I never thought I would have a story to tell, I was just a peasant boy living on a plantation in Spain. My mother taught me at home, while my dad helped the other men who worked on the plantation, plant, water, and cut the crops. We were not rich, yet we were not poor. We were still considered peasants, but my parents always claimed that was something people put on us to make us feel small and insignificant.

Mis padres and I were very friendly and generous; anytime a stranger would pass by needing food or water, we’d help them out. Little did we know that one of these strangers would be life changing—or ending.

Like every good story, it started on a rainy night. The crops were getting God’s grace; an abundance of water. Mother was telling me a historia de miedo; a scary story about a man who was cursed to be a werewolf for all eternity, when a young man, around 16 years of age; my age, knocked on our door.