Chronicles of a Small Town Called Teror 1

On that day, instead of presenting itself as a gloomy and melancholic canvas, it rose as a splendid and clear day. Caressed by the golden sunlight, though cool thanks to the proximity of evening and the gentleness of the trade winds. In appearance, it was just another day, a routine day where I sought to satisfy my insatiable curiosity until destiny, with its invisible algorithms, led me to the doors of a small Canarian village called Teror. The choice of such a suggestive name, almost premonitory, openly hinted at the darkness that undoubtedly awaited behind its threshold.

The journey that led me to this remote place was a series of disturbing coincidences, as if destiny persistently tried to intertwine isolated events into a sort of self-fulfilling prophecies. The wind, with whom I had maintained amusing dialogues since the onset of my puberty, whispered unsettling tales in my ears, rumors that Teror was more than just a geographical name, that its cobbled streets and ancient buildings hid dark and peculiar secrets.

Upon crossing that threshold, I could feel the piercing gaze of the few locals who wandered the streets with their slow, almost hypnotic gait, possibly emulating the living dead in their solitary march through moss-covered streets. The brief and off-key tolling of bells that rang in the vicinity, mournful like a cry from beyond, was the echo that accompanied my arrival in this corner buried in the embrace of time. Shaking me from the lethargy I had been immersed in since my first impression at the threshold, that sound resonated like a call from the unknown, accompanying me step by step in such precise synchrony that it seemed to reflect a spiritual connection between my soul and the mysteries that this village surely guarded jealously.

The houses, weathered stone and roofs that seemed to touch the sky, stood like ancient tombs. The chilly breath of dusk and the faint illumination of the street lamps that began to light up cast elongated and grotesque shadows, yet still incomplete, appearing like dancing specters refusing to leave the stage.
Teror, with its prophetic name, loomed like a trap in which my curiosity was ensnared. What secrets lay beneath its peaceful appearance? What mysteries awaited me in the dark alleys and cold structures that defied time? My arrival in this forgotten village was not a mere whim; it was the beginning of a literary nightmare in which, like a puppet in the hands of a sinister author, I was destined to uncover the most unsettling truths hidden in the shadows of Teror and write them for you.