It was the year 1909. The steep, stone streets of “Black Gold” still preserved traces of the wealth of the gold cycle, even after the transfer of the capital of Minas Gerais to Belo Horizonte twelve years earlier.
Among the colonial villas that covered the hills of the city, the Machado family residence stood out—an imposing two-story building on São Francisco Street, overlooking the valley and the Church of Saint Francis of Assisi. The property was known for its dignified appearance, with spacious rooms, windows with imported glass panes, wrought-iron balconies, and a large backyard that sloped down the hillside.
The Machado mansion was one of the oldest buildings in the city, built during the height of the gold rush, with thick walls of rammed earth and stone that kept the interior cool even on the warmest days. The first-floor windows were protected by wooden lattices, typically colonial, while those on the second floor possessed ornate iron balconies.
Cast iron, imported from France during the renovation carried out by Augusto Machado’s father at the end of the 19th century. The red clay roof, with several wide water surfaces and eaves, completed the image of decadent luxury that the house represented. Patriarch Augusto Machado was the heir to one of the last traditional families that remained in the former capital after the exodus of elites to the new Belo Horizonte.
Tall, slender, and with impeccably upright posture, Augusto was recognized by his peculiar gait—firm and calculated steps, as if he were measuring the ground upon which he walked. At 55 years old, his hair was completely gray, forming a contrast with his still-black mustache, carefully trimmed every morning by his loyal barber who came to the house weekly.
Widowed for five years, he ran the house with strict discipline—a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed without question. His wife, Mrs. Helena, had passed away under circumstances that few in the city dared to comment on. They said she suffered from deep melancholy and that in her final months, she had barely left her room.
On the second floor, from where only the echoes of steps on the floorboards could be heard. Helena, the only daughter of a wealthy Portuguese merchant, had brought a considerable fortune to the marriage in properties and bank investments, which had increased the status of the Machado family even further in Ouro Preto society.
Her death’s suddenness had been a shock to the few who still had contact with the family. Augusto Machado was the manager of the local branch of the Mortgage and Agricultural Bank, a position that granted him status and power in decadent Ouro Preto. He lived with his younger sister, Cecilia.
A woman in her early 30s who had never married and who, after Helena’s death, had assumed the role of mistress of the house. Cecília Machado was the perfect image of what was expected of a single lady from the upper class of Minas Gerais: reserved, always dressed in dark colors, with her hair tied back in a strict bun.
At the top of her head, her face, once considered beautiful, had become a mask of austerity, with lips permanently pursed and watchful eyes. Cecilia ran the house with an iron hand, personally overseeing every detail, from the polishing of the silver cutlery to the organization of the rare visits the family continued to receive.
The relationship between the Machado siblings was peculiar. In public, they maintained an almost formal level of protocol, addressing each other as “My Lord Brother” and “Lady My Sister,” as dictated by the oldest customs. In private, however, there existed an almost disturbingly intimate connection.
It was as if they shared secrets that bound them together inseparably. In the former capital of Minas Gerais, wealthy families still kept domestic employees—many descendants of enslaved people who served in the same households before the abolition, which had occurred only 21 years prior.
The Machado family had in their employ a cook and a gardener, and they always tried to hire a domestic worker for internal services and to care for the family. However, something strange was happening. No maid stayed long in that mansion. Mrs. Justina, the cook, was a notable exception.
A 60-year-old Black woman, short and corpulent, she had served the family since before the abolition of slavery, when she was still enslaved. After the passing of the Golden Law, she remained in the house, now receiving a modest salary and occupying a small room in the back of the kitchen. Justina knew every corner.
Of the house, every creak of the floorboards, every secret hidden within the thick walls. Or at least, that is what everyone thought. Her loyalty to the Machado family seemed unshakable, even as the behavior of the masters became increasingly strange as the years passed.
Pedro, the gardener, was a silent, middle-aged man who came three times a week to tend to the vast property. He rarely entered the house, preferring to confine himself to the exterior areas. To the few who managed to elicit more than monosyllabic words from him, they said that Pedro had an inexplicable fear of the second floor.
He stayed on the ground floor and refused to go upstairs, even if ordered directly. It was a fixture in the life of the Machado family… employee turnover. They came and went without clear explanation. The last one had lasted only three weeks before disappearing, without seeking her belongings or her payment.
