Woodworm

By Layla Martinez and Sophie Hughes

The house breathes. The house contains bodies and secrets. The house is visited by ghosts, by angels that line the roof like insects, and by saints that burn the bedsheets with their haloes. It was built by a smalltime hustler as a means of controlling his wife, and even after so many years, their daughter and her granddaughter can’t leave. They may be witches or they may just be angry, but when the mysterious disappearance of a young boy draws unwanted attention, the two isolated women, already subjects of public scorn, combine forces with the spirits that haunt them in pursuit of something that resembles justice. 

In this lush translation by Sophie Hughes and Annie McDermott, Layla Martinez’s eerie debut novel is class-conscious horror that drags generations of monsters into the sun. Described by Mariana Enriquez as “a house of women and shadows, built from poetry and revenge,” this vision of a broken family in our unjust world places power in the hands of the eccentric, the radical, and the desperate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Two Lines Press
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781949641608

Layla Martinez

Layla Martínez (Madrid, 1987) is the author of  two nonfiction books in Spanish, Surrogate Pregnancy (Pepitas de calabaza, 2019) and Utopia is not an Island (Episkaia, 2020), as well as stories and articles in numerous anthologies. She has translated essays and novels, writes about music for El Salto, and about television for La Última Hora. Since 2014 she has co-directed the independent publisher Antipersona. Woodworm is her first novel.

Book preview

1

I walked in and the house pounced on me. It’s always the same with this filthy pile of bricks, it leaps on whoever comes through the door and twists their guts till they can’t even breathe. My mother used to say this house makes your teeth fall out and your insides shrivel up, but my mother left a long time ago and I don’t remember her. I only know she said those things because my grandma told me, though she shouldn’t have bothered. It’s not exactly news. In here, you lose your teeth, your hair, the meat from your bones and if you’re not careful you’ll end up dragging yourself around on all fours, or else permanently bedbound.

I left my backpack on the wooden chest and opened the living-room door. My grandma wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the pantry or under the kitchen table either, so I decided to try upstairs. I checked the dresser drawers and inside the wardrobe but there was still no sign, damn her. Then I saw the tips of some shoes poking out from under one of the beds. I wouldn’t normally have lifted the edge of the quilt—you don’t disturb what’s under the bed—but my grandma’s shoes are unmistakable. The patent leather’s so shiny you can see your reflection in it from the other side of the room. When I lifted the quilt, she was staring at the slats under the mattress. A neighbor who once saw her climb out of the wooden chest by the front door told the journalists the old woman had dementia, but what would she know, that shit-stirring bitch with her fat-fryer hair. It wasn’t dementia.

I hauled the old woman out, sat her on the bed and shook her by the shoulders. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, and this time it didn’t. When it doesn’t work you’re better off waiting for her to come around. I dragged her into the hallway, opened the door leading up to the attic, shoved her through and closed it behind her, turning the key. All the doors in this house can be locked from the outside. It’s a family tradition, like the stupid stuff people get up to at Christmas. We have a lot of traditions, including locking each other away, but we don’t eat lamb because lambs have never done us any harm and it feels rude to eat them.

I went down to fetch my backpack then walked back upstairs. Aside from the stairway going up to the attic, the only space on the first floor is a bedroom I share with the old woman. I put the backpack on my bed, the smaller of the two. It used to be my mother’s and before that my grandma’s. In this house you don’t inherit money or gold rings or monogrammed sheet sets; beds and bad blood are all the dead pass down. Rage and a place to lay your head, that’s the most you’ll be left around here. I didn’t even get my grandma’s hair. It’s still as strong as rope, a real sight to behold when she lets it loose, and yet here I am with four greasy strands that start sticking to my scalp two hours after I’ve washed them.

