"This is nonsense, Alejandra."
"Oh, for God's sake, Ulises, shut up and knock."

The house's façade was hideous. The entrance was guarded by white metal bars, peeling in places, leaving rusted gaps exposed to the elements. The faded green walls seemed to reject the outside world, locked in a constant battle against the fences and walls of the neighboring houses. The yard was dirty and dusty; the skeletal remains of dying vines sprawled down from the green walls, twisting onto the cracked cement floor, where patches of wild grass and dry leaves had taken over.

A garage, right beside the door leading into the house, sheltered a white, automatic VW Caribe.

"Let's go, Alejandra. Seriously. This place is fucking creepy."
"I'm going in," she said, her voice catching, a barely contained sob signaling an unbreakable decision.

Ulises hesitated. Should he wait for her in his truck? Or, despite every instinct screaming at him, should he go inside with her?

He pressed the doorbell, firmly.
Nothing.

He pressed again.
Still nothing.

"That's a sign, Ale. Let's just leave."

She reached for the doorbell this time. Though it made no sound, someone seemed to be peeking through the windows on the upper floor.

"Look. Someone's watching us."

She turned to the windows but saw nothing.

"Stop being so damn paranoid," she muttered, tugging at a small chain she had just noticed. A faint bell chimed somewhere inside.

As they looked back toward the windows, a child's face emerged from between the curtains, staring at them. Then, just as quickly, he disappeared. At that very moment, from a distance, the sharp screech of brakes and the violent crash of metal-on-metal tore through the air, sending a chill down their spines. The kind of accident that sounds fatal.

Ulises and Alejandra turned toward the noise in unison. But before they could react, the front door of the house creaked open, and the child stepped out to unlock the gate.

"We're here to see—"
"Yeah, I know," the boy interrupted.

Tilting his head slightly, he gestured for them to come in.

They exchanged a glance, then stepped forward.

The boy locked the gate behind them and hurried past, slipping into the shadows of the house. For a moment, it seemed like the darkness would swallow him whole—but somehow, he seemed to glow from within.

At the threshold, they both hesitated, as if an unseen force were holding them back.

"Come on. Don't overthink it," the boy urged. "You're coming in anyway."

They stepped inside.

The child led them through a cramped, ugly living room in a dull brick-red color. The furniture was covered in plastic, and instead of a door, the kitchen—just off to the side—was blocked by a filthy, tattered curtain.

Hanging in a corner of the room, just above a small reading table, was an old lamp. Its base depicted two angels locked in battle—one with its wings clipped. The lamp flickered with an eerie glow, while thin wires trickled drops of oil down into its foundation.

Contrary to all expectations, the house wasn't dark. In fact, despite no lights being turned on—aside from the lamp—the place was bathed in natural daylight pouring in through the windows, even on an overcast afternoon.

The boy guided them to the dining table—long, wooden, covered with a beautiful white tablecloth protected by a ridiculous, yet functional, transparent plastic sheet.

"She won't be long," the boy announced, setting a plastic pitcher and three glass cups on a small side table. "There's hibiscus water. Drink up, no worries."

They glanced at the pitcher. When they looked back to thank him, the child was already gone.

"This glass, huh? Looks like one of those mole sauce jars."

"..."

"You know, like the ones from the supermarket," Ulises said with a nervous chuckle, saying anything just to break the tension.

Alejandra didn't laugh. Instead, from the upper floor, an older woman's voice drifted down.

"They're not mole jars, sir," she said, her tone unreadable. "They're candle holders. The kind that keep the flame from burning down the house."

Slowly, the woman descended the stairs, watching them the whole way. Her face was neutral, lips curling ever so slightly, almost like a smile—but not quite.

Ulises' phone rang. But no one was calling.

Still, he pulled it out, glancing at the screen, trying to hear a voice on the other end.

There was nothing.

He thought about explaining—saying the phone had just gone off on its own, that there wasn't actually a call. But then he pictured Alejandra's scowl and decided against it.

Instead, he apologized and silenced the phone.

Alejandra, unimpressed, told him to just turn it off.

"No call," Ulises thought. "These damn new phones."

