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The route of fear: castles, cemeteries and aliens

25 mayo, 2021

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I reiterate my respect for those people who believe; Up to now I don’t think so, I’m a convinced skeptic who amuses himself looking for ghosts. I always insist that the day I see something strong enough to make me doubt, then I’ll stay at home And I’ll forget about these flirtations with mystery The truth is that, to be honest, I have already seen and heard some strange things that are difficult to explain. In the La Engaña tunnel, between Burgos and Cantabria, a face appeared in a photograph of someone who was not there and a sycophony recorded on a video in room 510 of a hotel in Zaragoza, in which a female metallic voice invited me to leave the only place where I have been truly afraid.

If we asked a child, and even an adult, where to look for ghosts, the vast majority would say that in an old castle and the rest would probably answer that in a cemetery. Well that is precisely what I hope to find myself in the 13th century castle where I will spend the first night of this new route of fear, I hope it is without excessive shocks. A unique experience, walking in the dark and alone all its rooms, stairs and corridors, will be fun.

It has not been easy to get permission. Imagine the face of someone who listened to my crazy arguments and had to be persuaded to grant me authorization.

The castle

I arrive late at night in heavy rain to the Torrelobatón castle, province of Valladolid. On my black steed I advance through its deserted streets. A weak light tries to illuminate, without succeeding completely, the keep of 40 m.

The lighthouse of the Rieju It scares an unsuspecting couple who, inside their car, I suppose, are talking about the Government. Not? At the same time that the couple flees the place my housekeeper arrives. He offers me to turn on the interior lights of the fortress, I refuse, the light of my flashlight will offer me more emotion.

I am left alone and without wasting time I begin to walk through narrow corridors, endless stairs, high towers and spacious rooms of my castle.

I do not expect to meet ghosts or spirits from beyond, I look for different sensations and strong experiences, to test my nerves. But as the minutes pass, far from feeling nervous or restless, what my senses perceive is the sensation of tranquility. I just enjoy.

I climb the endless staircase that leads to the top of the main tower, on that path you have to go through two rooms in which the lantern brings out from the darkness several figures that rest in paintings and canvases, such as the face of Juan Martín Díez, el Empecinado . An illustrious Vallisoletano who fought bravely against invading French troops during the War of Independence at the beginning of the 19th century. I ascend to the top of the tower. With every step I take, a dove takes flight next to me, literally brushing against me. For a few minutes I contemplate, like a king, the illuminated streets and squares of Torrelobatón.

The dawn advances. Going down the narrow stairs, a battering black as coal, frightened by the light of the flashlight, in its flight, almost hit my face. Although the encounter was short-lived, I could see his face. Was it a vampire? I didn’t have time to ask him, he fled upstairs more scared than I was. There are no more vampires like the old ones.

Lord of the castle

On a landing in front of the dark stairs of the tower, I spread the insulation and the bag on the hard floor. It is time to try to sleep while I wait for something or someone to appear before me.

Two hours later I have only been able to nap several times. I’m still alive, the experience is brutal, many sensations, unknown noises of all kinds, dogs that howl like wolves, birds that scream as if they were slaughtered, shadows, creaks… The falling drops make a sound similar to the footsteps of beings that do not exist. But my eyes are closed so as not to open until the first light of day. Fortunately I have not witnessed anything that is not normal in the most here.

Galita, my motorcycle, waits outside oblivious to everything that I have been able to feel inside the medieval castle. With a slight hint on the button he starts his small but strong engine. We set off for our second funk night.

Copying the route that the river Duero describes in its slow but constant advance, I travel kilometers that for the most part pass through a landscape adorned with green vineyards. I leave the N-122 shortly after passing the detour to Calatañazor, I turn left towards Vinuesa, but first I cross Beeing Y Duero windmills. The destination is the abandoned cemetery of La Muedra. A track that borders the shore of the Cuerda del Pozo reservoir, embedded between thousands of wild pines, takes us to where the town of La Muedra, until in 1941 the waters of the reservoir drowned the history of this little town. 90 families were forced to leave their homes. Stories are told that inevitably begin in places that suffer a tragic circumstance for its inhabitants like this one. People from La Muedra who died of grief for losing their lives, their homes, their roots. Of La Muedra, only the church tower remains, which sometimes looms over the waters, resenting being drowned in oblivion, and the cemetery, which a few hundred meters up the slope, succumbs to the passage of time. Around here they call him the cemetery without a town.

