The Reluctant Santero

         The Reluctant Santero

         I guess since I make my living writing horror stories, I'll tell this as if it were one. I don't think anybody will ever read it, or if they do I'll make sure to change the details. We did things that weren't strictly legal and I know none of the principals involved would like to see their names in writing.

         In a sense these are just notes to myself. But I'm in the habit of doing things in a narrative style, so I guess I'll stick with what I know. After all, it is a hell of a tale.

         I need a shower and a good night’s sleep. But I need to get this down even worse. It’s not just that I have to get the details down while they’re fresh, it also that even fresh they feel unreal, faded, like the events in a dream that blot and run like watercolors only minutes after you wake. They’re not going to last, which I guess may be more mercy than misfortune.

         But I need to remember. I may need to remember even more after the sun sets.

         Okay, so we begin about twenty-four hours ago. I was at home, as I am now, and I was working on a manuscript. I’m a Horror Writer by trade: not very successful, but I get by. I live in the same little New Hampshire city I grew up in. I even rent an apartment from my lifelong buddy’s Mom. Through the back window I can see the yard we used to play in all the way through high school. I have roots in this town; even enjoy a mild celebrity here, but it doesn’t get me free drinks on Friday night at the corner Irish bar.

         Yesterday I was a different man. I was still outside of the Looking Glass, and the world was a more comfortable place. It wasn't perfect: my story wasn't going very well, but I'd spent the Publisher's advance already and even though the idea had soured like last months milk, I was comitted. I had spent the better part of that crisp fall day at my desk trying to untangle sentences and had just managed to clean a particularly nasty one when I heard a knock at my door.

         There was a strange man on my porch. He was a stocky, medium-sized brown-skinned fellow with curly blue-black hair. As soon as he saw me he threw open the screen door and engulfed me in a monumental bear-hug.

         “James, my man!” he yelled into my ear. “Lookit you – all grown up!”

         I didn't know what to do at first -- it's not every day you get embraced by a total stranger. Then that urban New Jersey Puerto Rican Jive twang in his voice flipped the right circuit breaker in my head and I realized I actually knew this strange fellow in whose arms I was now being crushed.

         “Manny? Manny Pizarro?” I gasped.

         He pushed me back and looked me up and down. “Who the hell else be hugging your skinny white butt? Course it’s me. Can I come in?”

         “Oh…sure. Come on in. Sorry it’s a mess, but I have been pretty busy working…”

         Manny pushed past me and surveyed the wreckage of my kitchen. “Uh-huh.” He said. “You always was a pig. Is that spaghetti sauce on the ceiling?”

         I looked up at the huge brown granular stain. “I was making chili and I used the only clean pot left in the cupboard. Well, it turned out to be a pressure cooker - surprise surprise - so I thought if I left the lid on it would be done sooner and…”

         Manny nodded. “I can guess the rest. So you’re a big time horror author now, eh?”

         “Not big time. Maybe junior miss to teen sized.” I said. “This isn’t exactly a palace, is it?”

         Manny flopped down onto my easy chair in the living room. I was forced to perch on the sprung couch.

         “I didn’t see you at the ten year reunion.” He said. “Too busy to come?”

         “I try to forget high school. It wasn’t my finest four years. What do you do now?”

         “I’m a priest.” He said. “No shit – amazing, eh?”

         “A Priest? You? You were always kinda wacky for God and all, I remember that. But weren’t you a Baptist last time I saw you?”

         He waved his hand dismissively in the air.” I tried a bunch of different things back then. But look at me – how many Puerto Rican Baptists have you ever heard of? In the end I guess I just wanted to get back to my roots.”

         I pointed to the church next door. “Are you…?”

         He laughed. “Naw. Too white over there for me! I got a nice little church down in Portsmouth. It’s comfy and over half my parishioners are PR like me – they drive up from as far south as Lawrence Mass to give their confession to someone who speaks Spanish. That’s kind of what I want to talk to you about. I need some professional advice.”

         “You wrote a book, eh? Leave me a copy and I’ll see what I can do…”

         “No. It’s not that. I have a problem with one of my flock. It’s something I can’t seem to help him with, Jimmy. I need another opinion, and you’re the only one nearby who can give it to me.”

