They were on almost every utility post: fliers inviting the entire community to come to a local park for a bonfire and to meet Miguel and hear him speak. It was sponsored by Randolph’s church. I felt alarmed and headed to speak with Father Patrick.
“Have you seen the fliers?” I asked.
“Yes, Steven, I’ve seen them,” he answered.
“Well?”
He swung around quickly, stumbled, and started rambling. “What do you want me to do? It’s the start of the Great Tribulation! A mass indoctrination of souls! I’ve seen them before. A gathering of non-believers to witness the flames of Hell! They will gather many new souls, many new followers. This town is doomed!”
I was caught off guard and remarked, “We can’t just let it happen! We’ve got to do something!”
Father Patrick replied, “Pray for rain.”
“That’s it! Pray for rain? Don’t you have a spell or something in your box you can use?”
He glared at me and started to leave.
“Are you going?” I asked.
“Yes, and you are too. Pick me up an hour before, and wear that ring I gave you.”
“But all I have is my bike.”
He turned and walked away.
Chapter 7
It was the day of the bonfire. I placed the ring Father Patrick had given me on my right-hand ring finger. My left hand was still reserved for Alexa’s wedding ring and my wedding ring. With all that was going on, she was still in my daily thoughts.
I biked to the Catholic Church, walked in, and headed for the office. Father Patrick greeted me dressed in black garb.
“My battle robe,” he professed. “Let’s go.”
I climbed on my bike. Father Patrick spent the next few minutes trying to accommodate himself on the handlebars. It was a comedic scene. Once he was secure, I pedaled to the park, gaining many strange looks as well as catcalls.
When we arrived, we sought refuge in the bushes some fifty yards from the pile of wood.
Father Patrick advised me time and time again to not stare at the flame, to not concentrate on the words of Miguel, and to rely on the power of the ring he had given me.
“He will search out the non-believers―the ones who believe they have been failed by Christ. He will promise them great wealth and happiness.”
As Miguel approached the pulpit, the crowd stood in anticipation. As he spoke, the flames of the bonfire seemed to rise. People were fainting and crying as he wandered down through the crowd. He was being mobbed. They all wanted to touch this false messiah. My hands were shaking, my chest was pounding, and the amulet in the Battle Ring turned blood red. My instincts were telling me to prepare for a fight. I looked at Father Patrick. He looked unfazed.
At the end, the crowd disbanded, and Father Patrick and I took a long, silent walk back to his church.
Upon arrival, I had to ask, “Well?”
He took a long drag from his cigarette and spoke: “He is most certainly not the Devil.”
“How can you say that?” I felt enraged. “Don’t you believe me? I saw him kill Alexa! She said he had her soul, and the ring you gave me was red! Who else does this?”
He remained silent, and I calmed myself.
“So Miguel is not the Devil? That’s good, right?”
“I have battled this demon many times before. He has a stench about him that I cannot forget. Miguel is the latest moniker he goes by, but he is centuries old. He is an agent of the Devil, an Exalted Demon. He is here to collect souls for Satan and to defeat all that is good in the world. He is the soul apparent, the successor to Lucifer, and possibly the Antichrist. He is one step below Satan, but twice as Evil. He does all of the Devil’s dirty work: stealing souls and making honest men lie and deceive for profit. He is tricking people by using the name Miguel, a form of Michael, which translates to “One who is God.” He is here to ravage souls and to end the earth. Armageddon may be upon us.”
“He must be defeated.”
Up till now, I had taken everything Father Patrick had said with uncertainty. But now I could see that he was dead serious.
Chapter 8
I read the article in the paper several times to make sure that I wasn’t missing anything. The headline read, “Young Church Leader To Return Home.” Miguel was going home to Ecuador. I jumped on my bike and rode to Father Patrick’s.
“Good news, right?”
“I’m not sure. He would only leave if his job was done. And worse yet, how can we kill him if we don’t know where he is?”
“Kill him?” I asked. “Us? Kill an agent of the Devil? Possibly the Antichrist? Are you crazy?”
He leaned over his desk and spoke. “Yes, Steven, us. As far as I know, we may be the only ones who know his secret. If we don’t kill him, who will?”
All I knew was that Miguel had left. I just wanted my life back.
Unfortunately, Miguel had left his mark on this small town. After the bonfire, there was a dark cloud hanging over it. Businesses failed. People moved away. Property values plummeted, and any church that wasn’t affiliated with Randolph struggled to stay open.
Since Miguel had left, Beth was heartbroken. He had professed his love for her, stole her virginity, and left her. He had promised that he would come back, but she had not heard from him in a month. I did my best to cheer her up.
She then dropped a bombshell on me. She was pregnant with Miguel’s child.
I felt a cold shiver up my spine. And if our assumptions were correct, this was more than just some boy trying to escape his responsibility of being a father. I excused myself from Beth and pedaled furiously to Father Patrick’s church. I don’t remember exactly what words I used, but I remember seeing his face turn pale.
“So he left because his job was done. He’s moved on now that he has left his legacy in our town,” Father Patrick said.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
“Nothing, Steven. There is nothing we can do but just wait until the infant is born. You must get close to her. Monitor her feelings and let me know how things are progressing. And Pray.”
