by Castro, V.
Creature Publishing
Brooklyn, NY
Copyright © 2021 by Violet Castro
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-951971-04-5
LCCN 2020946639
Cover design by Luísa Dias
Spine illustration by Rachel Kelli
CREATUREHORROR.COM
Twitter @creaturelit
Instagram @creaturepublishing
Dedicated to all the women finding their way.
You are not alone.
Contents
Chapter 1 … 1
Chapter 2 … 23
Chapter 3 … 37
Chapter 4 … 57
Chapter 5 … 69
Chapter 6 … 81
Chapter 7 … 89
Chapter 8 … 111
Chapter 9 … 123
Chapter 10… 135
“I only found ones with saints or Jesus on them. You think they will scare the spirits away?”
Fernanda rolled her eyes, snatching the candles from Ana to light them. “It’s just a little fun. Besides, it’s my damn early birthday after all, and the last one I’ll spend with you pendejas for a while.” Fernanda was leaving, and soon. This Saturday night we celebrated the birthday we would miss once she left for college.
I took my place on the floor next to Fernanda and Ana, and Perla handed me a glass of a fizzing brown concoction I hoped would be strong. By the looks of the half-empty glasses and open cans, the others had started already. I took two big refreshing alcoholic gulps of Southern Comfort and Coke, nasty shit only good for getting fucked up. The ice felt good in my mouth, even if it made my teeth ache. My empty stomach chewed on the booze, sending a sense of relaxation through my body. Five of us sat in a circle doing our best to emulate the girls in The Craft, hoping to unleash some power to take us all away from our home to the place of our dreams. But we weren’t witches. We were five Chicanas living in San Antonio, Texas, one year out of high school.
“So, who is doing the honors of calling on the universe to find a ghost or demon to talk to?” Pauline chugged the last of her Modelo.
We exchanged glances in an alcohol-induced haze.
Fuck it, it would be me leading this séance. I’d do it as a leaving present to Fernanda, since not a dime from my fortnightly paycheck could be spared for a gift she could take with her.
I made eye contact with my four friends, letting them know I was serious.
“All right, hold hands and don’t let go. I want you to believe in your hearts we can be heard.” What I meant was, I need to be heard because my thoughts barely carried over the pop of the deep fat fryer during a double shift. I was sick of feeling like splattered grease stuck on the wall.
Fernanda giggled at my sudden onset of clairvoyance. She always said I was so fucking dramatic. Yes, bitch, I am! was my response. When your insides are egg white soft, you learn to develop an exterior tougher than fossilized dead things.
I first became aware of this fact with a boy by the name of Tip Top; he was a Mexican wannabe member of the ’90s group Kris Kross with his oversized polos and Dickies too baggy for his spindly limbs. He parted his hair in the center and applied so much gel it crunched to the touch. We stood facing each other, arguing the way adults would. He kept pressing me to hold his hand when I didn’t want to. Pressing me to fool around when I didn’t feel ready. “You hate me so much, so just go on and hit me. I dare you,” I sneered, taking a step closer to him with my fists balled at my sides, ready to receive a blow I’m not sure why I felt I deserved. I shook inside, wanting to run and hide.
He glared at me. “Nah, you ain’t worth it.”
I raised my chin in defiance, hoping the tears on the verge of falling would roll back into my eyes. They did. The following day most of the cliques heard about the fight.
“You’re a hard bitch. I heard about your shenanigans, acting all angry. That’s not pretty you know,” one of the cool boys whispered in passing, also wearing an oversized polo and strong Drakkar cologne. I couldn’t tell everyone, I’m really not.
“Okay, Lourdes. Give us your best dramatics and call something.” Fernanda chuckled.
That second beer had made it to her head. Good, she would be nice and tipsy for a cheap scare. I thought about who I wanted to contact. If I could reach a spirit, it would have to be a thing of power, something to give me hope.
I concentrated every ounce of will, the kind of ganas you would need in a life or death situation, then released it all through my lips with authority.
