The Haunted

by Bentley Little

  To this, there was an answer from a man who seemed to be the leader of the savages.

  Insubordination again.

  “He says they cannot,” Brother Augusto translated. “He says the place where the church is to be built is bad land. They will build the church if it is moved to another location but will not do so if it remains at this site.”

  Father Juarez felt his anger rising. He and his men had been nothing but kind to these natives, had brought them God and culture and farming techniques more advanced than any seen before in this heathen land. And how were they rewarded? How were they repaid? By defiance, not gratitude.

  He was not about to have his decisions second-guessed by savages, to have terms dictated by half-naked primitives, and, trying to hold in his fury, he said, “Inform them that this site has been chosen by God, that, as men, they may not question His will nor defy His edict. They will build the church, and they will do so on the consecrated land. It is so ordered, and any unwillingness, any disobedience will meet with swift and sure justice.”

  Brother Augusto spoke for a moment in the native tongue. The leader of the savages turned to his people and spoke. The reply he received was a short, ugly word that he repeated to Brother Augusto with what seemed to be a smug satisfaction.

  “They will not do it, Your Holiness.”

  “What?” Father Juarez felt the heat in his face.

  “They refuse,” the translator said.

  “Then kill them all. As a lesson to those who would defy the Church and the will of God.”

  “Should I warn them of that punishment?” Brother Augusto asked. “Should I tell them that if they—”

  “No,” Father Juarez said. “Kill them.”

  There was hesitation, and soldiers looked to one another as though for guidance.

  “Kill them all!” Father Juarez ordered.

  The rifles began firing. There was smoke and screaming, the sound of explosions, savages running and falling, the smell of gunpowder, blood and excrement. When it was all over, when the smoke and dust had cleared, when the chaos had ended and the screaming stopped, there was an eerie silence. Standing on his cart, Father Juarez overlooked the scene. Bloody bodies lay in irregular heaps upon the ground, dozens of them, men, women and children, chests blown open, limbs torn apart.

  He remained unmoved.

  “Bury them,” he ordered. “We will build the church upon their bones.”

  * * *

  In the years that followed, Father Juarez came to regret his decision, which had been made in anger and haste. His charge was to tame these savages, to teach them, to convert them from their pagan ways. They were like children and should be punished as such, as he’d learned during the time intervening. His penalty for disobedience and sloth had been too harsh, and he had decided to make his home here at San Jardine to atone for his mistake.

  For a mistake it had been. Whether or not this land really had been bad or cursed or evil, as the natives had insisted, it had certainly been stained and tainted by the slaughter he had authorized, and was now as corrupted and debased as the savages had claimed it to be.

  The spirits here were not at rest.

  Was that his fault? Father Juarez knew not. But more than one good man had been taken from them in the prime of life, felled by spirits unseen, the victim of an unexplainable accident or a suspicious unknown illness. Earlier this week Brother Ignatio, unable to cope with the pressures placed upon him, had taken his own life, drowning himself in the cistern by weighting himself down with rocks and ropes. Father Juarez was grief-stricken and filled with remorse. Brother Ignatio had been his best friend and closest confidant, a studious, industrious servant of God who had dedicated himself to bringing others to the light. As a student of Scripture and a scholar of the Catholic philosophers and theologians, he, more than anyone, had known that to take his own life would keep him eternally from God’s grace. Yet he had died by his own hand.

  Father Juarez could not understand such behavior. It made no sense. And for such a devout man to so thoroughly reject his own beliefs, to so flagrantly and irrevocably defy his God … It was beyond his comprehension.

  Unless Brother Ignatio had not taken his own life.

  Those were the rumors Father Juarez had heard. And it was why he feared for himself. It was wrong of him to have such a focus, and blasphemous to be afraid while under God’s protection in His own church, but when he retired at night to his chamber, when he lay upon his cot and stared up at the painted adobe ceiling, he saw shadows that should not be there, shadows that had no source. Shapes darker than the darkness seemed to move about the room, and he would say his prayers loudly so as to drown out the whispers that called to him, the whispers that knew his name.

  Now he worried that if Brother Ignatio had been compelled by demons or spirits to take his own life—or, far worse, if demons or spirits had taken life from him—a similar fate might befall himself.

  Already there were reports that Brother Ignatio’s spirit had been seen in the bell tower and in the library, two of the places he haunted most in life. If it were merely the natives, or even the soldiers, who had reported seeing this, Father Juarez might well have dismissed the claims. But two of the friars had seen him as well, Brother Martin up close, and the friar recalled with genuine terror espying a face filled with such anger and hate that it distorted the features into something monstrous.

  “Are you sure it was Brother Ignatio?” Father Juarez pressed him.

  “I am certain,” he replied. “It could be no other.”

  On Sunday, Father Juarez presided over Mass, and for the first time in a very long while, he was acutely aware of the fact that the foundation of this building was filled with bones. The bodies of those he’d had killed lay here beneath the nave, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether it was his own intemperate and misguided decision to inter them there that had led to this pass.

