Hi all, this is an old letter that I found in my grandfather’s attic in Spain. I am not sure if it once belonged to him or another relative. I come from a family of architects so it’s hard to know. But I read the letter and it both fascinated and scared me. Here is a translated version from Spanish to English that I want to share with you and see what you think:
Greetings old friend, I hope this letter finds you well and in good health. Forgive me if I forgo further pleasantries as I fear that I haven’t much time. I alluded in my previous letter to the unfortunate passing of one of my former students, Miguel de Moreno. As you heard, he left us mere weeks ago due to “complications of a weak heart.” Lies. The newspapers fail to mention the mysterious circumstances leading up to the young man’s tragic passing, and the oddness of the case that made local law dismiss it. I am writing you to document the strange events. See it as my last confession if you will, and please, read my story without judgment.
Regarded as one of the most artistically challenging buildings ever built, the Sagrada Familia is an unfinished masterpiece. Our young Miguel Antonio Maria Rubio de Moreno grew up walking past the church every day to school. He would often stop and observe how the skeletal shape slowly and steadily grew and took form over the years. During these calm moments, a seed was planted and soon grew into a grand dream. After graduating in 1919, I highly recommended the young sculptor to my acquaintance and colleague, the architect Antoni Gaudí. Miguel’s dream could finally blossom into reality. As you are aware, Gaudí took over as head architect in 1883 when Francisco de Paula del Villar retired from the monumental task of overseeing the progress of the church. Miguel of course was thrilled, to put it mildly, to be part of this historic event. To live out his childhood dream! Gaudí wasted no time and immediately set Miguel to sculpt several gargoyles since he was impressed with the young man’s artistic abilities. And it’s here my tale will give you a horrific and unimaginable insight into de Moreno’s tragic fate.
You see, in early May of 1922, I was traveling to Barcelona for a lecture on classical gothic sculptures in architectural design. Gaudí, upon hearing about my visit, invited me to the Sagrada Familia on a private tour. I took this opportunity to visit my old student, de Moreno, as I was curious about his progress with the gargoyles. He always had a light touch with the tools and could form stone like few others. As I arrived at the young man’s workshop, it took me several tries knocking on the door before I got an answer. At first, I thought he might be out, running errands or taking a day off. As I was about to give up and take my leave, I heard the door unlock and crack open ever so slightly. What met my curious gaze still gives me cold shivers.
I took several steps back as a pale, unshaven, and ragged face peeked out from behind the door. The creature was hunched, with unkempt hair and dark circles marking the deep sunken eyes. My first thought was that I had made an error and knocked on the wrong door, calling to attention an opium addict from his dark den instead of the brilliant young mind I once knew. Alas no, even in this wretched state I could recognize the once handsome young man. “My dear hijo” I exclaimed, saddened and distraught. “What on earth happened to you? Have you been ill?” “No señor.” He slowly shook his head, averting his tired eyes. “Where’re your manners then?” I asked, forgetting my own. “Let your old mentor in!” I practically had to shoulder my way past him, as he reluctantly opened the door. I was aghast. The workshop was in disarray, tools and dirt covered every nook and cranny together with plates of forgotten meals and dirty clothes. I covered my nose with a handkerchief against the putrid smell as I looked around. The windows were covered in heavy sheets, darkening the room. Miguel crept along with the shadows as I took in the chaotic scene. As I turned around, I noticed for the first time his bandaged hands, no longer hidden behind the wooden door. Had he hurt himself by accident? I felt a stern expression settle on my face as my voice took on the all too familiar tone of a disappointed teacher. I had vouched for this young man and his talent. “Is it the drink, hijo? I assume the work is going poorly, judging by the…” but here Miguel did something he never dared as a student, he interrupted me! “No, no señor, my sculptures are glowing!” He smiled with a mouth full of brittle yellowed teeth. “They’re glowing!”
He moved around the room with a vigorous speed I thought impossible with his thin frail frame. He pulled at several tarps to reveal a sight that left me breathless. Indeed the sculptures were glowing! I can not explain it any other way. In this darkened, damp and dirty room the gargoyles stood out as breathtaking works of pure talent, not fit for a basilica but rather a museum! I tell you, old friend, they were true pieces of art, each and every one masterfully sculpted and in various states of unfinished grandeur. “Miguel…” I stuttered, with tears in my eyes “these are magnificent!” I found myself gawking like an uneducated fool as Miguel went around the room, picking up tools while shedding his previous uncertain and suspicious manner. His eyes were full of life and he unraveled his bandaged hands while lecturing me on his workmanship. “You always told me that all blocks have statues caught within them, whispering to be free” he echoed one of my many lessons, “that you just have to listen for their guidance.” I nodded, stunned as I walked among the beautifully grotesque creatures. “And I did, señor, I listened.” “That’s great, mi hijo, wonderful!” I half-whispered, admiration growing. “Si, but that’s not enough. They don’t just whisper, they keep a hidden light within. That’s why I work in the dark, so I can see their glow.” I must admit that I no longer paid him much attention at this point, as I let my fingers trace the formidably carved details. I was at a loss for words. I knew Miguel de Moreno was gifted, but this exceeded my wildest expectations.
