The curse spread through the Santa Lucia Village.
Every word was chewed over, savored by the villagers, and passed on to the next person in an even more terrified tone.
“Father Director said Bartolo’s barn will wither!” “His wealth will rot!” “Flames will devour his greed!” The rumors reached Bartolo’s manor.
Hearing the news, the servants were scared out of their wits.
They began quietly packing their belongings, ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
To them, the manor was no longer a home.
It was a cursed, sinking ship.
Bartolo’s wife heard the words as well.
She knelt before the statue of the Virgin Mary, praying endlessly, but even after half a day, she could find no peace of mind.
Only Bartolo remained unfazed.
When he heard the rumors, he felt no fear.
He laughed instead.
It was a loud, hysterical laugh.
“Wither?
Rot?
Flames?” he sneered at his pale, trembling butler who had brought him the news.
“Who does he think he is?
God?” “With a single word, he thinks he can empty my barn?
Make my gold coins sprout mold?” “Idiots!
The lot of them!” He chased the butler out.
Then, he locked himself inside his most precious chamber—the treasure room where he kept his riches and land deeds.
The door to the treasure room was made of solid iron.
The walls were built from stone, a full three feet thick.
This was Bartolo’s kingdom.
And his sanctuary.
He lit more than a dozen tallow candles inside the vault.
The candlelight illuminated everything in the room.
Stack after stack of iron-bound chests filled to the brim with gold and silver coins.
Roll after roll of neatly arranged IOUs recording the villagers’ debts, alongside deeds for the land he had acquired.
There were also expensive, useless knickknacks he had collected from Florence and Venice: ivory statuettes, gem-encrusted daggers, and silver goblets.
Bartolo caressed the cold gold coins.
He picked up the contracts one by one, holding them close to his eyes to read every name and number with meticulous care.
These were the real things.
This was true power.
Not the ethereal, useless drivel spouted by that pretty-boy Director outside.
“He has his God,” Bartolo muttered to a chest of gold coins, “and I have mine.” “My God is right here.
Tangible and real.” “As long as I have you, no one can do a damn thing to me.” “What does that pretty boy have?
Nothing but a ragged robe and a horde of monks even poorer than he is.” “How can he possibly fight me?” Bartolo remained in the treasure room for a full day.
He neither ate nor drank, like a devout monk guarding his sacred relics.
Over and over, he spoke to his treasure.
Over and over, he convinced himself.
He convinced himself that he was still the king of Santa Lucia.
He convinced himself that nothing out of the ordinary was happening in the outside world.
His mind was already slipping into madness.
When night fell, his wife knocked on the door from outside.
“Bartolo, please come out.
Eat something.” “Get lost!” Bartolo roared from within.
“Bartolo, I beg you!
Let’s go confess to Father Director.
Let’s give Nio’s body a proper burial and compensate his family.
Father Director is merciful—he will forgive us…” “Confess?” Bartolo yanked open the iron door with a crash.
He charged out like an enraged bull.
Grabbing his wife by the hair, he yanked her forward.
“You stupid bitch!
You bought into that holy fraud’s garbage too?” “Are you trying to betray me as well?” “No!
I just want to save our family!
Save you!
Save our child!” “Save me?” Bartolo’s eyes were bloodshot.
“I don’t need your saving!
I’m doing just fine!” He raised his hand and delivered a brutal slap to her face.
The force knocked his wife to the ground, blood spurting from the corner of her mouth.
Holding her cheek, she stared at her husband in disbelief.
They had been married for twenty years.
Though Bartolo had a foul temper, he had never laid a finger on her.
Today, he had struck her.
“Everyone has betrayed me…
even you…” Bartolo muttered, gazing down at his wife on the floor.
“You all want me dead…
all of you want me dead…” He turned and retreated back into his treasure room.
*Clang.* The iron door slammed shut once more.
Shutting out his despairing wife and his doomed home.
All of this was witnessed by a small figure hiding around the corner of the staircase.
The boy had seen his father’s twisted, insane face.
He had heard his mother’s anguished cry.
He was terrified.
Fleeing back to his room, he pulled the blanket over his head, trembling all over.
He felt as though his father had transformed into a terrifying monster he no longer recognized.
Listening to his father’s mad ramblings—alternating between roars and low mutters from inside the treasure room—he felt as if an invisible, dark force was swallowing their home bit by bit.