I Am Not Dead

By Manuel Tristante

From the author of Beneath the Rainbow (Gay Romance) and Harlequin comes a supernatural horror novel based on a true story!

Tristante returns with a haunting story in true Stephen King's style, in which he treats what it is like to be a sensitive person with great respect, and with a vibrant terror in every word that you can hardly get out of your mind for days.

Author's Note: Ghosts feed on our worst fears.

Synopsis:

For some people, seeing and feeling those who are no longer there is a gift; For others, it is a curse, especially when since you were a child you have had to deal with a succession of paranormal experiences that mark you for the rest of your life.

Marcos is reluctant to live with Jorge, his partner, and four more of his college classmates, for fear of repeating the days and nights of nightmares and insomnia due to his gift. And he is not wrong.

The boy regrets having accepted the proposal, because from minute one he is able to feel the dark secrets that the chosen apartment seems to hide.

However, Marcos did not expect to find himself involved in living with people full of light, in a place where there are doors beyond the visible ones and through which spirits keep coming and going. But that is the least of their worries, because a greater shadow, loaded with darkness and evil, stalks and threatens them.

What are you going to find?

1. Terror, suspense, tension and ghosts.

2. Fears, nightmares, traumas and the occult.

3. Chilling experiences.

4. LGBT, family, friendship and coexistence.

What readers are saying:

“ 'I am not dead' is, with great probability, one of Manuel's best works. He has managed to create such a sinister and dark atmosphere that is only comparable to the great masters of horror", Iván Antonio-Enríquez, author of Impulso and the bilogy La Voz Prestada.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Manuel Tristante
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667454771

Book preview

I Am Not Dead

Manuel Tristante

Translated by Elii McGrew

Original Title: Yo no estoy muerto

Written By Manuel Tristante

Copyright © 2023 Manuel Tristante

Translated by Elii McGrew

Cover Design By María Tabar Burgos © 2023

Facebook, Twitter and Instagram: @manueltristante

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

Contents

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Epilogue

Other books by the author

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Thanks for your help!

Enjoy the story.

BASED ON A TRUE STORY

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1

The blue gel pen fell to the floor when Marcos hit it with his left elbow. With an outburst, the young man leaned back in his chair and stretched to wake his numb muscles. He did not know how long he had been going over the damned Spanish vocabulary. In a few days he would have the level exam and obtaining the certificate in the language depended on it. He was more than ready, his academy teacher had told him countless times, but until he took the exam he could not relax. Now he already needed it, his clumsiness and his cloudy vision were warning him.

He took off his glasses and placed them on the desk while he rubbed his dry, tired eyes. As his mother told him, he should have bought a LED lamp with more power long ago and that would not destroy his already atrophied eyesight.

I’ll change it at some point, Mom, was his reply. I’ll be leaving shortly and I don’t think it’s necessary to spend what little money I have on something I won’t be using soon or often.

Right, it’s better to spend it on progressive glasses. You will look splendid with them. Like your grandfather, yes.

A month ago Marcos had been on the verge of losing his job and he almost would have preferred it to save himself headaches. At the time his boss died of colon cancer that had been eating him in silence for a year and a half, Marcos thought his position as a grocery store clerk was over. With little vision of the future in his hometown, after finishing the Spanish level exam he would leave in search of a new tomorrow. His father had disagreed with his decision, claiming that he would spend what little savings he had and find nothing, not even something decent. However, the store had not closed when it was taken over by the daughters of the deceased. To his chagrin, they counted on him as an employee, and his desire to be fired evaporated. But he would leave, he would quit his job. Because he had already decided so. Because he needed something better. And it was now or never.

The employment situation is much worse now than it was a few years ago, Marcos, his father had said. You could wait a few more months. I’m sure you’ll find something better here...

We’ve already talked about this, Dad. You know I can’t prosper here, Marcos had replied, annoyed. What job is there in the village except tending the cattle? I have spent a few years too valuable studying to stay caged and throw everything overboard.

This is where you grew up and I don’t think you did too badly from what I see.

Don’t do that, Dad.