         “I’m no spiritual counselor.”

         “That’s not what he needs. Well, it sort of is, actually. But not the kind you think.”

         “Well, what’s his problem?”
     Manny unzipped his jacket, exposing his priest collar. I’ll be damned; he ‘s the real thing all right. He fixed me with what I guessed was his best “serious priestly” expression on his face. I assumed a similar demeanor.

         “I have a young man in my flock. He lives here in town with his aunt and uncle who brought him up from the island last May. They got him a job at the mill downtown. He’s been hardworking and sober ever since I met him. A good kid – 20 years old. I like him.”

         “So today he comes into the church in the late morning looking like an ant with a long sticky tongue creeping up behind him. I could tell he was freaked.”

         “I got him in the rectory and gave him some brandy to calm him down a bit, y’know? He was all choked up, but after a while the liquor got him so he could at least talk to me.”

         I was getting interested at this point, despite myself. “What did he tell you?”

         Manny shook his head and chuckled. “I guess that’s the point of my little visit here. He didn’t tell me anything. He won’t tell me anything. He just keeps asking for the same thing over and over.”

         “What?”

         “You. He wants to tell you.”

         “Me?” I squealed. “Why me? He doesn’t know me. I don’t even speak Spanish, f’chrissakes…”

         “Before you piss yourself, it’s not you specifically.” Manny said. “He wants a Santero.”

         “Santero? It sounds a little familiar, but whatever it is, I’m not. I’d know if I was.”

         “A Santero is sort of like a witch doctor. It’s from ‘Santeria’, a kind of Catholic/Voodoo mix they practice back on the island. Many Catholics do both at the same time. We don’t really approve in the church, but the old Spanish Inquisition days are long gone, so we tolerate it.”

         “Okay, but I’m still not qualified.”
     “Nobody in this area is. This is New Hampshire, after all. Whitest state in the union. But you are a horror writer. You know about this supernatural stuff, which makes you the closest thing in 100 miles. He read one of your books and says he’s willing to talk to you. Anyway, he told me he doesn’t want an actual ‘Santero’. He wants the New Hampshire version. Someone who knows the local white people magics, legends and stuff. That is you, you must admit.”

         “I just write the stuff, I don’t believe in any of it.”

         “I figured that. But belief isn’t necessary. What I’d like you to do is just talk to him, man. Get his story out and let me take it from there. I just need him to open up. What do you say? He’s really scared – it could even give you some new ideas for a story. He speaks English.”

         New Ideas? Not bad. And I have to admit, at this point wanted to know the kids’ story almost as bad as Manny. Who doesn’t like a mystery? “Ok. I’ll do it, but I’m not putting on any funny hats or anything. He’ll have to take me at face value Manny. Where do you have him stashed?”

         Manny sprung to his feet. “Outside in the car. I’ll get him.”

         He looked younger than twenty, maybe because he was skinny, floating around in an oversized dirty work shirt and Goodwill jeans. He peeked around the doorjamb and inspected every inch of my kitchen before creeping in. His hair stuck out at all angles, I wondered when his last shower had been. Manny led him by the arm, muttering Spanish in his ear in a soothing tone you associate with skittish horses. He introduced us.

         “Senor Jimmy, this is Paolo.” He intoned.
     I put my hand out. “Nice to meet you Paolo. I understand you’ve had a bad experience. Care to tell me about it?” He looked at my hand with wide, panicky eyes. I felt like such a fraud.

         Paolo shook my hand limply, but seemed to relax once we got to my study. He sat in one of the two kitchen chairs I’d fetched for them and almost collapsed. I’ve never seen anyone so scared in my life. Whatever it was, he had it bad.

         He glanced over to Manny, who nodded approval. “Go on. Tell the Senor.”

         “I work the mill.” He whispered. “Downtown. My Aunt and Uncle got me the job. I work the back shift – six to six. Is not too far, so I walk. On rainy days my Uncle drives me.”

         “Okay…” I said.

         ”I live near the graveyard. Pine Hill. The big one. You know it?”

         “Yes. I have family buried there.”

