She stood trembling, hands on her knees, trying to comprehend what she had heard. There was no logical explanation, and worst of all, she had to decide: stay and face whatever lived down there, or let her children return to the streets, hungry and cold. There was no choice—there never had been.
The next two days passed like a slow nightmare. Catalina slept little. Every time her eyes closed, she heard scratching on the walls, the heavy breathing from beneath the earth. During the day, she tried to act normally in front of the children. She cooked what little they had, told them made-up stories, sang songs her mother had taught her. But inside, something was breaking—a fear, a despair, something worse tied to the old book, the silver coins, and the curse written decades ago.
On the second night, Catalina returned to the cellar, this time without a candle. She carried a torch made from dry branches wrapped in rags soaked in lard, found in a jar inside one of the crates. Its light was stronger, steadier, illuminating everything clearly. The cellar was larger than she had thought: two solid stone walls, and at the back, an adobe wall, newer, fragile.
She approached slowly, pushing boxes aside. Then she saw it: a small hole, about the size of a fist, cold air escaping, smelling of damp earth and something sweet, nauseating, like rotting meat. Catalina knelt, holding the torch close. The light revealed a narrow tunnel stretching inward, descending diagonally into darkness. From deep within, she heard a sound that chilled her: a low moan, almost human—or something that had once been.
Catalina stumbled back, tripping over boxes, and the torch fell, extinguished under her foot. Darkness swallowed the basement. She sat on the cold floor, heart pounding painfully. She didn’t know if what she heard was real or a trick of exhaustion, but she knew she couldn’t stay. She hurried upstairs, closed the trapdoor, and dragged a large stone to cover it.