The one before her had spent two months there and was found wandering the streets in a state of confusion, unable to explain what had happened. Before her, a 20-year-old girl who had worked in the house for nearly six months disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving only a note that read: “Forgive me, but I can no longer bear the noises.”
And so it arose, in the whispers of the narrow streets of Ouro Preto, the story of a house that no employee wanted. Attempts to hire new employees became increasingly difficult for the Machados. The women of the city, especially the younger ones, refused to work in the house, even when the salary offered was substantially larger than usual.
The siblings began to look for female workers in neighboring towns like Mariana and Santa Barbara, where rumors about the house had not yet taken such strong hold. In February of that year, the new maid arrived at the residence: Maria Antônia da Silva, a 40-year-old widow of a miner from the Passagem region, five kilometers from Ouro Preto.
Unlike the others, Maria Antônia had a steady gaze and a dignified posture that impressed even the strict Augusto Machado. She had dark skin marked by hard work, hands hardened from years of washing clothes on river stones, and a serene expression that hid the determination of one who had already faced many difficulties in life.
Born and raised in Mariana, Maria Antônia had married young to José da Silva, a gold miner. After 12 years of a difficult but stable marriage, José died in a mining accident, leaving his wife with no means. For years, Maria Antônia survived by washing clothes for wealthy families in Mariana and Ouro Preto.
Working from sunrise to sunset on the banks of the Ribeirão do Carmo, carrying heavy bundles through the city, enduring the cold water even on the iciest winter days. When age made this work increasingly difficult, she sought employment as a domestic servant—a role that, though poorly paid, at least kept the constant humidity from affecting her bones.
When she arrived at the Machado’s front door, Maria Antônia brought only a small bundle containing her clothes and a silver medal with a faded photo of her late husband, her only inheritance. She had learned of the vacancy through the Machado family’s cook, Dona Justina, who attended the same church.
Justina, who had worked for the family for decades, had warned her about the rumors that were circulating. But Maria Antônia needed the job and the salary offered, which was slightly higher than usual precisely because no one wanted to stay in that house.
“They say that the maids hear strange things at night,” Justina confided to her when they met after Sunday Mass. “Steps, groans, as if someone were wandering around the house. But I can assure you that these are not ghosts, Maria, nothing like that. It is just the creaking of an old house.”
The wind whistled through the poorly sealed windows. Yet there was something in Justina’s gaze as she said these words that made Maria Antônia suspicious. There was fear there, or perhaps guilt, but the salary of 20,000 réis was too tempting to refuse, especially for a woman who, despite working since her youth, had never managed to gather enough to have a roof of her own.
It was Cecilia who received her with a polite smile that did not reach her eyes. She showed her the house and the rules.
“Never enter Mr. Machado’s office without being called,” she insisted, “ensure the silver cutlery is always polished.”
“Never go up to the second floor after dinner. Always use the gray uniform that belonged to previous employees, and never, under any circumstances, enter Old Mrs. Helena’s room, which has remained locked since her death.”
Seeing the interior of the house was even more impressive than the facade suggested. The entrance hall was spacious, with a floor of marble imported from Italy and a dark wooden staircase leading to the second floor. To the right of the hall was the main living room, with heavy rosewood furniture from Rio de Janeiro.
Dark green velvet curtains blocked almost all natural light, and a grand piano stood there which, according to Cecilia, no one had played since Mrs. Helena’s death. To the left was the library, with bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling, filled with leather-bound books that carried the characteristic smell of old paper and controlled mold.
Passing through the living room, one reached the dining room, dominated by a long solid wood table with a capacity for sixteen people. Though, as Cecilia explained with a touch of bitterness, they rarely received more than one or two guests. The glass cabinet displayed fine pieces of English porcelain and French crystal.
Relics of an era when the Machados were at the top of the mining society. The kitchen was in the back—a large room with a large wood stove and a stone workbench where Dona Justina reigned absolute. Here, the luxury of the house gave way to a more functional environment, although still far superior to what Maria Antônia was used to.
A back door from the kitchen led to a small hallway where the service bedrooms were located: one for Mrs. Justina, another for Maria Antônia, and a third smaller room used as a pantry. The second floor was accessible via the main staircase or a narrower service staircase at the back of the house.
The family’s bedrooms were there: Augusto’s at the end of the corridor on the right, Cecilia’s in the middle of the corridor on the left, a guest room rarely used, a small study, and at the end of the hall to the left stood the room that had belonged to Mrs. Helena, always locked.
