True values

It must be said from the start that Turin or Torino, as it is also called, is a strict city, elegant even for Italian cities, with strict rules regarding architecture, arrangement, street lines and geometry. And anything that deviates has only two options: it is glorified or marginalized.

Palazzo Trucchi Levaldigi, is one of those situations, located at the intersection of Alfieri and XX Settembre streets, just a few steps from Piazza San Carlo, was built between 1673 and 1677 by Amedeo di Castellamonte, one of the greatest architects (some say he was also an alchemist) at the behest of the Kingdom’s finance minister, G. Battista Trucchi, the count. Yes, but Count L was just a status, because not even the title would have ensured his proximity to the king, without a strong lineage and influence to match. And initially that had been impossible. For years he had been the laughing stock of those at court, from the servant to the heads adorned with the crown of emeralds and rubies. But then, by a miracle, he suddenly became a minister. A miracle or a context that he took full advantage of?! Let’s get back to the building.

The palace has a unique diagonal entrance facade, which deviates from the typical perpendicular appearance of the city. From the outside, it looks solid, robust and severe, with an imposing entrance portal. The interiors were modified and repurposed at the beginning of the 20th century. Since 1939, it has served as the headquarters of the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro. Although… Maybe it has other improvements, secrets, niche businesses??

The most striking aspect of the palace is its entrance gate. Originally from 1675 and carved in a Parisian workshop, it is known as the Portone del Diavolo (Devil’s Gate). The “knocker” (the handle used to knock on the door) depicts the devil with two snakes whose heads meet in the center. Other carvings on the gate include a mouse, somewhat evocative of the devil. Legend has it that the gate appeared overnight, a feat only possible with the devil’s help. The devil himself is said to have built the gate, angered by a witch’s apprentice who summoned him. He closed it behind her and never opened it again. Eternal guardian or prisoner? Tales.

In 1790, when the palace belonged to Marianne Carolina di Savoia, a tragic incident occurred at Palazzo Trucchi Levaldigi. During a carnival party, Emma Cochet, the principal ballerina, was suddenly stabbed to death. At the same time, a violent storm with wind, rain and lightning shattered the palace’s windows, plunging it into darkness. The terrified guests, including the elusive murderer, fled. The weapon was never found, but sightings of Emma’s ghost persist. Some employees even speak of a painting depicting the possible murderer amidst the flames, which appeared the day after the murder. That painting can still be seen in the bank’s small museum.

During the Napoleonic era in the early 1800s, when the French controlled the city and the palace served as a government building, a strange incident occurred at Palazzo L. Major Melchiorre, an officer, entered the palace for a quick meal while his valet waited outside. However, the major never left the palace again; he disappeared within the walls of the building. His mission was to retrieve a letter and a possible artifact. About twenty years later, during renovation work, workers discovered a skeleton buried vertically inside a wall, still wearing the remains of his tattered uniform.

These are events that have escaped the public eye, but how many more will be covered up or hidden from the profane eye?! The wind blows words. And these are the subject of analysis and the trigger for other intrigues and gossip. Coincidences over an afternoon coffee, only good to discuss.

In the 1700s, Palazzo Trucchi Levaldigi was located at civic number 15. In divination, 15 is the essence of darkness. On May 15, 1738, the first Tarot Factory was hosted on the ground floor of the building, a game, but also a method of divination where, associated with the number 15, is the devil. Even now, the number, although changed, has an irony similar to mockery, it is no longer 15 but 51. Interestingly, today the tram that stops near the palace corresponds to Turin’s public transport Line 15. Coincidence?! And to make things even better, sometimes it is almost impossible to find the gate in its original form, you go around looking for the magnificent gate in the photos, but you are blind, you get lost around the alleys. Anyway, beyond the administrative importance, it is a tourist spot hunted by occult enthusiasts.

Like any city infused with magic, there are other stories, although ironic to hear stories from the mouths of fairy tales themselves.