The cemetery

The walls, gates, various crosses, pieces of tombstones and a kind of pantheon with a disturbing stone cross on top next to a bare tree, recreate a setting worthy of any horror movie.

Gray, sad, forgotten, decadent, gothic, left of the hand of God and still beautiful. It doesn’t take long for night to fall, before I spend some time walking along the bank of the reservoir in search of the emerging church tower. I find it, I sit on a large rock, while little by little the tower disappears from my sight at the same time that day takes over from night. The darkness takes possession of what belongs to it for a few hours.

With the night, the cemetery acquires an atmosphere and appearance more mysterious if possible. With darkness, the senses are heightened, everything we perceive is multiplied, exaggerated in our brain causing what we call fear, but fear of what? To the dead? It’s ridiculous; the dead are dead.

Every few minutes, sometimes seconds, I hear movements of branches that click, I see eyes that shine by aiming the flashlight at the source of the noise. I cannot relax, I look for a more protected location within the cemetery to throw away the sleeping bag, I amuse myself reading what is legible on the crosses and tombstones. I decide to lie down on the grass at the entrance, inside the lush undergrowth has left no space to sleep comfortably. I try to sleep, but only get brief dreams. There is no way, it is not out of fear, the continuous noises of what I want to think of as gossipy animals, won’t let me sleep. I take it easy, trusting that the dream will win this particular battle.

At four in the morning I give up, the curious neighbors have been able to me, tomorrow I have several hundred kilometers ahead and I cannot be without sleep. I set up the makeshift camp to find a quiet place. In a meadow near Vinuesa, among camper vans, I finally get to rest for a few hours.

The hermitage

Today’s destination is a small town in Teruel located in the Gúdar-Javalambre region. The N-234 will serve me on the way almost to Rubielos. I do not look for spectacular mystery stories or the best known, I like curious and simple legends too, the only condition that I put on when I search in books and the Internet is to find stories of people who have had and told a terrifying experience, an experience pacagalse. In the Puebla de Valverde I abandon the N-234, there is little left, about 25 km to reach Rubielos de Mora. There there is a hermitage built in honor of Santa Ana –which dates from the year 1659–. The testimonies of people who have spent the night here have noticed, felt, seen presences, non-existent hands that have touched them. Some say they have felt sick and the most curious thing is that they all agree that someone pulled their hair. When I read it I broke my asshole imagining the face of the spirit trying to pull my lush hair …

Sitting under the porch I wait for something that I don’t want to see at all.

Peeeeeeroooooo, it arrived, yes, it arrived and wrapped in strange and powerful lights. And they were not aliens but my friend Jaime (from now on the Toloco ghost), who, knowing for days that he was going to fall near his parents’ town, has appeared without warning. The temperature has dropped precipitously and the humidity gets into the bones. We get into the sacks, lying next to the side wall. The shadows are no longer friends sounds become haunting noises, the corner of the eye plays tricks, the imagination does not obey, the wind moans, the leaves of the trees whisper words, the drops that fall from the roof simulate footsteps. In the end I manage to fall asleep.

I receive the morning light with joy and a lot of sleep at the same time. It seems that we have survived the hair pulling of the local spirits. After a good breakfast I say goodbye to Jaime crazy and I direct my tired bones towards Tivissa, in Tarragona, where I will meet my good friend Grau.

Alien destiny

On Tivissa, on August 16, a man, Juan, working in his garden, he saw a very bright light; it was a semicircular object, suspended one meter above the ground. Then the strange object some beings that looked like octopuses came out but had only four arms of light tones. When they were surprised by Juan, these strange beings ran back towards the artifact and left the area. Juan came back very nervous and told his wife and she told her brother.

The next day at the scene of the incident there were two black circles on the ground and traces of burned grass. And when he came back from seeing the burnt spots, his watch had stopped.

In the 80s and 90s, Tivissa became a destination for curious and ufological researchers. Here, practically all the villagers have experiences to tell, including appearances of the curve girl on a stretch of road near Tivissa or stories from the mysterious abandoned town of Fatxes, where they say a massacre occurred.

I have a hard time believing any of this and I head for the road that goes up from L’Hospitalet de L´Infant

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