My mind replayed our encounter with the elder as we made our way towards the town. We were passing by a tiny square when a man in his sixties, sitting on a bench, stopped us.
“Hello, youth,” said the elder, “where are you headed to, at this time of the day?”
“To the town, sir.” Sarah replied. “Would you like to come with us?”
The elder could not help laughing. “No, no, my dear, but thank you. I think I’ll just stay here for a bit longer before I go back home. Tomorrow I have to wake up early, but you are young; go and have some fun at the town!”
“Thank you, sir, we will!” My sister said in return, since she is more fluent in Portuguese than I am. I had already begun walking towards the town when Zack – that loudmouth retard my sister had to bring on her family vacation – whispered something to her while pointing to the horizon.
“Excuse me, sir! Could you tell me what is that weird building on the plateau?” Sarah asked the old man, who did not even glance back to see it.
“You must be referring to the Roman ruins, to the west…”
“Roman ruins? Is that what it is?”
The elder let out a sigh. “Indeed, my dear. Those are the ruins of the Tower of St. Cornelius – although most of the folk around here knows it as the Tower of a Hundred Cells. It’s a sad, desolate place; a place where no one should venture to after dark.”
“But why not?” My sister inquired. Her question was met with the dry and cold gaze from the old man, followed by yet another question.
“Have you not heard of the fiend that prowls the hundred cells?” He asked in a low, grim tone. My sister shook her head.
From his shirt’s pocket the elder man drew a cigarette and a lighter. He lit the cigarette, and after taking a long first puff, began telling us the strangest tale I had ever heard in my whole life