I. On the outskirts of the city of Guadalajara, in the state of Jalisco, Mexico

The girl had spent the entire night howling. It was a visceral noise, more commonly associated with a wild animal, than the gaunt, virtually emaciated body of a little girl, who was barely ten years old.

She lay curled up on a rough bed, which had been thrown together out of lumpy sacks of hay. Her parents, more out of desperation than resentment or fear, had confined her to a shed, which they used mainly for keeping the rain off the farming tools, and for storing a few low-value belongings that they had inherited over the years from different family members.

The doctor approached the child with apprehension; she seemed to be sleeping, although her breathing was broken by a constant shaking that was not of human origin.

“How many days has she been lying in this state?”

“A... a week...” the mother dared to say, certain that she was about to receive an immediate reprimand from the doctor.

The doctor heaved a sigh of resignation and, picking up the girl’s hand, he tried to measure her pulse. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he noticed that her heart was hardly beating at all... little more than 20 beats per minute! It was completely impossible. The parents were keeping to one corner of the darkened shack, gripping on to one another, worried, and a little ashamed. Their eyes remained glued to the physician, hanging onto the hope that, in the end, even if it came at the expense of a significant amount of their scarce savings, this seemingly good and wise man would pull Magdalena back out from the catatonic state into which she had so suddenly been plunged.

The doctor took the little girl’s temperature, and once more he felt a shiver run through his entire body: 31°C; again, another indicator completely incompatible with life. But the girl... she was breathing!

“I can’t quite get my head around this...” muttered the physician, almost to himself.

All of a sudden, the girl turned, as if recovering her strength. The doctor approached her a little, waiting. She opened her eyes, and he was then able to see, to his horror, that her pupils were completely black, and in the shape of an inverted cross; a sinister contrast to her irises, which were an intense purple, as if all of the blood in her emaciated body had been compacted within them, and putrefied.

“My God!” exclaimed the doctor, terrified, as he backed away from her.

Then the child suddenly sat up, as if propelled by a spring, and opened her mouth disproportionately wide to emit a cutting, and unintelligible roar. Then, she collapsed, as if she had breathed her final breath.

II. Mexico City, the editorial office of the newspaper, ‘Las Noticias’

José Antonio Sancho walked slowly between the tables in the newspaper editorial office where he had been working for the last five years. After a long time of drifting around, he had finally found some stability, and yet... Now his job was in danger. Las Noticias had gone months without a single scoop to put in print: the newspaper was selling fewer and fewer printed copies, and there was not a great readership for the digital version, either. The result: advertising funds had fallen dramatically, and that was going to mean a reduction in the workforce. Everybody knew it. But for José Antonio, it was even worse. He had come over from his native Spain with the hope of leaving behind a chequered past that was marred by two unmitigated disasters: one professional, the other an affair of the heart. If they kicked him out of Las Noticias, he would find himself unemployed, and in a country that was not his own. It didn’t even bear thinking about, although now it was almost impossible not to.

He reached his desk, and turned on his computer with despondency. He looked through his contacts list, to see whom he could call that morning. Perhaps there would be a new murder to follow up on, a kidnapping, or some dispute between rival mafia gangs that could be the story he had been searching for for so long: one that would kick-start his career and reawaken in the average citizen the passion to return to reading; to return to following a case from the independent perspective of a mature journalist who no longer had anything to lose. It was at that moment he jumped, as the phone on his desk began to ring.

“Sancho here, who’s speaking?”

José Antonio waited a moment. It was strange that he was being called on a landline, in an age where the whole world used their mobile phones. For a few seconds, he thought it might be Amador, the personnel manager, about to let him know he’d been fired.

“José Antonio, this is Liliana, from reception. There’s a call from somebody. They’re really nervous. I don’t know if it’s somebody just messing around... They’re saying that there are some strange things going on in the outskirts of Guadalajara. They want to talk to an unprejudiced journalist about the events, and I thought of you...”

Good old Liliana: always so attentive. Instead of transferring the call to the editor in chief, she had passed it on to him. This was an opportunity: even if it were just the ramblings of a nutcase he was dealing with here; but his intuition was telling him that this was just the thing he had been looking for.

“Put the call through to me. And thank you, I owe you another one...”

