decency to look scandalized. “I beg your pardon. It is only that . . .” He let the thought trail off as he worried his lower lip, as his eyes skipped again to the door. He was weighing something, deciding whether to speak further. Whether or not to allow me to stay.

He had to let me stay. Surely he understood what it felt like to be alone in this house. Shadows curled around our small halo of light, reaching for him like tendrils of cloying mist; it was as if they deepened in his presence, grew more alive.