Blessed Dark

By Faith Shields

Father Jim arrives at a missionary outpost in a remote Mexican village to find everyone missing. What few inhabitants remain on the outskirts of the village warn him against staying any longer. Father Jim refuses and soon finds out that the missing people have fallen prey to a local "witch doctor" who now sets his sights on the visiting priest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trellis Publishing
• Release date: Jul 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201532857

Book preview

BLESSED DARK

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FAITH SHIELDS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BLESSED DARK

THE SANDMAN AND THE NUN

BLOOD HUNGER

SPOOKINESS

DREAM KILLER

As the roads became drier and dustier with no civilization in sight, Father Jim Wallis was forced to pull over and examine the large crinkled map that fluttered on the passenger seat. According to the directions, he should have passed the turn to the missionary outpost by now, and after several times of driving up and down the long stretch of arid road, he was forced to admit he was lost. It was hard to tell where he was meant to go, since the Mexican village he sought was so small and unremarkable that its location was not even printed on the map; Father Anthony had instead used a red marker to draw a small dot where the town lay. It was right in the middle of a network of tiny spidery threads of unmarked roads, behind a range of low hills.

Jim squinted again at the horizon, trying to work out where he would be on the map. Hopefully not much further; he felt desiccated by the dry heat, his eyes prickling as though the sandman himself had thrown a handful of grit into them. Blinking furiously, he thought perhaps he could make out an area of higher ground, way up on the horizon against the sky, but the heat haze made it impossible to tell for sure; it could just be a mirage, wishful thinking.

A soft hum floated towards him on the still hot air. After a moment, he realized it was the sound of a chugging engine, and he saw a pick-up truck coming towards him, the first vehicle he had seen for miles upon miles. Who knew how long until he saw another? Not one for being proud, Father Jim stepped out of the car, his calves stiff and painful from being cramped so long, and began to hail the pick-up so he could ask for directions.

‘Hola,’ the driver called out as she stopped. She was a thin, languid looking woman. Another, with wild black hair that fell in hooplike curls, sat beside her, sipping a soda noisily and not paying the slightest bit of attention to either the driver or Jim, as if the truck were still rushing along.

‘Hablas inglés?’ Jim asked, not trusting his Spanish enough for such an important question.

‘Yes,’ the driver replied, ‘is your car broken down?’

‘No, I just think I might be lost. Can you help?’

‘Sure,’ the woman said, and pushing the heavy door open, she slid from her seat onto the ground noiselessly.

She took the map from him and he pointed out the red dot that marked his destination.

‘I need to get to Colina Sangrienta,’ Jim said.

‘No!’ the driver instinctively looked back towards the horizon, then snapped her head back towards him and began tapping the red dot furiously and shaking her head. ‘No no no!’

The soda-drinking woman was listening, her eyes wide. ‘Colina Sangrienta?’ she called out.

‘Sí!’ the driver shouted back, and her passenger yelped and crossed herself.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jim asked.

‘You don’t go there, it is a bad place! Go home!’ the driver cried. Her eyes fell upon the small cross that hung at his throat and she snapped, ‘Don’t expect that to help you. Go home!’

With amazing speed, she leapt back into the driver’s seat and the pick-up was squealing down the road, kicking up plumes of dust, before she even closed the door.

The roar of the engine faded away, leaving Jim wondering what on earth could have made those women act that way. For just a moment he wondered if there was a reason he couldn’t seem to find the turn off to Colina Sangrienta, if perhaps... Perhaps he wasn’t meant to get there. But he shook his head, annoyed at himself for allowing a couple of strangers to cause him to rethink his holy mission. They were probably laughing together about frightening the stupid American!

He sat back down in the car, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He badly needed to find the village now because he had foolishly drank all his water, not expecting to get lost. He remembered how the pick-up driver had looked behind herself when he named the village, towards where he had earlier thought he could see far-off hills. Looking back down at the map, Jim realized he had neglected to account for his earlier turn at a crossroads, so he was further back than he had thought. He started up the car, and a few miles later took the next left, and was glad to see the haze ahead begin to merge into low hillsides, orange-red beneath the scalding sun.

Jim heave a sigh of relief as he spotted - finally - the turn to Colina Sangrienta. The road was unmarked, there was no signpost at all, but he knew it must be the one because he could see the track, like a yellow snake, coiling around the knotty hills before disappearing behind them. Besides, there was nowhere else to go.

The sun was dipping behind the hills by the time Jim arrived, making them appear a vivid glowing red; he could see now why the town was so christened. Raul Moncada Gastón, a Catholic priest from a nearby township, whom Jim had met many times and liked, was expecting his arrival. Jim was surprised to find the little village seemed quiet, no hustle and bustle of people, and oddly, he noticed the air seemed silent too; no insects chirruping, birds cawing, or dogs barking. He looked around and saw a cluster of shaggy goats standing on the hillside, staring down at him. They too were silent. Where was everybody?

