Keeper of La Giraldilla

The front gate of La Giraldilla was about what I expected after glimpsing it in the worn-out pamphlet given to me by Papá, right before he passed. This was it. There was no turning back.

 La Giraldilla was this old-fashioned apartment building in Hialeah, Florida. I finally took my father’s advice and moved. It was tall, stout, yet still small for an apartment complex, mostly solid white save for places where the paint flaked off. And at its crown, atop its cupola, sat its namesake: a giraldilla, the bronze statuette of a fierce, serene woman holding a staff with a fancy cross on top, like some weathervane.

As a whole, the place looked like a piece of art, dilapidated as it was, a vestige of old Cuban architecture. It would be home, I thought, for the time being. For better or worse.

I strode through the squealing black gates that were part of the walls surrounding the apartment. Within the walls were sparse decorative plants, of which one stood out: the white mariposa. I remembered painting that flower often. Abuela would always have some bunched in a vase on the dining room table when she was still around. I missed my family terribly, but now I needed to learn how to exist on my own. I was twenty-five, after all.

I opened the flimsy double-door entrance, found the staircase directly to my right, and climbed up to the third floor where my room was located, barely able to keep the grim memories away.

 After getting fired from a crappy advertising job, Papá lamented my situation. “Successful,” yet, miserable; swamped in college debt; jobless. Papá had pushed me to choose a career that would pay well despite knowing my passion for art, but I didn’t blame him. He was only being a good parent. But, here I was in the one predicament he never wanted me in. Once Papá joined Mamá in death a few months ago, he left me his savings to survive on, and a note telling me of this place. La Giraldilla.

 I sighed after reaching my floor, absently clutching the carved piece of art strung around my neck. It was a tribal carving Papá had asked me to make him when I was twelve. He’d always worn it since, and now with his passing, I’d have it on me until mine. Mamá always scoffed at such things. Idols, she called them. She was a devout Catholic, after all. And my father, he was a free spirit, beholden to no god, just like Abuela.

 The old hallway was musty and plain, narrow and dismal. Behind me, the door to the spiraling stairs shut, startling me. Vacantly, I dragged my luggage across the old carpeting and immediately found my room, the first on the left.

 “Oye.”

 The voice came from nowhere, and I jumped this time. My breath caught in my chest when I came upon the visage of an old woman peeking through the crack of her door; my new next-door neighbor.

 “And who might you be?” she asked, still in Spanish.

 I realized I was frowning, so I fixed my face.

“Good day,” I said formally. “I guess I’m your new neighbor, huh? My name’s Lucas.”

 My Spanish had always been rusty, but I could understand well enough at least. My parents must’ve stirred in their graves as I spoke in broken Spanish, disappointed for not embracing my roots as well as they’d hoped.

 The woman kept silent as she opened the door a bit, revealing herself in the florescent lighting of the hall. She looked elderly, the lines on her face like rivers meeting and separating, and her hair a poorly dyed caramel with her gray roots showing. She stared with her distant gray eyes, as if looking past me, but she smiled sweetly and acknowledged me nonetheless.

 “I’m Cecilia,” she said. Then, her smile faded as if she suddenly lost her train of thought. “You know, he doesn’t live here.”

 “Sorry?” I leaned in, in case I didn’t hear correctly.

 Her gaze fell elsewhere, and I followed it behind me. As my eyes swiveled around, I noticed a man leaving the stairway. He stopped right across from my apartment; my neighbor across from me. He was muscular and tan, his clothes reminiscent of some Latino bodybuilder with his ripped sleeved jacket and tight shorts. His face was severe, his eyebrows knitted in a perpetual scowl. He had a crewcut and a scruffy beard that made me change my mind and think: gangbanger.

 I noticed I was staring too intently at him, and he at me, but not in the way I’d appreciated. I understood my limits, and as I went to greet him, found him opening his door and slamming it shut. Rude.

 “Be careful of him.” Cecilia’s warning shocked me out of my thoughts.

 Oh. Was this the man she claimed didn’t live here?

 “His name’s Ignacio,” she continued. “He’s dangerous.”

 After a brief pause, she smiled, waved, bade me a good day, and closed her door, the lock latching shut. First Cecilia with her eccentricity, then Ignacio, the unsociable thug. What a strange place.

 The day went by quickly as I unpacked my things and got myself situated. My apartment was nothing but three small rooms connected by a tiny hall. I couldn’t complain. Papá recommended this place to me because he had connections. The landlord of La Giraldilla made things very affordable: $200 a month, utilities included. And for as long as I needed, until I got my life together.

 “Do what you’re most passionate about,” my father had told me in his letter. “Pursue your art.”

 And that was just what I planned to do.

 The next day, I bought new supplies with my ample savings from an art shop a few blocks down and got to work. The first thing I painted was the familiar white mariposa. A fitting piece to reinvigorate my artistic skills. It came out beautifully, a tribute to Abuela.

