The Classic Hope you like it. I wrote a few months ago for a contest that was unsuccessful (For me, of course)
the gravedigger of
Alicante Juan Luis Huidobro was called, was from Alicante and was forty-seven years at the time of his death, although its appearance sick and aged take charge of contradicting that assertion.
His body was lean, almost amojamado, like those old-looking leather that harden after wetting, and a small hump, a result no doubt of the hardships and rigors of his job, his vertical interrupted abruptly, making it appear submissive or over-polite.
His eyes were small and lively and big lips and outstanding, as if they had refused to get close to those brutalized by the disorder teeth hygiene and had withdrawn in disgust that they produced.
Yes, I know, you could be a fantastic or implausible description, but I assure you it was just as I tell them, without added any imagination or lies. It was, shall we say, one of those remarkable characters from the common, those that attract attention and inspire us greatly to turn heads in their path, for fear of losing something unusual and striking.
He also had a lot of misanthropic and elusive, but a good dose of brandy or other spirit softened their resentment and barriers is certainly effective.
was precisely that way, between the alcohol vapors that fled in terror from his mouth and blue curls sprouting from my cigar, as he told me his story, which, to the chagrin of those who can read this, I noted as true.
The conversation went on a day like today, October 30, just hours before the start of the night of the dead, in a bar in Alicante whose name, not to dwell on unnecessary details, I will not mention.
He told me that he made his living as a gravedigger, a fact which I knew after having met him on numerous funeral ceremonies that my social obligations imposed on me, that it was not so bad, that the effort was not excessive and the performance certainly easy, it was limited to digging the graves, cover again and ensure that nothing and no one disrupt the calm because in those places must prevail. Was, moreover, that the priest had offered a house there in the cemetery, for greater control of their obligations and less deterioration in their pocket. It was just a hut, enough for a decent family but for a lonely man and accommodating, so I was happy and quiet, no problems or surprises. The days passed
placid and calm, and wages, though small, allowed him to take to the doublet few drinks were enough to forget the past.
To my surprise, I explained that his wife had died two years earlier, and his daughter, the only one who had managed, remained in detention since then in a mental hospital, sleepy and lethargic sedative for the pain.
Instantly, I remembered the story that had long circulated in the city. As said, the girl had gone crazy, completely crazy, and after several episodes of dementia in which her character, usually peaceful, always was becoming in wrath, had come to stab her mother.
Naturally, since I am a man educated and sensitive to others' pain, I refrained to comment on this unfortunate incident, so I just mumbled a brief statement of comfort, just a formality, and breathed a new breath of smoke. I remember
looked at me and stuck those bright twinkling eyes on me and smiled, big as your mouth and sad as it looks.
"I do not mind," His voice was heavy, very serious, anchored in memory.
- How? I asked, did not understand the tone of this statement.
"Today will all end. You'll see. Today I buried my daughter, I looked back, smiled and took the cup to his lips. That
left me speechless. There I was, talking to a man who only hours earlier had been forced to bury her own daughter. Suddenly, I felt clumsy and stupid, unable to conceive of the pain and devastation that poor John should feel, could not understand how frail-looking man, crestfallen and disheveled fortitude could endure such a situation as terrible as that. And this made him feel a sudden sympathy for him.
However, his last words were terrifying.
John was thinking about suicide, ending it all, say goodbye to his daughter and stop her pain.
And I could not spoil!
Alarmed, asked
-John, what is it that all end tonight? What do you mean? It will not be thinking about committing a stupid, right?
His gaze returned to seek refuge in the cup he had before him, resplendent with copper tones, plenty of grounds blackish ...
sighed.
and began to speak.
"Do not worry. This is not what you're thinking, "he said. I will tell. It does not matter and nothing will change with it. Nothing can be solved.
I looked puzzled. He drank another drink of brandy and went on.
-La today is night of spirits when they return to life and return to tread the land that was vetoed by death, when he reunited with his family, with those with those who still have outstanding bills, when they live again ...
- What?
