Citlali never asked to be a nahual—never sought to carry the ancient gift that bridges the world of the living and the dead. But when she finds a skull-shaped key that pulses with whispers and hunger, her life is forever changed. The panteón is no longer a quiet resting place, but a maze of shifting shadows, forgotten spirits, and terrible truths buried beneath the earth.

Each night, the whispers grow louder. Each encounter more terrifying: a woman draped in a thousand veils, a boy born from a mass grave, and a monstrous entity clawing its way out of the deepest cracks of the world.

There is a door that should never be opened.
A truth that should never be seen.
And a choice no one should ever be forced to make.

But Citlali is no longer just a girl who walks among the graves.
She is the key.
She is the crack.
She is the whisper beneath the grave.

That night, the cemetery felt tighter. Like the walls had moved in closer, or the sky had sunk lower. I felt it as soon as I stepped past the gate—like the air was watching me.


I followed the gravel path with a candle in hand, checking the tombs like always. But something was wrong. The flowers on Doña Mariela's grave had withered overnight. The cross on the Niño de los Milagros had been turned upside down. And the ground near the oldest tree… it was cracked.


This was thinner, narrower. A warning vein crawling from the base of the tree.


Hanging from the branches, silent and swaying.


Three shadows. No ropes. No wind. Just… hanging.


Their heads were bowed, hair covering their faces. Their arms dangled. And their feet didn't touch the ground.


Just the head, turning slowly toward me. Hair parting just enough to reveal a face.


No, not a face. A mask of wax. Melted. Soft. Still dripping.


The other two began to turn too, each revealing the same strange wax face, mouths agape, eyes burned shut.


Not in words, but in a crackling moan that came from inside the bark. Like breath trapped inside wood.


"They hanged themselves when the Grieta first opened," a voice said behind me.


It was the gravekeeper. But not the one I knew.


His mouth was sewn shut with black thread. His eyes bulged. His uniform was wet, dripping with soil and wax.


"They saw the truth. Now they swing between this world and the other."


The wind picked up, but only around the tree. The shadows began to twist. Their heads turned too far. Their necks bent. And one of them reached out—


Past the cracked graves, past the crooked crosses, past the whispering tree.


And I didn't look back until I was past the gate.


Chapter 14 - The Hanged Ones