I like my bed because there are guardian- angel prayer cards Scotch taped all over the headboard. Sometimes the tape gets old and yellow and starts peeling, but then I just bite off a fresh strip and replace it. My favorite card is one where the angel is watching over two children about to fall down a ravine. The children are beaming like a pair of idiots, as if they were playing in their own backyard and not on the edge of a cliff. They’re old enough to know better, but that clearly hasn’t stopped them. When I wake up in the morning I often check to see if the children have fallen yet. There’s also a card with a baby about to set a house on fire, another where some twins are trying to stick their fingers in an outlet, and another where a girl’s about to chop off one of hers with a carving knife. They’re all grinning away like psychopaths with round, rosy cheeks. The old woman put the cards up when my mother was born so the angels would protect her, and every night before going to sleep the two of them used to kneel beside the bed with their palms pressed together and say their special prayer of four corners to my bed and four angels round my head. But one day the old girl saw angels for real and it turned out that whoever drew those pictures obviously hadn’t seen any themselves, because angels don’t have blonde curls or beautiful faces. They’re more like giant insects, like praying mantises. And so my grandma abandoned her prayers, because who wants four mantises with hundreds of eyes and pincers for mouths showing up at their daughter’s bedside? We only pray to them now out of fear they might land on the roof and slide their antennae and spindly legs down the chimney. Sometimes we hear a noise in the attic, go up to see what’s going on, and find their eyes peering through the gaps in the roof tiles. Then we say a Hail Mary to scare them away.

I took my clothes out of the backpack and laid them on the bed. Four T-shirts, two pairs of leggings, five pairs of underwear, five pairs of socks and the black pants and floral blouse I wore when I went to see the judge. It was the same outfit I wore for job interviews, when I also wanted to give an impression of innocence, virtue and a pretty much total willingness to be brutally exploited. Playing the innocent worked on the judge, but not on the employers. They could probably see the anger in my face because my jaw stayed clenched when I smiled. The only job I’d been able to get was looking after the Jarabos’ son, since they didn’t care about the blouse or the bad blood. My family had always bowed to theirs and it always would, whatever I wore and however much I resented them.

Now the blouse is too faded to wear, but that doesn’t matter because I’m not about to have any more interviews. No one’s going to employ me now, not after what happened. So I’ve been spared having to clock in somewhere each day and grit my teeth to hold down the bile, but even so, the old woman says I’ll have to learn to do something. She says it because she doesn’t want me hanging around the house all day, but she’s also right: if I spend too much time twiddling my thumbs, the jitters and rot set in. One job I know I’d like is dog walking, but who’s going to pay me for that? Around here people keep their dogs shut up in pens and those mutts are lucky if someone occasionally tosses a crust of stale bread over the gate.

Anyway. After I unpacked my clothes I took off my T-shirt and changed into a clean one. I’d like to say it was pretty but that would be a lie and I want to tell you things exactly as they happened, and the truth is that both tops were equally ugly and ratty and stretched, but at least the second one didn’t reek of the crappy old buses we have around here, with seats that smell like a locker room. I put the clothes away in the bottom drawer of the dresser but I knew there was no point. I’d have to look for them the next day in the kitchen cupboard or on the pantry shelves or in the wooden chest in the hallway. It’s always the same: you can’t trust anything in this house, especially not the wardrobes or the walls. The cupboards a bit more, but not really.

I heard a thud and realized the old girl was banging on the door with her forehead. She must have been coming to, so it was best to wake her before she got near the attic window. This wouldn’t be the first time she fell or jumped, and either could leave her crippled or dumb. I went back and opened the door. This time I shook her harder until she fully snapped out of it and said Oh, hello dear, I didn’t hear you come in. I told her I’d gotten back half an hour ago but she’d been gone all that time. When the saints take you they take you, she said, and I watched her walk through the open door and down the stairs. The steps creaked as if they were about to give way, though the old woman can’t be more than 100 pounds. The body you see is actually all skin, empty peel with no flesh inside. When I followed her down, the steps didn’t make a sound. They can’t be trusted either.

The old woman was bustling about in the kitchen, doing twenty things at once. It was almost two o’clock but I wasn’t hungry. Back then I was never hungry, I’d just mope around like a sick dog off my food. She put two bowls on the table and brought over the saucepan. There was no need to ask what was for lunch because the menu’s always the same in this house. I’m used to it because I’ve never known any different, but people find it weird which is why I mention it. The old woman’s cooking basically involves bringing a saucepan of water to the boil and throwing in whatever’s around, normally vegetables from the garden or stuff she finds in the woods, sometimes a handful of chickpeas or beans bought from the trucks that come through the village. The pan bubbles away for hours, then gets reheated again each day as the old woman goes on adding whatever she likes, and as we eat our way through it she tops up the water and chucks in whatever’s on hand and only when the slop’s about to go rancid does she wash out the pan and start again. My mother hated this meal, but that doesn’t matter because, like I said, my mother left ages ago. I don’t love it either but I keep my mouth shut. I’m not about to cook anything else.