In a somewhat quiet neighborhood, although full of people of various social positions, races, cultures, religions, sexual preferences, but otherwise paradoxically close as a community, Mrs. Emilia Laboretti had lived for more than 30 years. If you could call it living what she had strived to do since she was 22. Deprived of any kind of help, between the ages of 6 and 21 she had lived in the care of an aunt tired of life and of a rare arrogance. Her parents had decided to leave her in the care of her aunt, given that business was more important than the child, only that not even a week after Emilia’s transmutation, a car hit them somewhere in the south of Sardinia. And the aunt, like it or not, had to take care of her. Although, apart from school and a meal, she hadn’t done much. Her cousin, out of disgust, had left home and left her alone. And her aunt had put her in a job as an accountant at a company when she was 20. She had found her a job. Well, she had done a good deed too. Besides, she had hoped that her boss, Mr. Abiettone, would like her. He was 15 years older and had gone beyond any limits with his indecency and dirty proposals. Thinking that he would marry her off and get rid of her, her aunt kept urging her from behind.

But Emilia had ignored him. As much as she could. Because Mr. Abiettone was not limited to her, anything with a hole was good and available in his conception. Also, any hardworking employee was good as a slave, not for promotion or recognition of merit. Merits were those who knew how to kiss him in the hole. As an employee it was simple: woman, stay a shift or fly, as a man, you are a servant in the gutter or disappear. Simple. And paradoxically Mr. Abiettone’s wealth grew, again and again. What common sense or respect?! Not to mention limits.

Then, after her aunt had fallen ill and taken care of her for 4 years, she found herself on the street, because her cousin had suddenly appeared to claim his inheritance. Fortunately, she had something left from her parents, and small reserves. And that’s how she had found that apartment, small, in a house from 1911, where she still lives. Later, however, she had given up her job and taken pedagogy courses. As a teacher, she was not better paid, but somewhat appreciated, respected and relatively quiet. Relatively, because many of her acquaintances confused kindness and education with stupidity and tried to deceive her in every way. She was quickly approaching 50, she had met a few men in her time, not enough to have children and although on the one hand she regretted it, on the other hand she congratulated herself for not having brought them into a world where she personally did not consider she had anything to offer.

Years and years of work, school, home, the education offered to others and the aberrations of those around them. According to which true values consist of ambition, will, the hunt for opportunities, the lack of emotional involvement, and hard work.

– Shit!, this was the conclusion Mrs. Laboretti had reached.

Ambition is one thing, but stepping on corpses is another. Let’s see where you still have the will, when you lack the necessary financial means because you weren’t born a thief or a whore, and hunting for opportunities requires an examination of contexts not put to the test nor being a truffle-eating scoundrel. In itself, “true values” were contagious in the environment. Almost 23 years in that building, on an endless alley, a small apartment on the first floor. And the neighbors? Which neighbors? A silent coming and going. However, in the last 8 years he had approached Miss Emma and Mr. Maurizzio. The only ones except for her; who lived in that small palazzo modified into family apartments. Embarrassing, sad, but somehow comfortable. You had a roof and it was somehow bohemian in the fading glory of some once beautiful times.

She had met Emma at a cultural conference, as Emma was a professor of medieval art at the city’s university. A real achievement for her age, because at 31, to have that status already means being exceptional. They had both rolled around with laughter when they each took a taxi to leave and found themselves face to face at the same address:

– Unbelievable and stupid, to be sitting in the same place and not have a clue.

Maybe it was neither. Anyway, in that neighborhood, no one gave a damn about anyone. Unless you were family or could bring in profit. The good part was that they didn’t give a damn, but they didn’t bother you, attack you or comment on you either. There was a kind of “let me leave you alone.” There were also small exceptions.

As for Mr. Maurizzio, he had noticed him one morning, sitting drinking his coffee on the small balcony. A gentleman of 35-36 years old, a former officer. He had a small dog. Invariably at 6:30 they would go out, take turns, and in about 15 minutes they would return with buns and newspapers. Until one day when some individuals took him on and practically barely managed to get the carabinieri out of Mr. Maurizzio’s hands. When it came to statements and interventions, the carabinieri exchanged a few words with Mr. Maurizzio, saluted in a standing position and left. From here the gossip had come out that he had probably once been in the Foreign Legion, or… Miscellaneous.