         He flinched. “I’m so sorry, Senor.” He said tonelessly. “it is a bad place now. It’s…” He whispered a word to Manny. “Desanctified” Manny translated. “Despoiled. Not holy anymore, he says.”

         Not Holy? “Why?”

         He ignored the question and pushed on.” I walk through the cemetery every night and morning to work. It is the shortcut for me. But now the sun is not up for so long. Now it is close to dark when I walk through. Soon I will go the long way, I think. But not yet. Still I walk through.”

         “Last night I work very hard. They give me more work to do for someone who does not come in. I do his job too. In the morning I am extra tired. It is dark, but I walk through the Pine Hill because I am too tired to go around. The sky is a little light.”

         “I am in the middle of the place when I see something away near the fence. A man. He is standing on one of the graves. There is something not right about him. I feel bad. I think maybe he is doing something – maybe he pee on the grave. I want to see. I am not a coward, I have respect. So I walk over and I yell ‘Ho! You! What you doing?’”

         “He does nothing. I yell again. Now I am close, and the light is better. I see he wears a suit. But it is wrong on him. It sits bad on his body. A little closer and I see why.”

         “It is not a real suit. It is cut all down the back. I can see his body through the cut. It is the suit they put on the dead. He is wearing dead mans clothes. I am very angry. I grab his arm.”

         “Next I am on the ground. I do not remember how. He spin and push me I think, but very fast. Too fast. He is on top me. I see his face and it is horrible. Yellow eyes, like a cat. White skin, dry. He open his mouth and the teeth are very long and sharp like needles. He smells like dead thing. I fight but he is too strong.”

         “He rips open my shirt and grabs my neck. But I have this…”

         Paolo reached into his shirt and brought out a truly huge and gaudy gold crucifix. It must have weighed half an ounce. “My father give me when I leave Condado. It saves me. The bad thing leaps off me and screams a horrible scream. I get up fast and hold it up. The thing cover his eyes and run around me. It is so fast, I know soon it will get behind me, but I turn around and around to keep the cross at its face. Then it is gone. I look around. I cannot see.”

         “I feel hands behind me they grab my neck. I hear bad noise, like an angry dog. It has me. I fight, but it is too strong.”

         “Then the rooster crows. He is near, behind one of the houses. I hear him every day. The hands go away. The bad thing yells. It runs past me to the grave. It looks at me, then it gives a big sniff. It points at me and says ‘I know you. I can find you now.’ Then it sink in the grave like the dirt is water. It goes down.”

         “I run home, but I do not know what to say to my Uncle. We do not have such things on my island, Senor. We have Chupacabras, but they suck the goat, not the man. I know what it is because we all have the Satellite TV. I am very scared. I cannot go home, so I hitch to Portsmouth to see Padre Manny, but I know what I need. The Padre cannot help me alone. I need a Santero, senor. I need you.”

         I shook my head. “There should be plenty of Santero’s down in Mass. You have a Barrio in Lawrence, don’t you? I bet you can find a dozen there.”

         He shook his head. “They are fake, my Aunt tells me not to waste my money. Up here they have no power. In Puerto Rico they are strong, but this is not a Puerto Rico problem. I need a man from here. You know the magic, you are from here. You can help me, Senor. Please.” He looked out the window, his face a mask of dread. “There is not much time. We are all in danger.”

         I glanced over to see how Manny was taking this. His face held an expression of neutral concern. He caught my gaze and nodded. No help from him, dammit.

         “We?” I asked. “Why are we in danger too?”

         He looked miserable and guilty. “The thing, it gave a big sniff before going down. It smell me. It says ‘I know you. I can find you now.’ It knows my smell. I think it can follow me like a dog. I think it will go where I go. It will hunt me tonight and it will come here. I could not go home, it will get my Aunt and Uncle, so I go to the church and to here. You can protect yourself – you are a Santero. Maybe you can protect me too.” He looked out the window again. “It will come here tonight. It will kill us all”

         I slapped my thighs and sat up. Good point for a break. “Okay, look. Father Manny and I have to talk now, Paolo. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and make yourself a sandwich? You look like you could use some food.”