“For what?” I asked.
“A miscarriage.”
For the next eight months, I became Beth’s best friend and her confidant. She was still on the rebound from Miguel, and I could tell that she wanted more from our relationship than I could give. I still loved Alexa.
The year also included my eighteenth birthday―my passing into adulthood. It was met with no fanfare. I received a cake and a new Bible from my mom, and Beth gave me a card and a kiss on the cheek. No birthday wishes from any friends. I bet if my dad were still alive, things would have been so much different. I cried myself to sleep that night. I still wasn’t over the death of my dad or the loss of Alexa.
It was also our senior year in high school, and we both had heard all the jokes about the preacher’s daughter. They were cruel, but they affected me more than Beth. She was still very religious, and I could tell she would be a wonderful mother.
I started attending church regularly, which thrilled my mom and Beth. There was still a wedge between Father Randolph and me. When our eyes would meet, there was a connection. I started feeling like he had known all along who Miguel was, and that he knew all about Alexa and the trick that had been played upon me.
I also spent a great deal amount of time with Father Patrick. His teaching and experience with the Devil was something that couldn’t be learned by reading the Bible. And our conversations always seemed to lead to the responsibilities of St. Michael fighting Evil.
Chapter 9
It was only a couple of weeks before Beth’s due date. She was unsure of the sex but had a list of several names, one of which was mine. I felt honored but wanted no part of this child. I was sure that Beth wanted me to step up and be a stepfather or a mentor. I balked at any reference that Beth would make at her and me playing Mommy and Daddy. But I also didn’t want to disappoint my mom, as she seemed to have the same idea.
Her due date was right at graduation time, and as chance would have it, it interfered with commencement. We rushed to the hospital, and she was admitted. They mistakenly thought I was the father and started prepping me for the delivery room, only to be severely chastised by a late-arriving Reverend Randolph.
“You’re not going in there!” he said to me and ripped off my hospital gown. I didn’t really care to be in the delivery room, but the fact that he didn’t want me to be in there angered me.
I grabbed him and threw him against the wall.
“You’ll go to Hell for that!” he said.
I turned and left, coming face to face with nearly fifty church members in the waiting room asking questions. I excused myself and found my way to a men’s room. I trembled while looking into the mirror. I was upset because Reverend Randolph had gotten the best of me. Even though I had fought back physically, I felt defeated. I looked at my reflection. I looked like a child. My eyes were full of tears. If Father Patrick and I were going to kill Miguel, I was going to have to grow up and be a man.
I returned to the waiting room and managed to blend in. Word spread within the hour that Beth had given birth to a healthy baby boy and was resting peacefully. Father Randolph walked into the waiting room looking exhausted and led the members of the congregation to a window, pointing to his grandson.
He said, “Everyone, I’d like for all of you to welcome our newest church member and my first grandchild, Miguel Jr.”
The mere mention of the name made me shudder. Beth had never mentioned Miguel as a possible choice. I was sure that this was all Reverend Randolph’s doing. He had so much control over Beth as well as the whole congregation. He was beaming, and the church members in attendance seemed to embrace the situation.
I was the first to leave, not wanting to be a part of this celebration. I felt that Beth would have wanted me to be there for the birth and then to wipe her brow. But now I was feeling less than welcome, and I felt as though I had been used and then discarded.
It was a three-mile hike home, but it gave me a chance to think and reflect on what had happened. As usual, Mom wasn’t home. She was at the church―working. I warmed up some cold chicken and went to bed, trying to put my “graduation” day behind me.
Mom woke me up the following Sunday. “Steven, get up or you’ll be late for church.” I was less than enthused, as the main event today would be the “unveiling” of Miguel Jr. This would be his first public appearance. I hadn’t spoken to Beth since I left the hospital, and it had been even longer since I had been to see Father Patrick. This whole ordeal was suspect. Maybe Alexa had really just been a dream. Maybe Father Patrick was just a crazy old man. I was tired. An eighteen-year-old kid shouldn’t have to deal with the end of humanity.
The church was packed, and Beth and Miguel Jr. were in the front row receiving blessings and prayers from the congregation. At the end of the service, Reverend Randolph invited everyone to the baptizing in two weeks. That piqued my interest. If this were some Evil plan to obtain souls, they certainly would not baptize the infant. He would then be accepting Jesus Christ into his life.
This called for a trip to see Father Patrick.
I expected to be chastised for not keeping in touch, but I got just the opposite.
“Steven, my friend, how have you been?”
“Fine. Well, no, not fine.” I got him up to date on the birth and the fact that they were going to baptize the infant. I also speculated that maybe he had been wrong and that our imaginations had just gotten the best of us.
“I understand your concern, Steven,” Father Patrick said. “But I can assure you, I am not wrong. A baptismal in Randolph’s church will be no good. It is not a holy place. Steven, Randolph’s church was built by contractors with permits from the government. It was built for profit, not for a prophet.” He chuckled. “Its wood is fake, just like its leader. The cross it bears is made from some sort of composite that has never tested time. A baptismal in that church would just be a ploy to throw us off the track.
