Padre Salas (5 page)

The reporter took a few photographs out of his overnight bag: they were the ones he had taken on the banks of Lake Chapala.

“It’s possible that this girl might be in danger, and you can help her. I beg you to take a look at this pyramid, in case there’s anything it can tell you.”

The seer took the photographs, suspicious, and she contemplated them for a good while, several times.

“It’s a ritual I’ve only performed on a couple of occasions. It’s Aztec. An elder taught it to me when I lived in Axapusco, many years ago. It represents the Pyramid of the Moon, which is in Teotihuacán. It’s a construction found at the end of the place they call the
Calzada de los Muertos
, or ‘Avenue of the Dead’. It’s a funerary. Some Mexicans think that it’s possible to speak with the dead, invoking the Moon Goddess. I don’t know what to say to you...”

“And Gabriela saw you once constructing this pyramid with twigs?”

“She didn’t just watch me, she helped me do it! What’s so bad about that?”

Sancho felt his blood coursing fiercely once more through his circulatory system, causing a painful pounding within his temples, within his chest, within all of the internal organs crowded into his abdomen.

“I don’t know. I’m going to reveal some confidential information, because I believe that your collaboration could end up being important: Gabriela has been possessed by a demon. Right now, she’s in a secret place in Guadalajara, in the hands of an exorcist. Is there anything that you believe he should know?”

The witch sat up, her eyes almost protruding out of their sockets. She was thoroughly enraged.

“Are you accusing me of something? Do you think that I could have had something to do with this tragedy?”

“Not at all... Please... There are several girls involved, they were playing, and they definitely did something without knowing it, but I need to know what!”

“Get out of my house!” cried the seer, as she pushed him away with all her strength. “I don’t ever want to see you around here again!”

Sancho left Yanet’s house under an onslaught of shoves and blows. He accepted a decent amount of the beating, because a part of him understood the unmeasured reaction of the witch, whom he instinctively believed to be a good woman. 

He stayed in the street for a few minutes, disorientated and confused. All of a sudden, he realised that he had his bag with him, but during the commotion he had left behind the photographs at her house. He did not dare go back to collect them. He had digital copies of all of the material, but even so, it bothered him that the woman was in possession of such valuable graphic evidence. Disappointed, he set off in search of his car. He had barely taken a few steps when he heard the woman’s voice, behind him.

“Reporter!”

Sancho immediately turned back, as he thought that there was nothing worse that could happen to him that day. Yanet was waiting for him with the snapshots in one hand, and a small book in the other.

“Forgive me, I should have told you the truth from the beginning. I’m sorry...” he said.

“I’m not bothered about that. I’m not doing this for you; I’m doing it for the girl. Perhaps this could be of some value to the exorcist.

The witch handed him the photographs, along with a small book with black covers and golden letters. In the centre, there was a pentagram.

“What is it?”

“I have a large library. This is a singular manual of satanic rituals. I myself have never practiced these ceremonies, or anything like them. But when I looked back over the photos carefully, I believe I recognised some drawings. Perhaps at some point Gabriela, in secret, read this book, and when she was playing, she mixed up different invocations and rituals. From what you’ve told me, the consequences couldn’t have been worse...”

“Then, can I take it with me?”

“Yes, take it! But I’ll say it again: don’t ever come back here. I don’t ever want to see you again in my life, do you understand?”

The journalist nodded, and went away with his prized treasure in his hands. He had barely got back into his car when he could not avoid noticing that his mobile was ringing.

“Mr Fuentes?”

“Sancho, is that you?” asked the editor in chief of
Las Noticias
.

“Yes. I have something for the Sunday edition that you’re just going to love.”

“Don’t be all enigmatic with me, just tell me what it is.”

“I’ve finally found out how those girls were possessed.”

XIII. Hidden Warehouse in Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

Padre Salas and Padre Rincón had prepared some mats, so that the girls could lie down, all together, on the dull cement floor of the warehouse. To avoid them hurting themselves, and even though the resulting image seemed somewhat cruel and sinister, they had all been put into straitjackets, with foam-rubber protection. Their ankles were also tied together, but the rope used was thick, made of smooth cotton, so as to avoid the girls incurring any bruising.

