Padre Salas (2 page)

IV. Puente Grande, in the State of Jalisco (a few days earlier)

José Antonio had spent a week traipsing through the surrounding areas of Guadalajara. He had visited Zapotlanejo, El Santo and Tonalá, and in every one of the towns, he had been able to come face to face with the supposedly possessed little girls. He had not seen anything to write home about, and began to think that this doctor was just as crazy as the families of these poor girls. It was true that they were showing signs of suffering from some illness, possibly mental, and that their emaciated bodies were inducing an immediate sensation of both anguish and compassion. And that was all it was...

“It’s here, right here!” the physician cried out, startling the journalist, and jerking him back out of his reflections.

“Shall I park here?”

“Yes, this is the house...”

Sancho parked the vehicle in a narrow, badly tarmacked little street that culminated in a terrace covered by parched brush. The house was isolated, and on the façade of the two-storey building, the un-plastered bricks were visible. It seemed to have an annexed animal pen constructed out of piled up rocks, and in the back they could hear the continuous calls of hens and cockerels.

“They’re humble folk, but good. Let’s go. Come in with me, and don’t worry.”

José Antonio had not yet clearly shown the doctor his profound disappointment. He still needed to wait until the round finished, and then he would tell him, in the most delicate way possible, that nothing strange was going on here: that at the most, these girls were infected by some particular virus and that the best course of action was to immediately alert the health authorities.

“What’s the girl’s name?” asked Sancho, now in the tone that had become routine for him.

“Adelina...” said the doctor, in almost a whisper.

The journalist jotted down the name in a little notebook which he carried around with him, and followed the doctor inside the humble construction. They were received by the girl’s mother, who at that moment was all alone in the house with Adelina, as her husband and son had gone out to work the land.

“Doctor, the girl’s sleeping right now. Honestly, as I already told you, she spends almost the entire day just lying on the sofa.”

The mother was speaking in whispers. She seemed exhausted, worn out from dealing with a situation that surpassed her understanding.

“Has the fever returned at any point?” enquired the doctor, approaching Adelina, who was lying down on a sofa that was falling to pieces, and where, in places, the polyester stuffing was visible. 

“No. She’s been more or less calm since your last visit, but she hasn’t woken up at all.”

The doctor assessed the girl and took her pulse. No sooner had he finished, he shook his head, worried.

“These strange crackling sounds are persisting, and the pulse is at around 30 beats per minute...”

Sancho became impatient. He had listened to similar diagnoses over the course of the previous seven visits. He knew that all the girls’ pulses were unusually low, almost incompatible with life, and that the crackling the doctor heard could indicate that the girls had pneumonia or any other respiratory condition. But that was all. He was wasting time, and the editor in chief for
Las Noticias
was losing patience. He emitted a lengthy sigh.

“Does this work bore you?” the mother asked directly.

“I... I mean, I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to,” came the journalist’s clumsily mumbled response, surprised at the woman’s almost feline reaction.

“He’s not a doctor. He’s a journalist I’ve brought with me, in case he can lend a hand,” said the doctor, intermediating before things could escalate.

“A journalist? Adelina doesn’t need any journalist,” declared the mother.

“Listen... you already know I feel the same way as you and your husband; that Adelina is possessed. But that is not something I can simply put in writing on its own... I need another person... shall we say... to be involved, do you understand me?”

José Antonio could not restrain himself after this conversation, which was bordering on the absurd. How could he talk so calmly of possessions! Was it that they were all crazy, and he was the only sane person? He needed to be honest.

“Please, doctor! I have been patient, I have kept quiet out of respect for you and the families of these poor girls, but I can’t take it any more. What’s a physician doing talking about possessions! Are you
mad
? Whilst you’re wasting time talking about nonsense, these girls are still unwell and not getting adequate treatment.” 

The doctor looked at him, astonished, completely taken aback. After a week of visiting almost all of the girls, he was not expecting this reaction. However, a dark cloud descended over the mother’s face, loaded with fury and rage.

