The Haunted

Twenty-two

1598

At night, the horses screamed.

The natives had warned them not to go beyond the hills, but Miguel Huerta and his men were not about to allow the primitive fears of savages to deter them from their mission, so they’d continued on, and were sleeping tonight in a wide, riverless valley that remained completely uninhabited, despite the profusion of tribes in the region. A great massacre had once occurred at this location, according to Tsictnako, their guide, and since that day, generations before, people had shunned this place, afraid of the spirit that lived here, the unseen force that had led brother to slaughter brother, that had caused madness to descend upon all survivors, be they victor or victim.

The guide had not wanted to go here, had led them over the hills only under threat of torture, and he had deserted them sometime during the night, leaving them alone in this hostile, godforsaken land, a fact Huerta discovered when he was awakened by the screaming of the horses.

It was a terrible, unholy sound, unlike anything he had ever heard. All of his men were roused out of sleep by the monstrous cries of the animals, and many of them began crossing themselves and praying, rising to their knees, begging God to protect them from the evil that was here. The more practical soldiers grabbed their swords and prepared to defend the camp, but the horses were already loose and running, still screaming, their voices like that of old women being slaughtered, and the soldiers were forced to chase after them. Huerta remained at first, to make sure that they were not under attack, but when it became clear that there was no assault, and that the crazed horses had chewed through the tethers on their own, rather than being released by men, he ordered six of the praying soldiers to stand guard, while he followed the men chasing after the horses.

The night was dark, and while the moon was out, little of its light illuminated the world below. The group of men who had started off before him had brought a torch with them, and after picking up one for himself as well, Huerta followed their bobbing, weaving light through the weeds and low brush, over small knolls and hollows.

Twenty horses. They had twenty horses altogether, and every one of them had taken off in the same direction, as though chased by something.

Or drawn by something.

He caught up to his men before they found the horses, and all of them stumbled upon the animals together. The steeds were still screaming, but the sound here carried strangely, and it seemed that they remained quite a way off. So it was a surprise when Huerta, who was in the lead, passed between two unusually full and prickly bushes, only to see his torchlight fall on the animals’ bodies.

They had set upon one another. They were rolling on the ground, fighting, a writhing mass of muscle, hair and hoof that in the flickering orange light looked like one giant multiheaded monster. Some of the horses were already dead, their stomachs bloody and bitten open, chunks ripped out of their necks and flanks, their flesh being eaten by the snapping mouths of their fellow steeds. It was an aberrant and unnatural sight, one so shocking and sickening that the men who happened upon it stood motionless for several precious moments, unsure of what to do. It was Huerta alone who retained his wits, who rushed forward and ordered his men to do the same, to grab whatever they could—tether or mane—and try to separate the furiously battling animals. But that was easier said than done. The horses were larger than men, and, struggling, biting, kicking, rolling over one another in the darkness, screaming, they were nearly impossible to separate. By the time the soldiers had pulled two of them away from the heap, the others were either dying or dead.

With their last breaths, some of the fading horses were viciously biting into their brethren, their flat, square teeth cannibalistically ripping into the rough flesh surrounding them.

Huerta ordered the men holding the ropes that had been lassoed around the necks of the two rescued horses to take the animals back to camp. He had no idea how they were to continue on with nearly all of their pack animals dead, but he would find a way, even if soldiers had to act as slaves.

The dust that had been kicked up by the melee had started to settle, and his eyes peered into the slowly clearing gloom. He was not sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. For behind the sluggishly stirring mound of dying horses was a small hut, the first sign of man they had seen since coming over the hills. It was a strange sort of structure, made from dead branches and sticks, a primitive shelter more akin to the wild growth of the surrounding wilderness than any form of human habitation. Had it not been for the reddish glow emanating from within, he might not have even noticed it.

He did notice it, though, and he did not like it. The unusual construction of the hut bothered him in a way he could not explain, and that reddish light seemed hellish. His first instinct was to turn away and take his men as far from this place as possible. But he was a leader, entrusted by the king to explore this northern land, and it was his duty to investigate all that he encountered, no matter how unnatural.

Still, it would be imprudent for him to further endanger any of his men. This was something unknown and very likely dangerous. The best approach would be for him to enter the structure and determine whether any peril awaited, and for his men to wait outside, ready to respond should he require them to do so.

Huerta handed off his torch, gave his instructions, then, sword drawn, crouched down and entered the hut.

The glow, he noticed immediately, was coming from a fire pit in the center of the single room. There was no one in here, and the only piece of furniture was a small table made from twigs, next to a large flattened rock that obviously served as a chair. On the hard dirt floor lay bones, human bones, and in the smoldering fire pit was a man’s blackened hand with the flesh still on it.

What was this place? Huerta knew not, but it was evil; of that he was certain. He could feel here the presence of an unholy spirit, and he quickly exited the hut, feeling afraid, hoping he had not been corrupted by exposure to such malevolence.

Outside, two of his men were fighting. How this had happened in the few moments he had been inside the hut, Huerta could not understand, but as he emerged, he saw a line of soldiers, their backs facing him, while from the other side of the line he heard a metallic clash of swords. Pushing through the row of men, he saw Ferdinand de la Cruz and Hector Barbara, his best and most loyal warriors, engaged in an intense duel, apparently to the finish.

