Chapter 1: Gifted

On September 15, 1908, my tiny body cascaded out of mother’s birth canal—easily. I heard her tell my sister Emma. She gave birth to me at the ripe age of thirty-nine. One of her proudest moments, she boasted. As the head of a staunchly Catholic family, the woman devoted her life to serving God. She set her social affairs to coincide strictly with those of the local church. The inhabitants of the city of Toledo, Spain often consulted with the local priest on issues ranging from spiritual guidance to child rearing and matrimonial counseling. Every child in the home must perform the appropriate sacraments as mandated by the Catholic Church. She demanded.

One evening at the age of six, while I slept soundly, I awoke after feeling the heavy presence of a person breathing down my neck. My sisters Emma and Lillian slept beside me, a custom of most children in the town where I grew up. The strange presence moved slowly down my arms and caressed my skin. It frightened me. The mere thought of an unknown entity launching an assault upon my young body, while I slept, still offends me. Snippets of light peered through the window. My gaze circled the room, searching for the culprit. I heard the pitter-patter of light rain on the windowsill. The firm stroke, moving atop the pale blue duvet that covered me, utterly frightened me. As the youngest of the three, I called on my sisters for help. Emma was the oldest at thirteen. Lilian followed at eleven. The inescapable hands raised the duvet above me, settling on my warm skin. I felt the cold hands and jumped up startled. “Who goes there?” The terror gripped my throat, choking the words out of my mouth. Strands of my short, blonde hair stuck to the sides of my cheeks and soaked in my tears. The curls of my lashes stuck together in clumps. I rubbed my eyes.

“Emma, Lillian, which of one of you touched me?” I stood over the “drunk” girls, asleep and oblivious to my plight. Emma turned away from me muttering, “Stop, Carolina, let me sleep!” she said, covering her body from head to toe. Silence. My gaze once again drew me towards the walls and the darkness of the room. A shadow crawled near the window in an upward position like a spider. The black blob-like figure, slithering up and down the walls until it reached the ceiling, left me soaked in my own urine, then disappeared. Its presence lingered around me. My sister’s loud snores made me anxious. I wanted to leap out of my bed and run as fast as I could towards my father’s room. My rock! My Savior! But I knew my mother would disapprove of such childish behavior, and I would be punished in return, so I patiently bore the dreadful feeling in silence. Ugh.

I covered myself from head to toe and prayed to God and all the saints to save me from that nightmare. One night of terror was followed by many. The daily prayers failed to spare me from the torment of shadow-like figures, soft whispers, and physical attacks. Hair pulling, shoving, kicking, and the piercing shrieks from invisible entities kept me awake most nights. When I managed to sleep through the night, I travelled to other dimensions and met beings from other planets. Most did not frighten me, but their appearances varied: from human form with long torsos to reptile form with short bodies.

The reptilians would show me wars on other planets, explosions, and fire—strange creatures clothed with long, brown tentacles and beady eyes. They sucked the life out of anyone who came near them. The victims’ brains often exploded into bloody mush. Some aliens had big, round heads and tiny bodies. They showed me visions of people on white stretchers with wires protruding from every orifice. Large metal contraptions always wrapped around their heads. The wires connected to the metal cap were dipped into jars filled with a translucent liquid, unlike anything I had ever seen on earth. Every time a human awakened, it was always the same reaction. They screamed loudly when they didn’t have a tube blocking the airway. I didn’t care for it.

The tall, white-skinned humans were the nicest. They were the closest in physical appearance to our species. Those beings were eight- to nine-feet tall. Their slim, white bodies smooth as glass—translucent and often covered in pure white light. Their spines grew longer than earthly humans, like tails between their legs. The long chords extended from their coccyx down to their calves. They spoke telepathically, always calling for peace for our planet. At an early age, I knew that my experiences at nightfall were difficult to endure and hard to explain.

“How did you get that scratch?” Mother asked.

“The ghost from last night!” I replied.