“Even though these may seem like drastic measures,” stated Padre Salas, once they had finished with the preparations, and turning towards the girls’ families, “we’re doing this for the good of your daughters. The possessed person usually develops an uncommon, disproportionate strength, and it is of vital importance to be able to control it at all times. Very often, they can hurt themselves, inflicting terrible injuries; on other occasions, they can lash out with barbaric energy at anybody within their reach.”

The girls’ parents were listening attentively, but also in a state of terror, as the scene caused shivers down the spine. In spite of everything, they were keeping calm, and none of them had shown any signs of desperation or opposition. They had accepted with unusual speed that they were in the hands of the Church, and that only those men would be able to save their daughters from the curse that had taken hold of them.

“It’s possible that from this instant, we will experience moments of tension, that come with the territory of bearing witness to phenomena that you would never have been able to imagine. I beg of you to trust in us, and do not allow yourselves to be ensnared by the tricks the demons may perform in their effort to disturb our faith. God is much more powerful, believe me. Don’t intervene. As I’ve already told you: if any one of you is finding it unbearable, or falls prey to panic, you can leave the room whenever you want to. But one action on your part at any point throughout the ritual could have fatal consequences, as much for your daughters as for yourselves.”

José Antonio was recording, from one corner, with his Nikon HD camera. He could not avoid thinking about Valeria’s mother. He continued with his task, trying to push away those terrible memories that invariably besieged him with insufferable obstinacy. The filming conditions were not optimal, since the light was very scarce, but he took into account the fact that he was not in any position to make demands, and that it was almost miraculous that he was allowed to even be here, to be a witness, and almost a chronicler, of everything that happened. There were nine children: Magdalena and Camila, from Tonalá; Zoé, Ximena and Natalia, from Zapotlanejo; Adelina and Vanessa, from Puente Grande; and Gabriela and Daniela, from El Salto. They were only missing one: Valeria, whose mother had sacrificed her own life to save her daughter’s.

“Padre Rincón, have you brought the Archdiocese’s stoles?”

“Yes, I have them in the little office.”

“Are they blessed?”

“Yes; in just the way you told me to.”

“Would you please get them?”

Padre Rincón went to the office, and returned with nine purple stoles. Both priests began tying the stoles together, and then they walked around wrapping the blessed cloth around each one of the girls’ necks. Upon feeling the contact of the stoles, the girls emitted moans, grunts, and some of them even cursed in Spanish and Latin. Upon finishing, the priests were now facing each other; one to the left, and the other to the right of the row of girls, and each holding in one hand one end of the tied stoles, and in the other, a copy of the Holy Bible along with a Saint Benedict medal. Positioned on the floor, halfway between the two parishioners, and just at the girls’ feet, a crucifix stood majestically.

“Begin the reading,” indicated Padre Salas.

“Oh Lord, in your name, save me, and with your power defend me. Oh, Lord, hear my prayer; hear the truth I speak, because evil has risen up against me, and men of violence are in pursuit of my life; they have not placed God before themselves. Here, I have the help of the Lord God, who will return the evil back to my enemies; He will cut them down with His truth. I will voluntarily sacrifice to you, oh Lord; I will praise your name, because it is good; because it has liberated me from all anguish, and my eyes have seen the ruin of my enemies.”

Two hours passed in which the priests did nothing else but pray and recite litanies. The journalist was exhausted, along with the family members, but, however, he was the impartial witness for the integrity, the resistance and the resolution of both priests. Then suddenly, something changed, and Padre Salas began to shout out in Latin, as if giving imperious orders to the demon that had taken hold of the girls. The little ones began to twist around, and shout, as if something white hot was burning away within their stomachs. Sancho approached, as he sensed that something important was happening. He was focussing, steadily, on the girls’ faces, which were deformed by pain. It was horrifying, and he could barely hold the camera in his hands. From somewhere, there came sobs and desperate cries, which he attributed to the girls’ parents, who must be completely emotionally torn apart. It was at that moment when one of the girls, Adelina, began to vomit. At first, it seemed to José Antonio to be an amorphous and greyish mass, but upon adjusting the camera’s focus, he discovered to his horror that they were slender snakes, dark in colour, and some thirty centimetres long. Shortly after, the rest of the girls began to double up, suffering from violent convulsions, and then began to regurgitate, almost in unison, snakes identical to those which poor Adelina had just expelled from her own mouth.

