It started like a lot of strange stories do. In a quiet place, no one was paying much attention to.

The village of Belmes de la Moraleda sits tucked in the mountains of southern Spain. It's small,

just a few hundred people then, and not the kind of town that makes headlines. The pace of life is

slow, days blend together. Most of the houses look the same.

Whitewashed stone, small windows, low roofs. People age there. They don't leave unless they have to.

Maria Gomez Camara lived in the modest home on Calle, the main road that runs through the village.

She wasn't famous or eccentric or particularly interested in anything beyond keeping her home in order.

She was practical. People liked her.

But she wasn't the type to go looking for attention.

And it was in that house on an ordinary day in August of 1971 that Maria saw something

on her kitchen floor that stopped her cold.

She was sweeping, just sweeping, not in a rush.

The windows were open and the heat was settling in, that dry undelusioned heat that makes

everything move slower.

She moved the broom across the kitchen like she had done so many times before.

But that day something made her stop.

There was a mark on the floor, near the stove.

At first glance, she thought it was maybe just a stain.

Maybe something spilled. Grease, maybe.

The kitchen was old.

The concrete floor had cracks and scuffs from decades of wear.

This mark was odd.

...