Later they had talked, she had invited him and Emma to an event in the park or a concert. A kind of friendship had developed between the three of them, but without too much insistence. They had fun especially on Saturday evenings, when everyone was quiet. Sometimes Emma would guess at them in books, sometimes they would go to see a movie at the officer’s, an opportunity for Mrs. Emilia to prepare little homemade sweets. And perhaps life would have been slightly boring, but at least quiet, with little innocent pleasures. But “true values”, which include greed, arrogance, lack of manners, lies, had affected entire areas of the city. She would learn with amazement that among other properties, including hers, it had been purchased from the old owner by none other than Mr. Abiettone. Who, you see, had increased the rent by 15% since the first month and who hadn’t forgotten Emilia’s refusal from 20 years ago. God, Saint Sisoe and other saints! He was carrying a grudge, a disgusting person, vengeful and more disgusting than ever. Especially since he had discovered that Emilia lived there, he had done everything possible to get noticed.

An aberration! If Emilia was approaching 50, clearly Mr. Abiettone had to be around 63-64, maybe?! It didn’t matter that he was married, by the way, and so were other tenants. Emma was disgusted and Mr. Maurizzio was already bored with the new owner’s eternal barking. But when the shit starts flowing, it comes in an avalanche. Not even 6 months later, Emilia is announced, like others, that the apartments will be put up for sale. At 64, Mr. Abiettone didn’t feel like begging for rent. He took a lot of money and did what he wanted when he wanted. Those who have money, good, those who don’t… Arrivederci (it. = goodbye)! And as a final touch of insensitivity, he had offered Emilia a quarter of the price if she served it with “una fetta di pesca” (it. = a slice of peach), accompanied by a meaningful wink. Emilia invited him out. In short! But the problem persisted.

Even in the worst times, calamities, war or… habits can sweeten worries a lot, I think. And Saturday evening had arrived. At Emma’s, with muted jazz music, with Mrs. Emilia’s sweets, an old wine brought by Mr. Maurizzio and the indispensable dog. In the light of the old lamps, Emma seemed an old soul in a young body, and Maurizzio gave the impression of a fierce, ancestral figure, tamed only by the lines of youth, somehow. He had not noticed until then those faces that under the late light of sunset, in a sweet twilight, seemed both young and old at the same time, even if it had only lasted a fraction of a second.

The aroma of bicerin (it. = traditional drink in the Turin area, a mixture of espresso coffee, dark chocolate liqueur and whipped cream) rose softly under the pale and trembling steam from the tall glasses, the music was heard in the background, muted, ambient. Emma spread out the tarot cards on a silky, lilac cloth:

– It seems to me that there are solutions to every problem, even yours, he was addressing Emilia. For me it’s easy, I’m going back home, my parents are old, but they have enough space, at least for a while. However, you would have other choices, Emma sighed, turning over a dark book.

– Yes.. I would be very curious, which one? At 47 years old, I should be looking for another location, with rent, who knows where.

– As a former soldier, I understand the inconveniences related to the eternal detachments or moves. But I’m still young, maybe I could even buy the space. But that’s nonsense. Returning to the options, what would they be? You buy, you move, you compromise or you start over.

– Or… You learn to listen around, to look not only with your eyes but also with your heart, to let go of common sense and logic and listen to the wind, the stone, the scorching sun or the raindrop. Aberrations? Maybe, Emma smiled.

– “I don’t really understand,” admitted Mrs. Emilia.

– You pass by the national bank, the former Trucchi palace, every day on your way to work, there are words, legends, stories. It’s just that no one tries them or proves them, there was an enigmatic glint in Emma’s eyes.

– Maybe others hear them, maybe they try, but they’re probably missing something,
“If there hasn’t been any success yet,” Maurizzio intervened.

– Yeah, and if I were to be open to the idea, there wouldn’t be stories about it if there wasn’t some history behind it, or experiments, trials as you call them, Emilia says with amusement.