  What did God think of his actions? Father Juarez wondered. He had prayed for forgiveness times too numerous to count and had often asked for a sign, though none had been provided. Was he forgiven? Did the Lord look into his heart and see contrition there, repentance?

  Maybe Brother Ignatio had taken his own life.

  Maybe he had known he would not get into heaven.

  That night, Father Juarez made his rounds, checked to make sure the slaves were locked in, then went into the chapel, where he lit another candle for Brother Ignatio before kneeling in front of the altar to pray. The chapel was cold and dark, lit only by the flickering votive candles in the alcove. He was halfway through his prayer, reciting the litany of individuals for whom he was asking blessings, when he heard a noise behind him.

  The shuffling of sandaled feet on the floor.

  He continued with his litany, willing himself not to speed through the names of those to be blessed. It was probably one of the other friars come to pray or perhaps light a candle. But he did not really think that, and it took all of the self-discipline he possessed to concentrate on his entreaty to God and not open his eyes to see who was coming up behind him.

  The shuffling feet drew closer.

  His focus was not on his prayer. His attention was divided, and he knew that God knew, and he made the decision to start over again and devote his mind, heart and soul to speaking with the Lord to the complete exclusion of all else—after he opened his eyes and turned around to see who was there.

  Father Juarez did stop praying, and he did open his eyes, and he did turn around. Despite the fears lurking at the back of his mind, he really did expect to see one of the friars or, at the very worst, Brother Ignatio’s wavery, transparent shade. He was not prepared for what he actually saw, a horror so unexpected that it caused him to cry out and cross himself even as he stepped backward toward the safety of the altar.

  For while the spirit before him was Brother Ignatio, or had been, it was disfigured almost beyond recognition. The entire form possessed the color and consistency of shadow, save for
the whiteness of the wildly grinning mouth, which was Brother Ignatio’s mouth but corrupted, just as the faintly glowing eyes deep within the recesses of the distended face were Brother Ignatio’s eyes, augmented by … something else.

  The effect was ghastly, a dreadful abomination so far from God’s conception of human that he felt damned just gazing upon it.

  The figure spoke to him in a voice aged and cracked and filled with the knowledge of hell, and even as Father Juarez ran out the side door of the chapel, crying out in terror, he heard the threats made against him, atrocities of the flesh he could never have imagined. He expected to be followed but was not, and in the courtyard he stopped, breathing heavily, and looked to the heavens, begging the Lord for deliverance from this evil.

  No stars could be seen from this spot. It was as if those lights of heaven winking in the firmament had been extinguished. He knew that was not the case; they no doubt could be seen elsewhere in the world. But they were invisible from this location, and the darkness above the church was complete.

  He realized he was babbling as he pleaded with God to put an end to this horror, but he realized as well that he had brought it upon himself, that it was his retributive decision to order the deaths of those natives that had led to this torment. He had usurped the authority of the divine and was being punished for his sins, and God would not hear his pleas, no matter how much he implored the Almighty to spare him.

  The wind whispered his name, laughingly, and Father Juarez turned to see from whence the voice had come. All was still, all was dark, but the wind returned and with it the whisper of his name.

  All was not as still as it seemed, however. There was a lantern hung from a post holding up the roof of the soldiers’ barracks. It creaked in the wind, drawing his attention, and by its faint yellow light, he saw something slithering on the ground, a monster of mud and leaf, twig and clay, a cousin to the Serpent. It maneuvered through the garden toward him, and it was this that was the source of the whispers, this that was calling his name. As it approached, it began to rise up, this unholy atrocity, and on its elongated head, even in the gloom, Father Juarez saw features of the face that he recognized, that he knew.

  The monster whispered his name. Laughed.

  He ran to his quarters, awakening all, screaming with the onset of madness.

  Twenty-three

  There was no courthouse in Jardine, so anytime Claire was required to appear before a judge, whether for a hearing or a trial, she had to drive the fifty miles to Amarejo, the county seat, an arduous trip that inevitably consumed the better part of a working day. Even early morning appearances required an hour’s drive there and back, in addition to the waiting time in court and the length of the meeting itself, so the best she could hope for was a return to Jardine by noon or one o’clock.

  Today’s preliminary hearing for Oscar Cortinez was not scheduled for the early morning. It was set for eleven thirty, which meant it would probably be postponed until after lunch. In court parlance, that meant two o’clock. So she doubted she’d be home before five. To make matters worse, she had to attend an eight-o’clock deposition for the Seaver divorce, which the lawyer of her client’s soon-to-be-ex-husband refused to conduct in Jardine. So she needed to get up early, leave the house early, and spend the entire day in Amarejo, with probably a significant amount of downtime between the deposition and the hearing.

  She let the kids sleep in, but if she had to get up early, Julian had to get up early, and she prodded him awake, telling him to make coffee and get breakfast ready while she dressed and put on her makeup. Breakfast consisted of an overtoasted bagel, but at least the coffee was good, and she drank two cups to ensure that she would remain awake for the long, boring drive. “I may be back late,” she warned Julian. “So if I don’t get back in time, or the kids get hungry, there’s leftover chicken in the refrigerator and fish sticks in the freezer. If you guys want, you can make Pasta Roni or macaroni and cheese.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Julian told her.

