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El 26 de Septiembre, 1937

It was dark. Cloying and cold where he lay, shielded from his pursuers. Since the early morning hours he had huddled, curled into a ball beneath the oaken desk. They were out there, although the hammering against the door had stopped just before nightfall.

Juan Antonio Rodriguez was scared. Not for himself, no, he had survived the march across the mountains. The reprisals had passed him by and he had reached the pueblo safe and sound. He was frightened for Isabella and the child. So, at last, he rose and made his way cautiously to the door. A small push at first, then a harder one. Nothing. Pain lanced through his fist as he pounded the door, blood sweating his hands. One finger found the problem. Nails.

Low grumbling, reminiscent of thunder on one of the far away peaks began outside. Light sparked and then flared as torches were lit and he saw them. All the village were there and at the rear Isabella, her father forcing her to watch. The child clung to her skirts, shoulders heaving.

“Now!”

Glass shattered in answer, Juan covering his face from the flying shards.

“Hijo de puta!”

A leering face closed, it was Isabella’s husband. He thrust the pitch smeared torch through the shattered window. Juan followed its skittering path and ran to intercept it. He turned to see a sullen procession as one by one the men passed. No-one was immune, all had been given flame and they used it. Last of all came Padre Manuel, his young face contorted in hate.

“For the Bishop, the Sisters and your priest, demonio.”

The pile of criss-crossed brands formed Juan’s pyre. There was no way out. Now the ranked villagers stared in silent anger, as first the walls caught, then the roughly beamed roof.

“Mercy!”

The priest spoke.

“Was there mercy when Sor Francesca choked on the rosary forced down her throat? Pity when the Bishop was re-baptised at the bottom of the well? When your own village priest was stoned to death by your soldiers?

“Then there will be none for you. No prayers welcoming you to Our Lord’s bosom. Last Rites are lost to you. Burn in the eternal fires of Hell. Suffer as did they.”

Flames reflected in the hate-filled visage of the priest, in the majority of the villagers. Only one smiled and Isabella shed her last tears.

Juan’s voice eclipsed the roaring flames as his face melted beneath the crackling heat. It was soft, cold and vindictive.

“You deny me God? Only spite do you throw in my face? Very well, hear me. There will be pain in equal measure, for each and everyone of you. I will never rest and neither will you. My curse will go on. Hasta la muerte…y mas allá.”

His scream ended their torture, but Juan watched. Vicious eyes peered from amongst the flames as skin boiled away. A tenacious vengeance held him there …through death and beyond.


El 26 de Septiembre, 1938

Padre Manuel turned the heavy key in the lock and shivered. The temperature dropped as fog rolled down the mountainside. He tended to this blighted parish, his penance for past sins. Dying flowers curled in the vases by the doorway. The women would change them tomorrow.

Troops no longer were stationed in this village, the regiment from Navarra now marched on Asturias. Life had returned to a semblance of normality. Tomorrow the child would leave and the last memory of hatred would be expunged. One more night. As he climbed the cobbled road towards his lodgings, he passed the burnt out shell of the schoolhouse. There was something else that needed to be removed and he would mention it before he left.

Wind whipped his cassock around his feet. He stumbled, then righted himself. It was quiet, the workers in their houses, doors shut tightly against the cold. His breath frosted the air as a gelid hand slammed into him. The priest struggled uphill, his feet slipping on suddenly slick stones. Fear coursed through his body as ice formed about him. Not fifty feet in front of him dew sparkled on green and verdant grass. By his side, plants withered brown and dead.

“Manuel.”

A voice rasped in his ear. He turned quickly. There was nothing.

“Manuel!”

More insistent now and smoke began to rise from the hem of his robe. Blue flame sputtered and held, his frantic attempts to beat it away only causing it to spread to his hands and then his sleeves. Intense heat reddened his face, whilst ice frosted the ground around him. A mist puffed towards him, enveloping and hiding him from sight. Until all that was left was a vague form, eerily etched in blue light, which wavered from the depths of the now deep fog.

Inside his prison, he burned. Two red eyes came into being high above him. As he prayed for deliverance, a maniacal laugh rang out, soon to be eclipsed by a tortured scream.