“I want to reach a spirit. An old spirit, one from before the world was what we know today. If you are there, speak to us. Give us a sign.”
Ana, Perla, Pauline, and Fernanda had their eyes closed. Not me. If there was something or someone listening, I had to see it. I was as broke in faith as I was in pocket. This was a time when you had ICE storming around like possessed Storm Troopers on crack, people getting shot trying to learn or pray or buy milk. Stories of people going missing. Bodies of displaced people washed up on river beds and coastlines for all to see, to cry about, but ultimately forget. You’ve heard of the Cold War? This was the beginning of the Border Wars. I wondered how much time was really left for any of us. I think I would have settled for the devil himself if he promised me things would work out in the end—for me, for my friends, for my sisters who couldn’t even spell their names yet.
It was quiet when the candles flickered from an unseen breath, illuminating the sacred heart of Jesus and La Virgen with a glow that seemed too bright for cheap wax in glass from the supermarket. I had never seen a flame burn through a candle so quickly. The remnants were like those sad photos of collapsing icebergs. Flames belly danced across the room and over our bodies.
The words were a mumble, barely audible, but there. Fernanda released my sweaty grip. She unfolded her legs to adopt a squatting position. Both her arms extended to the ceiling as if she held onto a branch, readying her body for birth in the wild. Her chanting increased in volume as she stared at nothing, her wide eyes reflecting the flames. In the darkness, it appeared as if the fire was inside her skull. The rest of the circle watched in fear as a husky breathless voice filled the room, sounding less and less like Fernanda’s.
“Stop it, Fernanda! That isn’t funny!” shouted Pauline, trying to avoid looking between Fernanda’s legs as her skirt hitched up to reveal bloodstained panties. Our cycles were always in sync, and it wasn’t time. Cramps that usually signalled the beginning of my period caused me to wince in pain and clutch my belly. I looked around to see if this was just me. I couldn’t tell through the expressions of terror on their faces.
Perla crept over to Fernanda and gave her a gentle shove, trying to topple her over. I hoped Fernanda would burst into laughter, that the joke was on us. But she was not the joking type. Fernanda’s feet remained firmly planted on the ground, arms still spread to the atmosphere, blood dripping from between her legs like rainwater falling from a leaf.
Ana recoiled to the far side of my room against the window with the Jesus-printed candle. “My mother said no one can hear you when the devil is near. Is she possessed? We shouldn’t have done this!”
Fernanda dropped to her hands and knees. The sound of the slap against the tiles made us all jump. She moaned, grunted, and hissed. Then silence, and she raised her head to look at us. The expression on her face through parted hair was ecstasy and pain. Her lips became thinner, her teeth larger, as she opened her mouth like a bottomless, black cenote. She spoke again, only louder this time so we could hear.
“Naqui.Naqui.Naqui. Niyoli.Niyoli.Niyoli.” Her eyeballs shook with sporadic tremors, her pupils those of someone rolling on ecstasy. I was closest to her and probably the only one to notice that they were changing in s
hape and color. Suddenly the air-conditioning was too cold on my skin. There was no way I could be seeing what I was seeing.
Pauline’s voice cracked in panic as she stammered. “Is she speaking Latin . . . or, or Aramaic? Like, you know, in the movies. The language of Jesus.”
“It’s not fucking Aramaic,” I snapped as I shot her a mean, uncalled-for look. I moved closer to Fernanda to get a better understanding of what she was saying. She would never hurt me. It was another language, and it was old, yet still spoken. It was Nahuatl. I knew because I had seen a documentary about the indigenous people of Mexico in AP History. When I could afford classes at the community college, I wanted to study history, my history. As much pride as I took in my mestiza roots, I knew very little of it. Another source of anger for me, as if I needed more.
“Make her stop, Lourdes!” cried Perla, curling her arms tightly around Pauline and Ana. They were huddled together looking at me for answers. I was never top of the class or best dressed, but I always knew how to take control.
