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laurafaritos · 16 days ago

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The Beast of Sapucaí-Mirim: A Short Gothic Tale of Family, Fear, and Inescapable Curses

So, I wrote this story, and oh boy—it’s a blend of folklore, family drama, and creepy, cursed vibes. Picture this: Isabella, a woman burnt out by her chaotic life in Toronto (any similarities to my life are pure coincidence!!!!!!!!!). Anyway, she moves to her late father’s hometown in the mountains of Brazil, hoping for a fresh start. Instead, she stumbles upon a terrifying family secret: a werewolf curse tied to her bloodline. Yep. Things go downhill fast.

It’s got generational trauma, haunting folklore, and a touch of gothic horror. Think Hereditary meets Mexican Gothic, with a side of “Am I cursed, or is it just a bad day?” vibes. Writing this made me think about how we inherit not just family traditions, but also silence, stigma, and the cycles we’re too scared to break.

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to face a curse you never asked for—or you just love spooky tales about the moonlit woods—this one’s for you.

Click below to read The Beast of Sapucaí-Mirim written by yours truly!!! Also, do let me know: how do you fight what’s inside you when the world won’t give you a way out???

"The Beast of Sapucai-Mirim" Short Fiction by Laura Faritos

The bus wheezes to a stop like it’s just given up on life.

I can’t blame it.

This town looks like the kind of place where dreams come to die—or maybe where people go when they’re trying to hide from something worse.

The driver throws me a look that screams “last chance to stay on this side of sanity”, but I step off anyway, dragging my suitcase behind me. The air is cold and damp, the kind that gets into your bones, and everything is quiet. Too quiet. Like the whole place is holding its breath.

“Isabella!”

My dad’s voice slices through the stillness, startling me. He’s leaning against his ancient truck, waving like a man auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. I plaster on a smile and wave back, trying not to trip over the cobblestones as I walk toward him.

“Good to see you, kiddo!”

He pulls me into a bear hug that smells like sawdust and too much cologne.

“Fresh mountain air—nothing like it, huh?”

“Yeah, nothing like it,” I mumble, glancing around.

The town looks like it hit pause thirty years ago—weathered houses, peeling paint, streets allergic to traffic. Even the stray dogs seem to have skipped town.

We climb into his truck, and he’s already talking a mile a minute about how good it is to have me here, how nice it’ll be to catch up, how there’s a spare key for the guest room in case I “feel like sneaking in late.” I nod along, tuning him out as the truck groans its way up the winding road.

“You, uh—you came at a… strange time,” he says suddenly, his tone a little too casual.

I glance at him. “What do you mean?”

His hands tighten on the wheel, the knuckles going white.

“Just… don’t go out after dark, okay?”

I snort.

“Very comforting. What is it, vampires? Werewolves? Evil geese?”

“Isabella.”

His voice sharpens, all joking gone.

“I mean it. Stay inside.”

The house smells exactly like I remember: sawdust, old coffee, and a faint hint of whatever cleaning product Dad’s been pretending to use. The guest room hasn’t changed, either—tiny, claustrophobic, with wood paneling that’s just shy of suffocating. My suitcase barely fits in the corner, and the bed creaks like it’s auditioning for a horror soundtrack.

Dad gives me a quick tour like I haven’t stayed here a hundred times before.

“Bathroom’s down the hall.

Fridge is stocked.

Oh, and don’t mind the claw marks on the windowsill.”

I blink.

“Excuse me, the what now?”

He waves it off.

“Old house.

Old problems.

Probably just animals or something.”

“Animals.” I deadpan, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “That’s comforting.”

“It’s fine,” he says, already halfway out the door. “Night, kiddo.”

He’s gone before I can argue, leaving me alone with my overactive imagination and a windowsill that looks like it’s been mauled by a very angry bear.

Great.

Totally normal.

Nothing weird at all.