A few seconds later, he could hear the agitated breathing of an older man on the other end of the line.

“This is the enterprise journalist from Las Noticias, José Antonio Sancho speaking,” he said in his best neutral, professional tone

“S...sir...”

“Yes?”

“Listen, I’m calling from Zapotlanejo, Jalisco, near Guadalajara...”

“Yes, yes, I know the city. I’ve been there on a couple of occasions.”

The man seemed to calm down upon hearing that José Antonio knew where he was. He sounded afraid, and his speech was faltering.

“Strange things are happening...”

“Please, go on.”

“Possessions... too many possessions...”

Sancho felt himself sink down a little in his seat. Possessions? Liliana was right: just another crackpot who, disturbed as a result of having doused his bloodstream in beer and tequila, was calling to share his nightmares with the first person who would listen.

“Possessions? Could you be a little more precise...?”

“The Devil. We believe the Devil is behind all of this. Here in Zapotlanejo, there are already three possessed little girls; but the fact is that in Tonalá there are another three cases, in Puente Grande there are another two, and in El Salto, yet another two...”

The man talking to him did not seem like an idiot. Although a little confused, his tone of voice and mode of expression showed a certain level of education.

“And how have you come to know about these cases?”

“I’m a doctor. I belong to the IMSS-Oportunidades, the Mexican organisation that deals with bringing healthcare to those who would otherwise have no access to it, and I attend to the poorest and most troubled neighbourhoods... All of these girls are from humble families, living in virtual poverty. I have personally tended to seven of these children now. They’re all presenting similar symptoms, and in the end the cases have been falling into my hands. It’s horrible...”

“But, why turn to a journalist?”

“Because I’m a doctor! How can I go around telling people that I think a group of little girls is possessed? You don’t understand!”

José Antonio waited for a few seconds. His instinct was telling him that there was a story behind all this. Perhaps the Big Story he needed. If he went out in his car right now, by the beginning of the afternoon he could be in Zapotlanejo easily, if he took the Federal 15 road.

“I need to see you in person. I need you to provide your information and corroborate this story face to face.”

“I’m prepared to co-operate. But on one condition... You must keep my identity anonymous. I want somebody to help these girls, but I also want to disassociate myself from this issue as soon as possible.”

“You can count on it.”

Whilst Sancho took down the doctor’s address in Zapotlanejo, along with his mobile number, he felt his legs shaking. It was a pleasant shaking of excitement, produced as a result of finding himself faced with a fantastic story. He was no longer in any doubt: this case was going to alter his destiny forever.

III. A small church in Coyoacán, Municipal District of Mexico City.

Padre Salas had just finished the afternoon Mass, and was tidying away the Holy Chalice, the stole, and the chasuble, and was folding them with utmost care, when he heard somebody come back into his small temple. He thought it must be some parishioner who wished to speak with him in private, once the rest of the parishioners had left the church. But when he turned around to greet his untimely guest, he discovered a familiar face. A sudden shudder made him drop all of the equipment he was holding in his hands, and the objects scattered around the floor by the altar.

“Padre Salas, after so long, anyone would think you’d just seen the very essence of evil, as opposed to an old friend,” said the man, a smile spreading across his face, whilst he approached Padre Salas, and tried to help him put away the chalice.

Padre Salas realised that this was not a wayward member of his congregation, and he recognised him instantly as the right-hand man to the Archbishop of the Prime Archdiocese of Mexico: a man whose visit to his small refuge in the forgotten ruins of a church in Coyoacán could not bode well for him.

“What do you want from me?” enquired Padre Salas directly, speaking plainly to the man.

The visitor left the chalice on the altar table, and then came even closer to the priest, so he could place both hands on his shoulders.

“You’ve always been an intelligent man. Possibly one of the most intelligent I’ve ever known.”

“And you, one of the most astute...”

“I’m not sure how to take that... But I should be humble, and show myself to be resigned, because you are right: we need you.”

“You know well, just as the Archbishop does, that I’m not interested in anything you could need me for. That’s why I moved away to this little church. Here, I am at peace with God. Here, I help humble people, and I am of use to Our Lord,” replied Padre Salas, whilst he raised his gaze in contemplation, seeking reassurance from the crucifix.

