A/N: Hello! A new story for Encantober, a companion piece to "Just Your Ordinary, Everyday Miracle." This story will focus on the ghost of Alejandro Moreno, an OC from my aforementioned story, and his perspective on watching his wife fall in love with an anxious rat man after he dies. Based on the films "A Guy Named Joe" (1943) and "Always" (1989), this came about from a fic prompt from Sharknado on a discord chat.
Content Warnings: I have rated this fic "T" because it will contain some depictions of the death of my OC, but nothing horribly graphic. It is also a ghost story, so it contains explorations of the afterlife, religion, and spirituality. It is not meant to be an accurate depiction of what Catholics, Christians, or myself actually believe happens after death (I don't actually believe in ghosts as they are typically portrayed); it is purely fantasy, written to stretch my skills as a writer. A few swears escape my OC as well, but be a little forgiving - death is hard.
This will be a heavily angsty story with some morbid humor and happy ending for Bruno and my female OC and a bittersweet/happy endings for Alejandro.
Love, Persevering: A Ghost Story
Chapter 1: Tell Me Everything That Happened, Tell Me Everything You Saw
(Encanto Prompt Day 3: Tragedy)
The drone of insects and the rustling of leaves, the heartbeats and breaths of everyone in the group, and the very heat of the jungle itself buzzed in her ears, a cacophony that made her heart flutter anxiously in time with it. Dolores wiped the sweat from her brows and stumbled forward, pressing her eyes shut and wincing against the pounding headache developing behind her eyes.
"Whoa there," Luisa whispered, catching her and setting her back upright, careful to keep her movements and her words as quiet and small as possible.
"Gracias, Luisa," Dolores whispered back.
Alejandro Moreno had been missing for nearly two full days, now.
His wife, Lucía, had approached them nervously with their toddler daughter in tow when he hadn't come home after being out in the jungle for an entire day, searching for ingredients to mix a new batch of paints for whatever project he'd been planning on doing next.
Dolores hadn't really rested, since. The sun had already been setting when Lucía came knocking on their door, and the next morning, she and the rest of the villagers had tried to find him.
They hadn't found him yesterday.
Even when Mamí forced her to try and sleep, she tossed and turned, something inside of her listening intently outward as far as she could from her bed, her bedroom door cracked in the hopes that she would hear him.
She was paying for it, now.
Her ears throbbed and her head ached. Her feet were blistered from hiking through the jungle for a full day and a half, listening for anything indicating Señor Moreno's whereabouts – a breath, a heartbeat, a moan, a cry for help – but so far she was unsuccessful. The natural noises of the jungle were covering up any potential sounds from the artist.
"Let's take a break?" Papí said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder.
She flinched away, not because he'd hurt her, but because she was so focused and didn't want to be interrupted.
"Mija," he breathed softly – but it was mixed in with the sound of something else.
Someone else.
Dolores straightened.
"Shhhh." She motioned with her hand, one straight, direct cut, palm facing downward - and the entire group of searchers held their breath.
She looked toward the mountains on her right, leaning forward, hand cupped around her ear, and nodded. "He's this way."
Luisa's heart dropped to her feet, sunk through the soles of her shoes, and attempted to crawl away. Tears pricked her eyes and she looked at Dolores uncertainly.
"You're – you're sure?" She bit her lip. "You're absolutely sure?"
Luisa watched Dolores' eyes mirror her own, filling with tears and holding them wide open, willing them not to fall. They were La Famila Madrigal. They did not cry when there was still work to be done. "Lo siento, Luisa. But – yes. He's in there. And he – he's alive but he's not – doing well."
She nodded to the pile of rubble from a recent mudslide marring the side of the mountain, and Luisa swallowed her tears, knowing she was the one who'd be able to reach him the fastest. She was the strong one.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
Alejandro Moreno was dead, to begin with.
As is the case with most newly dead people, it took him a bit to realize that was the case.
It was a bit like jolting awake – like a soap bubble, settling for split second before popping on sharp green blades of grass – and he sat up, blinking.
What had he –
Ah.
He remembered, now:
Collecting colors.
Hibiscus, bright and fragrant, for red paints.
Berries, sweet and plump, for blues and purples.
Grass and leaves for green, sunflowers and dandelions for yellow, and –
Brown.
Rich brown earth, clay muddy and dark, for brown.
He felt – strange, at that thought.
Claustrophobic.
Trapped.