In the houses, people heard. They pulled their blankets tight up to their necks. Lips moved in mechanical pleas, yet none were answered. Then there was silence.


El 26 de Septiembre, 1940

Isabella watched her father work. He and the others had rebuilt the schoolhouse and the new priest would consecrate it tomorrow. She did not care. They had taken her daughter from her. The shame they said was unbearable. Now she hated too.

Her lover’s bones were ash and buried in the foundations of the new building. The curse would be lifted in a simple ceremony, but she wanted none of it. Juan had always kept his promises and this would be no different. There would be vengeance.

She saw her father stumble, slide one foot along the roof to reach a more stable grip and she wished him dead. As if in answer, a strong gust of wind unbalanced him. He crashed awkwardly against her husband and fell. It was not a great height and normally he would have survived. Not today though.

The brush of a cold kiss caused her to turn. A word whispered in her ear made her smile and in slow motion she watched the tragedy unfold. Tools had been discarded and a pickaxe was struck by the now unsteady ladder. It rolled point upwards just in time to catch her father in the small of the back. He lay gasping for breath as his son-in-law fell too. One studded boot landed heavily on a reddened throat and Isabella laughed.


El 26 de Septiembre, 1985

The car raced down the narrow track, spraying dirt and gravel as it took the first corner. They had all been drinking. Their Aunt had thrown them out and told them to go home. It was too early though and they had borrowed Old Pepe’s car. A pair of wooden stools in the back served as seats and they laughed uproariously as they were flung from side to side.

Three more curves and they would reach the main road. The last one was the sharpest and it had long been a challenge to see how close they could come to the edge. Cigarette clenched between gritted teeth, José Cossío pressed hard down on the accelerator. His cousins cheered him on and he swerved to one side in preparation of his victorious manoeuvre.

Darkness crashed down on him. Rain bouncing off his windscreen and blinding him. Forever after, he would tell of the pair of flaming orbs which swooped suddenly into view. The sound of roaring flames and the curses flung in an unknown language.

Engine whining in protest, the car continued on, out over the open gap. It bounced three times, slamming with bone-jarring force into the earth. When it came to a stop, it was a mangled mess and José lay to one side, thrown through the shattered windscreen. His body was broken, as was his mind. When they found him, he mumbled manically of the flames and cruel voice.

Sliding further down the hill they found the remains of the twisted and buckled vehicle. Inside were the crushed bodies of three of their young men. This was not what caused them to fall to their knees in prayer, to kiss the crucifixes hung round their necks. It was the heat-blistered paint on the bonnet and the smell of charred meat.

El 24 de Septiembre, 2008

Emilio Sánchez was taking a risk and he knew it. If this idea bombed, not only would the station terminate his show, but he would be out of a job himself. It had been a godsend receiving the strange video. Expert examination had shown it to be genuine and he had the perfect person to send. No doubt the boy was wondering at his good fortune. That was the biggest joke. Antonio Esposito had no idea why he had been chosen and thought Sanchez had picked him on merit.
 
Every employee was given a background check and with Esposito they had hit the jackpot. If the video and stories of the village were even half-true, they would have a show which would be unforgettable.
 
He laughed again. The audience wanted paranormal? He would give them a real-life experience.
 
*

It had been a strange night. The paramedics had checked his grandmother over and pronounced her perfectly fine. She had insisted on calling Tia Maria and they had stayed huddled in her bedroom for about an hour. When his aunt came out, she held a cloth-covered book in her hand.
 
“Read it.” Was all that she had said. Then she had hugged him tightly and left. His grandmother had smiled when he entered, held his hand and stared at him.
 
“Read the diary,” she had said, “and God be with you.”
 
She had fallen asleep, his hand clutched tightly. This morning his aunt had returned, hugged him again and pressed a set of rosary in his hands before he left.
 
He saw the sign for a service station ahead of him and pulled off the Highway. Two and a half hours was enough. Time for a coffee, a snack and a cigarette.
 