The visitor stepped back a few paces, and directed his attention towards the two rows of ramshackle benches, which could accommodate at most one hundred souls, and which were looking the worse for wear.

“Padre, I would never have come to see you out of personal interest, and least of all would the Archbishop have obliged me to do it. It’s very clear to us that you don’t want to have anything more to do with us, and we have respected your decision for long enough, even though we did not agree with it,” the right-hand man of the highest authority in the Catholic Church in Mexico declared, with a certain sadness, before turning back to face Padre Salas. “If I have considered myself obliged to come here, it’s because we truly need you. They truly need you...”

Padre Salas took a few awkward steps backwards. He felt faint and confused. Episodes of his life were springing back to mind that he had believed to have left behind for good. And, under no circumstances did he wish to relive them.

“Who could need me?”

“Don’t you watch the television? Don’t you listen to the radio, or read the papers? Don’t you even use the Internet, now that it’s so in style?”

“Hardly... I dedicate myself to praying; to reading the Bible; to the faithful; and trying to help those less fortunate...”

The visitor handed him a newspaper from that very day, Las Noticias; one of the most read in Mexico City.

“Well these girls need you, Padre Salas. You are the only one who can save them. Tomorrow, we’ll be waiting for you at eleven o’clock in the morning, in the offices at the Metropolitan Cathedral. It’s up to you what you do now; I’ve just passed on the message. Talk it over with God tonight...” the visitor muttered, as he walked away from him, leaving him alone once more in his wretched temple.

Padre Salas read the title, along with the five column article in Las Noticias which the man had pointed out to him: ‘At least eight confirmed cases of possession in Jalisco’. The article was signed by some ‘José Antonio Sancho’.

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

Padre 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

The 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.

So as not to call too much attention to themselves, both priests were wearing informal attire, and only their clerical collars could betray their status. They took a bag out of the boot, and strode confidently towards the only house on the remote street. There were barely five or six others in the surrounding area.

“I beg you to abstain from making observations out loud, and if you wish to make any comment to me, do so in private, or in my ear. The parents are in as much of a delicate emotional situation as the child, and any appearance of clumsiness on our part could be misinterpreted,” Padre Salas warned his colleague, before knocking on the latticed door of a humble, single storey dwelling, constructed out of un-plastered brick and cement.

“I’ll be careful.”

The parents allowed the clergymen, whom they had been expecting since the early afternoon, to enter. They were very old, considering girl’s age, and they were noticeably worn out and without hope.

“Our little Zoé is resting in there. She spends almost the entire day sleeping, but every now and then she wakes up, and that’s when our nightmare begins...” said the mother, in a lifeless, muted voice.

The girl, nine years old, gaunt body, dark skin, and very dark hair that fell partway down her back, was dozing. Her lips were dry; as if she had spent days walking through the desert, and sleep encrusted both eyes. Her breathing was irregular: one second there would be a jolt running through her chest, and the next she would go back to her relaxed state, sunk down within a deep sleep.

The priests were taking various objects out of the bag they had brought with them: a couple of flasks of Holy Water, two bibles, a golden crucifix of about 20 centimetres in height on a wooden base, a Saint Benedict medal, an immaculate pair of white chasubles, and two purple stoles.

“Padre Rincón, put on the chasuble and stole over your clothes and hold the Saint Benedict medal in your hand.”

The priest obeyed, whilst Padre Salas also put on a chasuble and stole. He then took the crucifix and approached the girl. With determination, he positioned one end of the stole over her head.

“Satan, if you are in the body of this child, I order you by the power vested in me by God that you show yourself!”

The little girl barely even stirred. The parents, terrified, embraced each other and then moved away, so as not to disturb the priests.

“Satan, I order you to show yourself!”

The girl continued to sleep. Then, Padre Salas brought the crucifix to the girl’s back and pinned it against her. A dense violet-coloured smoke emitted from her skin, and she sat up sharply, giving off a long shriek. Her eyes were open, she was completely awake. The priest didn’t even stop speaking.

“Satan, leave Zoé’s body!”