"Yes, do not be surprised. I've seen many times from the window of my cabin, leaning back behind the curtains, fearful of being discovered but unable to sneak away to avoid losing detail so fantastic parade. Return the same way they died, wearing the same clothes and wore identical mutilations in life, though certainly more faded and discolored.
"Excuse me, but ...
- No, please! Let me go, I beg! Is important. Since I started, I finish.
Not to contradict him, I nodded.
"Well, the splendid costumes with which the fabrics are then buried worn, frayed and blackened by the exhumation, and their bodies, those who always remember with affection, love, even with passion, look decomposed by putrefaction, abundant of shreds and tumor growths, pustules and sores to feed on the corpse fauna. He spoke with fanfare, emphasizing each of the phrases uttered in a tone of utmost seriousness. Cross midnight, leave their tombs, walk the cemetery and leave in search of those with whom they meet. Later, just hours later, before the sun on the horizon boundary, back again, perhaps with the aim fulfilled, perhaps to serve.
- what if they do not comply? I asked.
- Hummm! If they do not ... come back next year. And so year after year until, finally, get what they want.
I did not know how to consider that. Without doubt, the excesses of someone seemed upset, but ...
"Well, I have to go. Sorry, "he said suddenly, in a tone of defeat in his voice.
At the time, took a big swig from his glass of brandy and sat up.
- Wait! I insisted. You say you only return those who have cases pending, but why would return his daughter? Just as a child. Juan
turned slowly, looked into my eyes no longer seemed so happy, and answered: "Because
killed his mother. Almost
I jumped in the chair. Juan
turned away in silence, and headed out of the tavern. He wore a hesitant step, weighted with regret.
Upon reaching the door, turned to me and said
"If you want to test, go to the cemetery tonight. I'll be there.
and disappeared, leaving me with a sketch of a reply on his lips.
The next hours were spent mired in turmoil. The story was fabulous and, of course, did not believe at all. But something told me to keep the appointment.
more for fear that John committed a stupid, because he had already caught some sympathy-, than the curiosity that the matter had given me, that night I went to the cemetery.
I must confess, however, that despite my disbelief, I felt some fear. I knew it was ridiculous, but could not avoid running well.
The night was dark, overshadowed by a dense fog and very wet seeped one to the bone, the street, silent and lonely, and my heart, always calm and peaceful, beating with a rhythm more and more harsh and pounding.
Juan's house was on the end opposite the entrance to the cemetery, so to get there, we must cross endless corridors of tombs and mausoleums, which did not contribute too much to calm my nerves.
You can get some idea of \u200b\u200bwhat is passing through a cemetery on a night like that, with the fevered mind of a terrifying story and guts constrained by concerns that the last words of my brand new friend I had produced. Each
cypress and juniper that I was on the road seemed to me to ghosts or demonic figures, and each of the cherubim who guarded the tombs of the wealthy seemed to my eyes grotesques, gruesome, which have been stationed there waiting to pounce on anyone who dared to cross over there.
All was quiet, as only listened to my breathing, the occasional singing of a cricket or a screech owl and the constant crackle of my footsteps on the gravel that covered the roads.
A full moon, milky, diffuse, the fog seemed to guess that accumulated over my head, like a beacon of little use. After the row
cemeteries, opulent and arrogant, burials began to take shape, modest, almost humble, just a few scattered stones or a small size crucifixes. How cruel is the memory! How sad oblivion!
The song of an owl returned me back to reality. I tried to quicken the pace, not wanting to be there longer than absolutely necessary, between night, fears and imaginings, and within minutes, put down as a pilgrim believer, I could see the guard shack.
was a small house, with whitewashed walls and tiled roof. The door was open, through the opening and could see some light, very thin, almost dying, breathing, such as that produced by a candle enfeebled by the wind.
I decided to get a bit closer and see if my friend John was good, but look at that rim light was not a promising omen over.
Suddenly, my mood seemed to lean. My steps became much more slow, uncertain and trembling, my voice, quite hindered by fear, did nothing but grumble short fearing reprimands were discovered by God knows what.
