Curse On Vandals

Tony and George do something stupid leading to bad karma.

“You got the tools?” Tony asked. George lifted his backpack up. “Right here,” he confirmed. “Had to steal some from Mr. Stratford’s classroom but I got it!”

They fist bumped each other as they mounted their bikes. “You made sure your parents don’t know?” Tony wondered. George thought his friend was always a little too paranoid. “Yeah,” he said. “I told ‘em we were going over to Doug’s to study. They were all like ‘cool be careful on the way there!’”

Both of them pedaled till they came to the gates of Los Mujere de Conceptione cemetery. The big gate was locked at dusk. George got out the bolt cutters. “Give ‘em here,” Tony said.

It took some effort and grunting on Tony’s part but the chain and lock fell to the dirt with a soft thud. George pushed on the gate. It let out a low, resonating groan.

The boys looked around to see if anyone heard the noise. When no one came, they rode into the cemetery.

Not long after, they spotted a massive family shrine. “That looks like it’d be awesome to smash!” Tony said. George wasn’t so sure. “Why are we doing this?” He asked. “It’s not like these people did anything to us.”

Tony maneuvered his bike to face his friend. “Because they’re Catholics!” He exclaimed. “My Abuela was Catholic. She kicked my mama out of their house when Abuela found out she was pregnant with me! ‘Cause mama wasn’t married when she had me!”

George flinched away from his friend’s wrath. “Dude, that sucks,” he said. Tony grimaced at George. “Damn straight, ese,” he affirmed. “Now let’s go tumble that shrine!”

The Blessed Virgin sat in an alcove above a small placard and the name “Rivera”. Dozens of votive candles sat on the stone ledges.

George nudged Tony and pointed. “Dude, listen to what that sign says, bro,” George observed. “It says ‘A curse on thieves and vandals. May the skin rot from flesh. May your bile churn in your stomach and may blood come out your eyes!’

George felt a chill penetrate to his guts. “Bro, maybe we shouldn’t do this,” George whispered. “I don’t wanna have that stuff happen to me!” Tony scoffed as he climbed off his bike. “Ese, I don’t believe in that bruja shit,” he said. “Hand me a crowbar.”

The length of iron felt like it weighed more than George could lift. “Hurry up man,” Tony ordered. “Give me that!” He wedged the crowbar under the memorial’s footing. There was a heavy crash when the shrine reached it’s tipping point.

Rubble and candles lay strewn in the dirt. George hopped on his bike but found his eyes fixed on the ruined grave site. “C’mon!” Tony urged. “We can’t stay here! The padre could’ve heard that from the church! Let’s get outa here!”

George kept listening for sirens. He was sure the New Mexico state troopers were going to come for them. It wasn’t until they reached his house that George finally relaxed.

It was August and monsoon season was beginning. Still George felt more hot and uncomfortable than usual. He couldn’t sleep well that night. Every time he felt himself drifting off, George could see the Blessed Virgin’s stone visage staring up at him from where it had fallen from the shrine.

In the morning George was brushing his teeth when he noticed red splotches on his face. He hoped it was just some new zits.

Out in the kitchen his dad sat watching the news with a grim expression. “The one hundred and twenty year old Rivera family tombstone was toppled over last night,” the anchorwoman announced. “Several candles were burning and it took fire fighters half an hour to extinguish the resulting blaze. Police believe this to be the work of vandals and are asking for anyone who may have information to call their tip line.”

George’s father grunted disdainfully. “Ay!” He shouted. “What is going on with kids?! So disrespectful! You wouldn’t know anything about this would you?” George scratched at the sores on his face. “No papi,” he lied. “I was studying with Doug and Toni.”

Later, in the afternoon, George’s dad’s phone rang. After he talked briefly to the caller, he went to find his son. “I have some bad news, mijo,” George’s dad said. “Your friend Toni is in the hospital.” George set down the comic book he’d been reading. “Is he gonna be okay?” He asked. His father shook his head.

“Tony has sores all over,” his dad said. “He spent all morning vomiting blood. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong but they say things don’t look good.”

It was a long ride up to the Presbyterian Hospital in Albuquerque. George thought a million times about telling his dad what he’d really done. He didn’t want to get himself or Tony in trouble though.

When George saw Tony laying in the bed, he almost puked. His friend was covered in ulcers and blood ran down from the corners of his mouth and eyelids. Tony didn’t move or even acknowledge them. Only the beeping monitors let anybody know Tony was still alive.

“Can I talk to you outside?” George asked his dad. “I think I know why Tony’s so sick.”

It was almost as bad telling his dad what had happened. For a while neither of them spoke.

“Curses aren’t jokes, mijo,” dad told his son. “We should go to the chapel here and pray for your soul and his.”

Once they had said a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys, they sat in contemplation. “What are we gonna do, Papi?” George asked. His dad put a hand on George’s shoulders. “Well first you are gonna call that tip line,” he said. “Then we just hope the Grace of God lifts this curse.”