         He nodded and levered himself out of the chair. I suddenly realized he’d worked all night and been up all day. Now it was afternoon and he’d had no sleep. Poor bastard looked done in. He shuffled out to the kitchen like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. I waited until he was out of earshot, and then turned to Manny. Okay, you got your story, what do you think? “ I asked.

         Manny shook his head. “I think I need a beer.”

         Good idea. I pulled two Amber Bocks out of the fridge, gave a pound of bologna to the kid, showed him the bread and chips and all the other fixings, went back to my study and gave Manny a beer. He took a long, un-priestly pull and sighed with pleasure. “That’s a hell of a story, isn’t it?” he said. “He saw a vampire at dawn and now he’s convinced it’ll get him tonight. Poor kid. Sounds crazy, but I don’t know, Jimmy. He could be hallucinating, I suppose, but they don’t grab you by the throat, generally. He has bruises, by the way… forgot to tell him to show them to you.”

         I drank some of my beer. “He sounds scared, but lucid. I mean, not hysterical or delusional, I dunno. I’m not a psychiatrist or anything. For what it’s worth, I think he believes what he’s saying. He’s not making it up.”

         “So what do we do?”

         “Maybe he was attacked, but by some wack-job out fantasy role-playing…”

         Something about that comment felt wrong even as it came out. Manny stiffened and his eyes narrowed. "He's not some rube, Jimmy. Just because his english is a bit broken doesn't mean he's..."”

          I backed off right away. "All right, I didn’t mean it to come out like that, sorry. I’m just throwing out possibilities here. Look - if he’s not lying and he’s not crazy and he did get attacked, but not by a guy in a costume, what does that leave us to go on?”

         His shoulders sagged and he deflated. For the first time I saw how craggy his face had become in the twenty years since we were in High School together and I realized this was not my teenage buddy anymore: this was a grown man with real responsibilities. A Priest. People depended on him. Could I say the same?

         “Sorry. I’m a bit overworked right now.” He said. “Where does that leave us? You’re the pro, pretend it’s a story.”

         That wasn’t such a bad idea. I felt the gears beginning to turn in my head. A story, eh? “All right. We have this character with a dilemma. He’s scared. What does he need?”

         Manny took another drink. “He needs to be made…er…not-scared or something?”

         “Reassurance, Yes. Now there’s two ways we can give him that. We can prove to him he was NOT attacked by a Vampire or we can find the Vampire and kill it before it gets him or us, because now we’re on the hit list too.”

         “That’s good, but I can see one tiny flaw: there is no Vampire!”

         “Right, so what we have to do is proceed as if there is one, which will keep Paolo happy, and then prove to him there isn’t one at the end.”

         “And how do we do that?”

         My mind was humming along nicely now; I could see the elements falling into place. I tipped the bottle and drained the rest of the fluid. Yeah, it could work. “First we have another beer while Paolo gets some food into him, then we go by the church and get some supplies, and then we hit the Cemetery!” I said.

         “And do what?”

         I tipped him a wink. “We hunt, Padre. We hunt.”

         After another beer and a sandwich apiece (Paolo’s looked too good to pass up, and who knew when we’d eat again?), we piled into Manny’s station wagon and headed south. The autumn sun was already close to the horizon by the time we made it onto Garrison Point and I caught Manny shooting worried glances at it more than a few times as we drove on.

         “Paolo’s asleep.” I said

         Manny glanced back. “Don’t blame him, man. He’s had a full day.” He was quiet for another minute of two, and then turned to me. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

         “Sure.”

         “Why couldn’t we have just gone next door for the stuff you need? Why do we have to go to MY church? I am a priest after all – they’d have given me whatever I wanted.”

         I pointed ahead. “It’s just up here. You’ll see.”

         We pulled off Garrison Point road onto the Spaulding turnpike south. The road opened up into two lanes as we neared the General Sullivan Bridge.

         “Can you at least give me a hint what I’m looking for?” he asked.

         We drove onto the bridge. “We’re here. This is it.” I said.

         “The Bridge?”

         “Yeppers.”