I flop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The air feels heavier here, like the house itself is holding its breath. Outside, the trees sway in the wind, their branches casting long, jagged shadows against the walls. I tell myself it’s just a trick of the light, but the unease settles deep in my chest.

It’s fine.

I’ll just sleep with one eye open.

🖤

The first howl comes at 3 a.m.

Low, guttural, and impossibly loud, it rips through the silence like a knife, jerking me upright so fast I nearly roll off the bed. My heart slams against my ribs, and for a second, I think I’m dreaming. But then it comes again, long and mournful, echoing through the valley.

I scramble out of bed and rush to the window. The yard is empty, the moonlight casting an eerie glow over the trees. But something’s out there—I can feel it. The air is thick with tension, the kind that prickles at the back of your neck.

And that’s when I see them.

Claw marks.

Deep, jagged scratches gouged into the wood of the windowsill.

Fresh and glinting in the moonlight.

My stomach twists.

I back away slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears.

The howl comes again, closer this time, and I swear I hear something moving in the trees—a heavy, deliberate rustling that sends a chill down my spine.

It’s fine.

It’s totally fine.

Right?

I grab a chair and wedge it under the doorknob, because apparently, my survival instincts are stuck in Scooby-Doo mode. Then I climb back into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin like that’s going to protect me from whatever nightmare is out there.

I don’t sleep.

Not really.

I just lie there.

Staring at the ceiling.

Waiting for the sun to come up.

By morning, I’m operating on exactly two hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of caffeine. The kitchen smells like burned toast and instant coffee, and Dad is whistling some country tune as he flips pancakes like it’s the best day of his life.

“Morning,” he says.

Way too cheerful for someone who lives in what I’m now calling Murder Valley.

“Morning,” I reply, squinting at him through my mug like I’m interrogating a suspect.

“So, about those claw marks.”

Dad freezes mid-whistle, the spatula hovering in the air like it’s considering its life choices. “Claw marks? What claw marks? I don’t know what you’re—”

I set the mug down with a deliberate clink.

“The ones on the guest room window.

And the ones on the porch.

And the ones on the side of your truck.

Should I keep going?”

He turns back to the stove, his shoulders stiff.

“It’s nothing.

Just some animal.

Happens all the time out here.”

“Sure,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Nothing screams ‘just an animal’ like claw marks that look like they came from a dinosaur.”

“Isabella—”

“Don’t you dare ‘Isabella’ me,” I snap.

“You told me not to go out after dark.

Now you’re dodging questions like I’m an insurance salesman.

What the fuck is going on?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face like he’s aged five years in the last thirty seconds.

“Look, it’s complicated.”

“Great, I love complicated. Lay it on me.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he says, his tone final.

“Just… stick to the house, okay?”

I glare at him, but he doesn’t budge.

It’s like trying to argue with a brick wall.

A very stubborn, pancake-flipping brick wall.

“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing my jacket.

“I’m going into town. Don’t wait up.”

The walk into town is eerily quiet. The usual chatter of neighbors and barking dogs is gone, replaced by an oppressive silence that feels like it’s following me. Even the trees seem too still, their branches barely swaying in the breeze.

The bakery is my first stop because carbs are my emotional support system. The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, and the smell of fresh bread almost makes me forget about the existential dread clawing at my brain.

Almost.

The bakery owner, Dona Célia, looks up from the counter, her face lighting up in recognition.

“Isabella! It’s been so long!”

“Hi, Dona Célia,” I say, forcing a smile.

“How’s business?”

She waves a hand dismissively.

“Quiet. Too quiet. But you know how it is.”

I don’t, actually, but I nod like I do.

“I’ll take two pão de queijo and a coffee, please.”

As she bags my order, her gaze flickers to the window, and her cheerful demeanor falters.

“You shouldn’t be out today.”

The words hit like a bucket of cold water.

“Why not?”

“It’s the full moon,” she says, lowering her voice like she’s sharing state secrets.

“Bad things happen on full moons.”

