The Fortuneteller of Old Havana

Introduction

Old Havana has always been a city of ghosts.

Its streets, paved with ancient stones, still hum with the whispers of conquistadors and revolutionaries, of lovers and liars, of dreamers and the damned. The past does not fade here—it lingers, woven into the fabric of every crumbling building and every flickering streetlamp.

And in the heart of it all, nestled between an old cigar shop and a café that never closes, was a small fortune-telling parlor. No sign marked its presence, but everyone knew it was there.

Inside sat Isabela La Divina, the woman who could see beyond the veil.

They came to her seeking love, luck, or simply a hint of what lay ahead. Most left with reassurances, some with warnings, and a few with fear etched into their souls.

But one night, under a full moon swollen with secrets, Isabela encountered a fate unlike any she had ever seen. A darkness that stretched across time, one that could not be ignored.

And it all began with a man who had nowhere else to turn.

Whispers in the Smoke

The scent of burning sage filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of strong Cuban coffee. A single candle flickered on Isabela’s wooden table, casting long shadows that shivered with every breath of wind from the open window.

She shuffled the worn deck of tarot cards, their edges soft from years of use. Tonight, something felt… different. The air was thick with something unseen, an electric charge that prickled against her skin.

Then, the door creaked open.

A man stepped inside, his silhouette outlined against the dim glow of the streetlights. He hesitated before removing his hat, revealing a sharp, weary face. His dark eyes scanned the room, lingering on the candles and talismans that lined the walls.

"La Divina," he said, his voice rough, tinged with exhaustion. "I need your help."

Isabela gestured to the chair across from her. The man sat, his shoulders tense.

"Your name?" she asked.

"Rafael Espinosa," he replied.

She studied him. He had the look of a man who had seen trouble. The kind of trouble that didn’t let go.

"Tell me, Rafael," she said, shuffling the deck again, "what brings you here tonight?"

Rafael hesitated, his fingers drumming against the wooden table. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Something is following me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Curse of San Miguel Street

Rafael’s story unraveled like a frayed thread.

He had arrived in Havana from Santiago de Cuba just days ago. His business—importing fine textiles—had brought him to the capital, where he had planned to stay only briefly. But from the moment he set foot in the Casa de San Miguel, something had felt… wrong.

"The house," he murmured, "it watches me."

Isabela felt a chill crawl up her spine.

The Casa de San Miguel was infamous. An old colonial mansion that had once belonged to Don Sebastián Montero, a ruthless merchant with no soul and too much ambition. His wealth had been built on betrayal—of friends, family, even lovers. And then, one night, he had simply vanished.

Over the years, the house had changed hands, but no one ever stayed long. Doors slammed shut on their own. Cold whispers echoed through empty hallways. Mirrors reflected things that should not be there.

"You must leave that place," she told him. "At once."

Rafael let out a humorless chuckle. "If only it were that simple," he muttered.

Because no matter where he went, no matter how far he walked, when night fell—it was there.

Watching.

Waiting.

And the closer he got to understanding the truth, the stronger its presence became.

The Shadow That Walks

That night, Rafael returned to the Casa de San Miguel, armed with a bottle of rum and the false courage of a man who had nowhere else to run.

The house was silent, its walls thick with the weight of the past. The air smelled of damp wood and something else—something faintly metallic, like rusted iron.

He locked the door behind him.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, the temperature dropped.

The candle on the nightstand flickered violently before snuffing out. A shadow pooled in the far corner of the room, shifting, stretching.

Rafael held his breath.

And then, the whispers began.

At first, they were faint, like wind through the trees. But they grew louder, more insistent, overlapping voices speaking in a language he did not understand.

His heart pounded.

And then—he saw it.

In the mirror across the room, a figure stood just behind him.

Tall. Hollow. Its face a void of darkness.

Rafael spun around, but the room was empty.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

He was not alone.

The Price of the Past

By the time Rafael stumbled back to Isabela’s shop, dawn was breaking over Havana, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold.

His hands trembled as he grasped the edge of her table.

"You were right," he rasped. "It’s not the house. It’s me. It’s after me."

Isabela exhaled slowly. The spirits whispered in her mind, their voices overlapping in a tangled web of past and present.

She saw it.

The curse did not belong to the house.

It belonged to his family.

"Your great-grandfather," she murmured. "He took something from Don Sebastián Montero, didn’t he?"

Rafael’s face darkened.

"He did," he admitted. "Montero made a deal—a blood pact. But my great-grandfather betrayed him. Stole his fortune. Left him to die."

"And now," Isabela said, "his spirit wants what was taken."

The past does not forget.

The dead do not forgive.

And some debts can only be paid in blood.

The Ritual

That night, Isabela led Rafael back to the Casa de San Miguel, their arms full of candles, salt, and offerings for the spirits.

The house loomed before them, its windows like empty eyes.

Inside, the air was thick, suffocating. The walls groaned as if the house itself could feel their presence.

They began the ritual.

Isabela called upon Eleggua, the guardian of crossroads. She burned sacred herbs, recited ancient prayers. The shadows twisted, recoiling.

And then—it appeared.

The air crackled with unseen energy.

The shadow loomed, shifting, watching.

_"Your blood stole from me,"_ it whispered.

Rafael swallowed hard. "I cannot undo the past," he said, voice shaking. "But I will not let it claim me."

The candles flared, their flames rising high.

Isabela’s voice rose in song, in prayer, in defiance.

The spirit howled.

And then—suddenly—it was gone.

The air stilled.

The house sighed, as if releasing something long held captive.

The past had loosened its grip.

For now.

Epilogue: The Legacy of the Fortuneteller

The Casa de San Miguel was abandoned once more, left to its ghosts.

Rafael left Havana, never to return.

And Isabela remained, her cards whispering new secrets.

But sometimes, late at night, when the wind howled through the streets, she felt it.

A presence.

A reminder.

Because some shadows never truly disappear.

THE END