But soon those answers would turn me into a psychopath in my family’s eyes. My parents, desperate for answers, called the priest on a regular basis. They begged him to exorcise me, because I was tormented by demons, my mother claimed. But the priest refused time and again. “Miss. Del Valle, your little girl is too young for an exorcism. Besides, she has an active imagination. You must not fret,” he would say.

“Pray a novena. That should help your little girl.”

Week after week, my mother consulted the priest on the same events, and the prayers were leading nowhere. Toledo, Spain, although small, became my own personal hell. Everyone gossiped. Thank God, the priest refused my mother’s pleas. My anecdotes caused him laughter. He thought they were a product an overactive imagination. But to my misfortune, the following years were worse than the nightmare I lived daily with my sisters.

“There goes the crazy Carolina,” said Emma. “What demons have you summoned today, psycho?” My eyes filled with tears.

“None! Leave me alone!” I shoved Emma out of the way. But her taunting was endless.

At the age of nine, I travelled to my usual spot by the grocery store, after experiencing the onslaught of criticism hurled at me by Emma. My sister Emma was short-tempered and impulsive when it came to me. She was immediately ready to punch, kick, pull my hair, and throw me across the room when necessary. But that part of her personality, mother seemed to like. However, Emma’s stubby figure and short stature exasperated mother, often reminding her that Emma resembled my father. Her pale white skin blotched the minute the sun shone on it while mother often achieved the perfect tan when stepping into the sun. She pestered my sisters incessantly about hiding my father’s genetic imprint in public. Since they looked so much alike, they could have been identical twins. But I believed they were beautiful women. Mother valued pin-thin figures. No matter what she ate, she didn’t gain a pound. I took after my mother body wise, but she still hated me.

Those Sunday walks through town, watching families smiling at each other, drinking, chatting, and hugging one another felt like an escape from my own reality. The grocer usually offered a lollipop. My pink and white dress, the bow in my hair, and my sparkly white shoes always attracted compliments from his beloved wife, who worked at the store on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. She wanted a little girl, but as I later learned, she was unable to have children. Venting the day away became my favorite past time. Sucking on a cherry lollipop and talking to myself, while imagining my life in a castle, eased my stress.

Unfortunately, my spot housed a couple of nosy neighbors debating the town’s latest scandal. I paced around them. Hands crossed, pursed lips, narrowed eyes. The women cackled and rolled their eyes while entrenched in the latest about my friend’s mother. They stood by the steps near the brick building, talking among themselves.77

“Mari, have you seen Celia lately?”

The woman shook her head. “I haven’t. Her husband Pedro parades himself around town with his mistress Inez Silva.”

“Can you fathom it?” she replied, then inhaled a big puff from her cigarette.

“Well, you know, I told her so. All those extra servings at the church outings would take a toll on her figure sooner or later?” Maria rolled her eyes in disgust. “I mean, can you blame Pedro?” she asked.

I dropped my purse and leaned against the brick wall, catty-corner from the two women. I leaned closer forcing them to acknowledge my presence. The more heavyset woman named Olivia glanced at me but didn’t stop her chatter. She coughed through half of her long speech and cackled the rest of the way. Like the piercing trill of magpies, these women’s high-pitched chatter felt endless.

“There is no excuse for indulging in sweets when your marriage is in trouble!” Maria said in a huff. “If you ask me, she deserved it.”

The dark-haired woman held a coin between her fingers. She dumped it into the right pocket of her red shorts. She arched her back and stretched her arms in the air. Her loud yawn awoke the orange cat laying on the steps beneath her feet. She inhaled a deep puff, as if she wanted to suck the life out of the cigarette. Her cheeks sunk while her eyes bulged out of her head.

“Amiga,” she laughed, then dropped her cigarette butt onto the concrete. She stepped on it with the sole of her white sandal. “You only speak that way because you’re naturally thin.” Her friend retorted, “Well, darling, I work at it. I barely eat. My husband loves it!”