Time faded as I marveled at my former student’s creations. He captured a sense of eldritch mystery and raw primordial savagery. The abnormal proportions, the naked fury in the sneering grimacing faces. The feeling of being observed as I studied the sculptures slowly descended upon me. The closer I looked, the more indescribable the unliving beasts came to be. I started to feel trapped as if these cold stone creatures menacingly surrounded me like unmoving predators on a hunt. For a moment I was convinced that I heard the sound of stone claws tapping on the wooden floor, encircling me. I started sweating as the room felt hot and cramped. Everywhere I looked there was another gargoyle, staring at me with lifeless eyes. I could have sworn they moved around when I was not paying attention. I tried to get a sense of how many of these things Miguel had made, but in the dark, they felt countless. I swore they had not been as numerous moments ago. The tapping got louder, harsher. I am ashamed to admit it, feeling like a silly old man, but panic rose within me, like bile in my throat. I could no longer move without bumping into yet another monstrosity. I felt like I was stuck in a waking nightmare.
“Ay dios mío, Miguel mi hijo, where are you?” I shouted. I swear on my beloved Madre’s grave, that the statues must have moved behind me on their own accord, creeping closer. I finally found a narrow opening from this bestial garden and lept for it. I managed only a few steps before I froze in my tracks. There he stood, our Miguel Antonio Maria Rubio de Moreno, balancing upon a rickety stepladder, working on a huge block of granite. I saw with my own eyes how he chipped away piece by piece. it was not as if he was sculpting but rather freeing this monstrous being trapped within, birthing an unholy beast from the darkest abyss into our world. In the darkness, I could have sworn both he and the emerging gargoyle were glowing. I noticed his hands. He held his tools with thin gnarled fingers, clenching them desperately as blood trickled from his palms. It flowed over his tools and into the stone without staining. The blood was absorbed right into the very devil he was freeing! Miguel’s eyes shone with madness, lost in his work. I no longer existed, all he could see was the glow, whispering to him from the stone, silently echoing through the room in a tongue never intended to be uttered by man. I rushed forward and tried to awaken him of this demented insanity, this fever dream of malevolent creation.
“Miguel!” I shouted “Stop! Your hands, look at your poor hands!” But he only shrugged my words away. I tried to pull him down from the ladder, begging him to end this insanity. His answer was to growl at me with unseeing eyes while taking a swipe with his hammer. I still got a mark on my forehead where the instrument struck me. Without looking away from his grueling design, he uttered only a single guttural whisper, as the cold dead eyes of the newborn gargoyle gazed at me.
“La sangre libera a los encarcelados.”
I found myself racing down the streets of Barcelona, humid night air filling my burning lungs. I ran past the Sagrada Familia, this unfinished monument of madness, hubris of mankind. I have no recollection of how I left de Moreno’s workshop or how long I dwelled therein before my panicked escape. I entered my hotel room before sunrise and swallowed a mouthful of liquor to calm my nerves. What had I born witness to that night? Was I going mad? At that moment I was convinced that the gargoyles, these grotesque water channeling symbols of fear, were well and truly alive. Had I barely escaped with my life? Did they truly wish me harm or was I only the victim of alien curiosity? Today I try to laugh it off as the hallucinations of the dark. That my own weary mind played tricks on me in a futile attempt to try and comprehend the savage decline of an admired student and promising artist. I explain away and rationale my fearsome experience in a dozen-odd way. But nonetheless, I am afraid. I left Barcelona without a wink of sleep that night and boarded the first train home to Madrid. All thoughts of Miguel, Gaudí, and the Sagrada Familia pushed away and buried.
I forced myself to never think of that night again, less tell anyone about it. However, when the news of poor Miguel’s demise reached me, I could no longer ignore the frightful memories. The terror I witnessed that night, as Miguel bled life into his fearsome creations, these hungry imprisoned devils of hell. Please do not dismiss my retelling as the demented ramblings of a madman. When Miguel was found, the hijo was bled dry, not a drop left in his veins. And still, there were no traces of blood in the workshop. All but a few rough blocks of stone were gone, his gargoyles nowhere to be found. He did not just bleed for his art, the glow sickled at his life force until there was nothing left. Now I fear for my own life, as every night I hear the increasing yet silent tapping of stone claws and at times a pale glow shines outside my window. I know what they want, for I can hear their faint whispers in the night wind.
La sangre libera a los encarcelados…
The blood frees the imprisoned.
November 7th, 1922