The halo of light that seemed to envelop the cabin was becoming more diffuse and ethereal, and the forms that charged, in turn, greater clarity.
Once I had got home, I stood next to the doorknob, an old brass-handle, held it between my fingers and sighed loudly, as an attempt to bring together all my courage in those trembling and numb fingers cold.
I remember I opened it slowly. Trying to prevent a groan of rusty hinges betray me, but to my surprise, the hinges did not sound.
The gap became larger ... In a foreshortened
full of fear and cowardice, I looked to see inside the house. And what I saw there left me cold.
John lying dead on the floor with his shirt unbuttoned and curled up around the armpits and dirty pants terror, urinated in the crotch.
few muddy footprints, plenty of water, came to him ... I closed my eyes
! I felt no strength to watch that scene, because if something I had not realized was that this was not the result of a suicide, but murder. A blackened letters
tore his chest with a little distracted and drawn calligraphy, as someone who possess little education and studies, perhaps ... someone so young.
I muttered a prayer for his soul and opened my eyes again.
Today I understand my stupidity, it was certainly plausible that the murderer was still there, lurking, but in that moment, my mind was with the deceased, and not to my personal safety.
tried to gather the courage. A few seconds I stood there, motionless and silent. Then I went. Juan
arms were outstretched like a Christ lying, and her eyes, remembered still lively, opened an excessive manner, as if he had refused to remove from view those last moments and so tragic.
I wrote an outline of contempt and leaned to his side.
letters printed fire seemed as if someone had used a hot iron to spell that ominous legend tore his skin. Small seared scallops skin surrounding each wound, and his flesh, wrinkled and crimson ink, appeared now exposed, in my mind perpetuating a terrifying message.
Murderer! That was the word that someone had written on the body of John.
Murderer!
A terrible doubt assailed me. Would it have been his young daughter, revived and haunted by bitterness, who caused the death of his father? Was that possible?
Obviously, that idea seemed ridiculous, even stupid, but at the same time, I saw myself unable to separate it from my mind.
Was she near me, watching disrupted prayed for the soul of his father?
God! The very idea terrified me! However, should remain calm and seated head.
I crossed with the utmost respect and left the cabin, making sure I had left everything exactly how I had met him. Hurried step towards the exit, the tombstones and crucifixes appeared march with me ...
Suddenly, something caught my attention. Perhaps it was a noise, I do not know, perhaps, something he had seen the corner of his eye. Anyway, I turned around, and I assure you I will never forget that silhouette misty, faded and tattered I spotted a few meters from me.
Era just a girl, about fourteen or fifteen years, wearing a white chiffon dress. His hair was blond and tousled, slightly swayed by the wind that swept the churchyard, and his face, clear and ruddy, was now black with mud.
For a moment I thought he smiled, set his eyes on me, I watched with some naivete, almost like a cherub ... ... After a few seconds, he continued his work.
His body was like to be half buried in the pasture of the tombs. She sat, her body erect and shrouded in tulle dirty and frayed. Around her, several clusters earthy, due, no doubt, of an exhumation.
Began to move his arms fast. Had its little hands in mounds and stirred, drawing them to himself ...
God! I was terrified! My body remained paralyzed with horror, and my mind, unable to face such a scene, seemed to refuse to assimilate.
Instantly, I collapsed.
I found the next day, feverish and almost paranoid, mumbling a litany of strange deaths, resurrections and delayed revenge.
Of course, nobody believed me, and I was forced to spend time away from everything.
Over the months, I tried to convince myself that what had not been real, that was the result of my imagination, fatigue or fear that had fattened on me, perhaps, too much fog, dense and playful, which had become a curious way. I do not know ...
Today, however, know what I saw. And although I realize that I can look like a fool, I decided to confess what happened. Therefore
continue telling the story of Juan Luis Huidobro, undertaker by profession, confessed murderer who fell for a posthumous revenge, and continue, therefore, a victim of ridicule from those who are the story.
know I will not believe me, and, indeed, no wonder. But believe me, I beg. Death is not the end.
At least, during the night of the dead.
Title: Delirium 
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