Midnight

By Esteban Navarro Soriano

In 1960, Gretel, a nine-year-old girl, returns home after playing with some friends at the park. To her surprise, neither her mother, nor her grandfather, nor her brother are there. They never showed up, and after the time stipulated by law, the authorities officially declare them dead.
Thirty years later, she must return, now as a police inspector, to investigate a series of crimes related to fairy tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Mar 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667470788

Book preview

1. A fairytale

Saturday July 26, 1980

If you spend time observing,

you will see your life pass and you will be left behind.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Andrea is sixteen splendid years old. She is a beautiful young woman, with fair skin, elusive gaze, straight legs, narrow shoulders, and long, smooth, blonde hair. She has two older sisters: Claudia, twenty-two years old, and Inmaculada, twenty-three. They are a humble family, without men to assist in their support, which sours the already cantankerous character of Catalina, the mother. The four live in a two-story house on Baja Street, very close to the town hall of Alerre. The mother, a widow, retired for three years, bears with firmness the ailments of a poorly operated knee and a back so fragile that she cannot rise or sit without letting out a small groan, which she always endeavors to conceal, out of sheer dignity. She is a small woman, with curly hair, a prominent nose, protruding eyes, and an absent smile. Her first two daughters have inherited both the bad temper and the appearance. While Claudia has eyes so widely set they resemble those of a fish, her sister, Inmaculada, is so petite that she is mocked at school, likened to a gnome.

The unattractive physiognomy of both Catalina and the elder daughters contrasts with Andrea's attractiveness, earning her the enmity of her sisters, who seize any opportunity to humiliate her, without their mother intervening to prevent it. Thus it happens that while Claudia and Inmaculada enjoy the summer pool, Andrea is tasked with the toughest chores around the house. Once a week, Catalina makes her clean the attic, to prevent it from being overrun by mice, she says, and on that same day, she has to pull weeds from the garden in the backyard. Almost daily, she has to iron the clothes for all, even her sisters. They exploit her physical strength and heightshe measures five feet nine inchesby assigning her the grocery shopping in the supermarket of Chimillas, the nearest larger town, where three times a week she makes her way dragging the cart along a dirt track, after crossing the road, the same where her father's Seat 131 was run over three years earlier, in 1977, by a Chrysler 180, which the Civil Guard recovered days later on a path near Las Peñas de Riglos, a village half an hour's drive from Alerre. The Civil Guard said that Chrysler had been stolen in Zaragoza, the same morning of the accident and, undoubtedly, was heading to Huesca to commit a robbery, but at the junction of Chimillas with Alerre, it collided with Andrea's father's vehicle and truncated his life and the plans those criminals had. Andrea links the memory of that death with the subsequent misfortune that hovered over her. Being the youngest of the three, she was her father's apple of the eye when he was alive. He loved her more than any of his other daughters. Now, that minority has become a torment; she has all the duties of an adult woman, but without the presence of the privileges that maturity brings.

In July of that year, 1980, like every year, the Feast of Santiago is celebrated. A band comes to the town, and booths for shooting, sandwiches, popcorn, roasted apples, and cotton candy are set up. The town hall organizes various activities for the enjoyment of the residents, such as dances, aquatic parties in the municipal pool, a nightclub at night, children's games, popular dinners in the middle of the square, nighttime cinema, and gift raffles. The festivities begin on Tuesday the 22nd, with the firecracker at the town hall at noon, and end on Sunday the 27th, at nine in the evening, with the grand finale.

Catalina does not allow Andrea to participate in any of the nighttime activities, although she does let her attend those held in the afternoon. But only until ten o'clock. She argues that she is too young and attractive for all those boys who will come from the surrounding villages. She says that at night the explosion of young hearts is stronger, and blood heats up at the same speed as the beat of the chimes announcing the deep night.

It would only be missing if you got pregnant! she exclaims, to her daughter's disgruntled look.

Andrea protests because she feels young and needs to share those moments of joy with her schoolmates, with her friends from the town, with the people she knows in her daily life, during the prolonged classes at school.