Fernanda crawled toward us like a creature without a face, her hair now fallen over the top half of her body which moved in a contorted, disjointed manner. Umbilical cord-length, black streaks ran down her legs, dripping onto the tiles of my bedroom floor. Ana, Perla, and Pauline were crying and screaming, clutching the candle with La Virgen like it would save them.
I ran to the door and flipped on the light switch. The candles extinguished on their own, and Fernanda collapsed. Her body looked like a discarded, crumpled piece of clothing. Ana screamed at the sight of blood smeared across the floor and across our friend’s face. The air had the faint scent of sea mist and extinguished flames.
“Is she dead? Oh my God! Lourdes! Do something!”
Perla and Pauline looked around the room in desperation, their bodies trembling, not knowing what to do. I knew none of us wanted to tell our parents there was trouble because we had stolen beer and booze from all our homes. Most of our parents wouldn’t care, but Fernanda’s mother would have a fit of apocalypse-telenovela dramatics, probably banning us from seeing her daughter until she left for college. I bent down to place my head against her chest and a hand over her nose. The rhythm of breathing and beating seemed normal.
“She’s just out cold.” A slight sense of relief eased the tension on their faces. Ana helped me lay Fernanda in a comfortable position on the floor with a pillow beneath her head.
“What do we do now, Lourdes?” Ana whimpered.
We all looked down at our friend. The last thing I needed was questions and wailing. I got enough of that with my little sisters.
“I want you all to go home. Let me stay. If nothing changes by sunrise, I’ll call an ambulance.”
“What? Why? We can’t leave you alone,” said Pauline.
“Why not? There’s nothing you can do. If something is wrong, better one of us in trouble than all of us.”
“I don’t like it.” Perla shook her head, fighting back tears.
“No offense, Perla, but this is why. Don’t go crying. It will be fine.”
Pauline pulled her lips into a tight knot and bent down to touch Fernanda’s forehead with a shaky palm. She moved to Fernanda’s chest, watching her hand rise and fall.
“She is right. We all know Fernanda. She might be embarrassed if we make a fuss over her when this turns out to be nothing. Just an emotional outburst.” Pauline stood up again to face me. “If something is wrong you better call us immediately and tell the authorities the truth. We are in this together. Okay?”
“Understood. Don’t any of you worry. It’s a bad period and a lot of emotions.”
“Let me help you clean up.”
“Don’t worry about it, Ana. It will give me something to do while I wait.”
We hugged each other goodbye, and I got to work. I cleaned the blood from Fernanda’s legs, placing a towel between them to soak up the flow. On my hands and knees, I scrubbed the floor with paper towels. As I wiped the same damn spot for over an hour, I tried to come up with what I would say. What explanation could I give for the events that proceeded our friend falling unconscious? We didn’t do anything wrong. We were just a couple of friends being ourselves. Being a young woman isn’t a crime. This wasn’t Salem. But at the same time, I knew this wouldn’t be let go. It’s about how visible your veins are beneath your skin and what hangs between your legs. If I didn’t feel absolutely fucked before, I did now.
I sat on the floor with Fernanda, trying to make sense of her behavior. She wasn’t a wild girl, not like me. My purse was filled with condoms, and I didn’t like children very much, besides my sisters. She had morals and a soft heart. I leaned my head and neck against the mattress. All I could do was wait for her to open her eyes. She had to wake up.
Almost a year earlier to the day, we had sat in a semi-circle of plastic lawn chairs in Ana’s backyard celebrating graduation. The aroma of beef fat sizzling on hot coals and charred chicken skin filled the air. I flopped my aching legs and back into the hard chair, using my feet to take off my work shoes. I changed into chanclas stashed in my bag.
“Fuck, I can’t do this forever. How was the ceremony?”
Pauline threw me a wet Mike’s Hard Lemonade from a blue cooler filled with beer and bottled mixed drinks. “You just need to find your passion, or something you don’t mind doing for a while. I’m not exactly passionate about braces or dentistry, but every time I sell something the boss promises to give me a little extra. It’s just for a hot minute until I figure it all out.” She took a drink of Modelo. “Oh, and you didn’t miss anything.”