Emma settled herself more comfortably in her armchair. She lit a small blue candle, a sandalwood stick, and took a deep breath.

– Well, from what I occasionally discuss with other characters who are fans of improbable sensations, let’s call them that, they were also successful. A current bank, yes. But the signs are there, if you want to understand them. There is also a ritual to access the bank, but not in this world, not on the main avenue.

– Well, what about a bank that does what?

– “But what doesn’t it do?” Emma continued. “A place where if you can get in, you can store anything. Unlimited or with a contract. For a price.”

– But that requires you to get in first. I’m not talking about the bank’s museum opening hours or the working hours with potential clients, Maurizzio suppressed a small smile.
From one to the other, they had started stories. A famous place in the city, with an interesting historical, artistic, even forensic story. According to some, absolutely macabre. The legends themselves never ceased to abound. The easiest way to enter the bank was to carry a bouquet of dandelions, wormwood and thistle flowers. Then, half an hour before sunrise or half after sunset, you had to wash the doorknob with clear milk and then sprinkle the gate, or more precisely, scribble it with a mixture of sulfur, lead powder and red lily and black calla lily sap. If everything was done according to the book, the door let you enter the “other bank” where you negotiated the rates and services. Even then, you didn’t know if you were going in, if you were going out, if you were going to be accepted or rejected. Mother Precistă, what stories did that city have. With such a rich history and mix of cultures, what’s surprising?!

And yet, beyond the not-so-kind reality, most of the time, there was the dream, the desire, the expectation of a hope despite a cruelly learned realism, which stifles any innocence, naivety, the magical sparkle of any soul that has gone through hardships and is surrounded by the abominations created precisely by those who fear and avoid them, people. Regardless of your spiritual capacity, your obtuse or wide-open mind, time flows, passes. And the danger of evacuation, being taken out of your comfort zone, starting a new path at an age when you should be calm about the future, does not change the alternatives of an almost infallible reality. Almost.

Once you get past a certain age, it becomes awkward and incredibly wise to weigh the possibilities even when they seem unlikely. Some call it a risk factor, others existential analysis, weighing up. Well, after all, if you don’t try, you’ll fail. In her situation, Emilia was convinced that it was absolutely absurd to approach the possibility of an urban legend, but in the end, before being evicted, why not allow herself one last “fun”?!

But in the end, although she clearly knew that she would have to move, she hoped not. And this so-called “fun” seemed to finally give her some time for herself, just for herself. She had first visited the old flower markets with the idea of finding those plants required by the “ritual” discussed. But the end of spring had intoxicated her with aromas, colors, people, a sweet happiness that she had thought had been lost for a long time, walking among the white, stone or marble arches of the old buildings. Then she had stopped by antique and herbalist shops that were at least suspicious, in search of sulfur, lead, and occult shops with alcoholic suspensions of various plant extracts. Again walks, late spring rains, couples in love, tourists, locals, children, dogs, pigeons, a cat at the window, churches, alleys, things she had neglected until she lost them and now in her initially aberrant walk, she was discovering them, rediscovering herself along with them. For a moment she had had the feeling that life had passed her by, maybe it wasn’t too late yet.

And then the 18th had arrived. A hot June, still dark, still a vague chill. She had left home early. The streets were deserted, except for a few here and there, like a drunk from a party or someone hurrying to or from work. 3:33. She had sat down at the tram stop 15. She had placed the bouquet of dandelions, wormwood and thistles, yellow, green, purple, on the tram tracks. And surprisingly it had seemed to her that the iron was trembling. But at that hour nothing was coming and yet. An old tram, ancestral, but shiny, orange, had stopped in front of her. Nobody, just her and an old woman. No conductor, no driver.

– Count 6 stops, don’t gape, count six stops and get off, the old woman repeated over and over, leafing through a magazine and now and then looking at it with big, bulging eyes from behind round glasses.