“I hope that you last longer than the others,” Cecilia said with a coldness that contrasted with her rehearsed smile. “The last one just left without saying anything. An unpardonable lack of consideration.”
Maria Antônia felt the discomfort without showing it. She knew from comments in town that the others had left under circumstances that were, to say the least, strange. But the salary of 20,000 réis was tempting—almost double what she would earn in other houses and enough to eventually rent a small room of her own.
“I am not afraid of hard work, ma’am,” Maria replied, looking directly into Cecilia’s eyes—something that seemed to briefly irritate the mistress.
“Excellent. Justina will show you your quarters and your duties. Dinner is served promptly at seven o’clock. Punctuality is the most important thing to my brother.”
With those words, Cecilia withdrew, leaving Maria in the care of the old cook. Justina showed her the small room she would occupy. A modest, clean space with a narrow bed, a chest for her belongings, and a small table with a basin for personal hygiene. The window offered a view of the backyard overlooking the slope.
The first days in the Machado house passed without significant incident. Maria Antônia learned the routine: waking before dawn to light the stoves, preparing breakfast with Mrs. Justina, cleaning the rooms, and dusting the numerous heavy pieces of dark wood furniture and decorative objects that occupied every available surface.
The house was oppressive in its decadent splendor. Oil paintings of the Machado ancestors watched the inhabitants’ movements with stern gazes. A grandfather clock in the entrance hall marked the hours with a deep tone that echoed through the entire house. Mr. Augusto left for the bank every morning at 8:00 and returned exactly at 17:30.
Cecilia spent her days managing the household, embroidering, reading, or visiting the few friends she still had in town. It was a predictable, almost mechanical routine in which every member of the household seemed to play a well-rehearsed role. Maria noted that the relationship between the siblings was curious.
During meals, which were taken in absolute silence aside from occasional comments on practical matters, Augusto and Cecília rarely looked at each other directly. However, there was a kind of silent communication between them, as if they could anticipate the other’s thoughts from across the table.
Cecilia served her brother with an almost religious devotion, ensuring his food was always at the ideal temperature, his favorite wine available, and his chair positioned exactly at his preferred angle. It was on the third night that Maria Antônia heard it for the first time. She started awake in her small room.
A sound of dragging steps above—directly over her room. Slow, shuffling steps, as if someone had difficulty walking. She looked at the small watch beside her bed. 3:00 AM. The steps continued for several minutes and then stopped abruptly. Maria stayed awake for the rest of the night.
Attentive to any other noises, but absolute silence returned to the house. Only the distant ticking of the hall clock and the occasional howl of the wind through the window cracks remained. A grave-like silence. The following morning, while Maria served coffee, she asked casually if anyone had stayed awake during the night.
“Everyone sleeps early in this house,” Cecilia replied dryly. “You seem to be the kind who pays too much attention to noises at night.”
Maria noticed the look exchanged between Cecilia and her brother—a look of understanding, perhaps even concern.
“I ask for your forgiveness, ma’am,” Maria said, lowering her gaze. “I am still getting used to the sounds of the house. In my previous home, there was absolute silence all night.”
“This is an old building,” Augusto explained without lifting his eyes from the newspaper. “Wood works with temperature changes. What you heard was likely just the house settling in the cold of the early morning. Nothing to worry about.”
The explanation was plausible, but something in the way it was given—with a rehearsed readiness, as if it had been offered many times before—made Maria suspicious. The days passed, and the night noises continued, always around 3:00 AM. Shuffling steps, occasionally a muffled sigh.
Maria began to notice other curious details: a sickly-sweet, nauseating smell that sometimes drifted from Mrs. Helena’s locked room, and dark stains on the upper corridor floor that reappeared even after vigorous scrubbing. Above all, Cecilia’s behavior became increasingly erratic. The mistress began following her.
Appearing silently wherever Maria was working and watching her for long minutes without saying anything. Her hands, constantly busy with embroidery, trembled slightly. Her eyes grew deeper with dark rings, staring with a disturbing intensity. One morning, while Maria polished silver, Cecilia appeared at the door.
She was dressed in an elegant marine blue dress, unusual for her.
“Do you like working here, Maria?” she asked abruptly.
Maria stood up, surprised.
“Yes, ma’am. The house is beautiful and the work is no more difficult than in other places.”