“Where did you come from, Mr Journalist? Mexico City, most likely. You’ve got that whole look about you. And you come here thinking we’re just a bunch of illiterate good-for-nothings in a little village in Jalisco, am I right?”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to offend you, madam. But you must understand that your daughter is unwell, and that thinking about demons and possessions isn’t going to help cure her,” said the reporter quietly, choosing his words very carefully.

The woman went towards a cupboard, in which there was a gold-coloured crucifix, some twenty centimetres in height. Then, she returned to her daughter’s side and placed the crucifix on her chest. Suddenly, Adelina became restless, and began to convulse slightly, emitting some sort of whining sound, similar to that of an injured animal. Her body straightened out, and she became completely paralysed, stiff as a board, then began to slowly rise up from the sofa, levitating almost half a metre above it.

“What do you have to say to me now, journalist? What do you have to say to me now!” shouted the mother at the top of her voice, becoming carried away with anguish, whilst her intense stare was fixated on Sancho.

Jose Antonio, terrified by what he was seeing with his own eyes, almost lost his balance. What sort of spectacle was he witnessing here? Perhaps he had also lost his mind? How was it possible for this little girl to be floating in the air? One thing was clear though, this was it: the
Big Story
that he needed, the one that he had been desperately awaiting for months, was now suspended in a shabby living room, as if held up by invisible thread, barely one metre away from their own noses.

––––––––

V. Metropolitan Cathedral, Mexico City

P
adre Rincón was waiting in one of the many chapels surrounding the choir at the Metropolitan Cathedral, the See of the Prime Archdiocese of Mexico. He had not chosen it by chance: ever since he was a child, he had devoted himself to Our Lady of Guadalupe, who used to appear to him in dreams, and who guided him towards his one true vocation: to serve God. As such, on those few occasions when he visited the splendid cathedral, he often prayed in this particular chapel, which had an altar reserved for the Most Holy. Whilst he finished his prayers, he felt a corpulent man kneel down beside him.

“We should go, Padre Rincón. I wish to make contact with these girls as soon as possible. Satan waits for no one, and that includes us...”

Padre Rincón turned and contemplated his companion. He had never seen him before, but he knew that he was dealing with Padre Salas, the most eminent exorcist in all of North America. He could not hold back an expression of profound respect and emotion. The fact that he had been entrusted with the task of helping Padre Salas suggested an enormous responsibility, but one that he was ready to take on with diligence and whole-heartedness.

“You know that you have me entirely at your disposal, Padre Salas. We have almost six hours on the road ahead of us. Who would you prefer to drive?”

“You. I’m feeling increasingly older and clumsier.”

The two men left the cathedral. On the street of
Monte de Piedad
, a man was waiting for them next to a car.

“May God guide you and help you both in your mission,” he said, handing over the car keys.

“Is everything I requested in the boot?”

“It is, Padre Salas.”

Barely half an hour later, they left behind the packed and busy streets of Mexico City, and drove in the direction of some of the tiniest villages in the state of Jalisco.

“It’s an honour to be able to accompany you, Padre Salas,” expressed Padre Rincón, somewhat troubled.

“Do you know why they have entrusted you with this mission?”

“I have no idea.”

“It’s because you’re young, you’re healthy, and you’re strong. Furthermore, I’m convinced that, to date, you have never in your life suffered a
crisis of faith
. If we truly are going to confront Satan, you’re going to need all of those virtues.”

“I’m also devoted, Padre.”

Padre Salas looked at him with compassion. Padre Rincón had the same clean aura that he himself used to have, many years ago.

“Why do you want to be an exorcist?”

“Because I wish to liberate from evil all those who are suffering from it. I believe that it’s a wonderful labour, and as thankless as it is, somebody should tackle it.”

“They’ll have already taught you that the first thing a good exorcist should do is learn to doubt; even to mistrust.”