I dropped a few bits of bread into the stew as usual

[Jordi1977 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Well, it's a story that you read in one go. There is a lot of rage and hatred in this haunted house. ???? I won't say more, I liked it and it made me have a good time. (Translated from Spanish)

[Nurse85 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Carcoma is a short book, just over 100 pages long, but as special as it is intense. It will not leave you indifferent.

A book that goes far beyond supernatural horror, santeros, little dead ones, tied up and Saints, as it delves into the darkest side of human behavior. The novel will take you on a whirlwind of sensations and make you question certain moral principles to decide on which side of the story you stand. And I certainly feel some sympathy for the "bastard" characters because of the forbidden nature of their actions.

The oppressive atmosphere of the house, combined with the deeper Spain and despicable characters will keep you entertained until you reach a sublime ending, one of those that leaves you enchanted and with your mouth wide open.

Well... It’s clear that I really enjoy this genre, so I can't be objective.

A thousand thanks as always @marenpergamino. (Translated from Spanish)

[ClaudiaLo · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

It is well-written, the author's style is engaging, but the story did not convince me; the way it mixes everything with female empowerment, gender violence, and the oppression of the rich over the poor becomes repetitive. It could have just been a great story about witches, but it ends up being a basic parable of progressivism. The ending was also quite weak. (Translated from Spanish)

[Cesarito1970 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A novel worthy of being read. Impeccable. A story that, while supernatural, has so much raw reality that fantasy is set aside and taken as absolutely necessary to alleviate so much pain.

Because that is the word that defines this tremendous story narrated by grandmother and granddaughter: pain. Abuse, mistreatment, violence, class struggle, political power, humiliation, machismo.

The way it is narrated is impeccable, alternating the meticulous account of the grandmother and the unrestrained prose of the granddaughter.

A book that gives no respite, the suffering penetrates deeply within the reader, but it is a necessary effect that demonstrates the perfection in its writing and the way the events are told.

In short: an impeccable story of women, but not just for women to read. Impeccable. (Translated from Spanish)

[Monika · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This review might be a bit complicated because the book is somewhat special. It is a book, I would say, unfriendly, because of the amount of bad feelings present throughout the story and, of course, in the protagonists. A grandmother and her granddaughter live in a house where nothing is very normal. Feet appearing from under the bed, shadows on the walls, noises and voices everywhere, and they are so normal because it's their home, and they are used to it. No one in the village wants anything to do with them due to old disputes and bad reputation. But what leaves an impression is the poor relationship among the three generations: grandmother, mother, and granddaughter. A resentment and bad vibe among them that sometimes made me feel pity. Narrated from two perspectives, the grandmother and the granddaughter, it does not leave you indifferent. (Translated from Spanish)

[Anderolatz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A horror tale told by two voices, grandmother and granddaughter, set in a cruel, vengeful rural Spain. With supernatural elements, but at the same time marked by a realism that does not allow for a breath. (Translated from Spanish)

[SeoritaLeireMarple · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved it. It's like diving into a photograph by Ortiz Echagüe. A dark and terrifying novel. Terrifying due to the harshness of the themes narrated by the two protagonists, a grandmother and a granddaughter who live in a village of black Spain, in a house filled with resentment and mysticism. It’s a novel that sends chills down your spine; in every sentence, in every paragraph, there are hidden truths as solid as fists. Truths that seem to have been left in the past, but as the novel demonstrates, remain hidden in the shadows today. It’s a short novel, but it's not quick to read, as it's worth pausing on each page to take notes and reflect. (Translated from Spanish)

[Carmelele · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

~ C A R C O M A ~

Opening Layla Martínez's book and reading it is one thing. From the very first line, one realizes that this is not just any book. A peculiar writing style defines it, characterizes it, and I could even say it’s somewhat irritating...

Grandmother and granddaughter coexist in a house full of disgust, shadows, and no light. A house that has witnessed hunger, misery, beatings, aspirations that are never reached, and dreams almost always thwarted by men...

How many shadows can a house hold, how many fit under a bed or inside a wardrobe...? How many years can it take for two women to exact revenge...?

"When one is alone and poor, one cannot afford to learn the same lesson twice; this is something we know well in this house."

Spectacular.