“The sounds… do you still hear them at night?”
Maria hesitated. She decided on honesty.
“Sometimes, ma’am, but as Mr. Augusto explained, old houses make noises.”
Cecilia approached, her eyes fixed on Maria.
“What if I told you it wasn’t just an old house? There is more to it. What else can you imagine is in this house?”
Maria’s heart raced. Was this a test? A trap to see if she was afraid or intended to leave?
“I don’t understand, ma’am.”
Cecilia smiled—a sad smile.
“Of course. How could you? You’ve been here less than two weeks, but perhaps with time, you will understand. Perhaps you are different from the others.”
Before Maria could ask what that meant, Cecilia changed the subject completely.
“Dr. Mateus Albuquerque is coming for dinner next Saturday. He was my sister-in-law’s doctor. He is an important man in the city and everything must be impeccable. Tell Justina to prepare the best menu.”
Cecilia withdrew, leaving Maria confused and uneasy. The mention of Helena’s doctor, seemingly out of context after that strange conversation, seemed charged with hidden meaning. One April morning, while cleaning the handrail of the main staircase, Maria overheard a conversation between the siblings.
The office door was ajar, and the agitated voices reached her clearly.
“She is suspicious, Augusto. I saw her looking around the room as if she wanted to ask questions about the noises.”
“Calm down, sister. She is just a maid. What could she know?”
“The others were just maids. And do you remember what happened? You were the one who insisted on hiring her! You said she looked different, stronger, that she could endure it.”
“Enduring does not mean finding out.”
Cecilia’s voice was interrupted by the sound of something falling and breaking. Maria moved away quickly, but not before hearing Augusto’s final sentence.
“If necessary, we will proceed as we have other times.”
Maria’s heart hammered as she returned to the kitchen, pretending to be busy. Augusto’s words echoed: as we have other times. What happened to the former employees? No one knew exactly where they had gone. And what was in that locked room? That night, Maria could not sleep.
She went through everything she had observed in the Machado house. The night noises, the smell from the locked room, Cecilia’s erratic behavior, the stains on the floor, and now the siblings’ conversation with its hidden threat. She thought about leaving immediately, disappearing in the night as others had.
Yet something held her back—a mixture of curiosity, stubbornness, and a sense of justice. If something terrible had happened in this house, something that cost the lives of her predecessors, she couldn’t just leave the mystery unsolved. At 3:00 AM, the noises began again.
This time, they were more intense. The shuffling was followed by a thud, as if someone had fallen. Then a long, agonizing groan. Maria stood up. With a racing heart, she left her room. The kitchen was dark. Justina was sleeping, her soft snoring the only other sound.
With cautious steps, Maria crossed the dining room, lit only by the weak moonlight through the windows. The main staircase creaked under her bare feet as she ascended slowly. In the second-floor hallway, the darkness was almost complete, save for a sliver of light under Cecilia’s door.
Maria passed that door silently, moving toward the noise that had now ceased. At the end of the corridor, she found the door to Mrs. Helena’s old room, forever locked by Cecilia’s order. Maria pressed her ear to the door. For a moment, she heard nothing but her own heart.
Then, just as she was about to leave, she heard a light sigh—human. At that moment, a sound behind her made Maria turn suddenly. Cecilia stood at the door of her own room, dressed in a white nightgown, looking like a ghost in the dark hall. Her eyes were wide, fixed on Maria.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked with a voice of suppressed rage.
“I heard a noise, ma’am. I thought someone needed help.”
“Go back to your room immediately. I already told you that you are not to come up here at night.”
Cecilia’s tone allowed no rebuttal. Maria obeyed, feeling Cecilia’s eyes burning into her back as she descended. Reaching her room, she locked the door—something she had never done before. She knew she had crossed an invisible line and that the Machados would not let it pass.
The next morning, breakfast passed in oppressive silence. Augusto, usually punctual, took a while to come down, and when he appeared, he had deep, dark rings under his eyes and an absent gaze. Cecilia barely touched her food, watching Maria with disturbing intensity.
“Maria,” Augusto finally said, carefully folding his napkin. “We need you at the market today. There is a shopping list in the kitchen.”
His voice was neutral, but Maria noticed the plan immediately. They wanted her out of the house.
“Yes, sir,” she answered, keeping her eyes down.