It's not fair.

You'll see, when you come of age, that life, my daughter, is not fair. You'll go to those parties when you turn eighteen, and I can't stop you. But until then, you'll do as your sisters did when they were your age, and you'll stay at home. They never went out at night until they came of age, she concludes.

Every day, from Tuesday to Friday, the girl goes out with her friends and they go to the town hall square. With the irrefutable condition that, at ten o'clock at night, when it gets dark, she has to be back. And every day, Andrea has respected the condition imposed by her mother. Even though on Friday, when it was almost nine o'clock at night, she met a man. He was sturdy, like a soldier, with the penetrating gaze of those who are not afraid. She met him on her way home. He was standing on the corner of the square, alone, with his right hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, as if he didn't know what to do with that hand and hid it there, so it wouldn't bother him. They started talking because he asked her what time the dance started. And Andrea told him there was no dance that night. But there would be one the next day, Saturday. And the girl had to leave when the conversation had become more interesting because the clock in the square showed five minutes to ten, and she had to return before her mother went out to look for her and punished her by not letting her go out, not even in the afternoon. Because that was the punishment for breaking the pickup time, confinement.

Saturday, July 26th, is the last important day of the festivities, and all the young people participate in the dance held in the town hall square. Boys and girls come from all the surrounding villages, from Chimillas, Banastás, Ayerbe, and Huesca.

Can I go to the dance? Andrea pleads, using up one last cartridge; although she already knows the answer.

The mother responds disdainfully:

You won't be going to any dance while you're underage! And that's final!

That Saturday afternoon, Andrea cries in her room. She's so sad about her misfortune that she only feels sorry for herself. She knows that if her father were alive, he would have allowed her to attend that dance. Just as she knows that her mother used to allow her sisters things that she now denies her. She feels wretched that death, always unjust, took him, when it should have been her mother.

It's a few minutes past nine at night when she hears her sisters in the living room downstairs, trying to doll themselves up. It's reached the point where she can't stand them. Not their squeaky voices, not their fake laughter, not their exaggerated airs, not their stolen happiness. From downstairs comes the thunderous chatter as they play at who's the prettiest.

Leave the blue dress to me, Claudia shouts.

Well, I'll wear the red one, Inmaculada affirms.

Girls, don't fight. You'll both look beautiful, the mother settles.

Through the staircase gap filters the light from the lower floor. The scurrying of hurried steps between the bathroom and the living room. The unbearable laughter. The ringing of a friend's phone urging them to hurry up, as they're taking too long to get to the party.

We're coming! Claudia shouts when she answers.

From below comes the sound of happiness, embodied in a family eagerly awaiting the festive moment they've been waiting for all year. While upstairs, immersed in her room, Andrea continues to cry. She thinks of the man she met on Friday. She remembers his shining eyes and the broad shoulders that filled his checkered shirt, like a lumberjack. She'd like to see him again at the dance. And hug him around the neck, while his strong hands grip her waist. And then, at midnight, he'd whisper sweet words to her that would make her shiver.

It's half-past nine when Andrea, through her room's window, watches her mother and her two sisters leave the house, all dressed up. They walk each by the mother's side, who's in the middle. Clicking their heels. Nodding their heads in a festive commotion that engulfs them, that unites them.

The teenager sits on the bed. And she cries again, this time much harder. Her mother and sisters disappear around the last corner leading to the town hall square. At that moment, the street fills with silence and desolation, contrasting with the distant revelry from the dance, accompanied by bursts of light, where dozens of young people spread their vitality in the form of shouts. A motorcycle zooms by at great speed. Laughter is heard. A dog barks. The sound of glass, a bottle has shattered on the pavement. Then, silence again.

Andrea undresses, taking off her pink dress, which she's worn all along, as if in a display of compassion, her mother, at the last moment, had come into her room and told her yes, she could go to the party, even if it was only until midnight. But now she knows they won't return until the early hours of the morning, when the orchestra's clamor dies down, and the young people tire of dancing, drinking, and smoking, and some couples hide in the woods surrounding the pool, in the corners of the park, in the secrecy of the municipal pool, in the solitude of the roads, and merge in prolonged kisses and embraces that, in some cases, lead to more.

