The Haunted

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.