As she left for the market, Maria felt watched from every window. The list was long and contained items hard to find—a strategy to keep her busy for hours. While wandering the streets of Ouro Preto, she considered not returning. She could disappear, but curiosity and a feeling that something was very wrong held her.
At the market, Maria found Mrs. Matilde, a former client from her laundry days. The 70-year-old woman, who knew every family story in the city, greeted her warmly.
“Maria Antônia, it has been a long time. I heard you are working at the Machado house.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s been almost two weeks.”
Dona Matilde approached and lowered her voice.
“Be careful, my daughter. That house… there are stories.”
“What stories, Mrs. Matilde?”
The old woman looked around as if afraid of being overheard.
“They say Dona Helena did not die of melancholy. They say she began to ask questions about her husband’s business practices regarding an irregularity, and then suddenly she fell ill and died within days. And the doctor didn’t suspect anything? Dr. Mateus was called when it was already too late. The body was… I don’t know the details. All I know is the coffin remained closed at the funeral, which is unusual for someone in her position. And the doctor, who was close to the family, broke ties with the Machados soon after. He never set foot in that house again.”
Maria felt a chill. This confirmed her suspicion that something was wrong with Helena’s death.
“And the employees who worked there afterward? Do you know anything about them?”
Dona Matilde made the sign of the cross.
“Three of them just disappeared without a trace, without picking up their belongings. The Machados say they left for jobs in another city, but who leaves their things and salary behind? Another, Teresa, was found wandering the streets talking nonsense. They said she went mad, that there was a streak of insanity in her family. She is in the Barbacena hospital now.”
The mention of the psychiatric hospital in Barbacena made Maria shiver.
“Is Dr. Mateus still in Ouro Preto?”
“Yes, on Carmo Street—a yellow house with blue windows near the chapel. Why?”
“Nothing important, just curiosity,” Maria replied, not wanting to involve the lady in her plans.
Returning to the Machado house late that afternoon, Maria noticed subtle changes. The sweet scent from Helena’s room had been masked by a strong smell of burnt lavender. The house looked cleaner, as if for an important visit. Cecilia seemed strangely calm.
“Leave the shopping. Go to the kitchen and change,” she said with that hollow smile. “We will have a special dinner tonight. I am waiting for Dr. Mateus Albuquerque. He is the doctor who treated my sister-in-law in her final days.”
Maria nodded, surprised by the coincidence. While helping Justina, she noticed the cook was restless, knocking over cutlery and muttering. When alone, Maria asked what was wrong.
“Nothing good comes when Dr. Mateus enters this house,” the old woman whispered. “The last time he was here was to sign the certificate after the mistress died, and he swore never to return. Why come back now? They say he never believed she died the way they said.”
Cecilia entered the kitchen, interrupting them. Dr. Mateus arrived shortly after 8:00 PM. Augusto personally went to the door—something he never did. Dr. Mateus was a thin man with a trimmed white beard and sharp eyes that seemed to record every detail.
Maria, serving the food, noticed his eyes wandering. He noted a barely perceptible stain on the wall, a slightly misaligned frame, and the way Cecilia avoided his gaze. The conversation was formal and superficial—weather, bank news—yet there was an underlying tension.
During dessert, the real reason for the visit emerged. Maria was entering with a tray when she heard the doctor say: “I received an anonymous letter, Mr. Machado. A letter suggesting I re-examine the circumstances that led to your wife’s death.”
Absolute silence followed. Augusto’s expression remained unmoved, but his knuckles turned white gripping his napkin.
“It is an insult that you would believe such insinuations, sir. Helena suffered from melancholy. You even diagnosed it yourself.”
“I diagnosed melancholy, yes, but not an incurable disease,” the doctor countered. “In fact, the last time I examined her a week before her death, she seemed better. That is why it surprised me so much when you asked for confirmation of her death.”
“My sister-in-law had a sudden relapse,” Cecilia interrupted, her voice trembling. “The human mind is unpredictable.”
“I also know his sister-in-law had begun to ask questions about the administration of her assets,” the doctor said, looking directly at Augusto. “Assets that, after her death, turned entirely to you.”
The tension was palpable. Maria stood motionless with the tray, practically invisible to the three of them.
“Are you accusing me of something, Doctor?” Augusto asked, his voice dangerously low.
“I am simply referring to the letter I received—a letter that mentioned not only Helena’s death but the mysterious fate of several maids who worked in this house.”
Cecilia stood up abruptly, knocking over her wine glass.
