The One Who Lied
1144 Words
The house felt colder that evening, as if the watcher had left a residue behind—an invisible frost clinging to the corners, the hallways, the air itself. Marisol wrapped herself in a blanket, but the chill stayed under her skin.
Ana sat cross‑legged on the floor, flipping through the black notebook with a pencil tucked behind her ear. “This one is different,” she murmured. “The handwriting is messier. Like your mom was rushing.”
Marisol nodded. “She wrote it right before she died.”
Ana swallowed. “So this is the story she didn’t finish.”
The black notebook lay open between them. The hooked triangle symbol—sharp, jagged, unsettling—was drawn at the top of the page. Beneath it, Isabel’s handwriting slanted across the paper in frantic strokes.
“La traición siempre viene de cerca.”
“Betrayal always comes from close.”
Ana exhaled shakily. “I hate that sentence.”
Marisol traced the symbol with her fingertip. The ink felt warm, like the map. “This story isn’t about a disappearance. It’s about someone who helped the watcher.”
Ana looked up. “But why would anyone do that?”
Marisol didn’t know.
But the thought made her stomach twist.
She turned the page.
A drawing filled the next sheet—two girls standing side by side, holding hands. One had long hair. The other had a braid. Their faces were blank, but their bodies leaned toward each other, like they were inseparable.
Underneath, Isabel had written:
“Dos amigas. Una guardó el secreto. La otra pagó el precio.”
“Two friends. One kept the secret. The other paid the price.”
Ana whispered, “Lety.”
Marisol nodded. “And someone she trusted.”
Ana’s voice cracked. “Someone who led her into the alley.”
Marisol closed the notebook gently. “We need to find out who.”
Ana rubbed her forehead. “How? The story doesn’t say names.”
Marisol looked at the map. The hooked triangle symbol glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
“It’s marked near the school,” she said. “Behind the gym.”
Ana groaned. “Why is it always behind something? Behind the panadería, behind the river, behind the gym—can’t one of these stories happen in a nice open field?”
Marisol managed a small smile. “Not in Tres Robles.”
---
They walked to the school just before sunset, when the sky was streaked with orange and pink and the air smelled like damp grass. The campus was empty—no kids, no teachers, no noise. Just the quiet hum of the lights inside the building and the distant sound of cars on the main road.
Ana shivered. “I hate being here after hours. It feels illegal.”
Marisol pointed toward the back of the gym. “The symbol is right there.”
They walked around the building. The grass grew taller here, untrimmed, the ground uneven. A chain‑link fence separated the school from the woods, and the shadows between the trees were already deepening.
Ana stopped. “Wait. Look.”
A small object lay near the fence, half‑buried in the dirt.
Marisol knelt and brushed away the soil.
A bracelet.
Beaded. Handmade. The kind kids made in elementary school.
Ana gasped. “That’s Lety’s. I remember. She made matching ones with her best friend.”
Marisol held it gently. The beads were cracked, the string frayed. But the colors—pink, blue, yellow—were still bright.
Ana whispered, “So her friend was here.”
Marisol nodded. “This is where they were before the alley.”
Ana’s voice trembled. “So her friend… led her there?”
Marisol didn’t answer.
Because the air shifted.
Cold.
Sharp.
Wrong.
The same feeling as the orchard. The river. The alley.
Ana grabbed her arm. “Marisol—”
A shimmer appeared near the fence.
Not a figure this time.
A doorway.
A faint outline of a rectangle, like a door drawn in light, hovering just above the ground. Inside it, shadows swirled—slow, deliberate, like smoke trapped in a glass box.
Marisol stepped closer.
Ana hissed, “What are you doing?!”
Marisol pointed. “Look.”
Inside the shimmering doorway, two girls appeared—blurry, like reflections in rippling water. One wore the bracelet. The other held her hand.
Lety.
And her friend.
The friend turned her head.
Her face was clearer than Lety’s.
Marisol’s breath caught.
She recognized her.
Ana whispered, “No. No way. That’s—”
The girl in the vision looked straight at them.
Her eyes were hollow.
Her mouth opened.
And she whispered:
“Lo siento.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ana stumbled back. “She betrayed Lety.”
Marisol’s heart pounded. “She didn’t mean to.”
The vision flickered.
The friend pointed toward the alley.
Lety followed.
The shimmer collapsed.
The vision vanished.
The air went still.
Ana whispered, “Who was she?”
Marisol swallowed hard. “Someone who’s still alive.”
Ana stared at her. “Someone in town?”
Marisol nodded.
Ana’s voice cracked. “Someone who knows what’s happening now.”
Marisol looked at the bracelet in her hand.
The beads pulsed once.
Warning.
The watcher wasn’t just using the past.
It was using the living.
---
They walked home in silence, the weight of the revelation pressing down on them like a storm cloud. When they reached Marisol’s house, the porch light flickered.
Ana froze. “Did you see that?”
Marisol nodded. “It’s been doing that since last night.”
Ana swallowed. “Do you think it’s the watcher?”
Marisol didn’t answer.
Because she already knew.
Inside, the house was dark. Too dark. The lights didn’t turn on when she flipped the switch.
Ana whispered, “Marisol…”
A shadow moved in the hallway.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Marisol grabbed the pendant.
It didn’t glow.
The shadow stepped closer.
And then—
A voice.
Not the watcher’s.
Not a whisper.
A human voice.
“Marisol?”
Her father.
He stepped into the faint light from the window, face pale, eyes wide with fear.
“Where have you been?” he asked, voice shaking. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Marisol exhaled in relief. “Papá—”
But he wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at the pendant.
And his face changed.
Fear.
Recognition.
Regret.
“Marisol,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You need to stop. You don’t understand what you’re waking up.”
Ana stepped back. “He knows.”
Marisol stared at her father. “Papá… what do you know?”
He closed his eyes.
And said the words she never expected to hear.
“I was there the night your mother died.”
- Writer