Maria patted her flat stomach, stretching her slim torso upwards. She sucked in a deep breath. “And he wouldn’t dare leave me for another woman, even if she were younger!” Maria said sternly.

“Well, never say never! Men are fickle and there’s always the next bus coming in five minutes,” Olivia retorted, roaring with laughter. She rested her hand on her hip and waved her index finger at a young woman across the street.

The women’s chatter reminded me of mother. She often said, “Little girls should not indulge in sweets too often; no one wants a fat girl for a bride.” Just like them, she judged everyone. It angered me. I puffed my chest out and hurled myself towards them. My defiant stance startled them. This was not the first time they gossiped. Twice before, Father Armendariz berated them about gossiping on my corner. They knew I ratted them out, but it did not stop them. They eyed me warily and turned away from me.

“Damn it!” I cried.

“Shush, the crazy girl is right behind us,” Maria whispered to Olivia, leaning into her shoulder.

“Yes, just saw that little snitch!” replied Olivia, eyeing me closely.

She leaned away from Maria and shoved her fist in my face. Challenge! I parked myself between the women, refusing to let them have at it. Their feeding frenzy would not go down without a fight! Ready. Set. Go. My legs leaped into the air in the women’s direction. Strong hands stopped me dead in my tracks. Mr. Leonardo, the grocer’s assistant, wrapped his arms around my waist and picked me up forcefully.

“Where are you going young lady?” he mumbled, my feet and arms dangled in mid-air. “Let me go, let me go!” I screamed.

But the women stepped back and waved me off as if they were swatting flies. Their conversation moved onto unimportant details. I growled at them.

“Go on home, young lady before I call your mother!” he said. He set me down, my cotton skirt crumpled and mussed from his dirty hands.

“Jerk!”

The shrill of my screams fell on deaf ears. I ran out of there so fast that my feet barely touched the ground.

“Annette?” I shouted. “Where are you?” I called again, now in a calmer tone. Nothing seemed to slow the flow of tears. “Can anyone find my doll?” I shouted into the kitchen.

Then I crashed into my living room couch exhausted and upset over what happened at the grocery store. Luisa, the youngest of our maids, came out of the kitchen holding the doll in her left hand.

“Is this what you are looking for?” she asked.

“Annette! Annette! I thought I’d lost you.”

I kissed the doll on the cheek and thanked the woman. The doll with blonde curly hair and large blue eyes had been there for me every time I got in trouble. Uncle Paulo bought it on one of his trips to Barcelona. He declared the sharp-eyed toy to be a replica of me. But she was so much more. She slept next to me every night. She accompanied me whenever I got in trouble. She even stood next to me. She was my best friend, my refuge while my family repudiated me.

“As little girls go, dolls don’t speak, but their silence is golden,” my father always said. It allowed me to divulge my secrets to her, free from judgment. That meant everything. I loved her more than anyone except my father. He often brought me a glass of milk and a slice of cake when someone in the family scolded me. But father changed. I lost him and my doll. I suppose my parents discarded her, just as they did with me.

Chapter 2: Telegram

United States 1933.

“Miss Caroline.” I heard a man’s voice call out while eyeing the coffee stain on my brand-new yellow dress.

“Who is it?” I called out. No one was at the front door. “Ugh, just bought this last week and now look at me.”

On the way to the full-length mirror in my office, I grabbed a glass of water and a cotton napkin and dabbed the soaked napkin on my skirt. Before changing my dress, I emptied the remaining water in the sink near my office. My office although modest, was cozy and warm. The walls covered in floral print livened the room. I took another sip of café con leche. The rich strong taste of dark roast espresso, mixed with scalded condensed milk, tasted like heaven to me. Someone’s voice grew closer. He had made his way to my office past the front door entrance without knocking. My eyes furrowed and a small crinkle covered my forehead. “Mr. Williams, to what do I owe this honor?”