This was neither the time nor the place for swordplay, and even if the two men had a grudge against each other—which Huerta did not believe the case—it was not the appropriate occasion. They were aligned against other forces, engaged in a dark battle against an unseen evil, and they must put their personal differences aside until these other, more important matters were settled.

But Ferdinand and Hector showed no sign of ending their conflict. They each had seen him, they both knew he was there, and ordinarily his mere presence would cause them to leave off. A kind of fever seemed to have gotten into the soldiers, however, and their focus was entirely on each other. How this had come to pass in such a short span of time and why the other men stood watching dumbly rather than intervening could not be adequately explained by conventional reason. This, Huerta was certain, was connected to the madness of the horses and the horror inside that hut, and he knew in his soul that if he did not put a stop to it now, this evil would spread.

He stepped forward. “Halt!” he ordered. “Cease this fighting!” But the men paid him no heed. He felt the anger growing within him. He bade them stop yet again, and when they refused to obey, he grew enraged and held forth his own weapon. “I order you to put down your swords!” he shouted.

He was by far the most accomplished swordsman in his company. It was one of the reasons he was the captain of this expedition. He had had occasion to use his blade skills before, and all of his men knew that he had both the will and the ability to mete out punishment for any transgressions.

Yet these two continued fighting.

Although they were evenly matched, Ferdinand seemed to have gained the upper hand, due primarily to his position on the slight upslope of the land. He had sliced open Hector’s right arm, inflicting serious injury, a fairly deep wound that was bleeding out through slashed clothing. The blood looked black in the flickering light of the torches, and shiny. Hector, for his part, had become enraged by his adversary’s successful penetration of defenses, and, holding his sword with both hands, was making up for his disadvantages with passion and vigor. He stabbed forward zealously, crying out in triumph as his blade sank into the flesh of his rival’s leg.

Ferdinand listed sideways but did not fall, and once again, Huerta ordered both men to stop the fight.

They ignored him.

Filled with an anger so black that he could feel its searing intensity in the tightness of every muscle, Huerta stepped forward, and with a scream of fury he sliced at Hector’s head. He was strong and his blade sharp, his blow powerful, but the head was not severed in a single slice. His sword was caught in the other soldier’s neck, and he had to pull it out and hack again. This time, Hector’s head fell backward, spurting copious amounts of blood but still tenuously connected to the body. One more stroke, however, and the head was off, falling to the ground and bouncing once even as the body crumpled behind it.

Ferdinand, by this time, had fallen, though whether from the stab wound to his leg or as a reaction to his captain’s intervention, Huerta knew not. What he did know was that Ferdinand had to die, and as the other man tried to push himself up from the ground, Huerta ran him through with his sword, twice in quick succession, both times through the chest. The soldier collapsed backward, lifeless, but even though he was dead, Huerta continued to chop at the body, hacking off hands and feet, arms and legs, until what was left of Ferdinand was little more than a bloody stump surrounded by chunks of chopped flesh.

Finally, Huerta stopped, breathing hard and wiping his face, though his hand was bloodier than his cheeks and only smeared the wetness around. The other soldiers were staring at him in shock. Shock but not disapproval. They seemed surprised by what he had done, but not judgmental, and though they had watched him slaughter their compadres, though he himself knew that he had gone too far, that what he had done was not only wrong and sinful but utterly mad, their faces retained the same placidity they had worn while watching the two soldiers duel.

He let the sword fall from his hand, then dropped to his knees in supplication, putting his hands together in prayer. He was damned and he knew he was damned, but that did not stop him from tearfully begging the Lord for forgiveness.

His men stood there, staring.

From far away, from the camp where the others had returned, Huerta heard a familiar sound, carried easily on the soft night breeze.

The sound of horses screaming.

He looked up, eyes stinging. The stars could not be seen from here. Above, there was only blackness.

The savages were right. Men should not live in this place, he thought.

Ever.

* * *

1777

No church had been built, even after all this time, and Father Juarez grew angry as his horse entered the village. He had consecrated the site five years ago, founding the church on a spot where its stained-glass windows would hold and transfer the light of the sun into the glowing colors of God’s glory. He had done so with the understanding that the men left behind would induce local natives to construct the physical building in his absence. Such a strategy had led to the completion of three of the other four churches he had founded. The fourth, located in an inhospitable plain far from convenient resources, was nearly finished.

Yet here his church had not even a foundation, and the men he had assigned to this post were still living in tents and crude temporary buildings amid the primitive homes of the natives.

His horse, and the other horses, carts and pack animals of his party, trudged through the deep, sucking mud that served as a street. News of their arrival traveled fast, and before they reached the makeshift structure that was to serve as their barracks, a semiformal welcoming committee had assembled. From atop his horse, Father Juarez scanned the faces of those who waited to greet him. “Where is Brother Francisco?” he asked.

The men looked at one another, averting their gazes from his, and none of them answered his question.

“Where is Brother Francisco?” he repeated.

