Gothic Liothan literature often incorporates double elements. Carlos del Puente Stories

 Gothic Liothan literature often incorporates double elements.

In the quiet city of Brimfield, located between the hills and the whisper of perennial leaf trees, a man named Alistair Castellanos lived. A librarian by profession, his days were full of the quiet whisper of the pages and the aroma of the dusty volumes. His nights, however, dedicated themselves to the elaboration of their own literary creations. His desktop, a messy paper and ink strength with high and thick impenetrable walls of the Quuee stone enclosed it, witnessed the birth of many macabre horror stories. However, none of the members of the people knew about their secret love for the Gothic genre, they saw only the guardian of their mundane stories and the comfort of their dusty stories.

Alistair's eyes, a soft brown tone that reflected the leather covers of his favorite books, danced with a mischievous spark every time he wrote a new chapter in the solitude of his study. His hair, dotted with silver strands, reflected the moonlight that transmitted through the high windows, throwing mysterious shadows on the walls loaded with books. The room was his sanctuary, a place where the whispers of his characters became stronger than the grandfather ticking of the clock.

The city library was its domain, a maze of knowledge that had as dark secrets as the night of the owl. Within his sacred halls, he felt alive, surrounded by the chained spirits of the dead authors. Each book was a gateway to another world, a silent partner in his search to escape the monotony of Brimfield's daily routine. It was here, in the corner further from the library, where the Gothic section maintained its solemn vigil, which felt more at home. One night, while reorganizing the dusty thorns of the forgotten classics, their fingers brushed a book that seemed to tremble with an invisible energy under the dust of time. It was an old volume, tied in leather as black as a moonless sky, and adorned with silver filigree that shone in the dim light of light. The title, written in an archaic script, sent a chill for its spine: "Doppelgänger's dance." Alistair's curiosity woke up, carefully lifted the book of his resting place and felt a strange heat emanating from his pages. This was not an ordinary finding.

With trembling hands, he opened the cover, revealing an intricate dance of words and images of the books edited during the Middle Ages that seemed brightly to his eyes. The story spoke of a kingdom where the shadows had substance and the line between reality and the illusion was as thin as the Chinese silk network of a spider. His heart accelerated while reading Doppelgängers stories, creatures that might speculate the body form of anyone they found, leaving chaos and despair in his path. As he deepened the book, a peculiar sensation became him. He had one of déjà-vu that was strengthened every time a page passed.

The protagonist of this story was a man named Eliot, a writer tormented by the gloomy reflection of himself who stalked each movement. This Doppelgänger, a twisted mirror of his soul, sought to claim Eliot's identity and live the life that he believed was legitimately his. The story became darker, the lines between the written word and Alistair's own reality began to blur. He felt as if he were observed by the invisible look, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled to the end as the shadows of the room became longer, more malevolent.

Suddenly, a figure of the gloom emerged, a perfect replica of Alistair, his own face twisted in a mocking smile. The Doppelgänger spoke with a voice that echoed his, but was cold and insensitive. "Welcome to the dance," he said, extending a hand made of shadows. "You have written us and thus existence, and now you will unite us irremediably." Alistair backed away, with his eyes wide open when he realized that he had become a character of his own macabre creation. The Doppelgängers of their stories were now part of their world, and there would be no escape from their macabre twisted hug.

By  Carlos del Puente relatos