“Ms. Caroline, sorry to interrupt, but I just ran here from the post office. There is an urgent telegram for you.”

As the man approached, his imposing figure and excited expression startled me. I drew back and stepped aside, pulling away from him. When he got close to my Spanish oak credenza, he dropped an envelope on top of it and removed his brown fedora and leather gloves. I leaned into the arm of my sage green velvet couch—old and worn, but stable. We pulled it out of a dumpster nearly three years ago. I swallowed air as if my life depended on it. Although surprises unsettled me, I grabbed the envelope and read a note.

“What is this about?” I asked.

He noticed the bewildered look on my face and spoke: “I don’t know, but it’s urgent. I need you to accompany me to the post office immediately. They would not release the telegram to me.”

I grabbed my gloves, purse, and hat and headed out the door. The road to the small post office located in the center of town felt endless. The last time I received a telegram was more than six months ago, and it came from my mentor Oscar Heston. His bestseller book Between the Shadows had sold one hundred thousand copies in its first run. He was also a colleague of the famous mystic Elliott Kayser, who resided in Virginia Beach and was known for delivering complex instructions on surgeries during his meditations. Mr. Kayser had trained as a local pastor and developed an extraordinary gift as a healer through the information he received. I yearned to follow in their footsteps. I longed for a long career as an expert in the occult. Distracted and worried, I walked rapidly towards the post office. My mother had fallen ill in Spain, and I was dreading bad news. I decided instead to focus on recalling my first interview with Mr. Heston. This always made me happy. His experiments were phenomenal, and it prompted me to follow him from Barcelona three years ago to the United States. The thump of heavy footsteps trailed me. I spun around to spot the culprit. It was Harry Jones visibly exhausted.

“Miss Caroline, wait for me. You walk very fast!” he shouted. I suddenly recalled my plans for the evening.

“Oh Harry, I cannot attend the Smith’s investigation. You will have to use my equipment; can you handle it on your own? Do you think you are ready?”

The man of twenty-two years smiled at me.

“Of course, Chief, I was born for this.”

At his young age, he was already quite an expert in apparitions. Although Harry was not physically attractive, he boasted a nice smile and jet-black hair. His almond-shaped eyes, obscured by the frames of his glasses, deemed his appearance unfavorable, but his charming personality often won the prettiest debutantes. Harry’s high IQ and manner of speech captivated even the dullest personalities. It was no coincidence that he charmed me into hiring him as my assistant within the first ten minutes of meeting him. His physical attributes, however, showcased the body of a frail young man. He was tall and thin. The neighbors claimed he suffered from a strange syndrome. Indeed, his debilitating disease, which was called rickets, stemmed from his body’s inability to absorb calcium and phosphorus. Harry also suffered from gastrointestinal issues. They prevented the absorption of much needed nutrients and contributed to his diagnosis. Despite his frail physique, his mind was extremely sharp.

“Will you accompany me to the post office, Harry?”

“Sure,” he said, joyfully.

“I am feeling a little nervous,” I countered.

“Why? Is something wrong?” he asked raising an eyebrow.

“Someone sent me a telegram, and it’s urgent! What if this telegram brings me bad news?”

Harry frowned, “Maybe it’s good news? You won’t know until you get there. Grab my arm, I will walk with you. There is nothing to fear.”

I was so thankful for Harry, I held onto his arm without a second thought. Harry had caught up to me five blocks away from the post office. In the six months he had been my assistant, he transformed my business ideas into a professional setting. Still, I barely understood how important Harry’s presence would be in my life. He possessed the risk-taking qualities I lacked.

He unapologetically pushed me to openly advertise my business with the townspeople of Virginia Beach.

The business began with a few neighbors regaling us with their stories of apparitions in their homes. They asked us to investigate the problem and find a solution. Our gig consisted of a three-night review, using a portable recording device and a camera to capture the presence of anomalies. Our team consisted of mostly Harry and me, but there were others who helped us. We often researched the obituaries in the area to link the disturbance, hoping to make a connection to the recently departed. Most of the time, humans created the problem by claiming their homes were “haunted,” when in fact, the events had a reasonable explanation.