The little girl opened her mouth and a greenish secretion spilled out at the corners. Then she took hold of one of Padre Salas’ arms and directed at him a lengthy diatribe in an unintelligible language. It was in the deep, resounding voice of a beast, not belonging to a girl of only nine years old.

Padre Salas turned and began to collect the things he had brought with him in the bag. Little Zoé, behind him, became relaxed once more, and seemed to be in a deep sleep.

“Father, is our daughter really possessed, or has she gone mad?” asked the startled mother.

“I regret to tell you that she is indeed possessed. I am going to report this to the Archdiocese, and as soon as I receive authorisation, we will begin the ritual of exorcism, if they are ready...”

The parents looked at each other, and nodded in unison. They were still in each other’s arms.

The priests finished putting all of their belongings back into the bag, and returned to the car. Padre Rincón was bewildered.

“Do you already have the proof that we’re dealing with possession?”

“I do, at least in this case.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“The smoke that her skin was emitting when I placed the cross on it is difficult to fake. The blank eyes and the xenoglossy...”

“Xenoglossy? She was speaking in an unknown language... What was it?”

“She spoke to me in Aramaic. I obtained the definitive proof from what she told me: the Gnosis.”

Padre Rincón noticed within himself a live emotion that he could not conceal. Although he felt a deep sorrow for little Zoé, there was a part of him that had been wishing to face a real possession. And Padre Salas was not somebody who could be easily fooled.

“Did she know things about your past? Pardon my indiscretion, but, what did she say to you?”

“Speaking through her voice, he told me that he wasn’t Satan. He told me he was Baal-Zebub, the Lord of the Flies, most commonly known as Beelzebub. He told me that he knew me; that I had already been in his temple many years ago, in Palmira, in Syria. And, finally, he told me that he knew I was afraid, and that I was not going to be capable of expelling him from there.”

VIII. Tonalá, outskirts of Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

It took José Antonio barely half an hour to reach Valeria’s home, in Tonalá, a town almost imbedded into the very city of Guadalajara. He got out of the car almost before it had even come to a complete stop, and entered the dwelling, the door of which was ajar. In his hand, he was carrying his Nikon HD camera, the batteries well charged and ready to record.

“I’m here!”

The doctor came out to meet him. He had a shaken expression, and his eyes were reddened: it was clear he must have been crying for a fairly long time.

“It’s horrible! Follow me...”

The doctor led the journalist towards the little room where Valeria’s mother was lying. Her normally white skin had become blackened, as if her body had carbonised, and she had lost almost all of her extremities, which had turned to ash. Sancho remained motionless, paralysed for a few seconds by the sheer terror produced by the scene, but he immediately set to recording the phenomenon with his camera.

“Is there a medical explanation for this?” asked the reporter.

“Explanation? You’re mad! This is absolutely incomprehensible...”

José Antonio knew that the woman was still alive, because she was emitting moans that were barely audible. Powerless, he continued to record the seemingly hallucinatory process of a person being converted into fine black powder right in front of his very eyes. After ten minutes, the poor unfortunate woman’s suffering ceased, and she was silenced forever more. The blouse she had been wearing was yielding gradually, until eventually resting flat and empty on the sofa as if it had never clothed anyone, as her torso was now gone. Finally, the metamorphosis reached her face, now completely black, and slowly her eyebrows turned to ash, followed by her eyes, her ears, her nose, her cheeks... gradually exposing her skull, which in seconds disintegrated like everything else. When Sancho stopped the recording of the body that had been Valeria’s mother, all that was left were her clothes, her hair, and a pile of fine particles scattering onto the floor.

“What just happened?”

The doctor was down on his knees, his back to the sofa. He seemed to be praying.

“I don’t know. She called me; she told me that she was feeling really unwell. She also told me that she had managed to save her daughter, but that the evil had then entered into her own body. She begged me to come to her aid, but when I arrived, the only thing I could think to do was call you.”

“I’ve recorded the whole thing. I think that first of all, I’m going to make a safe-copy, so nobody can deny that we’ve born witness to this event, and then I’m going to approach the Archdiocese of Guadalajara. Do you want to come with me?”

The doctor then began to scream out, as if he were being tortured with red-hot pokers. He rolled around on the floor, like a startled snake surrounded by fire.