         To our right Great Bay, a vast basin of tidal salt and fresh water glowed orange and gold under the lowering sun. “Pretty. But what does it have to do with us?” Manny asked.

         ”Under this bridge is the Piscataqua River which drains whole state of eastern New Hampshire into the ocean. It’s the fifth fastest flowing tidal current in the world.” I said. “It’s also the only practical way south. Anyone traveling to your church would have to cross it or go dozens of miles out of their way, also over any number of bridges, also tidal.”

         “So?”

         “So, it’s low tide in just about two hours. As a good Santero, it’s my job to figure out a strategy, right? Let’s assume our bogeyman climbs out of his dirt bed looking for Paolo. He’s going to sniff him right across this bridge, which is the way Paolo went to get to you this morning, right? By then he’ll have maybe 30 minutes to wait till the outgoing tide dies off – I checked the tide tables on my computer while I was changing. That river will stop flowing completely for about fifteen minutes and that’s when he’ll be able to cross.”

         “What – Vampires can’t swim?”

         I chuckled. “For a priest you’re awfully skeptical, Father. But no, the answer to your question is; they can’t cross running water. If it's a traditional creature, which it appears to be, it has to follow a lot of rules. That's one of them - it's in Dracula, read your Stoker. He’ll have to wait till it turns, and then when he gets over he’ll be stuck on the other side till the high tide, which comes six hours after low. We’ll run over and get what we need and be on the other side long before then.”

         “You’re taking this awfully serious aren’t you?”

         I sighed and rubbed my face. “Look, I don’t know if there’s a code of ethics for Santero’s or whatever, but I do know that your kid has placed a lot of faith in me. Also, he’s no dummy; if I fake it he’ll know. Which means I have to take this seriously until I can prove otherwise.”

         Portsmouth New Hampshire was founded in 1623 at the mouth of the Piscataqua River. A sprawling colonial waterfront city, it’s a favorite of tourists, yuppies and artsy types who throng the cobblestone streets in search of antiques and designer coffee. Manny’s church was a modest structure on the south side of town. We left Paolo in the car and hustled in, aware of the gathering gloom, to stock up. Half an hour later we ducked back in the car and drove off north by a longer route that took us inland through Greenland and Exeter. I had him drive around for at least another hour and then we worked our way back to Garrison.

         We got a box of donuts and three big coffees at a drive though, and then rousted Paolo. He wolfed half of them down on his own. It was close to midnight.

         Manny took us to Pine hill. The streets were deserted; blank buildings with empty windows. A pale autumn moon crept over the trees. Mars glowed red and bright. We turned into the stone gates of the cemetery and slowly cruised up the hill. Old stones in the front: mostly 1700’s, faded marble dim in the gloom. On the backside the graves were newer, stones more elaborate, some statuary now. Rich people showing off.

         “Down there,” Paolo Pointed “over by the edge.”

         I had Manny pull the car over behind a line of Tombs to make it a bit less obvious, and then we piled out and got our stuff ready. The air was crisp and smelled of wood smoke. I could see my breath. Paolo practically swam in the parka I’d loaned him. He seemed oddly calm.

         The grave was brand new, maybe three days. It still had flowers. No headstone or footer yet – those take a few weeks to get set in. I knelt and felt the sod; it was a bit wilted, the grass not even close to knitted yet. “Paolo, help me lift these up.” I said. “Manny, open the magic bag, please.”

         “Magic bag? Show some respect, man!” he grumbled. “This stuff belongs to God.”

         “Sorry. I was just trying to lighten the mood. Get me the Host and break it up into big chunks.”

         We turned the sod and Manny began passing us pieces of Host, which we tucked into the soil at intervals until we’d covered the whole grave. Then we put them all back and tamped them down tight. I stood up brushing dirt from my knees. “Holy water next, I think.”

         Manny passed me a two-liter bottle and I poured a tight circle around the grave with it. Then I paced three feet out and made a second. “A prayer at this time would also be appropriate.”

         Manny nodded. “Join hands.”

         We made a small circle and stood facing the grave. Manny closed his eyes, paused for a moment, then spoke.