He blinked, and the memories roared over him like breakers in the distant sea.
Collecting colors for paints for a new project.
But before that - Lucía, his wife, pleading with him to wait for the next group of traders to travel through the mountains.
"Take a break, Alejandro," she'd said. "You worked so hard on the murales. Señora Madrigal was so pleased. I'm proud of you. Josefina misses you. I miss you. Take a break with us. Please."
Collecting colors for paints, despite her insistence that he stop and rest.
Because it was important. It was for a project. An important project –
He couldn't remember, exactly, what it was at the moment.
And then –
A rana kokoi, its dewey skin nearly glowing gold in the sunlight filtering through the green foliage like a spotlight; like God Himself intended him to see it.
It was beautiful and dangerous.
Josefina would love it. As she would say, it was 'booooo-nita!'.
Scrambling down the bank of the mountainside, desiring a closer look, to commit it to memory, to sketch later – perhaps Lucía could write a story about it, and wouldn't that be cute? – and then –
A faint roaring, like the sound of a waterfall, or a crackling fire, and - slipping, falling, his heart in his throat and his stomach at his feet, and earth – so much earth – so much brown and gray and red and hard, so hard and painful –
He shook himself. Swallowed. Breathed.
It didn't feel right.
He looked down at his hands, one held tightly by his wife, the other laying limply on the bed beside his thigh, both wrapped in bandages.
He was in bed, at his home.
A dream?
Lucía was asleep beside him, but not – not like she normally was.
She'd pulled a chair up to the bed and had fallen asleep with her head on her arms, clutching his hand.
Her hair was in chaotic disarray around her head, which was unusual – she hated her hair in her face; she always kept the wavy dark brown strands meticulously braided - and her brow furrowed, even in her sleep.
Alejandro worried. Was he sick?
He moved his hand to touch her, and – his hand went through her shoulder.
She shivered in her sleep, but did not wake - and he blinked.
No. No no no no no no no –
He tried again, and he realized – his hand stayed behind. His hand stayed firmly in her grip on the bed and some sort of – strange – shimmering – shadow of his hand pass through her shoulder.
He stared at it, waving his own specter-hand before his eyes. It was like watching dust motes in sunlight – there for a moment, and then gone.
He breathed, and he realized what felt strange about it.
He hadn't been breathing, before.
He forced himself to go through the motion of breathing, but it – it felt wrong.
He stopped.
He counted out in his head, one to two hundred, and didn't feel a thing.
No strain. No tension indicating he needed to take a breath.
No tension, but also – no relief when he finally did breathe.
He didn't need to breathe.
Alejandro Moreno was not a man prone to panic, but he panicked then.
Maybe if I – if I just lay down –
He lay back and closed his eyes and tried to will his spirit back into his body – but it was no use.
He was dead.
It was a million times worse when Lucía woke up and realized he was gone.
Being dead was not exactly what he expected. Here he was, hours after the moment he'd realized he was no longer living, and so far – no bright lights, no trumpet sounds, no shadows or angels or booming, disembodied voices mentioning heaven or hell or purgatory.
But although that was obviously something to be concerned about, it wasn't at the forefront of his thoughts at the moment.
Lucía was.
He'd always loved the warm light in her soft brown eyes – the way the little golden flecks in them shone when the light caught them; the way her laugh lines made them crinkle at the edges now that she was in her late thirties. They'd always been so expressive and now –
Now they were empty.
He tried for what felt like hours to comfort her, to communicate that he was still there, that he could see her and hear her – but she could not see or hear or feel any of his attempts to communicate.
It was torture, hovering there around her as she shouted for Julieta, her voice breaking with panic. As she waited for the town healer, a single sob escaped and then she went numb. She seemed to swallow all of her panic down somewhere deep inside her, speaking calmly to her padre, who lived with them, to her sister Sofia, come to help from across town, and to their two, nearly-three-year-old daughter Josefina – and to Julieta Madrigal, solemn and sorrowful, trying in vain to see if there was any last thing she could do to save him, attempting to coax broth past his lips and down his throat.
When at last Julieta looked to Lucía with wide, sorry eyes and gave a slight shake of her head – Lucía shut herself into the bathroom and screamed into a towel.
Alejandro was adrift on a sea of grief and anger and confusion, no lifelines and no landmarks in sight to guide him.