 Upon finishing my painting, I heard the slow, methodical creaking of footfalls outside in the hall. The steps of someone trying to mask the sounds. I froze when I saw the shadows land right in front of my door.

 I waited for a knock. A voice. Anything. But nothing came.

 I fell into a moment of indecisiveness, my heart pounding. Would I approach the door, ask who was there? Or would I wait for the menacing presence to leave?

 Seconds ticked by. Silence. I thought I heard whispers, the soft sounds of a man talking to himself, and I clutched my triangular wooden carving hanging around my neck.

 I remembered the old woman, Cecilia, and her warning. What if it was Ignacio? What if he wanted to rob me? Kill me?

 And then, as if summoned, Cecilia’s door opened. My breathing stopped.

 “Gracias.”

 I heard the woman’s voice ring out as she spoke to somebody outside her door, thanking him. Maybe she ordered takeout?

 But...that presence outside, the shadows, they didn’t go away. Why? Surely, somebody would have seen the person just standing there in front of my door.

 I reluctantly made my way over. Breathing raggedly, I looked through the peephole -

 And there was no one.

 I sighed in disbelief and then laughed. I must’ve been imagining things. That was what I told myself, over and over.

 Nobody’d come to kill me.

 A few days passed. I had painted a landscape of the scene right outside of my apartment window. No good. I started a self-portrait, the first one in ages. My sketch was perfect, yet I found myself struggling with pigments. No good, either. How about using dry pastels to free-sketch and color? Nope.

 I was flustered. And very disappointed.

 I knew I tended to be extra hard on myself. It was a vice and a virtue. Today, it was my undoing.

 I thought of my parents, looking down on me. I was an only child. Failure wasn’t an option. This being my only passion, I had to make my artistry work.

 I tried focusing, but nothing came to me. I was as blank as the walls of La Giraldilla.

 I went for a walk, embracing the surrounding Cuban culture through all of my senses, feeling a sense of belonging. However, on my way back, I still found myself pondering some heavy thoughts. Like, if I was good enough.

 I climbed up to my apartment, trying to take note of the other denizens: a mom with five children; a paranoid man with wide eyes; a drug addict, high off their ass. Was this some sort of safe house? How did the landlord manage such a place?

 Anyway, I felt one with this place’s inhabitants.

 I reached my floor and spotted a tall, dark-skinned man speaking with Cecilia. He handed her a parcel wrapped in a blanket with strange icons drawn in. It reminded me of my carving, the one I made for Papá. The one now hanging around my neck.

 He nodded and bade her farewell. She answered with, “Gracias,” again. He passed me, this man with long features, dark eyes that pierced the soul, black hair tied up in a bun, and a knowing smirk. Did he know me? Maybe he was the landlord, I guessed. He left downstairs.

 I reached my door, and Cecilia was staring, smiling, box in hand. It was eerie, as if she wanted me to ask what was inside. I smiled back.

 “How are you, Cecilia?” I asked. “I see you got a special delivery.”

 “Yes,” she said, beaming, “special indeed.”

 I decided to bite. “What’s inside?”

 She unraveled the box, revealing some groceries and knickknacks. I assumed she may have been disabled and had someone deliver things.

 “You want one?” she asked, pointing at some quenepas. I politely declined.

 Finally, I asked, “Instead of hiring him, I can pick up your groceries while I’m out.” It was the least I could do to repay her kindness.

 “Him?” she said absently. “...He doesn’t live here.”

 Again, with that.

 I asked who he was. She called him something I didn’t recognize, and then did her usual; smiled, waved, and said goodbye. What a character.

 I tried sketching again, but that frustration was still there, like a dark cloud fogging up my brain. At last, I’d had it. I threw my pencil down, googled the closest gay bars in the area, and decided I needed to loosen up. It’d been a while, and I needed the distraction.

 The distraction ended up being some guy I met and took back to my place. We reached the door to my room. Wanting to forget my frustrations and loneliness, I pressed my face to his, still outside in the hallway.

 That was when I caught a glimpse of a tall mountain of muscle staring right outside his door. It was Ignacio. His shock quickly gave way to something else: rage. I knew what I had done was a bit risqué, but, it was past midnight.

 Club boy and I went inside and spent a few hours together. He decided not to spend the night, making me feel cheap and even lonelier than before. After I let him out, I lingered in the hallway, feeling a bit lost.

 Suddenly, I was slammed against something solid. I hit the floor hard, outside in the hallway. I saw double for a few seconds and felt the dull ache against my body where I landed. I looked up and saw two blurry, seething forms, each with teeth clenched.

 “We don’t take in any maricónes around here.”

 Ignacio grabbed me by the collar and lifted me up. He slugged me across the face, and I flew against a wall. If anyone had heard the commotion, they were feigning ignorance.

 I staggered to my feet. I exhaled after catching the pain in my chest, and a spatter of red flew out.

 Blood.