         “Soul of Christ, make me holy. Body of Christ, save me. Blood of Christ, fill me with love. Water from Christ’s side, wash me. Passion of Christ, strengthen me. Good Jesus, hear me. Within your wounds, hide me. Never let me be parted from you. From the evil enemy, protect me. At the hour of my death, call me. And tell me to come to you.

         “That with your saints I may praise you through all eternity.”

         “Amen” we said in unison.

         “Nice one.” I told him.

         “It’s the ‘Amini Christi’.” he said. “I thought it was appropriate.”

         “Okay, lets find a good tree.”

         We found a nice big Oak about thirty feet away. I used the rest of the Holy Water to draw another circle around it, then we all sat.

         “So you gonna let us in on the plan now?” Manny asked. “Or are we just gonna sit here all night soaking our butts?”

         I reached into my coat and pulled out a pint of bourbon. “Plan One: drink some of this whiskey, it’ll calm us down. Plan two: we wait till dawn and our beastie comes back. I’ve inoculated his grave – hopefully he won’t be able to get past the wards.” I tipped the bottle and took a fiery swig. “Especially the one we’re sitting in now.“

         “Senor, what if it doesn’t come back?” Paolo asked.

         “That grave is new. He has to come back to it. Remember the Rooster that saved you? He has to be in his grave before the sun rises.”

         “And the Holy Water, it will keep him away?”

         I started to speak, but Manny held up his hand. Eyes closed, he recited:

         “Oh God, grant that this water may be endowed with divine grace to drive away devils and to cast out diseases, that whatever, in the houses or possessions of the faithful may be sprinkled by this water, may be freed from everything unclean, and delivered from what is hurtful. Let everything that threatens the peace or safety of the dwellers therein be banished by the sprinkling of this water; so that the health that they seek by calling upon Thy Holy Name may be guarded from assault.”

         “That’s the Bottle Prayer.” He said. “I guess it speaks for itself.”

         “Speaking of bottles, Father…” I passed him the whiskey.

         So, of course we fell asleep. It was inevitable; a long day followed by a long night and the booze, which wasn’t such a good idea after all. Fortunately, Paolo was a night-shifter and managed to stay awake, thanks to the nap in the car. He spent hours staring at that grave, waiting for his doom to appear. But it didn’t. Just before first light he nudged me awake. “Senor. Senor, wake up!”

         I jolted out of a nasty dream. “whaa…?”

         “It is almost light, Senor. The Devil has not come.”

         I booted Manny. “Wake up, Father.” I grunted. “The Devil stood us up.”

         Manny opened his eyes and yawned. “Unreliable things, devils…” he said. “Oh, my neck!”

         ”Paolo, you know why he hasn’t come, don’t you?” I asked gently. “It’s why we brought you here.”

         Paolo nodded. “You don’t believe me after all.” He said. “You think I am crazy man.”

         “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think maybe somebody played a joke on your or something. But I wanted to make sure. If you really were attacked yesterday, it would have to come back right here. It would be in its grave by now or beside it or…”

         “…standing behind you?” a voice said.

         I trailed off. We looked at each other, then we looked at our tree. Manny and Paolo were frozen in place. I took a breath and leaned over to peek around the trunk

         “Oh, Sweet Jesus…” I whispered

         I found myself a scant few inches away from its nose. This was no cape-clad Lugosi or sneering Billy Idol clone; this was a man who had just recently been as dead as a lead paperweight. Only it wasn’t dead: it was animated by something horrible and dark. The skin was drying out, trying to crack, flake and peel, but it couldn’t. I could see the ghosts of thousands of tiny lines and collapsed veins cemented together by whatever animating force held it together. Color was high, shrimp-pink like the bloom of a plastic rose. Papery lips split in a gape-toothed grin revealing dozens of needle teeth in front of a nasty clotted mess of gum and charcoal gray cheek lining. We locked eyes and I felt a warm rush of emotion: mixed revulsion and lust, like the spurt of urine in a wetsuit in cold, dark waters.

         I see you…

         Behind me I could sense Paolo revving up his fleeing engine. His body vibrated with the intense need to RUN! One move, a single cue and he’d be off like a shot from a gun. It registered dimly in my mind as I floated off into the pools of its eye sockets. What was down there, at the bottom? His jaws gaped wider.