Why couldn't he remember - ? He knew he'd been intent on collecting colors for his paints, and - distracted by all the beauty around him - he'd strayed off the path in the mountains and paid for it with his life. Somehow – some way – he had gotten seriously injured in the mountains – fallen? He'd ended up at home – had he stumbled home? Had he dragged himself through the vines and ferns and collapsed close to the village borders? Had someone found him and carried him home?
What project had been so important that he'd left his little family, traipsed through the mountains, and given his life for it?
Time lost all meaning as he strained and failed to remember. He meandered out of the bedroom he shared with his wife and down through their hallway, into and out of their daughter's room, numbly noting the murales of colorful butterflies and tropical birds he'd painted specially for her - into and out of his art studio, half-finished work still on the canvas – sketches and a smaller version of the murales of La Familia Madrigal he'd recently painted on the outer wall of Señora Díaz' shop in town.
Originally, the murales had featured the triplets in birth order – first Julieta, then Pepa, and finally Bruno. But as Julieta and Pepa had married and had children, and Bruno had not – the murales became off-center. Seven years ago, Alejandro had been hired to redo the murales and update the children, adding Camilo and Mirabel just before Camilo's birthday. That first time he'd adjusted the murales, the seer was still with them – still alive, or at least still within the borders of the Encanto. He'd sketched the entire family, including Bruno, and Alejandro had become – enthralled, for lack of a better word.
There was something in the man's face, something in his eyes that completely captivated his artist's soul – and it wasn't the green glow of a vision. His body language was reserved and projected insecurity and the desire to hide, but there was something in the set of his jaw that spoke of resigned defiance and something in his eyes that shouted sorrow. The man hadn't just seen things, he'd tasted and breathed and lived through them.
He sketched and sketched some more and even at home, he filled pages of his books with the man's eyes and face, determined to get his expression just right. When Lucía wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder, looking over his work, and asked him if he was going to come to bed that night – he'd tried to put to words what was weighing on his heart and mind.
"Luci – Luci – have you ever looked into his eyes? He's not – he is not hiding some malevolent misfortune, some evil intent to curse the village! Who loves a man who tells them things they don't want to hear? Who appreciates a man whose gift more often dashes hopes than fulfills them? Even – even his family – he is – he is a living, breathing, tragedy! A man who can see and is resigned to his fate! He is – burdened and yet – he presses forward; he -"
"Alejandro, mi amor – your heart is in the right place, but if you keep talking and drawing like that, people are going to start thinking 'looking into his eyes' will bewitch them. I know you mean well and I love you for it – but you're acting like a man possessed. All of these drawings are beautiful. You need rest, now, amor."
His first murales had gone very well. Everyone loved it. But – just a few months ago, Señora Madrigal approached him, requesting an update to the murales. She asked that he add Antonio and update the rest of the children, and hinted – with a steely gaze and a jaw locked with the tension of old wounds that had not yet healed - that he could move Bruno to a less prominent position if he deemed it necessary.
He had not deemed it necessary.
One might say he was personally affronted on the missing-presumed-dead man's behalf.
Even after his mysterious disappearance – and perhaps, because of it - Alejandro felt an even stronger affinity for him. Prophets were rare in this day and age, and what was that biblical adage? 'A prophet is only without honor in his own home'? Something like that. His father in law would know. In another world, Bruno Madrigal may have been deemed a saint for his gift. Maybe, sometime in the distant future, he would be. He just hoped the man wouldn't have to become a martyr first.
Though maybe he already had.
And so, just a few weeks ago, Alejandro Moreno painted Bruno Madrigal in between his sisters, front and center of the murales. When Alma Madrigal gave him that wide-eyed, cooly judgmental, pinch-lipped stare, he'd simply shrugged and explained that with Bruno in between his sister's families, the work was more balanced. If he'd subtly designed the colors and flow of the work to draw the eye back to Bruno, well – that was just a fortunate coincidence.
He'd preened about it, to Lucía. He let himself take pride in his work, of his statement. He'd thought - perhaps decades from now, when the town finally pulled its head out of its collective rear end, or when someone new came through the mountains and heard Bruno Madrigal's story – he'd be remembered, too.
Alejandro Moreno, the man who dared be the first to paint Saint Bruno Madrigal de la Encanto de Colombia. A man ahead of his time.
Who knew, now, what would become of his life's work?
