Shadows of the Forbidden

By Carlos Segui

The Silence of the Black Cardinal
Some secrets never die... they simply wait in silence.

When Father Jean Moreau, a quiet French priest from a rural parish, sets out to investigate an old excommunication lost to time, he has no idea his search will lead him deep into the darkest corners of the Vatican's Secret Archive. There, he uncovers traces of a forbidden name: The Black Cardinal—a figure erased from history, yet whose signature appears on thousands of classified documents.

As he descends into a web of enforced silence, shadowy pacts, and truths denied for centuries, Jean must face terrifying visions, unexpected betrayals, and a force that does not belong to this world. The Church denies its existence. His allies vanish.

And the keeper of silence… is waiting for him.

A novel of religious horror and historical intrigue, where faith and fear walk hand in hand.

Because some secrets were never meant to be revealed…

And some voices, if they dare to speak, will unleash something no one can stop.

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The Art of Disappearing
When love turns into oil on canvas… and art becomes a prison with no way out.

In the heart of the MET, among hushed corridors and centuries-old canvases, Olivia—a brilliant and reserved young curator—finds more than art: she uncovers a mystery that will change her life forever.

During the opening of a hauntingly enigmatic exhibition, she meets Julian Moreau, a charming and refined art critic married to a powerful gallery owner. What begins as a quiet exchange of glances and hidden notes between the frames soon spirals into a passion as intense as it is dangerous… and into the discovery of a secret underground gallery that was never meant to be opened.

Unsigned paintings. Missing women. Dreams where the oil traps you.

And a cursed canvas that doesn't just watch—it consumes.

Olivia will be pulled into a world where love and obsession blur, and where the most beautiful art can also be the deadliest.

"The Art of Disappearing" is a gothic romantic horror novel filled with dark beauty and ancient secrets.

A story about love that transcends time, about paintings that live… and about what we're willing to sacrifice to feel truly seen.

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Leonardo and the Cursed Painting
When art becomes ritual… genius unlocks doors that were never meant to be opened.

Milan, 1495. Within the silent walls of the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, a young apprentice to Leonardo da Vinci begins to suspect that his master paints not only with artistry… but with a hidden purpose. The Last Supper is not merely a Renaissance masterpiece—it is a complex ritual encoded with ancient alchemical symbols and hermetic secrets brought from the Library of Alexandria.

As Matteo descends into a labyrinth of demonic visions, secret passageways, and forbidden manuscripts, he uncovers a terrifying truth: Leonardo plans to open a portal between worlds, willing to sacrifice everything in his pursuit of a "light" beyond the human realm.

But awakening hidden knowledge comes at a price… and art may be the threshold to the unnameable.

A historical horror novel where genius turns to obsession, and the most sacred painting in history… becomes a doorway to the abyss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carlos Segui
• Release date: Apr 18, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230565253

Book preview

Shadows of the Forbidden

The Silence of the Black Cardinal

Some secrets never die... they simply wait in silence.

The Art of Disappearing

When love turns into oil on canvas… and art becomes a prison with no way out.

Leonardo and the Cursed Painting

When art becomes ritual… genius unlocks doors that were never meant to be opened.

(c) Carlos Segui

The Silence of the Black Cardinal

Some secrets never die... they simply wait in silence.

The deep, melancholic sound of the bell echoed with mathematical precision over the silent streets of Montrelais, spreading across the hills veiled in a thin autumn mist. Father Jean Moreau knew that sound all too well; each note seemed etched into his soul as clearly as the psalms he recited every morning. That solemn echo marked his existence with an almost perfect cadence— a precise routine that had never once been interrupted.

Until that day.

Jean was a simple man, almost ascetic, with graying hair and gray eyes that had seen both the joy and the sorrow of his parishioners. Of slender build, always dressed in his worn yet spotless cassock, he carried a serenity that invited trust and confession. In his hands—firm yet gentle—he held both the peace and the torment of those who came seeking comfort or absolution.

The small stone church, nestled in the very heart of the village, had stood nearly untouched for centuries, surrounded by ancient trees that seemed to guard it from time itself. There, each day after dawn, Jean held Mass for a modest group of devoted elders, early-rising shepherds, and a few families who still kept alive the traditions passed down through generations.

After finishing Mass on that particularly cold Friday, Jean stepped out onto the church porch to bid farewell to his parishioners, who hurried through the doorway, wrapped in blankets and scarves. He watched with a tender smile as old Marie Dubois slowly approached, leaning on a cane as twisted as her back.

Father Moreau, the old woman whispered, her voice barely audible as she stopped in front of the priest, I need to speak with you—before God decides to call me.

The priest looked at her with tenderness and concern. Gently taking her by the arm, he led her to the small confessional tucked away in a shadowy corner of the church, where every whisper took on a strange reverberation.

Tell me, Marie, what weighs so heavily on your heart? Jean asked softly.

The old woman lifted her clouded eyes to him, flooded with memories.

Father… my soul finds no peace. You are young, and perhaps you don’t know, but my family has carried a heavy stain for more than a century.

Jean raised his eyebrows in surprise; he knew Marie well, but had never heard anything that cast a shadow over her lineage.

A stain, Marie? What are you talking about?

With trembling hands, the old woman pulled a yellowed letter from within her clothes, stained with drops of black wax and sealed with an ecclesiastical symbol Jean had never seen before.

My grandfather was excommunicated in 1890, Father, accused of a sin he never committed, Marie whispered through her tears. My family has lived under the weight of scorn and oblivion ever since. No one would listen. Not even God, perhaps…

Jean took the letter carefully, a strange chill crawling up his spine the moment he touched that seal —so solemn, it felt almost profane.

Who did this? Jean asked, his brow furrowed as he examined the aged parchment.

No one knows, Father, the old woman replied, her voice cracking. But my mother, before she died, mentioned something… she spoke of the ‘Black Cardinal.’ We never knew who he was or why he condemned us. But I beg you, Father, find the truth. I’m begging you…

Jean studied the woman’s weary face, understanding the weight behind her plea. Marie, I promise you—I will look into this. I will find the truth.

The old woman left with a tired smile, an expression of gratitude that seemed to ease, if only slightly, the decades of silence and guilt. Jean remained still, staring at the letter in his hands. He could feel the quiet world he had known—so predictable, so safe—beginning to crack.

That same afternoon, Jean made his way to the old parish archive. It was a narrow, damp room, crammed with dusty files and forgotten books. Under the dim glow of an oil lamp, he began to sift carefully through the ancient records of excommunications and penances. The documents were numerous, yellowed, and brittle, steeped in the scent of dust and time.

After several hours, when night had already wrapped the village in an almost tangible darkness, Jean came across a different document, hidden beneath a stack of abandoned books. It was a handwritten list dated 1890. On it were the signatures of several ecclesiastical authorities who had ruled on the excommunication of certain families. And at the bottom of that page, stamped in dark ink with a firm stroke, was a brief and enigmatic signature:

† His Eminence, the Black Cardinal.

Jean felt the blood drain from his face, leaving his skin as cold as marble. That signature—that dark presence—seemed to have been deliberately hidden, erased from all official records. All but this one, buried in timeworn paper.

Back in the chapel, Jean slowly lit a pair of candles before the crucifix, whose figure of the suffering Christ seemed to gaze down at him with silent questioning. He knelt, still holding Marie’s letter and that strange, forgotten list in his trembling hands.