         Something zipped by me – a whitish blur. It hummed past my ear and popped into the creatures’ maw. Then a whole lot of things happened at once.

         It clapped hands over its lips and the eyes visiby bulged. The connection between us snapped and the world rushed back on a flood of adrenaline. I pulled back my head. Behind me, a pair of hands grabbed my shoulders. “Jimmy. Hold.” A voice breathed in my ear.

         It stood, still clasping its mouth. It floated in its suit, or maybe the suit floated on its body, I couldn’t tell which. We held our breath, suspended in the moment. The hands dropped and the jaws split so wide I actually saw its cheeks tear at the corners. A fountainous gout of black goop spurted from its mouth, followed by a tab the size of a large poker chip. It landed near me and I looked closer.

         A Host wafer.

         “Good shot, eh?” Manny said behind me. “I was always the best at lagging quarters in the old neighborhood.”

         With a feral shriek made up of dozens of voices, animal and human, it leaped at us. “Hold.” Manny whispered again.

         The ward held: our circle of holy water stopped it like a pigeon on plate glass. It literally bounced back and onto its butt.

         We stood up, clutching each other and shaking like a bunch of grade school girls. Manny later swore I started to cry, but I dispute that.

         The creature rose to its feet – floated, almost, and affected a posture so relaxed and casual as to be almost effeminate. Leg cocked, right hand on hip, it sneered at us.

         My cue.” Manny announced, stepping ahead of us. He raised his arms and spoke into to clear morning air. “In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God, of Blessed Michael the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints. Powerful in the holy authority of our ministry, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil.”

         He pulled a bottle of holy water from his coat, opened it and threw two wide, sweeping strokes in the air. The creature leaped back, growling. Manny clenched his fist and pumped it in the air.

         “God arises!” he thundered.

         ”His enemies are scattered

         And those who hate Him flee before Him.

         As smoke is driven away, so are they driven!

         As wax melts before the fire,

         So do the wicked perish at the presence of God!”

         He advanced steadily, past the circle of holy water and toward the creature. Paolo caught my eye and I nodded. We each pulled a crucifix from our pockets and began to circle to either side of the thing, who was looking decidedly ill by now.

         Manny looked like one of those old-testament prophets you see on museum walls. He was a bright spot in the gray light of false dawn, almost illuminated from within. The air between them shimmered and rippled, like heat rising off a hot road in the deep summer. “Don’t look at his eyes, Manny! He’s got that fucking hypno-thing going!” I yelled.

         Bad move. However scary Father Manny may have appeared to our monster, I wasn’t much more threatening than a Jumbo Shrimp on a party platter. It spun towards me with a rippling snarl. I let out a warbling hoot of terror and thrust out the Crucifix. Paolo and Manny edged toward me.

         “You UGLY Fuck!” I croaked, voice raw with terror. “Get back in your fucking hole!”

         It stopped and drew itself up; unnaturally still, like a rock or a pole. Then it gaped its pincushion grin and flung itself toward the grave.

         Three steps later it hit the outer ring of holy water. It screeched to a halt and howled with rage. It shot a smoldering look at us and began to feel around the edge of the ward. I put my right hand in my pocket. It scrabbled counterclockwise around the perimeter. I edged closer.

         Then it found the gap. It laughed in triumph and stepped across the line. It turned and leered at us, black tongue waggling. We held our crosses high and advanced. It turned and ran towards the grave. I dashed forward and pulled my squeeze bottle of holy water from my pocket. Just as it hit the inner circle, I squirted a line across the gap I’d made on purpose earlier, closing it.

         The thing took a few moments for the details of it’s predicament to sink in. We could see it puzzling out the situation, head cocked to one side, lips moving wordlessly. When it realized it was trapped between the two rings it gibbered and squealed and ran in circles for a few seconds, until the sun hit it. I’d like to say it burst into flames and dissolved into ashes, like in the movies, but it was nothing as tidy as that. The air brightened a tiny bit more and came to a halt just in front of us. We shrunk back a bit behind out crosses, but it just stood there, crazed and horrible. Then it did something kind of odd: it began to laugh.