I laugh nervously, trying to shake off the chill crawling up my spine.

“What kind of bad things?”

Her eyes dart around the room, like she’s making sure we’re alone.

“Just… be careful, Isabella. Stay inside after dark.”

My stomach twists.

“You sound like my dad.”

“He’s a smart man.”

She hands me the bag.

“Listen to him.”

I leave the bakery feeling more unsettled than ever.

The streets are nearly empty, the few people I pass avoiding eye contact like I’m contagious.

It’s like the entire town is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Something tells me I’m not going to like what that is.

🖤

The sunlight streaming through the window feels like a lie.

It’s too bright.

Too cheerful.

Like the universe is trying to gaslight me into believing last night didn’t happen.

But the claw marks are still there, carved into the windowsill like a bad omen.

Downstairs, Dad is already in the kitchen, humming to himself as he flips pancakes. I stare at him, wondering how he can act like everything is normal when it very clearly isn’t.

“Morning, kiddo!”

He’s far too chipper for someone who lives in a house with claw marks and midnight howling.

“Morning,”

I slowly slid into a chair.

“So, uh, about those claw marks…”

He freezes for a fraction of a second, the spatula hovering in midair.

Then he shrugs, flipping a pancake like we’re discussing a leaky faucet.

“Told you, probably animals.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Right. Because animals are known for their love of window etching and midnight serenades.”

“Isabella.”

His tone sharpens, and it’s like a bucket of cold water over my head.

He turns to face me, his expression unreadable.

“Drop it, okay? It’s nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t howl at three in the morning,” I shoot back.

“And nothing definitely doesn’t leave claw marks like that.”

For a moment, he just stares at me.

The tension stretching so thin I can feel it vibrating in the air.

Then he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Just… don’t go out at night. Promise me.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops me cold.

It’s not anger—it’s fear. Real, bone-deep fear that makes my stomach twist.

“Fine,” I mutter, stabbing at the pancake he sets in front of me.

“But you owe me an explanation.”

“Maybe someday,” he says, turning back to the stove.

But his voice is so quiet, I’m not sure he means it.

The town is just as unsettling in the daylight.

I walk through the cobblestone streets, trying to shake the unease that’s been clinging to me since I woke up. But it’s hard to ignore the way people look at me—or, more accurately, the way they don’t. They keep their heads down, their movements hurried, like they’re afraid to linger too long in the open.

At the bakery, the owner barely glances at me as she hands over my change.

“You shouldn’t be out today,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Why not?” I ask, forcing a laugh.

“Is there a town curfew I didn’t know about?”

She glances out the window, her eyes darting to the mountains in the distance. “It’s the full moon,” she says, as if that explains everything.

Before I can press her for details, she retreats to the back of the shop, leaving me standing there with a paper bag full of pastries and more questions than answers.

By the time I get back to the house, my nerves are frayed.

The claw marks, the howling, the way everyone in this town seems to be collectively tiptoeing around some unspoken secret—it’s too much.

I dump the pastries on the counter and march into Dad’s study.

The room smells like old books and coffee, the desk cluttered with papers and half-finished crossword puzzles. It’s the one place in the house that feels untouched by the weirdness outside, but even that doesn’t last.

Because in the bottom drawer of his desk, I find the journals.

They’re old, their covers worn and edges frayed.

As I flip through the pages, my pulse quickens.

Most of the entries are mundane—weather reports, notes about repairs.

But then I find it:

“Full moon.

Howling started again.

Found claw marks near the chicken coop.

Juquinha swears he saw something by the river last night.

Something with glowing eyes.

I told him to keep quiet.”

The words blur as my stomach twists.

I keep flipping, finding more entries.

More mentions of howling, claw marks, and something lurking in the woods.

And then, tucked between the pages, I find the photograph.

It’s old, black-and-white, the edges yellowed with age.