And leaving you’re going to find something you want, just like that?

Let him do whatever he wants, Agus! He’s grown now, his wife intervened. And he can do with his money whatever he wants. You have given your opinion, right? Well that’s it.

He’ll spend it on that goddamn rent and in a few months he’ll have nothing.

I already told you that Jorge is going to pay the rent.

Of course! Jorge... He snorted.

Marcos suppressed the desire to hit the table, annoyed by such a dismissive tone and gesture. His father was not very happy with Jorge, his partner. Actually, he was not satisfied with any of his partners because they were all men and that was not in his principles. His son was gay? He never would have imagined it. When Marcos confessed to being homosexual, the news was a shame and a disappointment for his father. Over time he had assimilated it, and he kept out of it. Perhaps a look or gesture of disgust that showed his rejection, but no hurtful words. The best thing about all this was that he got along phenomenally with Jorge. He used to mention him regularly, thinking of when he visited them to do this or that. Marcos had come to think that his father saw him as one more friend of his son, so that he would not hurt himself by his thoughts. His son did not see it badly as long as he was respectful and none of them suffered. Just as his father accepted him, he accepted his father’s conventional thoughts.

Jorge was beginning his third year of Preschool Education and had offered him the chance to try living together. The idea had pleased Marcos, hoping to take that step that would make them get to know each other much better. However, this changed when Jorge asked him if he did not mind sharing a flat with four other classmates from the same career, two of them partners. Six people in a small space? What about intimacy? What a madness! It was not the image that Marcos had created of their first time together as a couple. Perhaps Jorge preferred it that way, so that the change would not be so abrupt? Marcos did not ask, Jorge did not mention it either. Even so, if the thought was that, he would never be able to try living alone out of fear.

Over the days, Marcos digested it and reasoned better, putting the pros and cons in the balance. And he had even come to like the idea, considering that during his four years of studies he had not been able to enjoy freedom or coexistence with other students because he had to live with his sister. His parents’ brilliant idea to save money by not having to pay two rents! Yes, he accepted and respected it, and it was good, of course, except that no part had thought that Marcos also needed to be free.

Dad, I’m leaving whether you like it or not. Once again, Marcos was blunt. It’s my money, I earned it, right? I will spend it as I see fit. And I am neither the first nor the last to leave home in search of a future. I’d rather take the risk and lose than later regret not doing it.

No, you won’t be the first nor the last, his father agreed, stroking his mustache. I hope you won’t regret it.

No, I won’t. And in two weeks I’ll call you and tell you I have a job. It was not his idea, but his words sounded more like a threat than an affirmation. I will show you that that who wants, can.

Without further ado, he had gone to his bedroom followed by his dog Gala, hating having to argue with his father for nonsense when they could spend the days in harmony and not with constant anger and bad faces prior to his departure.

Marcos lowered the laptop screen and bent down to pick up the pen. As he stood up, his head hit the underside of the desk. He cursed again. He sighed, holding back the heaviness. Everything was getting too small for him there. Either that, or he had grown too big even though he still believed he was eighteen in a twenty-five year old body.

Massaging the sore spot, the boy got to his feet and stretched. A slight movement behind him made him stand still and hold his breath, sharpening all five of his senses. Slowly, he turned around, feeling the situation too similar and repetitive. Nothing, there was nothing there. Alone, he was alone. He raised his gaze to the bust of the Blessed Immaculate that rested about three feet from the headboard of his bed before looking around and making sure again that there was nothing, nothing and no one to give importance to.

He collected all the pens and other used items from the desk and put them in their case; he closed the books and the notebook and, at the moment in which he put everything in his shoulder bag, that sensation of movement reappeared next to him, this time accompanied by cold. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It should not matter, he thought.

It was what he said to himself when it happened; he never did.

Uneasy, his blurry gaze wandered around the bedroom and stopped by the window. Quickly, he looked for his glasses on the desk and put them askew in his haste, to verify that what he saw was the shadow that the book-laden shelves cast on the curtains thanks to the magnificent light of his atrophied lamp.