“No, no, a thousand times no! I don’t want anything more to do with this. I’m giving up, I’m resigning; I’m leaving it in your hands. I’m sorry, I’ve reached my limit...”

Sancho approached the doctor and placed his hand on his head, in a gesture of kindness. The man was howling; he had gone insane.

“I understand. You’ve come a long way. I still don’t even know how on Earth I’m managing to take all this in so calmly.”

José Antonio went off in search of the girl. She was in her bedroom, lying on her bed. She seemed to be sleeping, but her expression showed relaxation and health: her face was completely different from how it had been the last time he had seen her. He sat down next to her, and shook her gently, to wake her up.

“Valeria, Valeria...”

The little girl opened her eyes, and looked at him, bewildered. She seemed to be returning from an infinite sleep.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember anything?”

The girl rubbed her eyes, trying to wake herself up, and recall what had happened.

“Was I having a nightmare?”

“Yes, a long nightmare. What happened before you fell asleep?”

She looked at the ceiling, as if she were able to see, in the white plaster, a film reel of past events.

“I was by a lake... I was playing with other girls,” she muttered.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes, I’m really tired. Where are my mummy and daddy?”

“Take it easy, and go to sleep now. The time to see them will be when you’re rested.”

Sancho walked through the house, now in search of the father. He did not find him, or the doctor either. But he did find something that really caught his attention, on top of the living room table: two books, both of them manuals on how to perform exorcisms. He picked them up, and went out onto the street, hiding them beneath the driver’s seat of his car, and locking the camera away in the glove box. Then, he returned to the house and stayed with Valeria, hoping that her father was working, and would not be too late in coming back home.

IX. Guadalajara Cathedral, Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

The Guadalajara Cathedral, also known as the Cathedral of the Assumption of Our Lady, is one of the most spectacular, and most visited monuments in the state capital of Jalisco. The building has withstood numerous earthquakes, although both its north tower and dome remain somewhat affected.

In one of the offices, deep within its core, could be seen, for the first time, the faces of José Antonio Sancho, Padre Salas, and Padre Rincón. The three men had just recently finished viewing the recording that the former had made in little Valeria’s home.

“And you say that the child feels safe and healthy?” enquired Padre Salas.

“We can go to see her. She’s with her father now, although they are both in a state of devastation. Of course, I haven’t shown them the video.”

“Mr Sancho, you could either be an ally in this dramatic situation, or our worst enemy.”

“I hope not to cast any prejudice on you, or the girls. But I also have my priorities, as a journalist.”

“Are you a believer?”

Jose Antonio very slowly stroked his three-day stubble. He had in front of him two priests, but he should be honest.

“I believe that I stopped being one... But perhaps my faith is coming back, I don’t know. Over the last few days, I’ve witnessed incredible things, some of them as horrendous as that which I’ve just shown you.”

“Deep down, a little bit of scepticism’s always good for you, you know?” said Padre Salas.

“I imagine that for a reporter, it is,” Sancho replied, without being entirely sure of the point the priest was trying to make.

“I beg you not to make these images public, for the moment. We’ve just received the authorisation to carry out the exorcisms of these children, and if the media descends upon us like a swarm of bees, we’ll all end up going mad.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

Padre Salas approached the journalist as if he were a very close friend, whom he had known for an extremely long time.

“Accompany us; bear witness to our work; help with the whole process of exorcism and record it. In exchange, I implore you to maintain the highest level of discretion until we have liberated these girls from Beelzebub. Once everything’s all finished, and I hope it will be, you’ll end up with the sole rights to the story, and you’ll then be able to spread the news. However, our identities as much as those of the families should always remain protected.”

Sancho let out a puff of air, and mulled it over for a few seconds. He needed to carefully weigh up the pros and cons of the offer.

“Alright, I accept. But I will have to keep sending daily reports to my newspaper, or my boss will make me return to Mexico City.”

“What do you think about giving a step by step account of how a real exorcism is carried out?”

“Perhaps that will be sufficient.”

The two men shook hands. Sancho felt that his Big Story was gaining momentum, becoming bigger and more relevant. He was now imagining himself even writing a book about his experiences: the big publishing houses in the USA were going to be fighting over it. Then he remembered two important elements, and decided that, for the moment at least, he would share one of them with the priests. He rummaged through his overnight bag, and handed to Padre Salas the books he had stolen from Valeria’s house.