Despite the sound, no call had come in.

"The water's good," the woman said. "You should have some. These things dry out your throat."

She served three glasses and took one for herself.

"They're clean, I swear."

She crossed the room and sat at the head of the table, leaving space between them.

"I'm very sorry for your situation," she murmured after a pause. "It's terrible. Just terrible. The situation itself. The uncertainty." She took a sip, staring into the liquid as if seeing something beyond it. "Believe me, I know."

Alejandra felt her eyes burning, but she refused to cry. She was done crying.

She was beyond tears now.

It was something else—a sensation like crying, but different.

She sat frozen, her attention fully on the woman, yet every word was like a revelation, striking something deep inside her.

She felt like she was trapped in a low-budget horror movie—one of those unsettling indie films with artificial lighting, a cheap table and an even cheaper couch. The kind where the actors were bad, and their performances even worse.

And yet... she was here.

Searching for an answer to the question that had haunted her for over two years.

The question that had kept her up at night, waking up screaming in cold sweat. The one that had left her husband sleepless, tormented in his own way.

The question that had left her sobbing, inconsolable—because the thing she loved most in this world had disappeared.

The woman took another sip, then smiled lightly. Not out of happiness. Out of understanding.

A silence settled over the room.

And then, the woman spoke again.

"It'll be two hundred thousand pesos."

Ulises opened his mouth to protest, but Alejandra shot him a look that screamed Shut the hell up.

"One hundred and fifty thousand in cash. Right now. Like we agreed on the phone." She spoke to Alejandra, then shifted her gaze to Ulises. "And the other fifty thousand... when you find him. When you confirm it's really him."

Alejandra handed over a suitcase full of bills.

The woman didn't even glance at it. She passed it to the boy, who had suddenly reappeared out of nowhere. He took it and rushed upstairs, his footsteps merging with others—three sets of footsteps, moving in one of the rooms above.

There were more people up there.

More of them.

The realization unsettled them.

"Give me the photo of your son," the woman instructed. "And the piece of clothing. Put them on the table."

She stood up and moved toward an old wooden cabinet in the dining room. The glass-paneled door groaned as she opened it, rattling the glassware inside.

She murmured something under her breath.

Then, as she placed a single, empty glass inside—upside down, among the others—she whispered:

"Please, Lord, let me see what I am blind to."

The woman placed the glass upside down, firmly, among the others. Then, she closed the creaking cabinet door and the lower drawer.

She returned.

Distrust settled over Ulises—perhaps over Alejandra, too—sharpening their senses to everything around them. They watched her closely as she sat back down and noticed something unsettling: one of her eyelids drooped halfway over her eye, refusing to move in sync with her gaze. One of her eyes seemed lost, wandering in a twitching, spasmodic rhythm, as if desperately searching for something unseen. Tears began to pool at the corners of her eyes.

She lit three candles.

They also noticed her nails—long, grimy, with dirt caked beneath them, as if her fingers had turned into claws.

She formed a triangle with her fingers—thumb to thumb, index to index, middle finger to middle finger—hovering over the photograph. A strange energy pulsed through the air, surrounding them.

Then, she began to mutter unintelligible words. And as she did, she seemed to age before their eyes.

The hibiscus water in their glasses began to evaporate, slowly, almost imperceptibly, but darkening into a deeper, richer red with each passing second. A barrage of images flooded their minds—memories of their child bubbling up, swirling like a tide inside their skulls.

Above them, the sound of hurried, heavy footsteps grew louder, circling the rooms on the second floor.

They turned toward the staircase just as the boy rushed down, flipping on the lights in the living room and dining area. He crouched behind the banister, gripping the wooden bars, his wide eyes fixed on the woman. He whispered something, his lips barely moving, as if echoing her incantations.

Then, suddenly, the footsteps upstairs stopped.

Doors creaked open all at once.

Three distinct sets of footsteps began descending the stairs.

Ulises' phone rang again.

He paled.

No one was calling. He had silenced it.

The lights inside the house flared to a blinding brightness. Outside, total darkness swallowed the street. Then, just as quickly, the house lights flickered, dimming erratically, as if the power were about to fail. The naked lightbulbs trembled, threatening to burn out all at once.