He took a deep breath. Calm down, he always had to be calm. He grabbed his cell phone and turned on the screen to check the time. The clock struck 9:07 p.m. when the heavy edition of the great nobleman Don Quixote de la Mancha, a gift from his neighbor for his tenth birthday, fell to the floor, inches from him, forcing him to scream and feeling his heart race out of his chest.

With trembling and cold hands, he picked up the book, remembering previous situations that still kept him awake at night. Snug, he looked at the hole the book had left when it fell, and put it back.

I’ve spent too much time studying, he said, shaking his head. I need some distraction.

He reached out to turn off the lamp, but the gesture was suspended in mid-air and his head turned to the left where a thousandth of a second ago he had thought he saw someone. And no, this time he could not be wrong. Did he need more proof?

A light, frozen touch caressed his fingers as they tried to flick the on/off switch. In a blink his gaze met two fogy lifeless eyes, and a wrinkled and sharp face (proper of a corpse) along with a handkerchief covering his face to prevent his jaw from remaining open.

Marcos backed away, tripping over the chair. He fell to the floor over it, his breath ragged and his gaze frozen on the door of the bedroom where the image remained. A scream was choked in his throat the moment the door opened and his body regained its composure.

May I know what you’re doing, Marcos? His mother asked, stunned. She put her arms on her hips. Gala, the family dog, positioned herself next to her, wagging her tail.

Marcos got up quickly, confused. He turned, searching.

Are you okay? Have you lost something?

Y-yes, I’m fine, the young man muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair, I just...

The small woman sighed.

Dinner’s ready. Come down whenever you want. Or rather depending on how you prefer it, whether cold or hot.

Marcos turned around again without paying attention to her.

M-mom, wait, he called, grabbing her left hand. Have you...?

Have you what? Please Marcos! Are you okay? Look, I thought you turned out normal, but sometimes I doubt.

Have you lit any candles, by any chance? He said without hesitation, ignoring the jokes of his mother.

The woman rolled her eyes.

Yes, Marcos: a scented candle. And don’t start with your things, huh?! We already know each other and I’m not interested at all! Anything else?

Marcos shook his head, understanding the situation, and let his mother go, followed by the dog. He reached under the bed for his house slippers and noticed how as he grabbed them something heavy fell onto the bedspread a few inches above his head.

Retreating a bit, he could see that once again the copy of the famous book by Miguel de Cervantes was lying on the bed.

Oh c’mon! Please, not again! He whimpered, running out of the bedroom as fast as he could.

He closed the door and leaned against it without letting go of the knob.

How many times had he told them that if they lit a candle, even if it was only to perfume, to say that it was not for anyone? How difficult was it? Not for them, but for him.

Two at a time he went down the stairs and went straight to the living room. He did not even deign to look at his father who was watching television with that gesture of concentration that made his eyebrows come together. He grabbed the vanilla candle uncomfortably and headed back upstairs. He stopped in front of his bedroom, took a breath and opened the door with some nervousness and suspicion, because no matter how many times it happened, he could not get used to it, because each time it seemed to be the first time and it always caught him off guard. Because each time it could be something more terrifying than the last one...

T-this candle is not for anyone. This candle is just for scenting, he murmured, stepping foot inside. His gaze darted back and forth, scanning like radar. This candle is not for anyone. It’s not for anyone! It’s a scented candle... His eyes stopped at the book that rested peacefully on the bed. He looked both ways: everything was calm, very calm. It was no longer cold, but there was a strong stench. This candle is not for...

A cold, dark hand rested on his right shoulder, freezing the words in his mouth. Moaning and pale, Marcos turned to meet a being dark as night, from head to toe, who smiled at him macabrely.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling.

T-this candle d-doesn’t light any path. This candle guides no one! He managed to stammer before blowing out the flame and extinguishing it.

Smoke rose up to his nose as he lifted his eyelids and made sure the entity was gone; that spirit was no longer there. The light of a candle flame, which served two functions if not given the correct order, had attracted it along with Marcos’ own.

That entity was not a good soul, it was not a being of light no matter how much it had tried to deceive him by disguising itself as the image of his neighbor who had died six years ago, the same one who had given him the book that had fallen from the shelf.

