Padre Salas (4 page)

X. The Banks of Lake Chapala, State of Jalisco

José Antonio had not told the priests
everything
he knew: he had to keep some information in reserve, so as to always carry something of an advantage. In spite of everything, however, he was very clear with himself that if he came across something that could help those poor girls leave their catatonic states, he would not hesitate to share it with them.

Little Valeria had woken up before her father finally returned home, well into the night. During that time, he was able to talk to her, and even though the girl didn’t remember anything of what had happened whilst she had been
possessed
, she remembered very well what had happened just before falling into the trance. She remembered having gone to Chapala with her parents, to celebrate the
Day of the Dead
, where they were attending the
Festival of Life and Death
, which had risen quickly to fame throughout Jalisco, especially in the surrounding areas of Guadalajara, for its originality and colour. The little girl had immediately begun to make friends as soon as they had arrived on the street, and whilst their parents were focussed on enjoying the more than 80 impressive alters ready for the competition, and the delicious food of the city, she had separated off to go to the bank of the lake along with nine other girls her age. Together, they walked along the edge of the lake, until arriving at a separate area, and there, as a game, one of the girls, Gabriela, whom the journalist knew lived in El Salto, had proposed carrying out a ritual that she had seen one of her neighbours performing: a ritual whose objective was none other than to invoke the dead.

Valeria confessed that they had been drawing circles and other things in the sand, and that with a few sticks they had constructed a sort of pyramid. Then, they had all held hands and, laughing, had been calling the dead to communicate with them. And, as is logical, nothing happened. They all went back to the centre of Chapala as if nothing had happened, and each returned to their respective towns and cities with their parents. It wasn’t until the night-time when Valeria had begun to feel bad, as if she had eaten a lot... and then she remembered nothing else after that.

Sancho had gone to Chapala: he needed some proof that what the girl had told him was true. He parked the car in the city centre, and went down the avenue
Francisco Ignacio Madero
, towards the
Palacio Municipal
. He could feel his heart beating: the blood pounded his chest and pulsated in his temples, causing his hands to tremble. He arrived at the
Paseo Ramón Corona
, with its tall palm trees and marvellous views of the lake. He walked down the long street until he reached the last of the restaurants, which bordered a grove in which he got lost on his way to the enormous lagoon. Guided by instinct, he went down a little dirt track with the mind-set, according to his own interpretation, of a group of ten intrepid little girls who were having the adventure of their lives. His eyes scrutinised each corner, each area of the ground, in search of any evidence, like a detective carrying out the search for the evidence of a crime. Finally, his heart skipped a beat when, now very close to the bank of the lake, he found the pyramid constructed out of small twigs, exactly as Valeria had described. Walking around it, he could discern some drawings in the sand, but the passage of time, together with the wind, had rendered them barely perceptible. In spite of everything, the reporter took an enormous amount of photographs, from all possible angles. He had to graphically document the place in which the girls had potentially carried out a ritual which had had fatal consequences for them.

He could not discern whether he was just being influenced by everything that was happening, or if it really was to do with something more physical, but he noticed a sort of electrical discharge in the tips of his fingers when he picked up the pyramid, to place it with the utmost care into a bag.

Like a common and petty thief, Sancho returned slyly back to his car, and left the camera and the bag containing the bizarre tetrahedron, for which he already had a peculiar respect, on the back seats. Not only had he received an electric shock, but his vision had also become momentarily clouded, like when one is dizzy, feeling the effects of vertigo.

Driving down the jam-packed Federal 44, on the way back to his hotel in Guadalajara, thousands of ideas, speculations and questions piled up in his mind: how had Gabriela been able to carry out the ritual? What was the significance of the pyramid? What had the girls drawn in the sand? What sort of invocations had they performed? But there was one question that pushed all the others into the background, tormenting him, and was the epicentre of all his misgivings: was it really possible that, this far into the 21
^st
Century, an innocent ritual, performed by a small group of little girls, who were only playing, could really unleash the fury of a demon, causing a terrifying tragedy?

XI. Some remote area of Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

Padre Salas was going around in circles, waiting, shrouded in the white chasuble and purple stole, now arranged over his shoulders. He was nervously mumbling some litany to dispel his fears.

“They’re all here now,” whispered Padre Rincón, appearing discreetly through a door.

“Then let’s not waste any more time.”

The Archdiocese of Guadalajara had given them use of a small warehouse, which on occasions would serve as a storage facility for non-perishable foods. This was so that Padre Salas could carry out the exorcism ritual in private, and without the fear of being hounded by the press, just in case the information about the girls’ homes was leaked. There was always room for the possibility that one of the parents might divulge it, either out of desperation or ambition, but even so, the situation was much more manageable in that hidden and discreet location.

The warehouse was a large room, with tall, narrow rectangular windows through which barely any light could come. There were no columns, and the floor was unpolished concrete. They had moved away all of the shelves, tables, chairs, and other objects, with the aim of leaving a completely clear space. The four walls were equally without any adornment, and only three of them had a door: one, as an entry and exit; another, leading to the toilets; and the last one led to a tiny office.

Padre Salas found himself with 22 people who were waiting in tense silence: the nine girls, nine mothers, three fathers, and the reporter from
Las Noticias
, with whom he had made an agreement. He already knew all of them, and as such he could get straight to the point and save himself any useless circumlocutions.

“We’re going to start the process of exorcism on your daughters. I have received authorisation from both the Archbishop of Guadalajara and the Prime Archbishop of Mexico. It is a harsh
treatment
, which you can of course watch, but during which you cannot intervene. If, at any moment, any one of you does not feel strong enough to endure the tension which this will certainly induce, Padre Rincón will escort you to this office here or, if you prefer, to outside the warehouse.”