A group of men stand in a clearing, rifles slung over their shoulders. At their feet lies something massive and lifeless, its body covered in fur, its limbs twisted in ways that don’t seem natural.

The back of the photo is labeled in shaky handwriting: “Sapucaí-Mirim, 1983.”

“Isabella.”

Dad’s voice startles me so badly, I nearly drop the journal.

He’s standing in the doorway, his face pale and drawn.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice low and sharp.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say, holding up the journal.

“What the hell is this, Dad? Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

He steps into the room, closing the door behind him.

For a long moment, he just looks at me, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he sighs and sits down on the edge of the desk.

“There are things about this family,” he says quietly, “that I hoped you’d never have to know.”

“Know what?” I demand, holding up the photo.

“That you’re living in the Brazilian Transylvania?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his graying hair.

“There are things about this town—about this family—that I’ve tried to protect you from.”

“Yeah, great job with that,” I snap, shaking the photo at him.

“What the hell is this? And what’s out there, scratching at the windows?”

He looks at the photo, his expression darkening.

“The curse.”

The word hangs in the air like a bad smell.

I blink, waiting for the punchline.

“The curse? What are we, in a telenovela?”

“It’s real, Isabella,” he says, his voice low.

“It’s been in our family for generations. It doesn’t happen to everyone, but when it does…”

He trails off, his gaze drifting to the window.

“When it does, what?”

My voice is sharper than I intend, but I’m too wired to care.

“Someone grows claws and howls at the moon?”

His silence is the answer I don’t want.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“Nope. That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

“Isabella.”

His tone stops me cold.

“You’ve seen the marks. You’ve heard it. You know this isn’t normal.”

I want to argue, to laugh it off, but the words stick in my throat.

Because he’s right.

I’ve felt it—the heavy silence, the wrongness in the air, the thing in the yard.

“Who?”

I whisper, the question burning on my tongue.

“Who’s cursed?”

He doesn’t answer.

Then again, he doesn’t have to.

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. My hands tremble as I shove the journals back into the drawer, slamming it shut like that’ll make everything disappear.

“I need some air,” I mutter, pushing past him.

“Isabella—”

But I’m already out the door.

The mountains stretch ahead, their shadows long and jagged under the midday sun.

I tell myself I’m just going for a walk, clearing my head.

But deep down, I know I’m running.

From the house.

From the truth.

And from the gnawing certainty that whatever’s out there in the woods is already watching.

🖤

I wake up post afternoon nap. It’s already evening. The house is too quiet.

Not the comforting kind of quiet, but the oppressive kind that makes every creak and groan sound like a death knell. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint moonlight spilling through the curtains. My dad’s warning echoes in my head: Stay inside after dark.

The clock on the nightstand ticks louder than it should, each second dragging me closer to sleep—or so I hope. But just as I’m about to drift off, I hear it.

A howl.

Low.

Guttural.

Too long to be a dog.

Too sharp to be the wind.

My chest tightens, and I bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The sound isn’t far. It’s close. Too close. I creep toward the window, parting the curtains just enough to see outside. The yard is bathed in pale moonlight, the trees casting jagged shadows across the grass.

And then I see them.

Claw marks. Fresh, deep gouges in the wooden windowsill, right where I’d been sleeping just hours before. My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, I think I’m imagining things. But they’re there, undeniable and deliberate, like a warning.

The howl comes again, louder this time, sending a shiver down my spine. It’s followed by a rustling sound, like something big moving through the trees. My eyes dart to the edge of the yard, where the shadows seem to shift and pulse with an unnatural rhythm.

And then it appears.

A figure.

Massive, hunched, and moving with a jerky, almost animalistic gait.

It pauses at the tree line, its outline barely visible against the dark woods.

My stomach churns as I watch it lift its head.

The pale glow of its eyes piercing through the shadows.

It howls again, the sound ripping through the stillness like a blade.

And then it’s gone, vanishing into the forest as quickly as it appeared.

I stumble back from the window, my hands trembling.