Two pairs of quick, nimble steps were followed by one set of clumsy, dragging ones. They rushed down the stairs behind the boy, who squeezed his eyes shut in terror.

And then, the front door—had it been open? Hadn't it been closed?—slammed shut.

But the footsteps did not belong to any body.

They had no feet.

No forms.

Only the sound of three sets of footsteps moving through the house.

A bolt of lightning struck nearby, its deafening thunderclap seeming to crash against the front door. At the same time, rain lashed furiously against every window, howling through the cracks, rattling the glass.

Then, came the hail.

It pounded the roof, drumming a violent rhythm as the lights inside the house regained their full intensity.

Outside, a storm-drenched darkness closed in around them.

The woman let out a heavy sigh and spoke, her voice hoarse and solemn.

"Your son is dead. I'm so sorry."

Both parents fell back against their chairs, stunned.

They had known, deep down, that this was the most likely truth.

But knowing, suspecting, and hearing it aloud were three entirely different things.

A terrible thirst seized them as their faces contorted under the weight of their emotions. Ulises opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the woman silenced him with a single, firm motion of her hand.

"I say it because I know it," she clarified.

She picked up a cheap blue ballpoint pen and scribbled something onto a napkin. Then, she placed it on the table.

"Here," she said. "This is what you need to find your son's body. But listen carefully. You have already paid me—for peace inside your tragedy. And that is what I have given you. A peace that, slowly at first, will begin to settle within you. And in time, it will help you want to live again."

She exhaled, tapping the napkin with her fingertips.

"If you leave now, without this," she continued, "I won't ask for the remaining fifty thousand. Your payment will be complete.

"But if this peace is not enough for you... if you need proof... there is an additional price to pay."

"I knew it, dammit—"
"Sir, it's not what you think," she interrupted. "But I must explain how this works: if I allow you to find what's been lost, to recover what's been taken, someone else will have to lose someone."

She paused, her voice heavy with sorrow.

"I've already told you your son is dead, and I know he may now be at peace."

From the stairs, the boy stood still, his eyes blank and lifeless, whispering something faint under his breath.

"If you can live with that, I'll give you the napkin," she continued, "and you'll recover your son's remains. But another family—someone entirely unrelated to you, someone you've never met—will lose their child. A boy or a girl. Permanently. It won't be your fault. Or mine," she added with regret. "But it will happen. That's the price of these things we lose, and the price we're willing to pay to get them back."

"I..." Alejandra stammered, her voice trembling.

Another thunderous crash shattered the rainy afternoon, and both parents flinched.

Alejandra began to cry. She hunched over, her shoulders trembling, her head buried in her hands as her arms rested on her knees.

"Give us the damn napkin," Ulises demanded, his voice desperate.

The boy snapped out of his trance, darted down the stairs, and grabbed the napkin from the woman's hands. Without a word, he rushed to Ulises, handing it over before running to the front door and flinging it open, signaling them to leave.

The woman, visibly worn, licked her dry lips and leaned back in her chair.

Ulises looked at the scribbled writing on the napkin and broke into a silent cry, his free hand covering his mouth in anguish.

Alejandra glanced at him, took the napkin from his trembling hand, and let out a guttural sob when she saw the name scrawled on it—along with clear directions to where they would find their son's remains.

The couple stood, shattered, and left the house. They leaned on each other for support, stumbling like homeless beggars without a place to go.

At the door, Alejandra turned back to look at the woman, who now seemed like a deranged old lady. She rocked back and forth in her chair, her vacant eyes fixed on the table where three half-empty glasses of water sat. Shadows seemed to gather around her, pooling in the dim light.

Alejandra mumbled a grateful goodbye. But the woman didn't respond.

A week later, Ulises returned to the house. Without ringing the bell or tugging the chain to sound the chime, he hurled a backpack stuffed with the rest of the money over the gate.

The bag landed near the VW Caribe.

He glanced up—perhaps out of instinct, perhaps out of guilt—and saw the boy peeking through the curtains, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Ulises turned and left.