"Let us not speak of them; but look, and pass on."
Dante Alighieri
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Henry’s eyes grew wide with excitement, his mouth gaped open. “Exploring!” he shouted. “Let’s explore the third floor!” But before he could dart towards the door, I grabbed his tiny wrist and tugged him back. He looked over his shoulder. His big brown eyes stared at me with confusion. I raised a brow. “Cristobal said we not allowed on the third floor,” I told him. Henry yanked his hand out of mine and crossed his arms. His eyes fluttered with tears. His cheeks grew a bright red and stuck out his bottom lip to express his feelings. He covered his eyes with his tiny fists and let out a heart wrenching cry.
“Buddy,” I replied, picking him up.
Senovio crossed his arms. “Look what you did, Carmen. You made him cry,” he told me, in a teasing voice.
“Don’t make me sound like the bad guy,” I retorted.
“Hey, I’m not the one who made our little brother cry,” he replied.
I scuffed as I held our little brother close. I leaned my face towards him, but Henry pushed my cheek away with his tiny hands. He gave out a scream, protesting to me he didn’t want my kisses. “Oh Enrique,” I told him. “Come on, don’t be like that.” I gave him a tight squeeze. I blew raspberries into his cheek. Henry froze, his cries paused, and screamed once again. Once again, I blew raspberries into his cheek until his crying stopped. This lasted about two minutes. Two very long minutes. When he stopped crying his eyes out, I set him down and explained to him why we couldn’t go up to the third floor. Henry tried to protest. However, I changed the subject.
Instead, I persuaded him to come with me to the hallway where the giant bridal portrait hung near the Grand Staircase. The moment I mentioned the portrait, Henry’s attitude switched. He wiped his large crocodile tears and a smile spread across his face. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” Henry said, bouncing up and down.
I led my brothers out of the room and took them down the hall. However, the lights appeared to be a bit dimmer. I stopped and stared at the lights, bewildered. According to Senovio, it didn’t look like I knew where I was going. I continued looking around. My eyes moved quickly as if I were in REM. It didn’t make sense. Fifteen minutes ago, the lights were bright enough I could see down the hallway. Then the moment we exited the room, the lights appeared jaded, and it gave the hallway an eerie feeling. “You know if you continue to do that, your eyes will pop out,” said Senovio jokingly.
“Haha,” I replied sarcastically as I placed my hands on my hips. I clicked my tongue and pressed my lips into a hard, thin line. “Look at the lights,” I told him. Senovio looked at the hall lights. He placed his hand over his mouth and studied them intently. He raised a brow and shook his head. “They look the same to me,” he replied. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Don’t you see it?” I asked him.
“Carmen, I’m staring at lights that look perfectly fine,” he retorted.
“Well, they’re not,” I replied. “It just doesn’t make sense, just...forget it.”
I stormed off and walked down the hallway, with my siblings following behind. We reached the foyer and sped our way down the heavy wooden steps, our feet clacking away against the surface. I looked over my shoulder, seeing my brothers’ trail behind. “Carmen, you’re going too fast,” said Senovio. He picked up Henry and continued his way down the enormous steps. When he caught up to me, I walked with him down the main hallway of the macabre paintings. “Look,” I told him, approaching the painting, “here it is.”
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Senovio and Henry approached the painting. He raised his eyebrows high, making the wrinkles on his forehead become prominent. It impressed him. My brother stared at the raven-beauty dressed in her wedding dress. “Wow,” said Senovio, he nodded. He took a step closer, and his mouth gaped open. I watched as Senovio’s eyes widened and pointed at the painting. He continued to stare at the woman in white. Then, his face changed, almost as if he remembered something.
“I’ve seen this portrait before,” he told me, there was a sense of excitement in his voice. I looked at him, confused, unsure what he meant by that. “This picture is in my history textbook. This woman is Castilla Baudelaire,” Senovio explained. “Her father is the original owner of this house from like a bunch of years ago, maybe more.”
“I think she’s pretty,” said Henry.
“You know,” Senovio began. “She was engaged four times in her lifetime.” I looked at him dumbfounded. Cristobal didn’t even mention it to her when I was alone with him. I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms. “How do you know that?” I asked, my curiosity could not be contained.
“Uh, history class?” Senovio reminded me. “I hate to say it, but the Baudelaire story is one hell of a tale. In fact, it’s the only piece of California history that I like.” I looked at him baffled. “Who are you?” I asked, astonished. It surprised me at how educated my brother was. Senovio never picked up a dime novel, and yet he somehow knew a lot about this mysterious manor.
Senovio explained that Castilla’s father, Jack Baudelaire, was a French Western fur trader who struck gold on Bootstrap Mountain and founded the El Dorado Gold Mining Company in 1830. He also founded a city, that’s now a ghost town, called El Leon. Jack Baudelaire soon became the richest man in town so he built the Baudelaire Manor on top of Bootstrap mountain. “He built it for his family, his wife Maria and his daughter Castilla,” Senovio added. “What’s even more interesting is that Bootstrap Hill is sacred to an extinct Native American Tribe. The spirit of the mountains, the Thunderbird, lived in those rocks. According to legend, anyone who disturbed the mountain would face the Thunderbird’s wrath. But Jack Baudelaire didn’t believe it, he said that it was “nothing but a tall Indian tale,” and he built his home on it anyway."
“Well, look where it got him now,” I replied. “What happened after that?” I was getting very interested in this story. I wanted to know. Senovio explained when Castilla grew up many suitors flocked her. There were four specific men that courted Jack’s daughter; however, each one met his unfortunate demise. When Castilla thought she would live her life as a lonely woman, she became engaged to a ranchero. He planned to take her far away from El Leon. However, he was no oridnaryr ranchero. The man that Castilla fell in love with, was half White and half Native American. (In those days they were called Half Breeds).
“Jack Baudelaire was furious,” said Senovio. “Hell, that man did everything he could to stop the wedding, but his attempts were put to an abrupt end when a terrible earthquake struck Bootstrap mountain in 1850, and killed both him and his wife Maria.”
“Oh wow,” I replied. “The Thunderbird got its revenge on him.”
“Most likely,” Senovio replied. “That’s all I know about the Baudelaires.” He paused and chuckled, while giving a devious grin. “Besides the creepy legend that follows.”
“What creepy legend?” I asked him.
“Long story short,” Senovio began, “Castilla’s last fiance disappeared on the day of their wedding. No one knows what happened to him. Castilla sat by the window waiting for him to come. She started convincing herself that he was coming. Still to this day you can still hear Castilla’s mourning, plus no one knows whether or not she is alive. This chick might be over 100 years old. Some Park Rangers believe that Castilla never left the Baudelaire Manor.”
“Senovio,” I cut in, “This happened 200 years ago.” I placed my hands on my hips. And I thought that he was getting smarter. “There is no way in hell that woman is over 200.”
“There is a possibility,” Senovio replied.
“Stop it,” I spat.o they know what happened to her fiance?” I asked him, reaching for my phone. Senovio shook his head. “Some believe that an evil entity killed him, others believe he deserted her. But from what I read in my textbook, the Park Rangers could never reach the third floor. They suppose it was locked for a reason.” An icy chill ran down my spine. “The Butler,” I said, realizing that Cristobal only told me half of the story. Senovio looked at me. I looked at him and shook my head, brushing it off. My eyes turned to my phone and they grew wide like saucers. I smacked my brother’s shoulder and tugged him forward. “Pendejo! We lost track of time! We’re ten minutes late!”