That night, the air in the cemetery was heavier than ever.
Not even the blue candles would light.
The roots of the cypresses creaked beneath my feet as if they wanted to bite me.
I hadn't slept well since I saw the veiled door.
Every time I closed my eyes, that giant eye stared at me from the crack.
And every time, the skull's whispers grew more urgent.
"Open me. Open me. Open me."
So that night, I walked toward the mass grave.
Not because I wanted to… but because something inside me knew:
If the crack was going to open, it would start there.
—
The pit was at the back of the cemetery.
A huge, black hole with cracked, damp earth.
The crosses were broken, and instead of flowers, there were bones and stumps of hands, like human roots emerging from the mud.
As I approached, I felt the air change.
It was no longer cold, but hot, suffocating, like the breath of something waiting beneath.
And then I saw him.
A boy.
Small.
Naked.
Covered in dirt and dried blood.
Sitting on the edge of the pit, hugging his knees, head bowed.
"Are you… alive?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
The boy lifted his face.
He had no eyes.
In their place were two dark sockets, filled with writhing worms that slowly fell down his cheeks.
His mouth was too big, so wide it reached his ears, and filled with tiny teeth, like needles.
But what chilled my blood most wasn't his face…
it was his voice.
"Citlali…" he said. "You have… my key."
My hand clenched tightly around the skull.
"No," I whispered. "It's not yours."
The boy stood up.
He was taller than he first appeared, with arms too long for his body.
His skin hung in tatters, revealing broken ribs and muscles black as coal.
"You have my key," he repeated, stepping toward me.
"Who are you?" I asked, though part of me didn't want to know.
The boy tilted his head and smiled with his impossible mouth.
"I am the first to fall here.
I am the one who has waited since they threw the others on top of me.
I am the one who has always been… below."
His voice was soft and broken, as if it came from many throats at once.
And as he spoke, bony hands began to emerge from the pit.
First one… then two… then dozens.
Hands clawing at the earth, trying to get out.
The boy pointed to the crack with one of his long fingers.
"The crack already smells of flesh," he said. "You just need to open it.
And when you do… I will be able to rise."
I tried to step back, but the earth opened beneath my feet.
The hands from the pit tangled around my ankles, cold and sticky, pulling me toward the edge.
The boy came closer, so close I could feel his hot, rotten breath on my face.
"Don't take long, nahual," he whispered. "The earth is hungry already.
And I… too."
His smile widened even more, and a thread of blood began to run from his mouth, dripping onto the mud.
"Open me," he repeated. "Open me. Open me."
The hands released me suddenly.
I blinked… and I was alone again.
The boy had disappeared.
But in the pit, the scratching of nails against the earth could still be heard, and from time to time… a sharp, hollow giggle.
—
That night I didn't return home.
I sat beside the pit, the skull in my hands, trembling.
Because for the first time, I understood something terrible:
The key doesn't open just one door.
It opens all doors.
And some… should never be opened.