*

Like all such places it was functional. The central bar had stools next to it and there was an array of small wooden tables. To one side was a glass-walled area for the smokers. Toni grinned and placed his order.  When the waitress had left, he pulled the book out of his holdall and lit a cigarette. He liked surprises and this proved to be such. Whatever was in here was at least important to his grandmother and judging by the looks he had seen on her and his auntie’s face, a secret. By experience he knew that family secrets were a let-down. His grandmother often spoke of village life and the shame people suffered for their transgressions. He had yet to be shocked by any of it.
 
Browned pages faced him, their sides covered in a shaky hand. He gulped his coffee, drew on his cigarette and read.
 
My Dearest Isabella
 
I am writing this journal with the knowledge that no letter of mine will ever reach you. At least this way, it feels as though I can talk to you and perhaps some day we can read this and laugh. Although, right now, there is little to laugh at.
 
It is cold here in the mountains. We have been hard-pressed by Franco’s forces and are in retreat. The weather though is not responsible for the cold I have deep in my bones and my heart .I have seen and done things, my Darling, which I find hard to live with. Human nature can be base and this forced withdrawal has brought out the worst in us. Stories reach us of atrocities carried out by the Italians fighting with Franco. These tales only seem to fuel the fires buried within each and every one of us.
 
You know of the Church and their lies. Perhaps though, you do not know of what we do. Village by village we send a message. The priests and sisters are the physical manifestation of that message.
 
Yesterday our Sargeant, Emilio, made sure that all were aware of the price of our defeat. The old priest was made to climb the main street on his bent, arthritic knees. As a penance. His faith was strong. He made it to the top. We all laughed to see the mighty Church humbled. Then the shooting began. One in five of the villagers were killed in front of the priest, including a nun. The rest had to dig a shallow grave. I stopped laughing.
 
Emilio would hear no pleas and the priest was buried with the rest. I only wish this War will be over soon, before I become someone else. With you and Irene waiting for me, I have hope…

Toni looked up from the journal. Irene? His grandmother? The signature was unknown. Who was Juan Antonio Rodriguez? August nineteen thirty-seven. That fit.
 
He turned more pages and saw the handwriting change. There were at least three styles. At random, he flipped the journal. Here, this one. Nineteen eighty-six?
 
We need to find her. Tomorrow He will be here again and this time it will be me. The village has agreed. Everyone will leave before the evening is over. I am too tired and too old….

He checked the date, the twenty-fourth of September. Their show would be on the twenty-sixth. Two more pages and he found the entry.
 
They have all gone. The village is deserted. I know He will come. Every year is the same. There is nothing that we or the Church can do. They have tried. Our only option is to find Irene. How though can we found one lost in the Guerra Civil? It is impossible.
 
It is cold. Freezing. The Fog is here. As they said. I can see the light. Hear laughter. He is here…

It was the last entry. Who was his Grandmother and what did this have to do with Pueblecito?
 
His cigarette had burnt down to the butt. He stubbed it out and closed the journal. The clock on the wall told him he was late. Toni gathered up his cigarettes and placed the journal back in his holdall. This would have to wait until later. The next stop would give him just enough time to read the preparatory notes from Sanchez. Rosa Benitez was waiting for him in Santander. This was important, right now.
 
*

“Rosa?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“It’s Emilio. Emilio Sánchez.”
 
“Hi. What can I do for you?”
 
Sánchez looked at the open file in front of him. He needed to be careful.
 
“Our man will be arriving soon. He knows just enough.”
 
“Don’t worry. You can rely on me. This broadcast is as important for me, as it is for you.”
 
“You know what to do?”
 
“Yes. The priest is organised, as is the film crew. By tomorrow evening the village will be empty, so Esposito will have little chance of finding out what we’ve planned.”
 
“Good. Make sure it stays that way.”
 
He hung up the phone. Everything was going strictly according to plan.

After a final push on editing, this story will be released in its chilling entirety on Smashwords and Kindle within the next couple of days.

Cheers

Congrats!

Thanks. Its taken its time and I finally decided on novella length (around 26000 words) in keeping with the nature of the short fast-paced sentences.

I enjoyed writing and researching this project and it has made me confident of writing other horror stories with a twist.

...and here's the cover and the Kindle link

http://www.amazon.com/26-S-ebook/dp/B004WDRVT4

Cheers

Rayo