Holding the glass in both hands, Marcos sat on the bed, watching the darkness of the hallway through the half-closed door. The air had changed, it was no longer stale or cold.

He relaxed his body, filling his lungs. No one understood his craze, no one understood his actions, because as he had already learned as a child, everything that could not be seen by everyone did not exist and was the product of a too fanciful mind, of a disturbed mind... Or of a sensitive person, like him.

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2

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

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Marcos fell asleep again as soon as he sat in the car. His mother had woken him up very early to go to a place she had not wanted to tell him and he, as if in a dream, had not wanted to insist. However, having his paternal aunt accompany them gave him a clue. She rarely went with them, and when she did, it was to accompany them to the doctor or on some long trip, although it was more often the former. The hospital was about forty-five minutes from the town and his mother did not like having to drive so many miles alone, especially taking her children. She was driving, yes, because she had no other choice, but she was genuinely terrified of it when in reality she should only have respect for the car. So, did they have a doctor’s appointment? But he was not sick. Maybe his mother? If so, he could have stayed at home, sleeping, one more day, without going to school. Because he did not want to go back to school, ever again.

Marcos was a boy who had always adored school despite not having many friends there. But learning prevailed above all else, acquiring new knowledge, improving his writing... He was a restless child who adored acquiring new knowledge, reading, devouring books of any kind, much more of adventures. However, overnight this had changed. Where before he felt at ease, now it was the opposite; not protected either. There was something between the four walls of his class that made his chest heave and give him nightmares.

It had happened suddenly, as if someone had opened Pandora’s Box. His teacher had called his parents to report that Marcos was not feeling well and his strange behavior. The man tried to reassure him, but the boy kept crying and shaking looking around him, ignoring the advice.

They took him out of class to get some air and water, and he did not go back inside; he refused, as if there were hell. His classmates laughed, he expected no less, but that was a minor problem.

Didn’t you sleep well, Marcos? Asked his aunt with her usual sweet tone as soon as the vehicle stopped and the boy opened his eyes, disoriented. He tasted with his pasty mouth and rubbed one eye.

Don’t remind him. What a night we had! Mumbled his mother, tired.

Marcos looked at both women and just shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. He had slept, although not as he would have wanted. And he had done it thanks to the fact that fatigue had overcome him. His bed was comfortable, but how was he going to sleep with a bust of a Virgin on his head talking to him?

The little boy went to bed crying, looking up at the plaster image that rested three feet above the headboard of the bed. He would scream if the light was turned off, because everything began in the dark. He trembled if they closed the door. His chest heaved when he was alone...

Now we’ll have to buy some new legs to fix the bed, the mother explained, getting out of the car. With one hand she held her coat and purse. I really don’t understand what is happening to him. Who would think of jumping on the bed, shouting that a statue is talking to him? Marcos shrank back on the seat, more embarrassed and sad. He had not wanted to break his parents’ bed. He just wanted them to listen to him, to pay attention to him... And, above all, to be protected. He destroyed the bed, running from one side to the other as long as we didn't take him to his room. We had to put some bricks to spend the night. Imagine how it was!

The woman, no more than thirty years old, seemed to have aged suddenly. Her exhaustion and worry stained her fine-skinned face.

Easy, calm down. I’m sure he does it to get attention, her sister-in-law tried to soften the situation. He is at a difficult age... Siblings get jealous, you know. He’ll get over it.

This is going from bad to worse, Clara. She put on her coat, fixing a pleading look on her sister-in-law. It is not a simple jealousy attack. He has always been afraid of clowns, but it’s not something that has given him major problems. But for three weeks everything has gone downhill. His teacher had to remove all the dolls and drawings that he had hung on the walls for him to come back, and not even with that. Her breath hitched as she held back her tears. They are dolls! Who thinks a doll talks? And then the thing about the Virgin... What a mess! She raised her arms to the sky in search of patience.

