Reflected In Blood

By Andrés Borghi

A man wakes up in the dead of night and with his touch he reveals something odd: there is a new hallway in the middle of his apartment that leads to the unknown.
A girl with a grotesque tattoo on her leg suffers from its curse, attracting dark forces that threaten her life and the ones of those who surround her.
From the worst monstrous apparitions to the depth of psychological horror, the ten stories that this book contains reveal all different faces of fear. They reflect the daily reality through a macabre mirror that exposes what just a few dare to contemplate: the horror can overrun us from the outside, but usually it’s a seed that grows within us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrés Borghi
• Release date: Aug 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667411583

Book preview

BEHIND THE DOOR

Milagros unfolded the picture of her father and held it in front of her eyes, already accustomed to the candles’ dim light. She didn’t know where or when it was taken, but she didn’t care. The only thing she needed was a portrait, a big and clear picture of his face. She found it right there, in the old man’s house, going through some dusty boxes she had discovered, buried behind all the heaped trash in one of the closets.

The clever and indecipherable glance seemed to judge her through the paper, laughing at her like it did many times before, but it was just her imagination, the man was already dead.

Standing in the little living room, she felt surrounded by the mess. The house was a pigsty, it always had been, too small for all the things her father kept. There were furniture remains, broken electronics, moldy books, and an endless list of crap. Luckily, the weak light of the candles hid a little bit of that depressing sight. She couldn’t wait to finish her impending task, so she could run away and never come back.

She stood in front of the old man’s bedroom, which was now a dark and empty cave, and shut the wooden door before her. She took another look at the picture she still held in her hands and following the instructions that woman gave her, she stuck it to the door with sticky tape. Then, she used another bit of tape to block the lock. She took a few steps back.

Watching the picture of her father, motionless, like seen through a hole in the door, she started to feel overcome with sorrow.

—Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?—the woman had asked—. I’m not responsible for whatever may happen.

—Yes—she had answered with conviction— I don’t have a choice.

Now, she was hesitating. She didn’t want to talk to him.

—You have to be alone, and the only light must come from the candles. When the picture is placed, paint it with the oil.

Milagros went closer to the door again, holding the little bottle the woman had sold to her. Oil, she said, but it didn’t smell like any oil she knew.

She put the soaked brush over her father’s face and, immediately, a huge chill went through her whole body. Did that substance have some sort of power? Or was she a victim of suggestion and was giving that smelly water a power it didn’t possess?

She focused on calming down, this wasn’t supposed to be more than a procedure. She moved the brush all over the picture and then sat in a chair she previously put in front of the door, nine feet away, and put the bottle down on the floor.

Now, she must remain still and in absolute silence.

She stared at the picture. She had to think of him, her father, his face, his body and his voice.

And she had to think about how the man died, that would help him come back.

Or at least that was what the woman said...

Milagros hasn’t seen him die. The neighbors found him in the room that now had his picture on the door, three days later. She pictured him lying in bed, beaten by a heart attack. She liked picturing him like that: dying alone.

Her eyes were itchy. She wasn’t supposed to look away from the picture by any means. She had to focus. She felt like the picture was moving, changing its expression, that his smile was shifting into a sardonic one. She knew it was the optical illusion that happens when you stare at something long enough: the brain assumes it already has all the available information and starts to modify everything to avoid collapsing.

The picture wasn’t the only thing that seemed to be changing. The light coming from the candles around her was moving too. The woman had warned her about that.

—Once you’ve looked at the picture enough, and thought about the man, the lights will move. They’ll seem to fade, but they won’t. Just enough to create an island of light between you and the door, like nothing else in the world exists. That will be the right time.

Now she couldn’t do it. She opened her mouth, but no word came out. The silence had become tangible, filling her with fear, but she was even more afraid of breaking it. What if everything the woman said was true?

—Dad?—she said with a tremulous voice, like a whisper.

Without moving a muscle, she watched the door, waiting.

Nothing happened.

She had to sound confident, that was another rule.

—Dad—she said again, louder.

Nothing.

What an idiot. She had been scammed. That stupid liquid she had bought meant that the last of her savings was gone. She had fallen into a classic trap designed for the desperate ones.

She looked around. What was she doing there, in that place she hated, immersed in the dark and silence? She angrily kicked the bottle next to her feet, maybe hoping the noise would bring her back to the real world. The bottle fell sideways and started to spin over the wooden floor, spilling its contents while it moved away.

Suddenly, Milagros jumped off the chair and grabbed the bottle, already empty. She had to stop the spinning noise because, beneath that, she heard something else.

A breathing behind the door.

She stood still, as if the slightest movement could break the spell.

She heard it again. There was someone in the room. She could barely hear that shaky breathing, attenuated by the closed door, but there it was.

She went back to the chair and carefully sat, focusing once more on the picture. When she was ready, she spoke again.

—Dad.

The breathing suddenly stopped, interrupted by a weak moan. It was the voice of an old man.

Silence again.

Milagros opened her mouth to talk, but that thing spoke first.

—Who’s that? Milagros…?