Padre Salas paused. He contemplated the downcast and frightened faces of the mothers and fathers. Apart from one of the girls, whose was barely being held up by her mother, the others appeared to be asleep in their parents’ arms.

“One person is going to record the entire ritual. We’re doing it as much for your own security as to keep a testimony of the ceremony, so that it can be of help to future victims of possession. Your daughters’ faces will be pixelated, concealed, and your names and surnames will be protected, so that your identities remain safe. Are there any questions?”

The priest looked back at those poor people: they were humble people; he had been into their homes and had seen first hand their shabby surroundings. He doubted that they would have an understanding of the significance of the process he was about to begin, but he knew that they trusted him. Perhaps that was the most important thing: the only important thing.

“Could my daughter end up dying?” asked Daniela’s father, from El Salto, in almost a whisper.

“Many things can happen, but we should have faith, believe in the power of God, and in the strength of your daughters to expel the demons that have possessed them.”

“Forgive me, father, but you haven’t answered my question...”

The priest noticed that his lips were trembling. Images from the past came flooding back to his mind: images that he had been able to leave behind him when he was in his refuge in Coyoacán. Now, he saw himself once more involved in a duel with a demon, and his worst nightmares plagued him with ferocity.

“Yes, they can be near death, they can perish, and they can even burst into flame spontaneously, right before our eyes. You need to be prepared. But to not confront the situation would mean to accept that the girls end up, sooner rather than later, transforming completely into atrocious beasts, treacherous and malevolent. To die, from one perspective, I dare say is the lesser of two evils.”

Padre Salas returned to the office, coming back with a bottle of holy water. He began to pray in Latin, as he went around splashing the water on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and everyone present. Sancho was recording, in a state of astonishment, everything that the priest was doing. He felt both distressed and exultant at the same time. Suddenly, the walls in the warehouse gave off a resounding crack, and the girls began to howl, shout, and bellow violently like unruly wild animals. Everyone else was shaking, terrified, except for Padre Salas, who continued praying, hardly missing a beat.

XII. El Salto, State of Jalisco

Sancho was afraid of potentially missing anything interesting happening back at the warehouse in Guadalajara, but he could not stop himself from going out and investigating on his own, and what little Valeria had relayed to him, along with what he had discovered on the banks of Lake Chapala, needed answers.

Besides, he urgently needed to keep informed, since the editor in chief, euphoric as he had shown himself to be after the sensational public reception to the report about the possessed girls, was starting to lose his patience. The brief notes that Sancho sent him, commenting on the process of the exorcism, were not enough. The veil of silence that the Church had managed to impose on the media had only served to increase the sensation that
Las Noticias
really was, and continued to be, the only newspaper that had direct access to the sources.

Sancho parked his car in the outskirts of El Salto, very close to Gabriela’s house who, according to Valeria’s version of the story, was the girl who had led the invocations. Her home was in an area of low-level, modest houses, but they were pretty and well cared for. Almost all of them were in a very similar architectural style, and they were plastered in light tones of pink, turquoise and green. He went up and down all of the streets, stopping at each and every door, until he finally came across the one he was looking for: a sign next to an open door, which read;
Yanet. Witch: Fortune telling and Love spells.

José Antonio remained there in front of the doorway to the house, hesitating for a few minutes. He should proceed with caution; he needed to find a way of obtaining the information without arousing the suspicions of a woman who had not necessarily done anything bad, nor was directly to blame for all that had happened. Finally, he crossed the threshold, and was received by a dark and dense atmosphere, barely illuminated by dozens of small candles, and a penetrating odour that he associated with incense.

“Yanet?” he dared to ask out loud.

“Who is it?”

A short, and somewhat bulky woman, with kind eyes, a sweet voice and reserved expression, appeared as if out of the blue.

“My name is José Antonio Sancho. I’m a reporter from
Las Noticias
, in Mexico City. I’m writing a report about witchcraft in Jalisco, and I would like to ask you a few questions.

The woman scrutinised him before responding.

“I don’t believe you’re telling the truth. What do you really want?”

“Okay, I wish to know if it’s possible to invoke a malign being.”

“You’re going to write about that in your newspaper? You’re all the same, you only have bad things to say about witchcraft...”

“No, no. Yanet,” said Sancho, trying to gain the seer’s confidence by using her name, “I just wish to give you the opportunity to express yourself, to reject all the slander.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, someone has to present a different point of view...”

“Follow me. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

The woman led him to an inner room. The walls were plastered with images and cards, and on top of the only table were dozens of candles, giving off a welcoming reddish light. They both sat down on some cushions on the floor.

“Thank you very much,” murmured the journalist.

“We’re devoted to doing good, do you understand? We help people, try to comfort them...”

“Interesting.”

“Look, although I’ve lived in Mexico for decades, I’m actually Cuban, and come from a family that’s been dedicated to witchcraft for generations. Do I look like someone who goes around summoning the Devil?”

“Not at all.”

“Here, what the majority of people come to me for are
love spells
, you know? Basically, they’re women who only want their boyfriend or husband to love them for life. Some also want me to predict the future, and then there are some who want to hear from their dead.”

“Then, nothing about devils?”

“For the last time, no!” exclaimed Yanet, ill humoured.

“Do you know Gabriela?” he then enquired, with a certain level of fear, changing the topic so drastically. He knew that the interview could end at any moment.

“Gabriela? Yes, she’s a little girl who lives nearby. Every now and then, she drops by and I let her stay. When she’s older, she wants to be a witch and a seer, you know? But, what does the little one have to do with you?”