––––––––

XIV. Hotel NH Guadalajara, Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

J
osé Antonio Sancho was working intensely, in spite of the fact that it was very late and he felt completely worn out. He had to finish the long article that would be going out in the Sunday newspaper, in which there would be a space reserved for him on page one. Before setting out on the task of writing, he had reviewed all of the recordings and photographs that he had taken to date, and he understood that the material, aside from its horrifying nature, was a gem: it was a report that any journalist would have given their right arm for. So as to avoid potential problems, he made safe copies in each of the online storage facilities with which he had a
Premium
account:
Dropbox
and
Google Drive
. Once all of the archives were on the
Cloud
, he felt relieved: if for any reason he lost them, they were stolen, or his memory cards or hard disks were destroyed, he would always be able to recover them.

A certain sense of guilt tormented him as he wrote out the article, since he was going to share with the public information that he had still not shared with Padre Salas. But he hoped that the priest would understand the position he was in: it was one thing maintaining the due respect towards the girls, and the process of exorcism until it had concluded, and another thing entirely to wait until an indeterminate date without sending a single item of substance to his newspaper. That could entail his having to return to Mexico City, at the very least: or immediate dismissal, in the worst-case scenario.

He finished the article, and read it through several times. He considered it to be accurate enough: on the one hand, it did not reveal any sensitive information; but on the other, it provided for the reader new information that was still absolutely fascinating, and which he was convinced would arouse the interest of hundreds of thousands of people all throughout Mexico. Secretly, he also dreamed of soon receiving offers from the media in the USA and Europe.

The brief report came with a single photograph, which was the one that would take up part of the front page of
Las Noticias
: the pyramid constructed of twigs, surrounded by those strange and almost imperceptible drawings scratched into the sand. It was a closed shot, so that nobody would be able to identify it as Lake Chapala. And there would be time aplenty afterwards to relate all aspects of this extraordinary investigation in the utmost detail. For the moment, it was better and more profitable to give out the information in small but interesting doses. The headline could not be more sensational:
DEMONIC POSSESSION HORROR: HOW IT ALL STARTED.

Feeling rather self-satisfied, the journalist sent the email with the article and high-resolution photograph to his editor. He believed he knew Fuentes well, and he was sure this would bring delight to his office upon reading it. The difficult thing was going to be controlling his anxiety and greed: they would ask more of him, they would urge him to reveal more, to avoid the issue slipping from the public consciousness, or another reporter from any rival media outlet approaching them with any questions. In the end, it was better to contend with the pressure of the demand than with the possibility of adding himself onto the list of unemployed journalists.

Now more relaxed, and his homework done, Sancho contemplated the plastic bag containing the tetrahedron constructed by the girls. He had not taken it out of there since bringing it back from Chapala in his car. Curiosity tempted him, and, with the utmost care, he opened the bag. No sooner had he done that, he thought he could hear a sort of buzzing in his ears; a sound that did not seem to be coming from the outside world: it was as if it were being generated within his own head. Was it a warning? Despite the fear that gripped him, the journalist dared to place his hand upon the pyramid, to check if he would feel the electrical discharge, like he had done the first time he touched it. This time it was different. A burning sensation shot right through his fingers, speeding up through his arms, as if it were travelling through his veins, propelled as if pulsing through his arteries. It was a horrendous experience, and he thought he was living the last moments of his life. Then the burning reached his brain, and set into his pupils, forcing him to close his eyes, squeezing his eyelids together tightly, wracked with pain. And in this state of derangement, he thought he saw a terrifying being: a gigantic monster, with several heads, one of which was a deformed, half human fly, with red pupils that stared at him fixedly, whilst the rest of the heads rocked violently. The beast had multiple limbs, indescribable, as if belonging to very different animals and insects, and out of its shoulders came enormous, bat-like wings, which seemed to be burning, emitting powerful flames with their drawn-out beating. The pestilent creature watched him with its terrible incandescent eyes, observing him, as if reflecting on what to do with him. Finally, it uttered some words that resonated throughout the journalist’s skull like an infernal thunderclap:
“Get away from me, human!”