Alejandro left his studio and drifted down the stairs into the small courtyard connecting the home to his father-in-law's print shop. The small, organized but cluttered building housed a printing press, paper and writing utensils and paints for sale on one side. The other half also had around fifteen shelves stocked with a collection of books that served as a makeshift library for the Encanto. A small table with two chairs was pressed against the wall. In the center was a single armchair with an old, worn rug in front of it, where his wife hosted story times for the village children a few times a week.
He would never again see Lucía look up and smile at him from over the treasury of stories he'd illustrated, printed and bound by her father.
He would never again scold Josefina for scrunching the pages in her attempt to skip half the story, just to get to the happy ending.
He would never again hold them in his arms, kiss their cheeks, rest his head on theirs.
He hovered there in shop, grief washing over him in waves.
He hovered, literally. His feet could touch the ground, but it was pointless. They wouldn't press into the ground to propel him forward, he just sort of – leaned in the direction he wanted to go, with his mind – soul – spirit – whatever he was - and he went. He could move through walls and he could probably sink into the ground if he wanted to, but the thought was entirely unappealing for some reason, so he kept comfortably a foot off the ground.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, grieving with his wife and child and for all he left behind, unable to cry but wishing it with all of his being, wandering through his earthly home. But then the undertaker came with the coffin to display his body in preparation for the funeral, and he stared numbly in growing horror and desperation at the body that used to house his spirit.
When he could take it no longer, when all his repeated efforts to do something, anything, had failed - he fled. He fled from the pain he'd caused his wife and daughter and the grief that he was witnessing in his familia and the anger and confusion and helplessness he felt in not being able to do anything useful at all.
He wandered through streets and into and out of homes, attempting to communicate with each person there, and having no success. He thought, perhaps, that he managed to startle a cat, once – it hissed in fear as he approached – but there was also a growling dog behind him that he hadn't noticed before, so – perhaps, not so much. People occasionally shivered as he passed, but even then – they brushed it off as wind or an air current and gave him no notice.
He was halfway through town when he remembered, once again, La Familia Madrigal. That family – that gifted familia – perhaps they could help him with his situation? No one had the gift of communicating with the dead, but perhaps – perhaps Dolores, with her gift of hearing – perhaps she could hear him?!
He flew as fast as he could toward the house to try to communicate with the eighteen year old.
Dolores Madrigal was – not well.
He stopped short outside her door, Julieta and Pepa Madrigal opening and closing it, entering and exiting, in and out – taking shifts to care for this grieving girl who – he realized – had heard Lucía's cries when she'd woken and realized she'd lost him.
He hovered there, watching the family, and he realized – they were all mourning. All of them – Dolores with her pillow pressed over her head to drown out the sounds of tears happening all the way across town, Pepa's cloud producing a steady rain, Félix's normally cheerful expression somber.
As he witnessed the hushed murmurs and hesitant movements of the family around the house - with mounting dread that left him wishing he could vomit, could somehow purge the feeling from his unearthly form – he finally pieced it all together.
He remembered how he had died.
It was the rainy season, there'd been a big storm just the other day, and somehow – somehow he'd gotten caught in a rockslide with all his slipping around the mountain.
He suddenly remembered that in detail – every painful, excruciating detail.
He just couldn't remember – why?
He'd been buried under rock and mud and soil and debris, a tiny air pocket around his head keeping him barely alive, and Dolores – Dolores, who was hiccupping and apologizing to her madre, over and over and over, as Pepa Madrigal stroked her curls and rained over them both –
"Lo siento Mama. If I'd – heard him – sooner – if I'd been able to – find him – sooner - "
"Shhhhh, bebé. Dolores, mi amor, querida – it is not your fault. It is not your fault - "
Dolores had listened for him. Dolores had heard him, the gasps of his ragged last breaths, his moans, his slowly faltering heart –
"It's not your fault!" He cried, and when the young girl sat, unhearing, her chin dropped to her chest in guilt and grief, he tried to take both of her shoulders and shake her. "It's not your fault! You can't – you cannot think that!"
She simply shivered, and Pepa drew a blanket more tightly around her daughter's shoulders.
"I'm sorry, bebé," Pepa whispered, and gave her a half-hearted, teary smile. "I'm making you cold with my rain. I should go."
"No!" Dolores cried, and leaned further into her mother's embrace. "Don't go, mamí," she whispered. "I need you. And I – I like the sound of your rain. And your heart."
The realization of what Dolores had been through sent Alejandro staggering, and as he flew haphazardly from room to room, that realization became more and more horrific as he pieced together exactly what had happened his last few days – not only to him, but to the Madrigal family.