         It whooped and howled and pointed at us, bending over at the waist and clutching its sides. Somehow that was even worse than the screaming. We looked at each other and shrugged our confusion. Then it let out a huge vomitous gout of goop (from both ends, I hate to say) and flopped onto the ground dead as a case of canned tuna at our feet. Manny kicked it a few times, but it didn’t move.

         That pretty much did it for us; we wanted to collapse onto the ground in exhaustion, but lights were coming on in nearby houses already and after all the shrieking and screaming we decided to skedaddle before the cops arrived. Paolo ran to the station wagon and drove it over. We loaded the corpse onto the back and covered it with an old tarp. Then we drove to Portsmouth with all the windows open and our heads hanging out from the stink.

         Around back, Manny’s church had a delivery entrance. We dragged the body down into the basement kitchen and stripped it. Paolo really came into his own there, as a farm boy he knew how to cut up stuff and he didn’t mind the smell. Manny and I tried to help as much as we could, but we kept dashing out into the yard to heave and gag. Once it was cut into manageable pieces we stuffed them into garbage bags, weighted with bricks from his garden.

         Then it was back north, to Garrison Point and the General Sullivan Bridge. We walked out onto the old steel suspension bridge, condemned years ago and replaced by two new concrete ones fifty yards downriver and piled the bags up below the rails as discreetly as we could. Manny pulled out a worn switchblade and poked a hole in each of the bags. He caught me looking at it and shrugged. “You can take the boy outa the neighborhood…” he said.

         I looked around nervously. “We need to do this fast, the cars can see us as they drive by. I’d hate to get stopped for littering by the cops and have to explain what’s in these bags.”

         Manny smiled and shook his head. “After all this, you still don’t get it, do you Jimmy?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Nobody’s gonna see us. We’re not going to be arrested. We’ve done Gods work tonight. He’ll take care of us, man.”

         Paolo nodded agreement and threw the first bag over the rail. We watched it spiral down to the boiling water below. It floated out towards the sea for a few yards, and then the bricks pulled it under. We tossed the rest after it, then stood and watched as they disappeared, one by one below the surface.

         ”You think this will work?” Manny asked.

         “Well, like you said, God’s on our side, right? Besides – everything else went according to the rules. He’s dismembered, scattered, in deep fast-running water. I think he’s done.”

         “We don’t even know who he was.”

         “We can find out later, if it makes any difference.”

         We turned to go and Paolo stepped in front of me. His eyes were bright with emotion. He looked done in, but happy. We stood for a moment, then he took my hand and shook it.
“You are a brave man, Senor Jimmy.” He said. “And you are a great Santero. I will tell my friends, if they ever need help to come to you. You saved my life.”

         I slapped him on the shoulder and shook my head. “I’m out of the Santero business, Paolo. I’d appreciate it if we could keep this just between the Padre, you and me. Okay?”

         He agreed and we drove to our respective homes. I tried to sleep a for few hours, but couldn’t get down. Something nagged at me, something important, but elusive. True, my nerves were still singing from their earlier adrenaline overdose, but I knew I was dog-tired and should be out. After an hour I got up and hit the Computer to put all this down while it was fresh in my mind. And as I look at the words now, I think I’ve got it figured out.

         Maybe the worst part of the whole ordeal for me was the part when the Creature got inside my head. For a moment or two it was as if we’d merged - he was me and I was him in a horribly intimate and invasive way. I knew - could even feel him rummage through my thoughts and memories.

         And now I think back to the physical factors at work, as I suppose a good Santero should, and I realize that our creature was in a fresh grave. That means he wasn’t dead more than a week.

         So the question nagging at the back of my mind comes forward: who, or what put him there? Was he working alone or did he have a partner? Does that partner know what we did? I think that’s why he laughed so much at the end, he knew I wanted to give up my new-found career as supernatural consultant. He knew I was anxious to stop being Paolo’s Santero, and once we’d finished him off I believed I could do that.

         Maybe he knew something I didn’t.

         The shadows are gathering outside the window as I write this: streetlights will be coming on soon. I don’t think I’m going to get much sleep tonight, either.