“I’ll be prepared to do that.”

“There are many people who confuse mental illness with possession, do you understand?”

“Yes, that’s very true. Although I already read the news: now there’s a doctor who confirms categorically that there’s no medical explanation for what’s happening to these girls.”

“We shall see... I hope they’re all wrong.”

“You are both a psychologist and a psychiatrist. You know better than anybody how to differentiate between mental illness and the true action of a demon.”

Padre Salas rested his head against the window of the passenger seat. The countryside blurred, and horrible images from the past came to mind.

“Believe me, Padre Rincón, when you have someone in front of you who really is possessed, the usual feeling is sufficient enough to be certain you’re not dealing with a mental disorder, or a hoax. Satan doesn’t go around pulling childish pranks...”

VI. Hotel NH Guadalajara, Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

José Antonio Sancho could not believe what he was experiencing right at this moment, after so many months of uncertainty. At last, he had found a story that had caught the attention of the editor in chief of his newspaper, who was supplying him with the guaranteed necessary means to meet the challenge.

So much so, that he was hardly bothered that now other newspapers, and even some television channels, were arriving in the area, drawn in by the morbid fascination of news that was as extraordinary as it was attractive. This was because he was the only contact with the most reliable source; a doctor who wished to remain anonymous; and on top of all that, he had gained the confidence of the families, who would possibly refuse flat out to deal with such a delicate issue with any other reporter.

Over the last few days, he had attended, incredulously, scenes that were as shocking as they were amazing: from levitation and movement of distant objects, to contortions that were impossible for a human body and listening to the speaking of unintelligible, possibly dead languages, which he considered could be Aramaic, or Ancient Hebrew, although these were speculations with no foundation.

And now came the involvement of the Catholic Church. He had been called up to a meeting by none other than the Archbishop of Guadalajara, to give testimony of what he had seen with his own eyes. He had been honest, had told the truth without exaggeration, although he still longed for them to reach the same conclusion that the girls were indeed possessed: opening up the possibility of beginning a process of exorcism to liberate the girls from the demons that had taken over their bodies. No journalist could have asked for more. If he played his cards right, the story would not only reach the nation, but could be brought to the attention of half the world.

Sancho, who was now running his own particular version of the fable
The Milkmaid and her Pail
through his head, jumped when the phone in his room rang stridently.

“José Antonio!”

It was the doctor who had confided in him with the fascinating story, and who had provided him with the reports that he had then passed on to the Archdiocese of Guadalajara, revealing that the girls were not suffering, at least initially, from any apparent mental illness or imbalance.

“Yes, speaking. What is it?”

“You need to come here urgently. Somebody has to bear witness to what’s happening.”

The doctor’s voice sounded hurried and filled with terror on the other end of the line.

“Where can I find you?”

“At the little girl Valeria’s house, in Tonalá.”

Sancho looked back quickly through his notebook, and in a matter of only a few seconds, he found the address. It had a section for each of the ten possessed girls.

“I’ll set off straight away, I won’t be late. What’s happening? How is Valeria?”

“It isn’t the girl that’s the problem. She’s recovered; it’s a miracle. The problem is her mother, she’s all lethargic, and...”

“What? Doctor!”

“She’s dying! Her hands have turned to black ash right before my eyes. Please, I’m begging you, don’t be late!”

––––––––

VII. Zapotlanejo, State of Jalisco

T
he exact addresses of each and every one of the supposedly possessed girls were a jealously guarded secret. Neither the Church, nor the families, nor the journalist who had obtained the exclusive news was interested in them being there for all to see in the media. Luckily, it was something that they could keep discreet for some time. However, Padre Salas knew that sooner or later, Guadalajara and its surrounding areas could become a heaving mass of reporters on the hunt for a statement, recording, or snapshot they could use to seduce their audience.

“We’re here,” declared Padre Rincón, pointing to the car’s built-in GPS.