Marcos sank further into the back seat, more and more embarrassed. Did not they realize that he was listening to everything? He felt bad for having her so worried, but she did not understand, no one did; neither would they. The clowns on the wall of his classroom and their sweet faces had turned grotesque to mock him.

Let’s hope this fixes it... Or that it goes away soon! Slight without living! Marcos, put on your coat and get out of the car. Now! That a turtle beats you, son.

The boy obeyed without saying a word. He did not look up from the ground when he closed the door.

The morning was quite cold. The sun was beginning to shine, but it was not warm. The ground was white from the frost that had fallen overnight. It smelled musty, also smoke from the nearby factories.

Where are we going? He dared to ask looking for his mother’s hand.

Marcos was small for his age, but he was the perfect height to hold his mother’s hand and not feel like she was dragging him. Some said that he should have given a growth spurt by now. "Why this mania of making children grow up so quickly?" Asked his grandmother. And so he thought. He did not want to grow up. He wanted to be like Peter Pan, the protagonist of his favorite story, an eternal child.

To settle this once and for all.

Marcos did not like how those words sounded. He looked at his aunt, searching for a clearer answer, one that would make him understand. She just gave him a circumstantial smile and started walking toward a tall red brick building that loomed across the street from them.

The boy did not understand what that place was, nor the meaning of the trip. Far from it that place looked like a hospital, but rather a prison. The hall smelled like a hospital, that was the only thing. And the nurses? And the ambulances? And the patients?

The elevator clicked open. Marcos refused to go up, throwing himself towards the exit. His mother grabbed him by the collar of his jacket in time and forced him inside despite his tantrum. They went up to the third floor. A vast white room appeared before them. They walked to the right between Marcos’ refusals and jerks for letting go of his mother. They took a seat in front of a door with a sign indicating Dr. Eduardo Guzmán.

When reading the plate, Marcos cried, anguished. Why were they there? He did not have to be there!

Why are you bringing me here? I’m not sick! Marcos growled, managing to break free of his mother’s hand. His chest rose and fell, agitated. His hands had balled into fists. The few people who were there at the time were looking at them.

Marcos, please don’t make a show, his mother murmured through clenched teeth. Her cheeks were flushed, her brow had furrowed. Come here right now and sit down, no question.

No! NO! NO! I’m not sick! He whimpered, shaking his head.

Before his mother slapped him across the face, his aunt Clara took the boy’s hand and pulled him close in front of her. She took his face in her hands and adjusted the collar of his jacket. Her gaze was warm, there was calm in it. Her smile calmed him down a bit.

Marcos, you are not sick, but you need help. Those... things you say you see aren’t really there. It’s the product of your imagination, and perhaps... But Marcos knew perfectly well that nothing was in his head, no matter who told him. Here they can help you not to be afraid, to stop seeing all that you say...

Marcos searched for the truth in her eyes. Could they help him? No, because he did not need that help. He was not crazy, he was telling the truth. That he saw things that they did not, things that were not normal, did not have to mean that he had lost his mind.

That man in there is a psychologist, a special doctor for fears... Every day he helps many children like you. He will help you and you will go back to school, as always, and there will be no more monsters; not at home either, she added.

Monsters are everywhere, the boy thought, looking down at his feet. Tears ran down his cheeks. Snot dripped from his nose and drenched his lips. They did not understand and never would. He bit his lower lip. Only the grown-ups were right. They always had to be!

Of course there won’t be! His teacher has had to remove everything he hung on the walls of his class. How embarrassing! His mother ran her hands over her head uneasily. She moved her right leg uncontrollably, prey to nervousness. Her sister-in-law gave her a reproachful look. She was not helping. Oh my God! What will they say? That my son is crazy? What we needed!

Amaya, please. Do you care more about what they will say than the well-being of your child? Clara chided her. They will talk all the same! Here the important thing is Marcos. Talking like that you remind me of our mother-in-law. She always so flattering!

Marcos backed away from his aunt. He was not crazy. No! NO! He was just misunderstood! Why could not they believe him? He never lied! Why would he do it now?

I’M NOT CRAZY! I’M NOT LYING!

Of course not, little one, he heard at that moment a male voice behind him.