  She double-checked her briefcase to make sure she had all pertinent forms and paperwork for both the deposition and the hearing, packed her laptop in its case, made sure she had enough money to buy lunch, turned on her cell phone and gave Julian a kiss before stepping outside. “Be careful,” she told him. She wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that, but he nodded, and that reassurance buoyed her as she walked out to the van in the driveway and pushed the button on her key to remotely unlock the doors. She waved good-bye to Julian one last time before he went back into the house.

  To her left, Claire sensed movement, and she quickly turned her head in that direction. There was a man walking down the sidewalk toward her, an average-size man of medium build wearing a backward yellow baseball cap. She’d seen him around before, but it seemed odd for him to be out this early in the morning. He could be exercising, she thought, but he was not running, jogging or even walking fast, and the closer he came, the more uncomfortable Claire felt.

  She quickly got in the van and locked the doors before starting the engine.

  The man passed by without even glancing in her direction, and Claire relaxed a little.

  She watched him walk away. She was so worked up that these days anything even slightly off from the usual routine had her seeing threats where none existed. Arranging her purse, briefcase and laptop on the passenger seat next to her, she turned on the satellite radio, tuned in CNN, then started off.

  The sun was up, but the day was still young, and much of the morning’s light hid behind clouds that stretched from horizon to horizon, creating billowing silhouettes that stood out sharply against the gradations of pink and orange behind them. More vehicles than she’d expected were on the road, and that caused a slowdown where the highway narrowed to two lanes in Yucca River Canyon. Truth be told, she was glad for the company, happy she was not all alone on the road. For the thoughts in her head were the type that inspired fear and dread. She was not planning out questions and exceptions for the deposition, was not going over in her mind opening statements for the hearing. She was going over the history she had read about in Oscar Cortinez’s books, the tales told by Spanish explorers and Mexican missionaries.

  She found the supernatural aspects of the various accounts disturbing. She knew that most of it could be put down to the superstitions of the time and the fears that probably befell all sojourners through what were then unexplored lands.

  But …

  But in her mind, as she read, she imagined the area as it must have appeared back then, without the buildings, without the people, without the roads, and in her conception, the focal point of the horrific events was the land on which their house now stood.

  Of course, that was ridiculous. No church had ever been constructed on that spot. Still, the events described in those histories possessed an unnerving correlation to the events that were transpiring between the walls of her own home, and thinking about them left her feeling cold and anxious.

  She was determined to bring it up to Oscar when she saw him, and, luckily, they both arrived early to the courthouse, which gave them a chance to talk. He, of course, wanted to go over the particulars of the hearing, wanted her to once again walk him through everything that was going to happen, as well as reassure him that they would eventually emerge victorious. Hand-holding was an important component of the practice of law, and though they’d had the exact same conversation just last night, they did it again until his nerves were soothed and he was ready to play his role.

  With some extra time to kill, Claire saw her opportunity and cleared her throat. “Oscar,” she said cautiously. “I’ve been reading the material you provided me. These stories about evil spirits and haunted places …”

  He waved her away. “Justifications. A way to rationalize the murder, brutality and atrocities committed by first the Spanish against the native Americans and then the English against the Spanish. Don’t worry. They won’t hurt our credibility. History texts are fu
ll of references to ghosts and demons and the supernatural. It was how the people in those days explained events and phenomena they did not understand—if you read some of the accounts of the California Gold Rush written by the men of that time, they would curl your hair. Often such stories are excuses for bad behavior, defenses for violent societal overreactions that seem indefensible to us today. And, in this case, they were used to justify the slaughter of opposing societies.”

  Claire nodded, as though in agreement. She wanted to pursue this line of questioning, but chose to wait until after the case had been decided before probing any deeper. She could not afford to engender any doubt in her client, and she knew that by asking what she really wanted to ask, she would risk losing Oscar’s confidence. It was clear that he disbelieved in the supernatural and put no stock in any paranormal explanations. If she indicated that she felt otherwise, it might make him think that she was unstable.

  Maybe she was.

  At home, Julian and the kids had eaten by the time she returned.

  “How’d it go?” Julian asked.

  “Good,” she said. “The deposition went well, and the district is already indicating that they might be willing to settle. We have a strong case, and they know it.”

  “That’s great,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said, though without much enthusiasm. She opened the door of the refrigerator and took out a head of lettuce, intending to make herself a salad.

  “What’s wrong?” Julian asked.

  She looked at him. “You know what’s wrong.”

  “There hasn’t been anything—”

  “Don’t,” she told him. She chopped the lettuce, got out some tomatoes and carrots, and he wandered back out to the living room, where Megan and James were fighting over control of the TV.

  Both of the kids went to bed early, while it was still a little light out. Granted, the days were long and it didn’t get dark until sometime between eight and nine, but it was totally out of character for either of them to voluntarily go to bed at this hour, and Claire had a sneaking suspicion that they wanted to be asleep before night truly fell.