We were lucky to obtain the recording device from a close friend of Oscar Heston, who lived in Germany and had recently defected from the country for political reasons. The artifact resembled a small victrola and contained a disc that generated 78.26 revolutions per minute. Each recording lasted between three to five minutes. The gentleman transported this and other devices from Germany in secret. Believing the world was coming to an end because of Adolf Hitler and his sycophants, the friend left Nazi Germany. He witnessed the early atrocities showing Hitler’s true intentions. He said the furthest place he could go would be to America. At that time, we were not prepared for the horror inflicted by Hitler’s Reign of Evil. Gunter Muller was accurate when he said Hitler would destroy many with his ideas. But Hitler was not the only one.

Upon arriving at the post office, Mr. Williams, a man in his forties, was already there. I didn’t know him well. I wasn’t so sure about his interest in rushing back to the post office with me. Harry followed me into the building. Perhaps Mr. Williams waited for the gossip that followed every small town I had ever set foot on. He leaned over the counter, silent and onerous.

And yet, his alluring green eyes stunned me. He nodded and tipped his hat to one side as I walked past him.

“I’m here, what news have you for me?”

He signaled the postman with a quick glance and pointed at me. The man behind the counter handed me a long, white envelope addressed to Ms. Carolina Del Valle written in cursive. The telegram came from Fernando Paladino and Associates, Attorneys at Law. #25 Calle De San Bernardino, Madrid, Spain. I raised an eyebrow in complete confusion.

“Mr. Williams, this is not for me,” I said bewildered, then handed the telegram back to him. But Mr. Williams shook his head.

“I don’t know any lawyers, much less this one in Madrid,” I countered.

“Chief, what if they know you? Why not give it a chance and read the rest?” Harry interrupted.

I gripped the envelope tightly, almost crumbling the entire telegram. “No, no! I am happy here.”

I shook my head. “Spain is behind me. You know what happened to me there, don’t you?”

Harry nodded. But curiosity got the better of him. He eyed me impatiently.

“What if this is good news?” he demanded. “I know I am your assistant, and I don’t want to push, but I really think you should read it once and for all,” he finished, stepping away from me. “You’re right!” I said, pulling the crumbled piece of paper towards a white table standing on the opposite side of the mailboxes. I smoothed the paper against the top of the table hoping to flatten it.

“Dear Ms. Del Valle,” I began aloud, “my office represents the Estate of La Familia Cervantes Alameda. My client is an institution in Spain. The Cervantes family has been the subject of every newspaper outlet in Europe as one of the most coveted families since the Reign of King Felipe V.”

I adjusted my collar. I caught the eyes of everyone in the post office listening to the contents of the letter as I read it out loud.

“Excuse me,” I motioned Harry closer to me.

I whispered, “Harry, please explain, how this is my problem?”

He stared silently, “Chief, if you don’t finish the telegram, I can’t answer that question.” “Ugh,” I sighed, “Los Cervantes Alameda have asked me to find an investigator who can travel to Austria and reside with them long enough to solve the mystery.”

“Is the Mansion haunted?” Mr. Williams asked, towering over me.

Annoyed, I waived him off and read silently.

“You come highly recommended by Oscar Heston. He said you are experienced and well worth the money. As the Attorney for the Estate, it is my responsibility to place the Mansion for sale once Mrs. Cervantes, the eldest surviving relative passes to a better life. We have attempted to show the mansion to several buyers but the most unfortunate rumor among the townspeople has put a wrench in our plans. They all claim the Mansion of Cervantes is a haunted place. I have been instructed to hire the best person for the job. It pays a salary of thirty-five pounds per week, plus room and board, for as long as you need to stay. There is a ship leaving New York next week. If you are willing to accept the job, you must be on board the Chaplain at six o’clock in the morning. This offer expires at midnight on December 16, 1933.”