With a start, Marcos tripped over the legs of a tall gentleman, dressed in a white coat. He turned to him, wiping his nose with the back of his right sleeve. He was very thin and with a neatly trimmed beard that was beginning to be painted white. The doctor smiled at him.

I don’t... I-I don’t... he sniffed holding his breath.

The psychologist grabbed him by the arm.

Marcos, right? Come with me. We’ll talk quietly in my office. We’ll figure this out in a bit and you can go home, okay?

At the moment the doctor pulled Marcos, the latter, with all his strength, kicked him in the right shin. With the same, as if he had been expecting the blow, the man crossed his face with a slap that left both the little boy and his relatives frozen in place.

Somewhat uncomfortable and heated by his reaction, the psychologist cleared his throat. He fixed the collar of his robe trying to hide it.

Sorry... I didn’t mean to... The boy...

Marcos took refuge in Amaya’s arms and they both entered the office without saying a word while Clara waited for them outside, stunned. It was as if the slap had been received by both of them at the same time. But it hurt her more than it hurt her son. Over time, Amaya recognized how tactless he was at that moment. Marcos had acted badly, yes, but also the psychologist. An indictable action, although at that time the trial had ruled in his favor.

The office was small, soaked in white and a green brick plinth. It was a sober environment. A desk, a desktop computer whose screen was taking up too much space, and a multi-compartment bookcase with boxes full of toys. They took seats on the other side. The doctor clasped his hands on the table, still puzzled by what had happened.

If you would be so kind, tell me in more detail what is happening to the child. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a note folder and a notebook. He opened it. I have some notations here taken from family doctor...

While Marcos continued crying and soaking his mother’s legs into which he had buried his head, she related what she believed was happening to her son, based on the experiences he had at school and at home, and from her point of view, of course.

There is a recent event, from last night...

Let’s go by parts, he asked without looking up from the notebook in which he was writing. To make it easier for everyone, start at the beginning so that we can make a tree from the first factor to the last.

As the mother spoke, Marcos could not help noticing the terror in his body, reliving the moment when all those nightmares began.

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3

Three weeks ago, the Natalio Rivas School had arranged for several school years from different centers to attend student conferences organized by it. Marcos’s class had been graced with being one of the guests, and the excitement of what was expected to be a great day to remember had been beating in the little boy’s eyes from the moment he got out of bed that day. However, since he arrived at that old building, one of the first to be built in town, he began to feel a bit strange. When he walked through the door he felt chills and the hair on his arms stood up. There was a certain air in that place that he did not like. The walls were yellowish in color, with few windows that gave light. The lights were barely shining, creating areas of partial darkness. A fan-shaped staircase greeted them at the entrance. It opened to both sides on the upper floor where, on the right side of it, an elderly man, somewhat stooped, was watching him. He looked weak. His thinness marked the bones of his face and his skin was somewhat sallow. He smiled at them in a somewhat peculiar way. He followed them with his gaze as they walked away, down the hall, towards the courtyard. When Marcos looked back with some suspicion, that man was no longer there.

With his body numb, and somewhat in awe, Marcos refused to participate in any activity. He did not like that school. It caused him real fear. It was dark and different, very much. He sat on the curb of the patio sidewalk and played with the stones on the ground while his classmates and the rest of the schools had fun with each and every one of the scheduled activities.

Tired of seeing the little boy alone and afflicted, his teacher approached him. His voice made him jump, not expecting it.

Marcos, are you okay? He crouched down next to him. He placed a hand on his shoulder.

Marcos looked at his teacher with a glazed look. He bit his bottom lip and nodded. His eyes projected the vision several feet beyond his teacher where the same old man he had seen on the stairs was watching him and smiling sinisterly. His clothes were somewhat outdated, very similar to what his grandfather Eusebio used to wear. They were brown, and the fabric looked like corduroy. His jacket was too big for him. His clothes, like his skin, looked a bit greyish, lacking in color. He was enveloped in a hazy aura very different from the one his teacher or his friends had, which was usually yellow, or white, and more or less brilliant.