My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears, drowning out every rational thought.

The next morning, I’m up early, pacing the kitchen while Dad sips his coffee.

He’s acting like it’s just another day in paradise.

I can’t take it anymore.

“What the hell is out there, Dad?”

I blurt out, slamming my hands on the table.

He doesn’t flinch.

He sets his mug down slowly, his eyes meeting mine with a mix of caution and resignation.

“Just the wind,” he says.

“You know how it echoes in the mountains.”

I glare at him.

“Don’t give me that shit. I saw the claw marks. I heard it howling. There’s something out there.”

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s carrying the weight of every lie he’s ever told.

“Isabella, you’re imagining things. It’s probably just a stray dog.”

“Don’t gaslight me!” I snap.

“Stray dogs don’t walk on two legs.

And they don’t leave claw marks on windows.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to break.

But instead, he stands, grabbing his keys from the counter.

“I’ve got work to do. Stay inside today.”

“Sure,” I mutter, watching him leave.

But staying inside isn’t an option.

Not anymore.

I need to know.

The next morning, I confront Dad in the backyard as he splits wood with more aggression than necessary. The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the rhythmic thunk of the axe hitting the chopping block punctuates the silence.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

I demand, holding up the photograph from the journal.

My voice wavers slightly, but I push through it.

“What the hell is this?”

Dad freezes mid-swing, the axe blade buried in the wood. His shoulders sag, and for a moment, he looks older—more worn than I’ve ever seen him.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he says, his voice heavy.

“Nothing?” I snap, waving the photograph like a banner.

I jab a finger at the faded image of the dead beast.

“This—this is not nothing. And neither are the claw marks, or the howling, or the fact that the entire town looks like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.”

Dad sighs and pulls the axe from the block.

“Isabella, some things are better left alone.”

“That’s not an answer!”

My frustration boils over.

“You’ve always been like this.

Keeping secrets, pretending everything’s fine, like I’m too fragile to handle the truth.

Well, newsflash, Dad, I’m not a kid anymore.”

He slams the axe down, and the sound reverberates through the trees.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Finally, he speaks.

“Fine. You want the truth?

The beast isn’t just some old family legend.

It’s real.

It’s been here for generations.

And it’s... connected to us.”

“What do you mean, connected?”

My voice softens, dread creeping in.

He hesitates, then looks at me with an expression that’s equal parts guilt and sorrow.

“What do you think? It’s a curse, Isabella. A curse tied to our bloodline.”

My stomach churns.

“What…what kind of curse?”

“Sometimes it skips a generation. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

He grips the axe handle tightly, his knuckles white.

“And when it doesn’t... someone changes.”

The weight of his words settles over me like a suffocating blanket.

“Changes? Into what?”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

The photograph.

The claw marks.

The howling.

They all click into place like pieces of a horrifying puzzle.

“You’re telling me one of us—”

I choke on the words.

“One of us is the beast?”

Dad looks away, his jaw clenched.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.

If we’re careful—if we stay inside, keep to ourselves—no one else has to get hurt.”

“No one else?”

My voice rises.

“What about you?

What about me?”

“I’ve handled it,” he says sharply.

“I’ve always handled it.”

The implication hangs in the air: until now.

I take a step back, my legs shaky.

The yard seems smaller, the trees closer, their shadows pressing in.

“How long?” I whisper.

“How long have you known?”

He doesn’t answer, and that silence is louder than any confession.

Without another word, I turn and walk back to the house. My hands are trembling, but I don’t stop. I can’t. The truth is out now, and it’s worse than I ever imagined.

🖤

In the safety of my room, I grab the journal from my bag and flip through the pages with frantic hands. The entries blur together, each one a testament to the horrors my family has kept hidden.

One part stops me cold:

“The curse doesn’t end.

The curse only waits.”

The sun sets in a blaze of orange and red, casting long shadows across the mountains. The house grows quieter, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards.