“Now this church,” he said, raising his arms, “was built by stone masons who believed in the Almighty. They took no pay. The wood that our pews are made of was blessed at the Vatican and shipped here by boat and then carved by craftsmen―not for pay, but for their beliefs. No money collected here ever went for fancy homes or cars. This church has always been a sanctuary for the poor, the weak, and the scared. Can Reverend Randolph say that?”
He continued: “Steven, next Sunday, wear the ring I gave you to Randolph’s church. If my assumptions are correct, I think you’ll be surprised.”
I always hesitated to wear Father Patrick’s Battle Ring, as it was incredibly gaudy, but I did as I was told. As I entered Randolph’s church, the ring was bright red and warm to the touch. I kept my hand in my pocket so I wouldn’t be made fun of. As Reverend Randolph started his sermon, he seemed to stutter, and he apologized to the congregation. As I pulled my hand out of my pocket, I noticed that the ring was blood red and every vein in my hand was standing out.
There was Evil in this church.
And I felt confident.
Even unbeatable.
Father Randolph seemed confused, and when he started his sermon, he seemed to sway and then repeated himself several times. It was as if the presence of Father Patrick’s Battle Ring was having a direct influence on him.
He apologized to the congregation and excused himself.
I pedaled to the Catholic Church and arrived just as Father Patrick’s service was done. A smattering of people (20 or 30) exited the church. He was just as excited as I was to hear the news.
“I knew it!” he said. “The Devil has infiltrated Randolph’s church. There’s only one thing to do.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“We must have the baptismal here, in a holy church.”
“How are we going to get them to agree to that?”
“We don’t. We are going to kidnap the child.”
“Kidnap?” I said. “In case you haven’t heard, that’s against the law.”
“Steven, we’re talking about Evil. There are no laws!”
***
Father Patrick asked me to meet him the following day in the room downstairs, where he gave me his Battle Ring.
When I arrived, I could hear a rowdy crowd below. There were a dozen or so old men, all drinking and smoking. Numerous discussions were being held, but I couldn’t follow any of them. Father Patrick was constantly sending me upstairs to get more drinks or to empty the ashtrays. I felt like a servant.
“This is my band of warriors,” Father Patrick professed. He spoke of his friends like they were his subordinates, and they treated him like he was more than just a warrior.
At the end of the meeting, it was decided that I would be the one who would grab the infant from his room.
“Why me?” I protested.
“Look at you!” one of them said. “You’re young and wiry. We are all old and feeble. You are the obvious choice.”
I countered, “But you are all immortal. Hell, I could be killed doing this!”
But there was no more discussion. They sat me down and told me of their plan.
It was to take place at the next full moon. While the band of warriors distracted the Randolphs with their presence, I would sneak into the house and grab Miguel Jr. and head to the Catholic Church, where I would hand him to Father Patrick and he would be baptized.
I asked about the importance of the full moon.
“No real reason, sonny,” one of them said. “We just don’t see as well as we used to.”
The rest of them laughed.
I excused myself and headed for home, thinking, What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 10
I spent the next week rehearsing at Father Patrick’s church. I would run up the stairs with a few books in my hands to simulate the weight of the infant. Then I would run down the aisle to the basin with the holy water. It seemed easy enough. But the ha
rd part was getting to the church. I was to drive my father’s car, and I was not that good behind the wheel. Plus, I had promised not to drive after my incident at the school.
While I was nervous, Father Patrick seemed to bask in the glory of a prospective battle with Evil.
“It will feel good to battle that sonuvabitch again,” he said.
Maybe I would feel better if I were immortal.
***
I happened to walk into the Catholic Church one day to find Father Patrick awkwardly throwing knives and hatchets at a makeshift target, missing horribly and cussing like a sailor.
“Watchya doin’?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
“Practicing,” he replied, giving me a discerning look.
“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How are you going to kill Miguel? Isn’t he an immortal like you? And how are you going to find him?”
“Steven, an immortal is only a mortal that is immune to natural aging, catastrophes, and the workings of humans. They are beatable if you deal with them on their own level. Like Power versus Power. The weapons I have should be able to kill Miguel. They are blessed by God. However, it’s been centuries since they have been in use, and I’m not sure if they still have the power. And as far as finding him, let’s just say that I have a hunch he will be back.”
He picked up a small axe and threw it at the target. It bounced off the floor and stuck into one of the very old religious crosses.
I looked to the statue of Archangel Michael, expecting it to burst out laughing.
“Well, that’s a bad omen,” I said.
Father Patrick let out a huge sigh and hung his head. “Steven, I’m afraid I’m not the warrior I used to be. Even when my Battle Ring wasn’t red, I used to be able to throw an axe and split hairs with either hand. And I’m afraid that these weapons have had it also.”
I walked down the aisle and retrieved the axe. While pulling it out, I also pulled out a sharp sliver of wood from the Cross. I held it in my hand. It felt good.
“Now this would make a good weapon,” I said.
The Killing of Miguel Page 3