She dresses in the lilac nightgown, the only one she has, and slips into bed. On the bedside table, there's a book, The Eternal Champion, by Michael Moorcock, a gift from her father, a few weeks before he died. It's the second time she's reading it, as the story captivates her and pulls her away from daily reality, from which she wants to escape. There have been several occasions when she's imagined herself immersed in a fantastical world, away from her existential routine, where injustice is the norm and fortune the exception. That magic Andrea doesn't possess and would like to obtain, even if only for a moment. Only dreams, when pleasant, transport her to that universe.

Lost in thought, she startles when someone knocks on the door. She lives in a modern house and has a loud doorbell that can be heard in all the rooms, but the person knocking uses the cast iron knocker, which serves as decoration. Andrea falls silent. She hopes that whoever it is will leave, as she doesn't want to be seen in the bitter state she's in. Perhaps, she thinks, it's the man she met in the square yesterday. Or it could be one of her friends, aware of the bad luck she had with her mother, coming to her rescue and urging her to attend the party; even if in secret. Some schoolmate, her age, and whose parents do let her go out, has said how unfair it is that her mother won't let her go. One even insisted she ignore her family and sneak out without saying anything. But Andrea is a responsible teenager. She doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, and doesn't want to upset her mother, no matter how much it weighs on her.

Lost in her thoughts, she's startled when the knocker sounds again. This time several times in a row. Andrea opens her bedroom door and peers into the hallway. She doesn't know why, but she has the feeling that someone's inside the house. Her slender figure, adorned with the ghostly nightgown, is reflected in the huge mirror before the staircase. Her beautifully straight legs reflect the faint glow coming from the streetlamp in front of the house, whose spotlight coincides with the window at the end of the hallway.

Hello! she calls out. Is that you, Mom?

The light on the staircase is off. At that moment, the silence is overwhelming, only interrupted by the distant sound of music coming from the square; the orchestra is at its peak, and the young people are enjoying the night. Through the living room's glass door, the reflection of the full moon peeks in, vying to preside over the darkness.

She descends the stairs, gripping the handrail with each step. Her bare feet feel the cold marble, as she remembers all the times her father climbed up there, shouting her name:

Andrea, Andrea...! The wolf is here!

Her mother hated the bond they had. It was no secret that she always wanted to keep them apart and saw her as an enemy, instead of as a daughter. Her father never made those affectionate gestures to any of the other daughters, whom he even looked at from a distance, as if they were inanimate objects. They were there because they were his daughters, but not because he loved them. His daughter was her, Andrea. She was only thirteen when her life was cut short at that junction. As mayor, he always said that there, in that stretch, a roundabout should be built, as the French did. Roundabouts force cars to slow down and prevent most accidents. But that junction belonged to the State Road Network, and they rejected the construction of a roundabout in that section.

Who's there? Andrea asks, standing next to the protection provided by the dining table.

Outside, behind the door, she hears a strange sound, like the one paper would make rubbing against a wall.

She gets scared.

Maybe it's one of those wicked men they say have been seen roaming the rural roads. She remembers how they told her that in May, a girl from Zaragoza was assaulted leaving the university by a man whose face was covered with a ski mask. And her mother always reminds her not to open the door to strangers.

Who's there? she insists. If you don't tell me who you are, I won't open.

After half a minute of silence, the girl can't wait any longer and opens the door. To her surprise, there's no one outside. The same silence and unease she saw before through the window now pervade the empty street. A white cat, which she recognizes from having seen it several times, walks by, hugging the facade, with its tail tucked and hidden under its skeletal body. And Andrea feels the same fear emanating from that cat. On the ground is a package, wrapped in gift paper, adorned with drawings of smiling pumpkins. It's perfectly centered on the doormat and almost occupies it completely, as it's of a similar size. There are no marks or names. Andrea looks right and left, expecting to see the back of the person who left the package. Or perhaps the heads of young children, having fun, peering from secrecy at the bewildered face standing there alone, helpless, dressed in a plain nightgown, harboring the remote hope that whoever rang the doorbell is a prince charming who will free her from her mother's wickedness. A warrior, like the one in that book she's read twice. Or the one in countless other stories she's read. Or the one in those movies where good always triumphs over evil.