I sit by the window, staring at the claw marks on the sill.

The journal lies open on the bed behind me, its words etched into my mind.

This time, I don’t plan to stay inside.

This time, I want answers.

The moon rises, full and luminous, casting an eerie glow over the mountains.

The shadows outside stretch and shift, alive with the promise of something terrible.

I’m ready—well, as ready as someone can be to confront a centuries-old curse.

I have Dad’s old rifle slung over my shoulder, the weight unfamiliar but oddly comforting.

My heart pounds in my chest as I slip out the back door, careful not to make a sound.

The cool night air bites at my skin, but I ignore it.

The woods are darker than I expected.

The trees close in around me, their gnarled branches twisting like skeletal hands.

Every snap of a twig makes me jump, but I keep moving.

My flashlight is cutting through the gloom.

“Psst, psst, psst, psst, psst” I whisper, my breath fogging in the cold air.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

I regret it as soon as I say it.

I immediately feel the weight of my curiosity biting me in the ass.

And then I hear it.

A low, guttural growl that vibrates through the ground beneath my feet.

My flashlight flickers, and panic claws at my chest.

“Isabella!”

Dad’s voice echoes through the trees, sharp and frantic.

I whirl around, the flashlight beam swinging wildly, but I don’t see him.

“Dad?”

My voice trembles.

I hate how small it sounds.

Another growl, closer this time.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I grip the rifle tighter.

The flashlight flickers again, and for a split second, I see it—a massive, hulking figure lurking just beyond the trees. Its eyes glow like embers, and its breath hangs in the air like smoke.

The beast.

It steps forward, its movements slow and deliberate, and I finally see it in full. Its body is covered in matted fur, its claws long and wickedly sharp. But it’s the face that stops me cold.

It’s not fully a face—not human, not animal, but something caught in between. And in those glowing eyes, I see something that makes my stomach twist.

Recognition.

“Dad?” My voice breaks, the rifle slipping slightly in my grip.

The beast growls again, low and mournful, and takes another step closer.

Its massive frame blocks out the moonlight, casting a shadow that swallows me whole.

“Stay back,” I whisper, raising the rifle.

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely aim.

“Please.”

It hesitates, its head tilting slightly.

For a moment, I think I see something human in its eyes—something pleading.

But then it snarls, the sound tearing through the silence, and I know I’ve lost him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and pull the trigger.

The shot rings out, deafening in the stillness.

The beast roars, its massive body lurching backward, but it doesn’t fall.

Instead, it charges, its claws slashing through the air as I scramble to reload.

“Isabella!”

Dad’s voice again.

But this time it’s not coming from the beast.

It’s coming from somewhere behind me.

I freeze, my breath catching.

The beast stops too, its glowing eyes flicking past me.

Slowly, I turn, the rifle trembling in my hands.

Dad stumbles out of the trees, his face pale and bloodied.

“Run!” he shouts, but it’s too late.

The beast lunges. I barely manage to duck out of the way, the force of its charge slamming me into the wall. Pain explodes in my shoulder, sharp and all-consuming. I shove it aside, scrambling to my feet as the beast turns on me again. Its claws swipe through the air, missing my face by inches.

“Stop!” I scream, my voice cracking. “Please, just stop!”

The beast hesitates, its head tilting slightly, like it’s trying to understand me. But then its lips curl back, revealing jagged rows of teeth, and I know I’m out of time. My eyes dart to the rifle on the floor, knocked loose from my father’s grip.

I make a break for it, my heart pounding as I dive for the weapon. The beast roars, its claws raking across my leg as I slide across the floor. The pain is blinding, but I grab the rifle and roll onto my back.

I aim shakily at the creature looming over me. “Don’t make me do this.” I whisper, tears streaming down my face.

It snarls, stepping closer.

“I’m sorry.” I start choking up. “I never wanted it to come to this.”

The shot echoes through the house, deafening and final.

