The Witch of Zaragoza (Ayúdame, Eres Mi Sangre)

 The Witch of Zaragoza 

The Witch of Zaragoza (Ayúdame, Eres Mi Sangre)

Part One.

April 12, 2019

"Elena, have you completely lost your mind? A witch? Visions? Are you even listening to yourself?" Sophie’s voice was borderline hysterical over the phone. "Stop this nonsense immediately! And Spain? Why on earth would you go there now? What 'roots' could you possibly be looking for?"

"Sophie, neither you nor anyone else in this family understands," Elena replied, her voice trembling but firm. "I’ve had these dreams every single night for five years. I’ve been living in a daze, haunted by them. Until I go there and see it for myself, I will never know peace."

"El, sweetheart, listen to me. You’re a brilliant architect. Your life is perfect. You have a wonderful partner—you’re both artists, for heaven's sake! Why throw it all away on a whim? Please, just see a doctor. Maybe they can help."

"I’m sorry, Soph. I’ve already made my choice. I’m flying to Spain. If I don't find what I’m looking for there, I promise... you’ll never hear a word about this again."

Elena ended the call, tossed her phone into her bag, and climbed into the waiting taxi. As the car sped toward Heathrow, she felt a surge of adrenaline. She had waited for this moment for years. If there had been any lingering doubt, it had vanished after last night’s dream. She knew she was heading exactly where she was meant to be.

Chapter 1:

The Call of Spain

Zaragoza, Spain. 1498. Zaragoza in 1498 was a city of long shadows and suffocating dust. The air was thick with the tolling of heavy bronze bells and the relentless heat of the Spanish sun. In that year, they burned Gracia la Valle.

She was no witch. She was a healer, a woman who knew the secrets of herbs and infusions. But when a prominent patient died under her care, the whispers turned into a roar. Zaragoza demanded blood. The Inquisition wasted no time; the burning was set for Sunday on the highest hill overlooking the city. Gracia was led through the narrow, winding streets, her bare feet bleeding on the jagged stones. The crowd, once her neighbors whom she had healed with lavender and honey, now spat at her feet and crossed themselves in terror. Above them, the jagged peaks of the mountains watched like silent judges.

Gracia didn’t understand the 'why,' but she knew exactly where the path ended. After her execution, the Church ordered her home razed to the ground. The site was branded "Devil’s Alley," and a chapel was later built upon the ashes to cage the evil they believed lived there.

The Year 2005.

Young and ambitious, Elena Vance had just graduated at the top of her class. With a position at a prestigious London firm, it seemed the world was hers for the taking. But fate had other designs for Elena, and the first "glitch" in her perfect life occurred on the morning of her twenty-fifth birthday.

Elena woke up in high spirits, anticipating a night of champagne and celebration. Humming a Kylie Minogue tune, she stepped into the bathroom. The steam from the shower began to curl around her like ghostly fingers. Elena wiped a circle on the fogged-up mirror, but as the glass cleared, the temperature in the room plummeted. The scent of her expensive floral soap was suddenly choked out by the thick, acrid stench of burning pine and scorched flesh.

Behind her reflection, a figure flickered into existence—a woman draped in a roar of orange flames that didn't cast any light. Her skin was blackening, peeling away like old parchment, yet her eyes remained bright, piercing, and terrifyingly human. The apparition spoke in a language Elena didn't know, her voice vibrating through Elena’s very bones: "Ayúdame, eres mi sangre." (Help me, you are my blood).

Elena slammed her eyes shut. When she opened them, the bathroom was empty. She stood paralyzed, her heart drumming against her ribs. Trembling, she retreated to her bedroom and poured herself a stiff finger of whisky, trying to steady her hands.

That birthday dinner was the beginning of the end for Elena’s "normal" life. While her boyfriend toasted to her success, she was under the table, frantically typing the phantom’s words into a search engine. From that night on, the modern world felt thin, like a veil ready to tear. She began to spend her nights in the dark corners of the British Library, obsessed with 15th-century Spanish records. Her drawings changed; instead of sleek glass skyscrapers, her sketchbooks filled with gnarled trees, stone pyres, and the face of the woman in the mirror.

Five years of this silence, of this haunting, had hollowed her out. By April 2019, she wasn't running to Spain—she was running back to a memory that wasn't even hers.

To be continued...