The sound of the orchestra filters through the street corner and reaches her ears, with the distant tolling of the party she would have liked to attend. She's aware that she hasn't taken half a minute to open the door, so whoever left the package hasn't had time to hide. Furthermore, she reflects, she would have heard the sound of hurried footsteps from any prankster running down the street, fleeing from their mischief.

She bends down. Picks up the package from the ground. It's light, indicating its contents are fragile. With her left hand, she presses the base, checking that it's hard. With her right hand, she presses on top and verifies that it's soft, as if it were a blanket. She takes the package inside the house and places it on the living room table. Then she closes the door again, making sure the bolt is latched. Logic leads her to think that whatever it is, it's not for her, but the recipient is her mother or one of her sisters. She's never touched any of their things, although she knows that rule isn't reciprocal. But the package has no name or any distinguishing mark indicating its content or intended recipient. Who leaves something like this at a house door at ten o'clock at night? She wonders.

She bites the nail of one of the fingers on her left hand, while with her right hand she strokes the paper covering the package, feeling it out to see if she can figure out what's inside. She runs her hand over it several times, pressing lightly. Maybe, she thinks, it's a towel that Adoración, the neighbor from Calle Iglesia, brought her, with whom her mother and she sometimes go to the pool. Or it could be some order she placed at a store in Huesca, and the delivery person couldn't come until tonight. She soon realizes the absurdity of any hypothesis she considers, because if it had been the neighbor from Calle Iglesia, she would have waited for her to open the door. And if it had been a delivery person from Huesca, they wouldn't have left the package on the ground for some unscrupulous person or hooligan to take. Whoever it is, they don't want to show themselves and that's why they fled before she opened the door.

She realizes she can peel off the tape without tearing the paper. Then, once she's seen what's inside, she can close it again, leaving it as it was, without anyone knowing she opened it. Andrea has recently entered adolescence. And, like any teenager, curiosity gets the best of her. She needs to know what's inside the package, because otherwise, she won't be able to go to sleep peacefully.

She goes up to her room, holding the package with both hands, where she's sure no one can see her. It would be just her luck if her mother or one of her sisters came into the house at that moment, returning to look for something they forgot. She doesn't even want to imagine how they'd react if they saw her there, in the living room, snooping in something

that belonged to them.

She reaches her room and places the bundle on the bed. She carefully removes the tape without tearing the paper, being careful not to damage it. Once she's seen what's inside, she can close it again.

But... what is this? she asks in a low voice.

Upon the bed lays out a beautiful blue dress, crafted from embroidered mesh adorned with small sequins around the neckline, forming a V-shape. Twelve Swarovski crystal appliqués stand out. The skirt features a wide slit that, once worn, will leave her legs exposed, trailing into a train at least a meter long, as Andrea can discern.

Beneath the dress sits a white shoebox, devoid of letters or drawings, secured with an elastic band. She sets it aside next to the dress, then proceeds to open it. As she had surmised, it contains shoes matching the dress's color. At a glance, she confirms they are her size, leaving her certain she is the intended recipient of this package. For those shoes would not fit her petite sisters, nor her mother. To reassure herself, she tries them on, confirming they indeed fit. Beneath a thick cardboard layer within the box, lifted with one hand, lies something wrapped in transparent bubble wrap. She unwraps it, peeling back a strip of tape, and carefully extracts its contents, placing them on the bed beside the unfolded blue dress. It is a Venetian mask, beige in color, with eye and lip openings outlined in black. Two small holes near the ears reveal a brown elastic band meant for securing it when worn. At the mask's base rests a small white card, bearing four lines written in blue ink.

Dress up.

Cover your face.

Go to the ball.

Return before midnight.

