The blood ran from the foot to the head and had splashed the slats, the robe, beard and hair of the victim. Something in particular caught his attention and then her anguish was greater, shut the gate quickly and made an effort to convince himself that it was not true what he had seen at the last minute: The only drops of blood dotted the bloodless face of crucified, not only stained his white robe, not just filtered through his beard and hair, but … splashed the floor of the room. Is the floor of the room? No. It was not true because the blood, the painting, the dead man and everything else was fiction, a product of the creativity of an artist and he, Ovidio Manuel Gonzalez Church, her 58 years, I was very grown up believing to walk pods. He walked hurriedly down the stairs by the reception which would fall to find out the furniture and belongings.
When he had gone one meters felt a moan behind him. "A whimper? No. Maybe it was an animal. The third floor housed a couple and their child had seen a Pekinese dog in the morning. Yes, that was, there was to worry about. He continued his way, but again heard a plaintive wail from her throat, no! The soul of someone who suffers. Now if he was sure. It was the barking of a Pekingese or the cry of another animal. Was the cry of a human being off the edge of death.