I-I want to go home, was what the boy replied.

Rafael, his teacher, tenderly grabbed his chin.

Does something hurt? Are you not well?

Marcos looked over his shoulder again. He was surprised to see that there was nothing now. He looked around, but the old man was nowhere to be found. The only thing that remained intact was his fear.

I don’t like this school. I do not like it! He yelled, hiding his head in his arms.

Rafael smiled at him and ruffled his hair.

There’s nothing like your own school, Marcos. But don’t be so apprehensive. We are here to enjoy. See how your classmates have fun! Come on, let’s go! I’ll come with. Reluctantly, the boy shook his head. He would not move from there. The teacher sighed and straightened up. It’s okay. Come with me to the audiovisual classroom. Do you feel like watching a cartoon movie? Because I don’t think you want to stay here all day, do you?

Marcos nodded, smiling briefly. He rubbed his moist eyes. He did like that. He changed his mind when he discovered that the audiovisual room was next to where he first saw that mysterious old man. The little boy stopped midway, petrified.

Marcos, what are you looking at? Rafael was surprised. You are scaring me.

For all answer, Marcos grabbed the hand of his teacher as if his life depended on it and entered the room without saying a word. The old man had left, he was not around, luckily.

The room was already full of children. It was very small, claustrophobic, and overflowing with shelves of VHS tapes. A dim light flickered overhead and the lack of oxygen struck the boy. His claustrophobia was beginning to surface, but he tried to calm down and make himself see that nothing was wrong, because he was not alone. And as long as the door remained open or the light on, everything would be fine.

The children waited impatiently for the movie to start. Marcos and his teacher took seats at the end of the audiovisual room. The little boy rubbed his hands uneasily, looking at the door.

Don’t close the door! Don’t close it!

Marcos, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself, Rafael scolded him, separating his hands. He was already feeling somewhat suffocated by the boy’s attitude.

In a blink the light went out, the door closed and everything was left in darkness. The children screamed with excitement when the television came on and Marcos’s breath hitched. He took several breaths, trying to assuage his anguish.

The movie about a princess who turned into a swan started and silence reigned. Marcos did not pay attention at any time, looking for a glimmer of light from the outside in those four walls, even if it was just a simple ray, while he noticed more and more the lack of air.

Desperate, noticing how his limbs were seizing from the lack of oxygen, Marcos tried to distract his mind from thinking. It was then that he noticed an old plastic skeleton hanging from a metal pole just behind him, silent and terrifying. Its jaw was unhinged in a most macabre way.

With his chest heaving more, he forced himself not to look at it, to focus on the movie, but the brush of something on his right shoulder made him lose focus again. It was a hand, cold and wrinkled with time. Its sharp fingers clamped down on his shoulder and Marcos yelled, scrambling to his feet.

He tripped and fell into the chair next to him, still staring at the skeleton. Its jaw moved and the old man’s face came out of it, screaming.

Marcos covered his face, protecting himself, and cried and screamed, making the room riot. The light came on and Rafael tried to calm the little boy while he pointed to the motionless and forgotten skeleton, inert on its perch.

Marcos, what is it? There is nothing there! It’s a piece of plastic! His teacher pointed out, already scared.

Marcos bit his lip, as always when he wanted to speak and could not, or when he wanted to cry, and he did not say anything. The words had frozen in his throat. He cried and trembled. The little boy’s riot soon spread to the rest of the children and the room became a real madness.

To defuse the situation, Rafael took him out of the classroom and closed the door, leaving the skeleton on the other side. Once he saw him calmer sitting on the bench, he brought him a glass of water.

What happened to you, Marcos? He asked again.

Marcos stared at the classroom door.

T-there was a man, in there, where the skeleton was. H-he touched me. And this morning he was there, on the stairs. And in the courtyard... He covered his eyes, terrified. He is everywhere! He haunts me!

The teacher observed the little boy, then the stairs and the door of the audiovisual room.

You say there was a man, Marcos?

The boy nodded.