A fairy tale, she murmurs. It's a fairy tale.

She feels tempted to try on the dress. Why not? She wonders. She removes her nightgown, leaving it draped over the back of her room's chair. She slips on both shoes. With a graceful movement of her silhouette, she flutters the dress, which sways as if whipped by an unseen wind. She feels like a princess. She rushes, her heels clacking loudly, to the upstairs bathroom.

She looks at herself in the mirror.

She looks beautiful.

She smiles.

She returns to her room and eagerly rummages through the package, searching for any indication of the mysterious person who has bestowed upon her this gift, undoubtedly meant for her. There is nothing more, except for the porcelain mask and that handwritten note with four detailed instructions for her evening's agenda.

Now dressed, with the shoes on, all that remains is to cover her face with the mask. She picks it up with her right hand and brings it close to her face. It fits perfectly. Even the eyes are centered within their designated sockets. The mouth opening and ear cutouts startle Andrea, as the manufacturer has calculated, down to the smallest detail, the shape of her face. She fastens the back strap, hiding it behind her hair. She feels a strange sensation of fear. That blue dress is of an impressive cut and it accentuates her figure superbly, as if she were a runway model. And the mask hides her features in such a way that no one will be able to recognize her. But she repeats the same question she asked when she first opened it: who left it there, in front of the door? She realizes immediately that someone in the village, perhaps a neighbor, understands how unfair it is for her not to attend the ball and wants to remedy that situation. But as much as she tries to guess who it might be, no name comes to mind. She doesn't know anyone capable of such a feat. For a moment, just for a fleeting instant, she thought only her father would have been capable of such a thing. But her father died. She is sure of it because she saw his lifeless body during that sad wake, when his corpse was laid out in the master bedroom. The neighbors and relatives of Alerre passed through all afternoon. They hugged the widow. And her helpless daughters. Tears filled their eyes. No one understood how her father didn't notice, at that intersection he crossed hundreds of times, the Chrysler speeding by, which was later found stolen, and crashing into the side of the Seat 131 he was driving, smashing the driver's side door. Her father was only fifty-two when he encountered death. But he was the mayor of Alerre, and the whole town loved him. He was one of the youngest mayors in the entire region. At thirty-four, he was elected for the first time, and if he hadn't died, he would probably still be in office.

In that moment, remembering her father, she also recalls a story he told her before he died, when she was still a child trying to grasp its meaning, about a neighbor from Alerre who was passionate about fairy tales. It was the same neighbor who had a house built, painted brown, which they dubbed the chocolate house, at the entrance of the village, on the old Aragón street. The woman, a widow, disappeared twenty years earlier, in 1960, along with her eldest son, fifteen at the time, and her father, fifty-five, who lived with them. It was never known what happened. Nor why they disappeared. Nor where they went. But what Andrea does remember is that the family vanished on a Saturday, Saturday, July 30, 1960. She remembers it perfectly because her father told her the family disappeared on the last Saturday of July, during the Santiago festival. Just like now, it's the last Saturday of July 1980, twenty years later. The entire family disappeared, except the youngest daughter, who was nine at the time. A child who, overnight, found herself alone, like a lost child from a fairy tale. The sister of Alerre's night watchman, Verónica, took her in and went to live in Zaragoza. She cared for her as if she were her own daughter. For some time, all sorts of hypotheses circulated through the town, seeking to explain how an entire family could disappear without a trace. And, as often happens in these cases, conjecture led to ghostly explanations. Only supernatural intervention could explain what happened. Just like now, as she stands in her room, dressed in blue, wearing medium-heeled shoes and her face covered by a mask, whose mere sight instills fear.

She leaves her purse in the closet in her room, except for the house key, which she holds in her hand. She can't go to the ball with her purse, as it would be easily recognizable by both her mother and her sisters. She descends the stairs to the living room, careful not to step on the dress's train and to avoid slipping with those shoes, so new they emit a blinding shine. Her figure is outlined against the wall with each step she takes, like a spirit of the night moving between two worlds. She locks the door with two turns and hides the key in the