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Jim felt strangely vulnerable and alone; leaving his back turned made him feel exposed, so made for shelter as fast as he could walk without giving away his feelings of fear. The outpost building was an L-shaped chapel of sorts, small, squat and rust colored, with an archway for a heavy wooden door. Jim knocked three times, and held his ear to the wood to hear if anyone was inside, but soon his feeling of being exposed, took over and he scrambled to unhook the latch, slipped inside the building and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him.

Jim looked around. The front of the building comprised of a small open space paved with cracked slabs. Though officially church property now, the locals had been permitted to use the space as a town hall until Jim took up residence there - though he planned to still allow the community to use it.

He walked across the flagstone to the back area, finding a small kitchenette, a bathroom and the bedroom complete with two utilitarian foldaway cots and little else. The setting sun filtering through the windows made the bedroom glow a watery red. Jim’s unease grew. He knew he had to check the houses, and was sure he would find people there - sleeping off the heat of the day perhaps - but it was as though he were stuck. It took him several minutes to convince himself to move, and only then because he realized if he didn’t go outside soon, the sun would set and he would have to walk through the village in the dark. That would be worse.

He walked outside and down through the narrow street towards the village center. The houses lined each side of the street, making it feel oppressive and claustrophobic. No one stirred, and the air seemed thick with that eerie whistling stillness that precedes a thunderstorm. Jim knocked on the door of a whitewashed house, but nobody answered.

He went on, knocking on each door along the way, and receiving no reply but silence. Maybe everyone had gone to another village, maybe there was an event of some sort taking place? But still, that didn’t explain why Raul was not waiting for him as arranged.

Jim went back down the other side of the narrow street, knocking on each door. At a tall burnished house squeezed between several others the force of his knock pushed the door open with a drawn-out creak.

‘Hello?’ Jim called, ‘uh, hola?’

He was just about to pull the door closed again and leave when he noticed something. Four plates sat on the table, piled with golden rice and creamy slow-cooked beans. Two of the plates even still had forks dug into the rice, as if they had been dropped suddenly mid-meal. The chairs were pushed back. Plus the unlocked door - it didn’t seem to Jim that this family had planned to leave at all. He decided to see if any other houses were unlocked. The very next one along was, and Jim felt an indescribable relief as he pushed open the door - he heard voices!

‘Hola!’ he cried, forgetting politeness and barging in. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision made him jump again - and then he realized. The television had been left on. The knot in Jim’s stomach tightened. Nobody goes out without turning the television off. What kind of emergency to cause the entire village to suddenly desert their homes without a trace?

He backed out of the house slowly, back into the empty village square. With the crawling feeling of being watched weighing heavily upon him, he decided to go back to the chapel and phone Father Anthony.

As he scurried back up to the top of the town, Jim noticed a tingling sensation along the nape of his neck, as though someone were softly blowing along it, a sensation which made his jaw clench tight. The chapel was in sight; he broke into a light run when he heard a sharp animal squeal from the hills to his right. He stopped, vibrating with keen energy as he strained to listen. The eerie silence had once again descended upon the valley. The scream had been shrill but guttural, it spoke to his basest brain; it spoke of fear.

Now he broke into a run, his heart pounding in his chest, towards the chapel, his shelter and a connection to the outside world. Yanking open the heavy wooden doors, Jim tumbled into the hall, grateful for the cool windowless room. Just as he locked the double doors behind him, something threw itself against them with a thunderous boom, then again and again, louder and more crazed each time. The doors wobbled in the frame and the key, still in the lock, fell to the flagstone and settled with a series of metallic jingles that only served to highlight the dark sounds coming from the other side of the door.

Then, just as suddenly, the noise stopped. Jim, frozen in place, wondered if something so large - a bear? Or a person? And which was more frightening?  - could have been scared off by something as innocuous as the sound of a key tinkling on the flagstone. Suddenly, he was animated again and pelting towards the back of the building. Looking around the hall frantically, he grabbed the only thing he could see that might be any use, a broom that was lying in the corner. He turned it upside down and brandished the handle like a weapon as he ran on into the back of the chapel.

Night had nearly overcome; the bloody hue in the bedroom was replaced by a low indigo. Coming through the windows above the cots came a heavy, animal breathing, thick wet breaths, and then the sound of deep scratching on the outside walls, as though something were trying to clamber in. Father Jim held the broom like a baseball bat and stepped smoothly, silently towards the left-hand window, keeping his knees