“I found these at the girl’s house. Perhaps they might have something to do with what happened to the mother.”

Padre Salas analysed both volumes, somewhat astonished. Then, he spent a few minutes painstakingly leafing through the pages.

“This good woman should have waited for us. Perhaps we’ve delayed things too long, and now we must not waste any more time.”

“What do you think happened?” asked Padre Rincón, unable to suppress his curiosity.

Padre Salas left the books on top of a table, and looked towards a high window, through which a strong ray of light was shining.

“I believe that Valeria’s mother was very brave, and desperate to save her daughter in any way she could. And the truth is that she was successful, although evidently she had neither the adequate preparation nor the necessary protection. There is a phenomenon of which we should always be careful: the return crash. She expelled Beelzebub from her daughter’s body, but the demon then immediately entered into her, and exacted his revenge in the most abominable way.

X. The Banks of Lake Chapala, State of Jalisco

José Antonio had not told the priests everything he knew: he had to keep some information in reserve, so as to always carry something of an advantage. In spite of everything, however, he was very clear with himself that if he came across something that could help those poor girls leave their catatonic states, he would not hesitate to share it with them.

Little Valeria had woken up before her father finally returned home, well into the night. During that time, he was able to talk to her, and even though the girl didn’t remember anything of what had happened whilst she had been possessed, she remembered very well what had happened just before falling into the trance. She remembered having gone to Chapala with her parents, to celebrate the Day of the Dead, where they were attending the Festival of Life and Death, which had risen quickly to fame throughout Jalisco, especially in the surrounding areas of Guadalajara, for its originality and colour. The little girl had immediately begun to make friends as soon as they had arrived on the street, and whilst their parents were focussed on enjoying the more than 80 impressive alters ready for the competition, and the delicious food of the city, she had separated off to go to the bank of the lake along with nine other girls her age. Together, they walked along the edge of the lake, until arriving at a separate area, and there, as a game, one of the girls, Gabriela, whom the journalist knew lived in El Salto, had proposed carrying out a ritual that she had seen one of her neighbours performing: a ritual whose objective was none other than to invoke the dead.

Valeria confessed that they had been drawing circles and other things in the sand, and that with a few sticks they had constructed a sort of pyramid. Then, they had all held hands and, laughing, had been calling the dead to communicate with them. And, as is logical, nothing happened. They all went back to the centre of Chapala as if nothing had happened, and each returned to their respective towns and cities with their parents. It wasn’t until the night-time when Valeria had begun to feel bad, as if she had eaten a lot... and then she remembered nothing else after that.

Sancho had gone to Chapala: he needed some proof that what the girl had told him was true. He parked the car in the city centre, and went down the avenue Francisco Ignacio Madero, towards the Palacio Municipal. He could feel his heart beating: the blood pounded his chest and pulsated in his temples, causing his hands to tremble. He arrived at the Paseo Ramón Corona, with its tall palm trees and marvellous views of the lake. He walked down the long street until he reached the last of the restaurants, which bordered a grove in which he got lost on his way to the enormous lagoon. Guided by instinct, he went down a little dirt track with the mind-set, according to his own interpretation, of a group of ten intrepid little girls who were having the adventure of their lives. His eyes scrutinised each corner, each area of the ground, in search of any evidence, like a detective carrying out the search for the evidence of a crime. Finally, his heart skipped a beat when, now very close to the bank of the lake, he found the pyramid constructed out of small twigs, exactly as Valeria had described. Walking around it, he could discern some drawings in the sand, but the passage of time, together with the wind, had rendered them barely perceptible. In spite of everything, the reporter took an enormous amount of photographs, from all possible angles. He had to graphically document the place in which the girls had potentially carried out a ritual which had had fatal consequences for them.

He could not discern whether he was just being influenced by everything that was happening, or if it really was to do with something more physical, but he noticed a sort of electrical discharge in the tips of his fingers when he picked up the pyramid, to place it with the utmost care into a bag.