“Those are lies! Slander from people who envy us. The maids left because they wanted to or because they didn’t meet the standards of this house.”
Dr. Mateus remained calm.
“If there is nothing to hide, there is no reason for such exaggeration. Is that not true? Perhaps we should close this conversation. It is late.”
Augusto accompanied the doctor to the door while Cecilia retreated to her room, visibly upset. Maria cleared the table, her mind working fast. The anonymous letter, the doctor’s suspicions, the missing maids—everything was connected. When Augusto returned, his face was a mask of controlled rage.
“How much did you hear?” he asked suddenly.
“I heard about the anonymous letter, sir, and the doctor’s suspicions,” Maria replied.
Augusto walked toward her slowly.
“And what do you think of all this, Maria?”
“It is not my place to think anything, sir. I am just a maid.”
A cold smile curled his lips.
“Yes, just a maid, like the others before you. Like Lucinda, who also listened too much. Like Teresa, who asked too many questions. Like Francisca, who saw things she shouldn’t have seen.”
Maria’s heart accelerated, but she remained neutral.
“May I finish clearing the table, sir?”
Augusto gestured dismissively.
“Finish your work and go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
The way he said it sounded like a threat. Maria finished her tasks and retreated to her room, but not to sleep. She sat on the edge of her bed, fully dressed, waiting. She was sure something would happen that night. At 3:00 AM, the noises returned, more intense than ever.
Shuffling, a muffled groan, and then a faint cry from the locked room. With desperation-born determination, Maria stood up. This was her last chance to discover the secret before becoming another missing maid. She picked up a small blade she kept hidden and climbed the stairs.
The sweet, nauseating smell was stronger now, mixed with lavender. With the blade, Maria worked on the lock—years of housework had taught her how to open old locks. After a few minutes, it clicked. She opened the door. The room was dark, but her eyes adjusted.
She saw a four-poster bed and, on it, a form. Maria approached cautiously and almost screamed. A woman was lying there, motionless, covered in white sheets. Her face was pale, with gray hair. She was alive. Maria recognized her from photos: it was Mrs. Helena Machado, supposedly dead for five years.
She was an unrecognizable version of the elegant lady in the photos. Her chest rose and fell weakly. On the nightstand were glass bottles and a half-full glass of water with a spoon. Someone had recently administered a dose.
“Now you know.”
Maria turned slowly. Cecilia stood in the doorway in her white nightgown, hair loose, holding a small glass bottle.
“She should have died,” Cecilia continued, her voice eerily calm. “The doctor said she was improving, but it was a lie. Melancholy came back worse. She said terrible things, accused Augusto of stealing. She was completely mad, understand?”
Maria didn’t answer, her eyes darting between Cecilia and the form on the bed.
“The medication was just to calm her. I tried to make her sleep, but she reacted poorly that night. When we found her, we thought she was gone.”
Cecilia stepped forward, her eyes glowing in the dark.
“She exhaled—weak, almost nothing, but she exhaled. And Augusto had the idea. If everyone thought she was gone, the problems would end. The money would be his by right, and Helena could rest away from curious eyes and town gossip.”
“You have kept her prisoner for five years,” Maria whispered in horror.
“We are protecting her!” Cecilia cried. “We care for her, feed her, clean her, and give her medicine. That was more than she deserved after her accusations.”
“And the other maids who discovered this?”
Cecilia’s face hardened.
“They were as foolish as you. Meddlers who didn’t understand what we were doing. Augusto had to protect our family.”
Maria stepped back toward the bed.
“Augusto did what was necessary,” Cecilia said, moving forward. “Exactly what he will do with you. He is coming. He heard you come up the stairs.”
Heavy steps sounded on the stairs. There was no escape. Augusto would block the door. Maria looked for a way out.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Cecilia said, her voice almost gentle. “You can join us and help care for Helena. Augusto offered this to the others, but they were stupid.”
Maria saw the window overlooking an annex roof. If she could open it, she might escape.
“They are locked,” Cecilia said. “And even if they weren’t, you wouldn’t get far.”
Augusto appeared at the door, fully dressed, holding something that glinted in the dark.
“So she found out,” he said, cold and controlled.
“I explained everything to her,” Cecilia said quickly. “About Helena, about why we did it. She can understand, Augusto, she can help us.”
Augusto evaluated Maria.
“Do you understand, Maria? That everything we did was to protect our family?”