They had left more floating, sliding, and the city was different. The same and yet different, a copy, somehow more elegant, sober and at the same time dark, somehow seductive but hiding something serious, a danger that was floating, almost palpable. He had traveled that route many times. Other buildings, he had crossed 9 bridges, he had counted 7 parks, nothing that you would find on the city map.

And that old woman who was no longer silent:

– Count 6 stations, don’t gape, count six stations and get off.

Finally, she didn’t know what awaited her, but Emilia was glad that at least she didn’t hear that voice that was becoming irritating, like a lament. In front of her were two wide alleys with tall, manicured trees, with flowers, and the building that she knew all too well, she had passed by there a few times, she had even entered it when she worked as an accountant. She knew it, but except for the gate, it was different, it seemed majestic, incredibly white under the light of the wrought iron lanterns. Only the wide gate of strong wood, rich to the point of decadence, and that handle stuck in the middle. There wasn’t even a soul, no camera, a lugubrious wasteland despite the beauty of the place, an abandoned space on the verge of purgatory. She had scribbled with a clenched heart on the wood, and it seemed that the sculptures were absorbing the mixture insatiably, then the smell of milk woke the snakes from the mouth of the devil’s hammer. And they crept towards the bottle that awaited them below, on the cubic stone pavers. Emilia knocked, briefly, without haste. Now is now. And the door opened slowly, creaking long and making just enough room for them to pass through.

A huge hall. Perfectly round, with an intricate floor, a mosaic of black and white, yellow marble columns, a liquid gold as it were, cold, with pink and gray inserts. Hallucinatingly large chandeliers, pure, almost incandescent white.

“If this was a bank belonging to hell, then how could it be one of Heaven?” Emily wondered .

Deserted, not a single human being, and yet shadows, dark touches, floated behind the columns, fast, too fast to see with the naked eye. Only at the end did he see somewhere at the end, at a desk set on a pedestal, like a catafalque, a little old man in a suit, with nickel glasses, scribbling grumblingly in a notebook:

– Oh… please hurry up, we only have 27 minutes and 41 seconds. Tick-tock. Follow me.

Incredible, hypnotic, it smelled of bitter flowers, peony and queen of the night and music in the background, a kind of café concert. Then they both sat down in an enormous office, more like a reception room. Paneling, fireplace, soft carpets, leather sofas, stained glass.

– Who will recommend you? But first, lead dust, sorry but we need the guarantee that we are not working in vain.

Why lead and not silver or gold? Strange.

– Because we practice alchemy among other things, the old man replied. We also make lead and gold. GOOD !! Fatty, fatty. So? How did you find us, what recommendations?

– Hardly?! Recommendations, a gossip with some friends, Emma and Maurizzio.

– A… I see, the ballerina and the officer, the old man squeaked. Mrs. Laboretti, you are somehow favored, I would say. Old clients recommend you. So? What should we deposit?! As an information note, anything for an unlimited period or on a contract if you have ideas to the taste of the bank.

Now is now. Really anything?! The idea had been brewing for a long time, he didn’t like it, but…

– I would like to depose Mr. Abiettone.

– I don’t think you understand, anything not everyone, unless you can prove that anyone fits into anything.

– If you take into account the value of the good and its principles then it will not be a problem, Abiettone considered people according to his “true values” to be just tools. A tool is an object. So, by applying what he believes and wants, I don’t see why he wouldn’t benefit from his own principles, ceasing to be someone and reducing him to something.

– “Interesting approach,” the little man rubbed his hands contentedly. “One moment, please.”

He then leafed through some old catalogs, almost urinating, with writing that seemed like it would soon leak from the yellowed and peeling pages.

– Accepted! The rate is 96 gr of lead for the next 15 years. But, in case you die, what should we do with the property? Only the depositor can release it, or the bloodline of the depositor.

– No, he will free himself, if he deserves it, I would like him to be placed in a space where everything he did to others will be done to himself.

– I think we can arrange a reality for the good you have deposited. Your imagination amazes me. We are hiring, you know.

– No thanks, I’m already stepping on my own soul just by being here, the best deal with the Devil is to have no deal with him.

