William Doonan

I write books and stories.

The Mummies of Blogspace9: Chapter Nineteen

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June 26, 2011
Magdalena de Paz, Peru

Good morning, Peru!  Kim here.  Remember me, your beloved lab rat and document translator?  I’m hard at work.  Even though the sun has been shining on the north coast for nearly two hours now, I’m the only one up. 

Laney had a rough night worrying about Bruce, so Erdulfo gave her a sedative.  She’ still sleeping. Leon is crashed too.  He managed to find a porn channel on the TV.  I think it’s from Chile; there are a lot of socialist subplots mixed in with the humping, but the upshot is that he watched all night and he’s still asleep.

Segovia appears to be on the mend.  He took some soup last night.  I begged him to let a doctor look him over but he refused.  He’s so stubborn.  I love him.  I’m looking forward to his recovery.

Still no word from Sandy.

As for me, I’m gearing up for my day, doing a little light reading about long dead conquistadors.  Fascinating, isn’t it?  Hey, you know what else is fascinating – the fact that there could be a gigantic pile of gold hidden in our pyramid. 

We haven’t done much work inside the pyramid.  Actually, I didn’t even think there was an inside, other than that room with the murals.  But I’m wondering what we might find if we started poking around at some of those old adobes.  A doorway, maybe?

And you know what?  Before anyone else wakes up, and before I lose my nerve, I’m going to have a peek inside.  And don’t worry.  If I see any monsters, I’ll skedaddle.  But before I leave you, I have Sebastiano’s third entry transcribed.  Here is it, a little shout-out from the year 1580:

Malleus Momias” – Hammer of the Mummies – entry  #3

I continue to sleep poorly, not fully understanding the nature of the ghouls that walk the village at night.  They are quite well-tolerated by our indians, even entering the houses, but they always return to the pyramid before dawn.

Despite my gripping fears, I determined to explore the pyramid.  But each time I approached, I was rebuffed by my congregation.  They’d grow quite alarmed, quite insistent, even blocking my path. 

So great was my concern, my fear for my own soul, that I rode my mule to Chocope, to seek counsel from Father Vasco.  It was he who founded my very church before our Bishop granted him a larger congregation.  Surely, Father Vasco would have taken some notice himself of these lurkers. 

Upon arriving in Chocope, I found him ill, too ill to see visitors, his housekeeper informed me.  She was an indian woman of quite robust appeal.  Might I speak with the good Father for a moment, I inquired.  It’s a matter of some urgency.

A fuss was made, but she led me to the bedchamber where Father Vasco lay on one side of a very large bed.  I’m not certain why I found that point curious, but had it been me so reposed, I would have aligned myself in the middle of the bed.  However, that’s a detail of no consequence.

After inquiring as to his maladies, I told him of my interaction with the ghoul, and my conviction that these spectral things were nearly as numerous in my village as were the indians.  For some time he made no response.

We live in a word full of demons, he told me finally.  Were it not a world full of demons, there would be no need for priests.  Surely though, I was letting my imagination run wild.  The night is filled with shadows, he suggested.  And he reminded me, that as my superior, he was charged with supervising my ministry.  He encouraged me to pay more attention to my sermons, and to worry less about my superstitions.

Chastened, I bid Father Vasco a speedy recovery, and untied my mule, that indian woman hissing at me all the while like a snake.  I prayed as I rode.  I prayed that Our Heavenly Father in his wisdom would help me find a way to banish these ghouls from our world. 

As I turned onto the path leading up to my village, I became convinced that God had answered me.  I rode up to the door of my small church and pushed it open.  Not a grand place, I assure you, no riches adorned it, no silken tapestries, no windows of Venetian glass.  But it was a house of God.  And I was a man of God. 

My life’s work would be to rid this world of those unholy things.  And when I next made my prayers, they were prayers of gratitude for this conviction, this clarity.

That evening, having finished my supper, I read my Breviary before putting out the candle.  But I had no intentions toward sleep.  I waited, and then I quietly ventured forth.  I kept to the shadows, moving quickly to the pyramid.

As I crept around the farthest corner, I noticed a light from within.  I moved closer, nearing the narrow entryway, from where I heard a throaty noise, like a purring, if one could imagine something the size of a small mountain purring.  I jumped back behind a ruined wall as two indians approached.  Each carried some squawking poultry, for what purpose I could not imagine. 

I determined to get closer, but each time I left my hiding place, another indian neared with a bird or a guinea pig.  It was then I understood what was transpiring inside.  It was a mass.  An unholy mass, but it was a mass nonetheless.

It was my intent to march inside, to hold my crucifix high and consecrate that place, but no sooner had I taken one step did a figure emerge.  I flattened myself against the wall lest he notice me, but I saw him standing there.  The clouds were intermittent, but allowed enough moonlight to see something wet, something moist on the man’s face and chin.  Something was dripping.

I prayed for the clouds to part, and they did.  One has to be careful what one prays for, and I will wish to my dying day that I did not see what I saw next.  As the moonlight illuminated the whole world, I saw that the wetness was blood, and the face and chin from which it dripped belonged to Father Vasco.


Written by williamdoonan

March 10, 2012 at 4:05 am

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