Camilo blamed himself for making his madre storm the day before Alejandro left the village to search for supplies for his paints. Something the boy had done at school. Félix was doing his best to take care of a very young Antonio while insisting to all of them that the death of Alejandro Moreno was neither his wife's nor his son's nor his daughter's fault.
Luisa Madrigal blamed herself because it took her an hour to –
If Alejandro could cry, he would be sobbing.
It took Luisa an hour to dig him out of the rubble.
Of course others from the village helped, but the bulk of the rescue fell on the shoulders of the sixteen year old girl gifted with super strength.
Agustín was beside himself, flitting between Luisa and Julieta – Julieta, who also blamed herself because she couldn't help save him – he couldn't eat her food if he was unconscious. Just how long had he lain in his bed, Lucía and Julieta hovering over him, doing their best to wake him up so that he could eat some of Julieta's food and be saved?
Isabela sat with Luisa and rubbed her back; she fetched tea and honey-lemon drops and followed her abuela around the house, trying to sooth everyone, trying to be strong and comforting and yet – he saw the panic and fear on her face whenever she saw the defeated tears on her mother's face, whenever a hushed conversation was cut off as she turned a corner. Whenever she thought no one could see.
And he saw the way Isabela, attempting to hide her fear and sorrow and uncertainty, snapped at Mirabel. Mirabel was simply doing the same thing Isabela and her abuela were doing, just with a bit more energy and a bit less grace – but Isabela told the poor girl repeatedly to just stop and get out of the way.
He wasn't sure how long he hovered there, in the courtyard of Casita, as people moved around and through him, shivering slightly as they did so. People and voices and time seemed to shift and spin around him as he came to terms with the blow he'd dealt not only his familia, but la familia Madrigal, in the process of dying.
Why? Why did he die? He'd just done something right. He'd finished a murales – arguably the best of his life's work thus far - and stood up for the memory of a man whose reputation was tarnished long before he disappeared. He had a wife and a daughter who loved him, who he loved. He had been young and healthy. So why?
He lost himself to his silent anger and bitter questions, and the earth rotated beneath him.
Slowly –
Slowly, sometime later - he became aware of his surroundings again. Dolores could not hear him, but - Casita – the living house - did seem to sense his presence. It kept surreptitiously waving shutters and tiles at him, as if trying to shoo a pest. Mirabel noticed. Mirabel was the only one who noticed Casita's odd behavior, but she still couldn't see him, and when she asked Casita what was wrong, Casita stopped.
He wished he could cry. He felt his emotions welling up within him, but he couldn't do anything about it. No body, no tears – no deep shuddering sighs or punching the walls or stomping the ground or throwing up. Being unable to purge his emotions in those familiar ways nearly drove him mad. He could talk, sort of – he spoke and he could hear himself, though no one else seemed to be able to, except the house. He could see himself, he supposed – not in a mirror, but he could see his hands and feet and in death they looked – to him, at least – the way they had looked in life, if just a shadow of them. Medium height, medium complexion, dark hair and hazel eyes, if they were the same color now. Everything about him, in death as it had been in life - average and medium. He hovered dejectedly on the balcony of Casita, and time passed around him once again.
Later that evening – one evening – he had no way of knowing if it was the same day or a week later – time passed differently in death than it had in life - something caught his attention.
Rats, creeping along the sides of Casita's halls, sneaking out from a portrait on the wall.
Curious – finally feeling something besides grief and anger - Alejandro followed. The rats collected food from the kitchen, and then – disappeared back into the hole. He pressed himself through the wall, following them. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.
They led him to a maze, cracks and splintered wood within the skeleton of Casita – a skeleton that was shockingly broken.
And there, the heart of the house, sheltered in a ribcage so damaged it was struggling to avoid impaling itself on its own brokenness –
A room.
And a man.
Alejandro gasped. Or he would have, if he could breathe.
Santo Mierda. Santa Maria, madre de Dios –
Bruno Madrigal was alive and living in the walls.
A/N: A rana kokoi is a poison dart frog.
Story title is referring to the Wandavision quote "Grief is just love, persevering." Titles for chapters will be lyrics from the fabulous sad spooky song "Dead Hearts" by Stars.
Thoughts? Any feedback is appreciated. This will be 9 or 10 chapters in total, and will be finished by the end of October.
Thank you for your time!