Page 58 of Espíritu

The garage smelled of motor oil and sawdust, a combination of work and comfort that was undeniably Miguel. The space was cluttered but orderly, walls lined with pegboards holding an assortment of tools, neatly hung like pieces of an intricate puzzle. An old sofa sat against one wall, its faded upholstery a testament to years of use, while a mismatched armchair faced a small TV perched on a wooden crate. The faint murmur of a soccer match echoed through the garage, blending with the low metallic clink of tools as Miguel set his keys down on the workbench.

Miguel gestured for them to take a seat, his easy smile comforting the tension in Yadriel’s chest. “Make yourselves at home,” he said, settling into the armchair with a creak of worn springs.

His demeanor shifted from casual to serious. “So, what’s going on? Sounded important.”

Yadriel hesitated, his throat tightening. He glanced at Maritza, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Weird things have been happening to Julian since Día de Muertos,” he began, his voice quieter than he intended. “We’re not sure who else to talk to.”

Miguel’s brows furrowed, concern flickering across his face. “Like what?”

“He’s been seeing these … dark spots,” Yadriel said, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. “And hearing things. Whispers, voices. Sometimes he sees shadows or glowing eyes,” he explained, thinking about how haunting it had been to find his boyfriend frozen with fright as he stared into the janitor’s closet earlier that day.

Miguel leaned back, his expression grave. “That’s … not good. And you’ve never seen these dark spots yourself?”

Yadriel shook his head, a pang of guilt twisting in his chest. He’d tried so hard to be there for Julian, but this was something he couldn’t see, couldn’t touch. “No.”

Miguel’s gaze flicked to Maritza. “You?”

She shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Nope. Just Julian. It’s freaking him out.”

“He’s been seeing them on other people, too,” Yadriel added. “His friend Luca.”

Miguel hummed in response, raking a hand through his wavy hair as he gazed, transfixed, at the dark corner of the garage. Yadriel could see the cogs of his brain working, deep in thought as he mulled over Yadriel’s words.

Yadriel leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “You were sacrificed, just like Julian. Have you ever experienced anything like this?”

Miguel’s expression darkened, his hesitation palpable. “No,” he said after a pause. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Maritza’s tone was sharp, pinning the words down for interrogation. “What does that mean?”

Miguel’s fingers drummed on the arm of the old leather chair, the rhythmic sound a steady counterpoint to the distant hum of a passing car outside. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to wrestle with himself, weighing the words he was about to say. Finally, his voice came, low and measured, like he was hesitant to let it out.

“Sometimes, places go … wrong,” he said. “The energy of spirits feels a beat off. It isn’t voices or eyes. It isn’t a pull. It’s an absence.”

Maritza squinted. “Since when?”

“I’ve always had a feel for it,” Miguel said. “After I came back, it sharpened. But that’s not ‘I died, so now I’m psychic.’ It’s experience. Any older brujo learns to read a room like that.”

Yadriel leaned in. “Did you tell anyone? About any of this?”

Miguel rubbed the back of his neck. “Some of it. I told Enrique and Lita when spirits started going missing.”

“But not the rest?” Yadriel asked. “Julian says he feels haunted.”

Miguel hesitated. “Not haunted, the opposite. Places that used to hum go flat. Favorite corners go quiet, like a note missing from the chord. I don’t sense anyone coming. I notice when they should be there and aren’t.” He glanced away, jaw tight. “Sometimes I get a dull pressure behind my eyes right before we find a stripped altar. That’s all.”

Yadriel lined it up in his head. Miguel felt absence—spaces gone flat. While Julian felt presence—whispers, eyes—that shone. Different instruments playing the same song.

He looked to Miguel, whose expression was tight, nearly a wince. Yadriel had known his cousin his whole life, and he knew exactly what that face meant—

Guilt.

“What is it?” Yadriel asked, not bothering to deal with preamble.

Miguel rubbed his jaw, eyes flicking toward the closed office door. “Spirits have been vanishing.”

“Vanishing?” Maritza echoed.

“They stop showing up where they always do,” Miguel said. “Vigils look … disturbed. Candles knocked over, wax gouged like something dragged through it. Offerings gone.” He exhaled. “And in two places, the portajes were missing from private altars. Not broken, removed.”