Like a common and petty thief, Sancho returned slyly back to his car, and left the camera and the bag containing the bizarre tetrahedron, for which he already had a peculiar respect, on the back seats. Not only had he received an electric shock, but his vision had also become momentarily clouded, like when one is dizzy, feeling the effects of vertigo.

Driving down the jam-packed Federal 44, on the way back to his hotel in Guadalajara, thousands of ideas, speculations and questions piled up in his mind: how had Gabriela been able to carry out the ritual? What was the significance of the pyramid? What had the girls drawn in the sand? What sort of invocations had they performed? But there was one question that pushed all the others into the background, tormenting him, and was the epicentre of all his misgivings: was it really possible that, this far into the 21^st Century, an innocent ritual, performed by a small group of little girls, who were only playing, could really unleash the fury of a demon, causing a terrifying tragedy?

XI. Some remote area of Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

Padre Salas was going around in circles, waiting, shrouded in the white chasuble and purple stole, now arranged over his shoulders. He was nervously mumbling some litany to dispel his fears.

“They’re all here now,” whispered Padre Rincón, appearing discreetly through a door.

“Then let’s not waste any more time.”

The Archdiocese of Guadalajara had given them use of a small warehouse, which on occasions would serve as a storage facility for non-perishable foods. This was so that Padre Salas could carry out the exorcism ritual in private, and without the fear of being hounded by the press, just in case the information about the girls’ homes was leaked. There was always room for the possibility that one of the parents might divulge it, either out of desperation or ambition, but even so, the situation was much more manageable in that hidden and discreet location.

The warehouse was a large room, with tall, narrow rectangular windows through which barely any light could come. There were no columns, and the floor was unpolished concrete. They had moved away all of the shelves, tables, chairs, and other objects, with the aim of leaving a completely clear space. The four walls were equally without any adornment, and only three of them had a door: one, as an entry and exit; another, leading to the toilets; and the last one led to a tiny office.

Padre Salas found himself with 22 people who were waiting in tense silence: the nine girls, nine mothers, three fathers, and the reporter from Las Noticias, with whom he had made an agreement. He already knew all of them, and as such he could get straight to the point and save himself any useless circumlocutions.

“We’re going to start the process of exorcism on your daughters. I have received authorisation from both the Archbishop of Guadalajara and the Prime Archbishop of Mexico. It is a harsh treatment, which you can of course watch, but during which you cannot intervene. If, at any moment, any one of you does not feel strong enough to endure the tension which this will certainly induce, Padre Rincón will escort you to this office here or, if you prefer, to outside the warehouse.”

Padre Salas paused. He contemplated the downcast and frightened faces of the mothers and fathers. Apart from one of the girls, whose was barely being held up by her mother, the others appeared to be asleep in their parents’ arms.

“One person is going to record the entire ritual. We’re doing it as much for your own security as to keep a testimony of the ceremony, so that it can be of help to future victims of possession. Your daughters’ faces will be pixelated, concealed, and your names and surnames will be protected, so that your identities remain safe. Are there any questions?”

The priest looked back at those poor people: they were humble people; he had been into their homes and had seen first hand their shabby surroundings. He doubted that they would have an understanding of the significance of the process he was about to begin, but he knew that they trusted him. Perhaps that was the most important thing: the only important thing.

“Could my daughter end up dying?” asked Daniela’s father, from El Salto, in almost a whisper.

“Many things can happen, but we should have faith, believe in the power of God, and in the strength of your daughters to expel the demons that have possessed them.”

“Forgive me, father, but you haven’t answered my question...”

The priest noticed that his lips were trembling. Images from the past came flooding back to his mind: images that he had been able to leave behind him when he was in his refuge in Coyoacán. Now, he saw himself once more involved in a duel with a demon, and his worst nightmares plagued him with ferocity.

“Yes, they can be near death, they can perish, and they can even burst into flame spontaneously, right before our eyes. You need to be prepared. But to not confront the situation would mean to accept that the girls end up, sooner rather than later, transforming completely into atrocious beasts, treacherous and malevolent. To die, from one perspective, I dare say is the lesser of two evils.”