“I understand that you think you are protecting Mrs. Helena,” Maria said slowly, trying to buy time. “But look at her. She needs medical help, not captivity.”
“The doctor confirmed she was dead,” Augusto replied. “How could we explain her reappearance now? He wouldn’t believe we kept her alive out of care. He would see only a mistake.”
“It doesn’t have to end like this,” Maria insisted.
Suddenly, a sound from the bed drew their eyes. Helena Machado had opened her eyes—distant but conscious. Her lips moved.
“She’s awake,” Cecilia whispered.
Helena’s voice was a faint whisper. Maria leaned in.
“Augusto kept me here…”
Augusto’s eyes widened with rage.
“Lies! Your mind is confused!”
But Maria saw the truth in Helena’s eyes.
“It wasn’t just the medication or the melancholy. You kept her here against her will for years to keep her fortune. And when the doctor noticed she was improving, you increased the dose. When that didn’t work, you simulated her death.”
“Enough!” Augusto shouted, moving toward her.
It happened too fast. Helena gathered strength that seemed impossible. She grabbed Augusto’s arm as he passed the bed. The movement threw him off balance. Cecilia screamed and ran to help him, leaving the door clear. Maria didn’t hesitate; she ran into the hall and down the stairs as Augusto’s wütende cries followed.
She ran through the kitchen and out the back door. The night was cold. Instead of taking the road, she went down the steep slope where the vegetation was thick. She could hear Augusto calling orders from the house. She slipped on the wet ground, clinging to roots. Behind her, a lantern light appeared.
“I must reach the police station,” she thought.
She headed toward Pilar Street. The moon disappeared behind clouds, leaving the slope in darkness. Her bare feet were scratched by stones.
“There is no escape, Maria,” Augusto’s voice called. “I was born here. I know every stone. I can find you in the dark.”
Maria moved silently. The vegetation offered cover but slowed her progress. Finally reaching the streetlights of Pilar, she felt hope. But she tripped on a loose stone, rolling several meters before catching a bush. A sharp pain shot through her ankle.
“There is nowhere to run,” Augusto said, much closer now. He held a lamp, his face distorted with rage. Maria tried to stand, but her ankle buckled. She was trapped.
“You could have accepted our offer,” he said. “You could have been part of the family. The others also refused.”
“How many?” Maria asked, trying to gain time. “How many maids did you kill to keep your secret?”
“Only three,” Augusto replied with unsettling silence. “The others ran away when they became suspicious. They were wiser than you.”
He was only meters away. Maria’s fingers touched a large, heavy stone.
“What did you do with them?”
“What was necessary. It was always quick. As it will be for you.”
As he took the final step, Maria threw the stone with all her strength. It hit him in the face. Augusto cried out, dropping the lantern. In the sudden darkness, Maria forced herself up and limped toward the street. Behind her, Augusto scrambled to recover.
She could see the lights of the police station. Suddenly, a figure appeared, blocking her path. Maria feared it was Cecilia, but as the figure approached, she recognized Dr. Mateus Albuquerque.
“Maria, what happened?”
“Dr. Mateus… Augusto Machado is chasing me. Mrs. Helena is alive! They kept her prisoner for years!”
Augusto arrived, stopping abruptly when he saw the doctor.
“Dr. Albuquerque! What a coincidence to find you at this hour.”
“It is no coincidence, Mr. Machado,” the doctor replied coolly. “After our dinner, I decided to keep an eye on your home. Something about your reactions made me suspect. And it seems my suspicions were correct.”
“This woman is mentally disturbed, Doctor! She broke into my house and attacked my sister. I am just trying to hold her for the authorities.”
“That is a lie!” Maria cried. “Dona Helena is in a locked room. He’s been drugging her! She told me Augusto kept her prisoner.”
The doctor’s eyes widened.
“Helena is alive?”
“She is in a delirium,” Augusto insisted. “Helena died five years ago. You saw it yourself.”
“I concluded it based on what I was told,” the doctor countered. “I barely examined the body because you and your sister insisted on her ‘labile state.’ A body whose face was covered… now I realize it may not have been Helena.”
Augusto turned pale.
“You have no evidence.”
“Perhaps not, but the police station is 50 meters away. What will the Delegate think when a respected citizen like me shares my suspicions? Do you think there will be no search of your home?”