Jacinto Paredes stepped forward. He was the leader of the soldiers left behind to assist the friars in their mission. “Brother Francisco is gone,” he said.

Father Juarez frowned. “What do you mean, he is gone?”

“Five days ago, we awoke to find that Brother Francisco was not in his quarters. We thought at first that he had gone for a walk, to meditate before prayers. He had done so before on several occasions, though not without telling someone of his intentions. But he did not return for the midday meal, and he still had not returned by nightfall. We called for him and conducted a search of the land about the village, but he was nowhere to be found. In the morning, I myself led a party into the surrounding wilderness, and there have never been less than two men out since, but we have not been able to locate either Brother Francisco or his body.” The soldier made a gesture of confused helplessness. “He is gone.”

Father Juarez dismounted, the rest of his party following suit. “This is unacceptable.”

“I apologize, Your Holiness.”

“You are assuming that Brother Francisco left of his own accord, wandering into the wilderness and disappearing. Have you not considered the possibility that he was taken by one of these savages and killed as part of some beastly ritual?”

“We assume nothing, Your Holiness. But we know these people. They are extremely peaceful and docile. The friars have succeeded in converting nearly all of them to Christianity. And there are none unaccounted for, none who would have had the opportunity to carry out such an abduction. It appears far more likely that Brother Francisco became lost on a trek and could not find his way back, was injured and unable to return, or was harmed by a wild animal.”

There was an awkward pause, and once again the men who had lined up to greet him looked away, unable to meet Father Juarez’s gaze.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “There is something you are not telling me.”

“Forgive me, Your Holiness, but the truth is that Brother Francisco has not been of sound mind. He has claimed to have visions of spirits and demons, and asserts that the ground you have consecrated is evil and unclean. He has fallen prey to local superstitions and has grown afraid of this place. He has refused for weeks to perform even the most basic of his duties, and, in truth, none of us were surprised to find him gone. And, yes, I believe the most likely reason is that Brother Francisco has fled.”

“Is this why my church has not been built? Is this why it has not even been started?” The anger came out now, and Father Juarez lashed out at the men he had left behind in this village, excoriating them for not carrying out the will of God, for forsaking His church and their Christian duty, for indulging in the sin of sloth. He wished Brother Francisco were here so he could upbraid the friar to his face, but he unleashed a verbal attack on the man before going on to denounce those who had not had the fortitude to stand up to such blatant defiance of Church and country.

“You appointed Brother Francisco and gave him authority over all of us,” Jacinto Paredes reminded him gently. “It was not our place to question his decisions.”

Father Juarez stared at the man, fuming. Such insubordination would not have been tolerated in the civilized world, but here in the wild, apparently all decency and respect had been forgotten. Despite his anger, however, he recognized the truth of the soldier’s words. It had been Brother Francisco’s duty to see that the church was built; it was his fault that it had not been, and Father Juarez stated to all who had gathered that if Brother Francisco was captured—and captured was the word he used—he would not only be stripped of all authority but punished severely for failing to follow orders.

When he had finished, another man stepped forward, Brother Rodrigo, the friar appointed to succeed Brother Francisco in the event of death or incapacitation. “It is not all the fault of Brother Francisco,” the friar said. “Even before he began succumbing to these delusions, he was unable to convince the natives to work on the church, though most of them had been converted. They were frightened of this ground, and I fear he may have surrendered to their superstitions.”

Father Juarez frowned. It was not this man’s place to speak. Was insubordination tolerated by everyone here? Still, once again he recognized the truth in these words. He looked back across the muddy stretch of ground that served as the village’s main road and saw natives tentatively approaching in small groups of two or three. He turned toward Jacinto Paredes. “I want you to gather all of the savages in this village, as well as a translator who can impart my words to them. I am going to give them direction myself, and order them to do God’s bidding and build this church. After I eat and freshen up, I shall address the local populace, and you and your men will begin leading teams who will take turns excavating the site and constructing the foundation. They will work from sunup to sundown on all but the Lord’s day, and we will have our church before another year is past.”

The soldier bowed his acquiescence. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

Father Juarez spoke to the men who had accompanied him and bade them have the slaves unpack his belongings. After choosing the least mean house to occupy for the length of his stay, he was presented with food, and while it was not unlike the repasts he had had in similar outposts, it seemed all the more satisfying for being delivered amid such wretched surroundings.

Finally, he was ready to address the converts, and he stood on a raised cart before the spot where the church was to be built, facing the friars, soldiers and natives who had gathered on the adjoining field, the location where Father Juarez foresaw the installation of a rectory garden. He began with a prayer, an invocation, and with his words being translated by Brother Augusto, all bowed their heads in unison. He went on to stress the importance of erecting a church in the village, a physical building dedicated to worship. The other churches had already been built, he said, or were currently under construction, and the workers here needed to get busy and follow suit or risk the wrath of God.

There was nervous muttering at the translation of this last, worried looks exchanged by the natives, and Father Juarez nodded in satisfaction. Finally, his point was getting across.

“Brother Francisco is gone,” he concluded. “I am in charge now, and I hereby order you to begin construction on God’s church under the direction of myself and Brother Rodrigo.”

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.