I opened the bottle and gulped it down to quench my thirst, thinking if only it was as easy as that. My thirst was beyond alcohol and water, a burning that wouldn’t be satiated. I appreciated the lie Pauline told me with regards to the ceremony. The lemon felt sour and I didn’t want to finish it. I knew my passion.
Pauline slid back into her seat, bopping her head to the TLC CD her brother Ruben had put in the boombox. She was a good friend with the power to convince anyone of anything. Just before graduation, she got me out of detention with only her words. I had missed a homework assignment. When the teacher asked me to stay behind, Pauline stood shoulder to shoulder right next to me. She sucked her teeth and folded her arms across her body.
“C’mon, Miss. Do you know Lourdes works almost a full-time job for extra money? She has three younger sisters she takes care of, too. So she forgot one assignment.” Pauline shrugged.
When we left the classroom, I gave Pauline a hug. Senior year was hard, knowing there was nothing happening after. I had to stay behind because I couldn’t even afford community yet. My parents didn’t earn enough to put extra aside for me with three other mouths to feed, or have any collateral for a loan. They also did not fall below the poverty line to qualify me for free money. But I appreciated Pauline’s support at that moment.
“Girl, you have the devil’s tongue. You could probably sell the motherfucker fire.”
She pulled away and gave me a wink. “It just takes a little bruja magic.”
Pauline could not talk away my feelings of frustration, or my anger for missing graduation. Next to us, Fernanda drank Sprite, sulking she missed making valedictorian by only a few points. She was leaving for college in the fall on an academic scholarship to a fancy school in Philadelphia that the President’s daughter had attended. We were all sure she would forget about us in the chaos of exams, essays, and internships that would carry her even further away.
Fernanda got my attention in middle school when a rubber band popped off her braces in math class and landed in the middle of my desk. I could tell she thought I would give her a dirty look as she blushed in embarrassment, on the verge of tears. Instead, I handed it back to her. Thanks to Fernanda, I passed math.
“Pauline is right. You didn’t miss anything.” There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. Her eyes flicked towards Ruben when he brought over a bag of Cheetos, a faint blush blooming on her cheeks.
She immediately looked down at her drink.
“I thought your speech was wonderful, Fernanda. Salutatorian is still a great honor.”
Her eyes moved to his shoes. “Thanks, Ruben.
Um . . . do you think you can give me a ride home later, since you’re the only one not drinking?”
“Of course. Just tell me when you’re ready to leave.”
“My parents asked about you,” piped Ana, seeing the grumpy disposition I was trying to hold in. “I’m still on the fence about a teaching assistant position, but if you are interested my parents could probably hook you up.”
Ana was from a family of teachers but was unsure if she wanted to pursue teaching herself. However, whether she liked it or not, she could explain the most complex ideas in simple terms and possessed an open kindness that drew people in, especially children.
“Thanks, girl. I’ll think about it.” I took my sandals off to feel the freshly cut grass between my toes. “How’s your mom liking her new position as superintendent?”
“Young ladies! Congratulations on this very important time in your life when you move from one world to another. I lit candles for all of you at the feet of La Virgen before coming here.”
I looked behind me to see Father Moreno, the local priest, standing there. I had nothing against him, just what he stood for.
“Thank you,” we all mumbled as a courtesy. None of us were religious, although our families were. We didn’t really know him. I shifted in my seat, hoping he would move on from our little group. This was supposed to be a party, despite my mood like a tepid Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Then Ruben saved us.
“Glad you could make it, Father Moreno.”
“Ah, an important man. May God bless you for your service. You must tell me all about your new position overseas! I cannot tell you what a blessing it was to serve as chaplain on your base. Do you have a moment?”
Ruben, the polite type that mothers loved, looked disappointed as he glanced towards the empty seat between Fernanda and Perla, then back at the priest.