Augusto stood motionless for a long moment, then turned and began to climb back toward the house. Dr. Mateus grabbed Maria’s arm.
“Come. We must contact the authorities before they hide the evidence or harm Helena.”
The police were mobilized. Delegate Joaquim Pereira organized a group to search the house. When they arrived, it was silent. They broke down the door. They found Mrs. Justina locked in her room, trembling.
“They went mad,” she muttered. “Mr. Augusto came running, shouting that they had to leave. They started gathering papers and money. He locked me in here.”
“Did you know?” Maria asked.
The old woman lowered her gaze.
“I knew from the start. They threatened me. Who would believe an old cook against the Machados?”
On the second floor, they found Helena’s room open. The bed was empty, the sheets overturned. They followed a path of markings toward the back stairs and into the backyard.
“They took Helena and fled,” the police chief concluded.
At dawn, a policeman found tracks near the small Santa Efigênia cemetery. They led to an old stone crypt belonging to the Machado family. The door was unlocked. Inside, they found Augustus and Cecilia, and between them, the body of Helena on a stone slab.
Cecilia was weeping. Augusto stared at the police with a vacant gaze. Dr. Mateus examined Helena and stood up with a dark expression.
“She is gone for good this time. Her heart couldn’t take the strain.”
“Time always plays a part,” Augusto said in a strangely calm voice. “Years of medication weakened her. This escape was the final blow.”
“Why keep her prisoner for so long?” Maria asked.
“Money,” Dr. Mateus replied. “Helena was the true heir. Her father left her everything on the condition that Augustus manage it only while she lived. After her death, half was to go to charity.”
“It wasn’t just the money,” Cecilia sobbed. “She wanted to destroy us. She discovered Augustus was embezzling funds and threatened to report him. Our family built all of this; she wanted to throw it away.”
“So you drugged her,” Maria said. “And when the doctor noticed she was improving, you faked her death.”
“It was easy,” Augusto said. “An unknown body, a closed coffin, a certificate signed by a doctor who barely looked. While everyone thought she was buried, we kept her in her room, sedated.”
“And the body I examined?” Dr. Mateus asked.
“A homeless woman who died that same day,” Augusto smiled coldly. “No one missed her.”
The Delegate signaled the officers to arrest them. But Augusto pulled a small object from his pocket.
“Don’t come closer!” he shouted at the police, then at Maria.
“It’s over, Augusto,” the officer said. “Don’t make it worse.”
Augusto laughed—a desperate sound.
“It’s not over as long as I live.”
“Brother, please,” Cecilia pleaded. “Helena is gone. We have nothing left to fight for.”
Augusto’s shoulders slumped, then his face hardened.
“I am not going to prison, Cecilia. Humiliation, a cell, the degradation of the Machado name? I won’t allow it.”
What followed happened too fast to prevent. A sudden movement, a flash, then silence. The Machado siblings chose the same fate. Absolute silence followed. The Delegate removed his hat in a gesture of respect for the dead.
“It is over,” he murmured.
In the months that followed, the Machado case became the most discussed topic in Ouro Preto. Investigations revealed Augusto had embezzled almost the entire fortune. Helena Machado’s body was finally given a dignified burial. Dr. Mateus was haunted by his unintentional complicity in the farce five years prior.
The Machado house was closed by court order. The few remaining assets were directed to the charities named in Helena’s original will. No one wanted to buy the property. Rumors of the restless souls of the missing maids and the Machados kept buyers away. It became another abandoned house in Ouro Preto, its secrets locked behind sealed doors.
Dona Justina was sentenced to three years for complicity. After her sentence, she moved far away and lived in anonymity. Maria Antônia used the reward from the case to open a small pension: the Santa Maria Guest House. She never spoke of her experience, but the residents respected her for her role.
In 1952, a student found a diary in the city archives—Helena Machado’s diary, hidden by Dona Justina before her arrest. On yellowed pages, Helena described the abuses and her fear. The last entry read: “Augusto looks different today. He is calmer, but his eyes… his eyes have something that terrifies me. I fear I don’t have much time.”
Even today, residents avoid the old Machado residence after dark. They say that at 3:00 AM, you can still hear the shuffling of steps on the upper floor, as if someone is walking painfully, eternally trapped. Some swear they have seen a pale silhouette in the window of Helena’s room.
The house that no employee wanted became the house that no one wants—a silent monument to the horrors that occur when greed and obsession hide behind respectable facades.