Rating: 10/10 (Translated from Spanish)

[VICTORIUS · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Short and impactful story, dark, sinister, and at the same time very real... it pulls you in and gets inside you... very well written. I loved it! (Translated from Spanish)

[Cristian1976 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Chilling, top-level primal terror. (Translated from Spanish)

[Rogrigionirolectora · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

? A house with its own "life," wardrobes with chilling noises, walls that tremble, pots for the deceased, little saints and angels like locusts. And two voices narrating a story.
Granddaughter and grandmother coexisting with vengeful or just spirits, depending on how you look at it, that, like woodworms, inhabit the walls waiting for their nourishment.

? With elements of fantasy and horror, this short novel denounces through three generations of women the political, class, and gender violence. Everything resonates in that decayed space, free of hypocrisy and lies, from which it is impossible to escape.

? With a necessary approach to show the differences, impeccable in styles and expressions, it proposes a slow start that accelerates in each chapter and captivates, making it impossible to let go. Sinister, original, tough, and... Very good! (Translated from Spanish)

[Rosa16 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

?Carcoma by Layla Martínez

A haunted house, terrifying, full of shadows and creaks that hinder peace and where hatred abounds. It is set in deep Spain, in emptied Spain.

A different, impactful novel. It has captivated me from its beginning to its end. (Translated from Spanish)

[CharlieParker · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book left a bad taste in my mouth; it is so well written, it describes hate and resentment so well, that I wanted to finish it, luckily it has few pages. Sometimes the hate spills out of the pages and attacks you. I don't know if it's based on real events or if it's all fiction, but the decay is intense. Thank goodness I don't meet with the family, not even at the grandparents' house. I wouldn't go. (Translated from Spanish)

[Nana7 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really liked this book! How well written it is! Agile and with some excellent quotable phrases.

This wonderful story introduces us to a living house, that roars and feels, filled with shadows and resentment, with the tied-up, the saints, the dead, and prayers. With two women, a grandmother and a granddaughter, facing each other and yet complicit, full of rage and yearning for revenge, in a town where class differences and misogyny run rampant.

“Men like that need to be kept at a distance before they bury you.” (Translated from Spanish)

[Karin ⚡️ · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is too entertaining, a story of several generations, where apparently what should frighten us the most is the house, the shadows, and the death surrounding the protagonists. However, upon reading we realize that the worst is something present for entire societies that transcends eras and societies, generating resentment, hatred, and revenge.

An excellent read to spend a good time, but with an interesting background.

Don't forget to read the acknowledgments at the end of the book. (Translated from Spanish)

[G. Munckel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A granddaughter and her grandmother, but also the house in which they live, are the protagonists of this novel. In a sense, it is a horror story: the house is full of shadows and dead people, but its inhabitants are so accustomed to them that they simply avoid them or step on them to keep them from bothering.

Because the darkness of this story is not in the dead, no matter how much they do not leave, but in the living: in the men who live off women, in the rich who take advantage of the poor, in violence. The darkness is outside the house, but it is also inside the characters, in the resentment and vengeance that grows within them, eating away at them. Because people are also full of dead and shadows; they can also be haunted houses. (Translated from Spanish)

[VanessaS · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My edition is the forty-fifth. They consider it quite an editorial phenomenon and I predict it will continue to sell because it is an entertaining book.
I don’t usually read horror but I found this book interesting. It is set in a rural, superstitious environment, where disdain and superiority of the upper class over the servants abound, and the latent resentment of the latter towards the former. The consequence of so much hatred will be revealed throughout the reading.
In addition to the class conflict, gender inequalities and hints of fascist criticism are evident.
The book is narrated from two voices, that of a grandmother (the old woman) and her granddaughter. It reproduces the vulgar orality of these two characters whose resentment gnaws at them. Both can see spirits of the dead in the form of insects, shadows, and 'little saints' that coexist in their house. Superstition, degradation, and hatred. (Translated from Spanish)

[brytcelf · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A short story that, for the same reason, is read very quickly, 2-3 hours reading without hurry. I really liked the narration, fast, almost without pauses, told in a mundane way, without too much poetry but real; you can feel the disgust and repulsion that the protagonists have had to suffer due to the circumstances. A worm that envelops the reader itself. However, the drama leaves much to be desired. In fact, there is no drama, just events narrated, memories. Even so, I would read other works by the same author again. I believe she can still offer a lot. (Translated from Spanish)