 I could barely concentrate. I could hardly breathe. My face felt like it was split wide open. Why had this man hated me? I then realized how stupid that question was. Hate was hate, and it didn’t need an elaborate reason for existing.

 I could’ve understood his hatred if it ended there, but when he brought out a switchblade, I lost all hope. He’d kill me just because I repulsed him. How strange fate was.

 He pulled me to my feet and traced the knife down my face and toward my chest, his expression intense, his good looks gone, his madness rising. He became a demon.

 Ignacio said something, and then my consciousness began to fade. I heard another voice. I felt myself get tossed around. I felt movement and the hectic stomping of footfalls leaving the hall. And finally, before blacking out, I heard an inhuman growl followed by twisting and snapping.

 A chill ran up my spine before I faded.

 I woke up. The first thing I thought as the morning light hit my face was: was that a dream? The attack, Ignacio...the sounds?

 My body ached, but, it didn’t hurt as much as it should’ve. What happened?

 I checked my wounds - none too severe - and felt gratitude. It could’ve been worse.

 Needing pain medicine, I forced myself to step outside. The hall was eerily quiet. I cautiously glanced at Ignacio’s apartment when I noticed the door to the stairs wide open. I felt a chill again, the same as last night. The tall, dark man that delivered goods to Cecilia came through, bearing his mirthful grin.

 This time, I noticed around his neck was that same trinket, the same one Papá wore. The one I made for him, at his request. Triangular-shaped, with strange geometric designs carved precisely on it. This couldn’t be a coincidence. I froze. He stopped, too, his eyes hypnotic.

 “You probably shouldn’t go down there,” he warned, pointing toward the stairway.

 “Why?” I asked shakily.

 He just smiled and kept going. I reached the door to the spiral stairs, my heart thumping steadily. I looked back at that man, half-expecting his knowing grin. But he was gone.

 Morbid curiosity took over. I opened the door to the stairway - and the smell hit me straightaway. The stench of death and decay, like roadkill on the side of the road. My hand flung to my nostrils. I let out a groan.

 I took a step down.

 I could hear the buzzing of flies, saw a couple latched onto the white, crumbling walls.

 I took a step down.

 I noticed a stain on the stairs that looked like rust.

 I took a step down.

 Something sticky glided under my sneakers. I looked under my soles to find a red-black smear.

 I careened myself forward, eager to know what was at the other end, my heart hammering, my breath racing...

 ...And witnessed a bloody mound of viscera splayed across. Wet, glistening chunks of red. Some vestiges of a ripped jacket snuck out. I saw indiscernible bristly stuff that looked like hair stubble. Something full of nubs - fingers - clung to a thick mass of flesh. And there, beside a bloody switchblade, sat a clean white mariposa.

 How...? How was this possible? This was surely Ignacio, but it was like he exploded or was chopped up into pieces. There was no blood on the walls. It seemed as if he’d been mutilated in one room, only to be carefully laid out here, no drips or splashes.

 I froze for a good few seconds before fleeing, felt the bile rise in me. I ran back upstairs, not knowing who or what I was afraid of. And when I opened the door...

 Everyone was outside of their apartments.

I stumbled forward, reaching the first person. Cecilia. Around her neck was the same idol I wore around mine. Everyone stood staring at me, no fear in their eyes. I saw a woman missing a hand standing across from Cecilia’s room. Beyond her, an old man with a cane stood. Then, a young man with a baby in his arms. Past him, a girl who looked sickly in the face.

 All of them wore the idol.

 Cecilia smiled. “You understand, now, right Lucas?”

 “I...”

 “La Giraldilla is our only salvation. The Keeper makes sure we’re safe.” She looked beyond me again, just like on the first day. I turned around to see a tall man standing a few feet away, that same smile on his face. “He doesn’t live here,” she said once more.

 The man approached me. I was terrified, but curious and strangely at ease. Last time, Cecilia called him another word, one I couldn’t understand. Was it another language?

 The Keeper handed my own parcel and nodded. I turned to Cecilia and the other residents, and when I turned back, he was gone.

 “Open,” urged Cecilia.

 Inside the box, I found art supplies and an application to art school. Listed were a bunch of scholarships I was eligible for. And last, at the bottom, was a message:

 “You have talent. You just needed help. Don’t ever give up. Love, your parents.”

 I didn’t understand it all. But I knew. This was a place for the burdened. A haven, under the Keeper’s protection. It was why Papá sent me here. And these gifts...

 “He maintains this place,” said Cecilia, “and its residents. He remembers those who believe in him, followers of the Old Ways.”

 “So,” I started, “he doesn’t live here?” She shook her head. “Not in this world...?” She smiled.

“You should get started,” she told me, nodding toward my box of art supplies. “Mustn’t let your parents’ sacrifices be in vain.”

 I smiled nervously. I’d had my new purpose, now. So long as I stayed here at La Giraldilla, I’d be safe to work on myself, free from life’s discourses. I wondered if I’d ever have to come back here again.

 But that day hasn't come yet.