The beast staggers, its massive body collapsing onto the floor. For a moment, it twitches, its glowing eyes dimming as the life drains out of it.

And then… silence.

I sit there for what feels like an eternity, the rifle heavy in my hands, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The room reeks of blood and gunpowder, the silence so loud it makes my ears ring.

I finally muster the courage to look at the beast. It’s not there anymore. It’s my father. His human body lies crumpled on the floor. His face pale and peaceful, like he’s just fallen asleep.

But he’s not asleep. He won’t wake up.

A sob rips from my throat. I drop the rifle. I crawl to his side.

“Oh, Dad.” My hands hover over him, unsure of what to do. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” I whisper over and over, my tears soaking his bloodied shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

But he doesn’t respond. He never will.

🖤

The morning comes too quickly.

The sun washes over the mountains, but it feels more like an intrusion than a relief.

I sit on the porch steps, staring out at the woods.

My leg throbs, the makeshift bandage already soaked through. I don’t care.

The house is silent now. Too silent.

Inside, my father’s body is covered with a sheet from the linen closet. I can’t bring myself to look at him again.

I should leave.

Pack my things. Walk into town. Call for help.

Even now, I know I should leave.

But where would I go?

Honestly—where the fuck do I go from here?

Do I go back to Toronto? Back to pretending everything is normal? That I’m normal?

The truth is, I’m not sure I can leave this place.

Because as much as I want to believe the nightmare is over, I know better.

The journal is still in my bag, tucked between my clothes like a secret I can’t let go of. I’ve read every word, memorized every story, and I can’t stop thinking about the photograph—the one with the beast lying dead at the hunters’ feet.

It wasn’t the only one.

My father told me the curse didn’t affect everyone, but the journals made it clear: it’s not just about bloodlines or bad luck. It’s about inheritance.

And now, it’s mine.

As the sun climbs higher, the shadows begin to retreat, but I can’t shake the feeling that they’re watching me.

The woods are quiet again, but the quiet feels different now—heavy, expectant. Like the mountains themselves are holding their breath.

I close my eyes and let the silence wrap around me, my father’s last words echoing in my mind:

“Sometimes it’s better not to ask questions.”

But I asked.

And now I have answers I wish I didn’t.

When I finally stand, the pain in my leg is sharp, but I ignore it.

I limp down the steps and toward the edge of the yard. My eyes scanning the tree line.

For a moment, I think I see something move. A flicker of motion, a shadow too large to be a bird or a deer.

I stop and stare, waiting. But whatever it is, it doesn’t show itself again.

Not yet.

As I turn back to the house. The weight of the journal in my bag feels heavier than ever.

I don’t know when it will happen.

But I know this much: the beast isn’t gone.

It’s waiting.

And one day, it will be me.

THE END.

If you made it to the end of The Beast of Sapucaí-Mirim, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! Seriously, it means the world to me 🖤 Writing this story was an emotional ride—folklore, family, and curses all tangled up—and I’d love to hear your thoughts!!!! Did Isabella’s struggle hit home???? What do you think about the curse???? Would you have confronted it, or just packed your bags and noped out of there??? (Honestly, valid either way.)

Let’s chat in the comments!!!! Share your favorite moments, your interpretations, or even your own family folklore or spooky experiences. And hey, if you’re just here for the eerie vibes, let me know that too—I’d love to hear what stood out to you!!!

And for those of you who enjoy this spooky vibe, stay tuned for my non-fictional spooky content!!!!

There are Haunted Comedians podcast episodes currently in post-production, where I interviewed a few haunted comedians in-depth about their personal paranormal experiences. I’ll be posting it shortly.

And if you’re in Toronto, don’t miss the Haunted Comedians live shows happening in January, May, August, and October.

Tickets at hauntedcomedians.eventbrite.ca.

Thanks for reading, and don’t forget to follow for more stories, wild thoughts, gothic vibes, and spooky fun. ✨ Tchau tchau ✨

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