It was her who moaned with surprise this time. It was him, her father, and he sounded scared.

For a moment, she thought of getting up and running away, never coming back, forgetting what she went there to do. She’ll find another solution, but her own voice brought her back to reality, to that reality.

—Yes, it’s me.

—Where am I? I’m cold. I can’t see anything.

The voice sounded clearer, as if he went closer to the door once he heard her. Was she really talking to him?

—It’s ok. You’re home, in your bedroom—she answered, trying to disguise her fear.

—My bedroom…? What am I doing here?

—I need your help.

—Where am I…? I feel the door, but I can’t touch it.

—I need your help, dad—she continued as if she didn’t hear the question.

She had to do it quickly, the woman said. She had to take advantage of her father’s disorientation.

—Help you?

—Yes, I’m having a bad time. Only you can help me.

The voice didn’t answer. The silence took over the place once again. The living room seemed to be even smaller, it felt like being in a hallway where only she and the door could fit.

Milagros waited, nervous. Every second counted.

—Dad…?

The picture looked at her, with that fake smile engraved in the paper.

—What are you talking about? What help?

He was still confused.

—Things aren’t good. I lost the apartment I was renting, I don’t have a place to stay, and I can’t afford a new one. I can barely buy food.

She heard her own words and felt shame. She never talked to him like that, in such a direct way. The only language they’ve ever shared was violence. She wondered how he’d look, was he pale and gaunt like the moment he died? Or was he the version of her father she could see in the picture? Or perhaps something absolutely different? Maybe none of the above; probably it was just an incorporeal voice projecting itself through the wood. However, it was steadier than before.

—I don’t have room here for anyone to stay.

—No, it’s not that. I don’t want to disturb you. If you could help me with something…

—I don’t have anything… Why can’t I open the door? Why are you talking to me from the other side?

She had rehearsed the conversation a thousand times in her head. She was now at the key moment.

—Once you told me that, if I needed, you would give me a part of what you have saved.

She waited, hoping the lie would work.

There was no answer.

—You would tell me where it is, so I could take whatever I needed.

There wasn’t a voice anymore, or a breath. It felt like there was no one behind that door, but she knew there was, the woman had explained how it worked.

—Dad…?

—That’s for emergencies only. I’ve never promised you that.

—Yes, you did! And yes, it’s an emergency!

She closed her eyes and tried to calm down, she couldn’t lose control again. She mustn’t fall into her father’s game.

—Mom left us that money—she said—. You told me you’ll keep it, but if someday I needed a little, I could ask you for it.

—You don’t know how to handle money. It’s better if I have it. And you never asked me for this before. Why now? Suddenly…?

The voice went off. In that endless pause, Milagros heard each and every heartbeat of her heart.

—Milagros…

She didn’t reply.

—Milagros, I’m not supposed to be here.

He knew.

—I’m dead.

She grabbed her head and looked down, exhausted. That almost never happens, according to the woman, and if it did, it meant she didn’t have much time.

Things weren’t going so well.

She stood up, almost without noticing it, blinded by nervousness.

—What are you saying, dad, if you’re here talking to me?—she went on, like nothing happened.

—Then why don’t you open the door? I can’t.

She shouldn’t go on with that, but she had no words.

—I want to leave, Milagros, I’m not feeling well.

—You can only leave when I say so.

—What does that mean?

—That you won’t leave until you tell me where you hid the money.

The voice went off. Milagros knew her father hated feeling cornered. It was a good way to get him to talk. Once she had what she wanted, she’d open the door and see that no one was there. That’s how she’d break the spell and return the presence to its place, as if it had never been there.

She must hurry.

—Have you heard me?—she inquired. She had started to shake.

Her father laughed. It was a contained laugh that could barely be heard through the wood. Milagros knew it well, that sound had fed her fear, her hate and her frustration all her life. She thought she’d never hear it again.

—That’s why you brought me back? To steal from me? How pathetic. Always depending on others. If you want it so much, go find it yourself.

—I already turned this whole place around.

—Then, try harder. You could use that money. You’re skinny, your clothes are old. You should get a new sweater.

Milagros looked at her body, instinctively. How did he guess what she was wearing if the lock was blocked?

The picture. Was it any different? She had a hard time distinguishing the details, as it was suddenly darker. She felt like the eyes in that picture were staring at her, like the mouth was laughing with that mocking sound. She wouldn’t let herself be intimidated.

—Why do you keep hiding that money? It’s not yours anymore. You can’t use it.

—No, I can’t, and you can’t either. Open the door and let me go.

How did he know?

—I won’t open it!

Suddenly the handle moved. It was just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to make Milagros feel how her blood was leaving her body, while she heard the voice of the woman inside her head:

—You have the power to open the door and stop the spell, but you have to do it quickly—the woman insisted—. The longer it takes, the stronger the presence will be. Don’t let it open the door before you do.

The door didn’t open and the handle went back to its original position, but Milagros couldn’t move, overwhelmed by panic. She regretted not asking the woman more questions. The conversation turned so surreal that she didn’t have the courage to ask. What