Upon reading the last line, I felt my cheeks flush.

“How dare this stranger give me only twenty-four hours to make such a big decision,” I crumbled the letter with such force I would have broken a nail if not for the gloves I wore. Mr. Williams was staring at me, waiting for an answer, but he would not get one. This was too personal. I thanked him and headed out the door in a hurry. Harry followed behind me in haste.

“Chief, wait for me!” he shouted.

The contents of the letter stunned me—leaving me nervous, hungry, and afraid. Ultimatums often led to disaster in my life. I needed to think. I spotted the bakery one block ahead and launched myself towards it like a high-speed train. I arrived in no time and pushed through front door, disheveled and famished. The look of confusion on the woman’s face behind the counter was startling. Her short, plump frame, red cheeks, and strawberry-blonde hair barreled toward me.

“May I help you, Ms. Delvalle? Are you well?” she asked.

“Ah, yes Mrs. Wentworth, forgive my intrusion. I was afraid I was too late to collect the chocolate cake and cookies I ordered yesterday.”

I tried to calm myself. Spectacles were unwelcomed, and I did not need any more gossip coming my way.

“Oh sure, Ms. Delvalle, I almost forgot. Wait here.”

The woman left, and I heard the bell ring behind me. The flash of my reflection in the mirror behind the counter caught my attention. My curls covered my pale face. The beads of sweat plastered on my forehead left me embarrassed. I pulled out my Guilloche loose powder compact my friend Leticia gave me before leaving Spain. I powdered my cheeks, forehead, chin, and nose.

Someone opened the door. “Chief, he whispered, what’s going on? Did I miss something?”

Harry took a deep breath, exhausted.

Poor Harry—always chasing after me. He spotted a table with two chairs and dropped like a sack of potatoes. His torso slumped over the arm of a chair taking a brief rest until he heard Mrs.

Wentworth’s footsteps heading back to the café area, where she had recently installed one of the few La Pavoni commercial espresso machines in the U.S. outside of New York City “Good evening, Mr. Jones, can I get you anything?” Harry nodded. “Double espresso please!”

She turned to me.

“Make that two, thank you.”

Harry held his hand out to me, and I handed him the crumpled paper. He read the telegram.

He eyed me and smiled. “This is our first big job. We must be on that ship next week,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Harry, what are you talking about? I still don’t know if I want to go, and if they would let you come along.” Harry’s shoulders sank. He took another sip.

“Oh Harry, no. I can’t,” I shook my head vigorously. I grabbed my cup and swallowed quickly, burning my throat in the process. I flinched. “We know nothing about that family. We don’t even speak the language.”

“They are Spanish, like you. Of course, they speak our language,” Harry smiled wryly.

He always managed to talk me into risky alternatives when it came to investigations, but this was a walk on the wild side and too far. Nevertheless, Harry and I had become a business enterprise. Partners in crime. Family. Besides, the pay was extraordinary. It didn’t take much for me to accept. I would only travel abroad if Harry was allowed to accompany me. Those would be my terms. If they did not agree, there would be no trip.

Surprisingly, Mr. Paladino immediately approved Harry’s travel without a salary, but I would share mine with him. We departed from the Statue of Liberty in New York on December 20, 1933. A snowstorm of more than ten inches covered the city in blankets of snow. The freezing cold left us shivering at the crack of dawn. Luckily, we made the ship in time. It would take approximately thirty days to reach our destination. The itinerary estimated the ship to cross the Atlantic in two weeks’ time. Thereafter, a trip from London to Paris via a small plane was the next part of the trip. A stop in Madrid for a briefing with Mr. Paladino followed. Finally, our journey concluded by train from Paris to Vienna where a driver of Mrs. Alameda de Cervantes delivered us to the mansion. We had planned for a month’s stay.