Y-yes. An old man. He dressed like my grandfather. He laughed... And he has shouted when he has seized me by the shoulder. He covered his ears, shaking his head. The scream still resounded in his head. Haven’t you heard? You have not seen him? He was hiding behind the skeleton!

Rafael brought the little boy’s head closer to his chest and tucked him in.

Calm down. It’s all over. He stood up and caressed his face. Drink more water, take a deep breath and calm down, okay? I‘ll be right back.

Rafael returned a few minutes later when Marcos was calmer. It was not long until, as the teacher asked, Marcos’s mother arrived to pick him up, worried. Once at home, Amaya asked him all kinds of questions, but her son did not say anything. He locked himself in the bedroom and did not come out all afternoon, lying face down on the bed, unable to get his mind off that hideous wasted face, his yellowed teeth and his rotten skin.

The next morning, Marcos returned to class. He got up energetically, as if everything that had happened the day before had been a mere nightmare. Everything was going well until the clown dolls made of wool, which hung on the walls of his class, (almost all made by him and his classmates), began to move and talk.

Marcos managed not to pay attention for the first few minutes. However, the tiny, sharp voices grew louder and more baleful. He covered his head with both arms and still kept listening. Exhausted, he got up from his desk. He knocked it over as he stood up, and shouted to everyone’s surprise:

Stop, please! STOP, STOP!

Shaking like an animal, he left the classroom without asking for permission. He was a sea of tears.

The boy refused to go back into the classroom, also to return to school. No one forced him, nor was the problem mentioned with him every time he said that he was not feeling well, that he stayed in bed, sheltered, safe, protected.

As the days went by, the situation calmed down until the night before the visit to the psychologist, the bust of the Immaculate Conception that hung on the wall, over the headboard of his bed, turned its head, mocking, and spoke to him. She assured that his family did not want him, did not love him, and that they would give him up for adoption.

Marcos had run to his parents’ bedroom, looking for affection, looking for the negation of such lapidary words, without understanding why all this was happening to him, without understanding why he saw things that others did not, without understanding why the Virgin spoke to him to hurt him.

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4

We don’t know what could happen to him. Why does he see and hear things? His mother sobbed. She massaged her chest. She was quite agitated and distraught. She reached into her purse for a tissue. He has never behaved like this! He has all the attention in the world!

He may have all the attention in the world, ma’am, but sometimes that attention we think he has is not the one needed, the psychologist said, taking notes. He tapped the closed pen three times on the paper before laying it flat on the table. He clasped his hands. Well, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Many children develop traumas during their childhood, and invisible friends. As you told me, your son suffers from claustrophobia and the fear of changing his comfort zone can be the trigger for all this or, as I have indicated, lack of attention and he wants to call yours that way. Allow me to run a couple of tests to help us clarify the matter. If you’d be so kind, wait outside and leave me alone with him.

The woman left and Marcos remained crouched on the seat like a fawn, his face wet with tears and his mouth tasting salty from so much snot.

Okay, Marcos... I want you to know that I’m your friend first and foremost, so what if we forget what happened and introduce ourselves? My name is Eduardo. He held out his hand for him to shake, but Marcos did not. The boy stared at him for a few seconds, serious, before returning his gaze to the floor.

The doctor withdrew his hand and went back to making a few more notes.

Well... tell me, is there something you want to say? The boy shook his head instantly. Don’t be afraid to speak. I’m your friend, right? There is trust. Maybe you prefer to write it down? Marcos just shrugged. We’re going to do something. Would you like to draw? All children like to draw.

The psychologist placed in front of him paper and crayons, and a glass of water. The little boy took a drink and looked at the paper.

What...? What do you want me to draw? He asked before sniffling.

Why don’t we start with your family? I would like to meet them, all of them. He winked at him. You sure are a special family. And your friends, everyone. Then draw me your birthday party, or your Christmas. Whatever you want me to see.

Marcos smiled; he liked that. He shyly picked up the crayons, looked at the doctor and began to draw while he was watched by the professional. The child would look up every now and then and the psychologist would smile and write in his notebook. After all, they became friends.

The sessions lasted for several weeks. Eight sessions in which Marcos redraw his friends, his school,