Santa wrinkled his nose slightly, somehow unpleasantly surprised, partly amused:
– You are entitled to one more deposit and a tiny withdrawal, a kind of small bonus from the house.

Emilia was thinking, quickly, time was passing and the atmosphere was becoming hot, almost oppressive, suffocating:

– I would like to contribute a little bit of my humanity, enough to stop giving importance to all the crap and thus be able to cultivate my wisdom related to social relationships, as for the extraction, I think a little bit of luck would be good for me.

Santa snapped his fingers. He found himself in the street and there was that strange city. Somewhere in the background a cavernous voice could be heard:

– I’ve been looking for you for over 15 years, for possible other details.

The sun rose red, yellow, orange, a melange of incandescent colors under a glorious aurora, reality vibrated around and the air spread out in thin strips of smoke, giving way to the true reality. Her city. People, cars, tram, bus, late or perhaps too early tourists, the city at dawn. 5:30. Smell of espresso, of cubetti (it = geometric puff pastry of a cube shape, filled with various creams, pistachios, chocolate, raspberry paste). The lights of an ambulance, the first workers. The light. The city was hers, the one she knew. Again, real, vibrating in unison with her. She could feel. She was alive!

Three days had already passed and, curiously, although her activities were running more smoothly, without fuss, but completely changed in terms of routine, she had not bumped into either Emma or Maurizzio. Later, she had found some workers, emptied Emma’s apartment, and moved back to hers, at least that’s what she understood from the message she had received later on her mobile. But they could keep in touch if necessary. As for Maurizzio, she had received a phone call from him at the weekend. He had gone to visit a cousin in France, but if she needed anything or thought she could get information or anything else, she had his number.

Yes, but… In the middle of the following month, no sign of an evacuation order. Then the newspapers:

– “Mr. E.Abiettone is found hanged in his villa. Police are investigating, new details in the evening edition. His company taken over by his only niece, blah blah blah.”

As a result, the building had been evaluated, it required too much effort, the apartments had been put up for sale to tenants for the first time, but at social housing prices, practically 70% cheaper than the real price. Well, she was left with no savings, but now she had her own home. And later, the building was listed as an architectural heritage site and the city hall took care of everything, renovations and more. The strange thing was that neither the neighbors nor the old owner, before Mr. Abiettone, remembered anyone ever living there. Well, what the hell had they moved that furniture from the transport anyway? Curiosity or the desire to understand the illogicality in the first phase determined her to investigate the library archives, especially the old newspapers. Although the building had undergone minor changes since 1911, it seemed that at least two unpleasant incidents had taken place in the building.

Somewhere in 1927 a cabaret artist is shot by a jealous lover, and in 1943 a teacher is brutally murdered, he was part of the resistance movement. Emilia already had a kaleidoscope of “déjà-vu” in her head, reality seemed to be repeating history, with slightly modified nuances.

It is understandable and yet unlikely that this was the reason why two apartments remained empty for more than 80 years.

So you see, story or not, a bank is a bank, you don’t play. Emilia Laboretti would become Mrs. Davelto the following year, a former high school classmate. And her life would go on normally and peacefully, no longer giving importance to all the shit and refusing to please everyone, just like that, out of a misunderstood common sense.

Palazzo Trucchi Levaldigi, one of those architectural situations with strange stories, located at the intersection of Alfieri and XX Settembre streets, just a few steps from Piazza San Carlo. With wide alleys, between two boulevards , with small parks in the area. On some evenings, late, under the muffled music of a ditty sliding from a window, on a park bench, if you let your mind run away, if you accept to close your eyes and listen, you might hear a geranium whispering to a queen of the night flower:

– What else is heard from the mouth of the Devil? Yesterday evening the doors opened again.

– Yes sister… I felt hot too…

And in that silence, under the coolness of the evening wind, under a sweet melancholy, perhaps you dreamed.
Or not?!? And how many times were they deposited in the safes? The real values?!

Credit: Louis Vigny

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Please note the author of this Creepypasta does NOT give permission for it to be produced in any other medium