Padre Salas returned to the office, coming back with a bottle of holy water. He began to pray in Latin, as he went around splashing the water on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and everyone present. Sancho was recording, in a state of astonishment, everything that the priest was doing. He felt both distressed and exultant at the same time. Suddenly, the walls in the warehouse gave off a resounding crack, and the girls began to howl, shout, and bellow violently like unruly wild animals. Everyone else was shaking, terrified, except for Padre Salas, who continued praying, hardly missing a beat.

XII. El Salto, State of Jalisco

Sancho was afraid of potentially missing anything interesting happening back at the warehouse in Guadalajara, but he could not stop himself from going out and investigating on his own, and what little Valeria had relayed to him, along with what he had discovered on the banks of Lake Chapala, needed answers.

Besides, he urgently needed to keep informed, since the editor in chief, euphoric as he had shown himself to be after the sensational public reception to the report about the possessed girls, was starting to lose his patience. The brief notes that Sancho sent him, commenting on the process of the exorcism, were not enough. The veil of silence that the Church had managed to impose on the media had only served to increase the sensation that Las Noticias really was, and continued to be, the only newspaper that had direct access to the sources.

Sancho parked his car in the outskirts of El Salto, very close to Gabriela’s house who, according to Valeria’s version of the story, was the girl who had led the invocations. Her home was in an area of low-level, modest houses, but they were pretty and well cared for. Almost all of them were in a very similar architectural style, and they were plastered in light tones of pink, turquoise and green. He went up and down all of the streets, stopping at each and every door, until he finally came across the one he was looking for: a sign next to an open door, which read; Yanet. Witch: Fortune telling and Love spells.

José Antonio remained there in front of the doorway to the house, hesitating for a few minutes. He should proceed with caution; he needed to find a way of obtaining the information without arousing the suspicions of a woman who had not necessarily done anything bad, nor was directly to blame for all that had happened. Finally, he crossed the threshold, and was received by a dark and dense atmosphere, barely illuminated by dozens of small candles, and a penetrating odour that he associated with incense.

“Yanet?” he dared to ask out loud.

“Who is it?”

A short, and somewhat bulky woman, with kind eyes, a sweet voice and reserved expression, appeared as if out of the blue.

“My name is José Antonio Sancho. I’m a reporter from Las Noticias, in Mexico City. I’m writing a report about witchcraft in Jalisco, and I would like to ask you a few questions.

The woman scrutinised him before responding.

“I don’t believe you’re telling the truth. What do you really want?”

“Okay, I wish to know if it’s possible to invoke a malign being.”

“You’re going to write about that in your newspaper? You’re all the same, you only have bad things to say about witchcraft...”

“No, no. Yanet,” said Sancho, trying to gain the seer’s confidence by using her name, “I just wish to give you the opportunity to express yourself, to reject all the slander.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, someone has to present a different point of view...”

“Follow me. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

The woman led him to an inner room. The walls were plastered with images and cards, and on top of the only table were dozens of candles, giving off a welcoming reddish light. They both sat down on some cushions on the floor.

“Thank you very much,” murmured the journalist.

“We’re devoted to doing good, do you understand? We help people, try to comfort them...”

“Interesting.”

“Look, although I’ve lived in Mexico for decades, I’m actually Cuban, and come from a family that’s been dedicated to witchcraft for generations. Do I look like someone who goes around summoning the Devil?”

“Not at all.”

“Here, what the majority of people come to me for are love spells, you know? Basically, they’re women who only want their boyfriend or husband to love them for life. Some also want me to predict the future, and then there are some who want to hear from their dead.”

“Then, nothing about devils?”

“For the last time, no!” exclaimed Yanet, ill humoured.

“Do you know Gabriela?” he then enquired, with a certain level of fear, changing the topic so drastically. He knew that the interview could end at any moment.

“Gabriela? Yes, she’s a little girl who lives nearby. Every now and then, she drops by and I let her stay. When she’s older, she wants to be a witch and a seer, you know? But, what does the little one have to do with you?”

The reporter took a few photographs out of his overnight bag: they were the ones he had taken on the banks of Lake Chapala.

“It’s possible that this girl might be in danger, and you can help her. I beg you to take a look at this pyramid, in case there’s anything it can tell you.”

The seer took the photographs, suspicious, and she contemplated them for a good while, several times.

“It’s a ritual I’ve only performed on a couple of occasions. It’s Aztec. An elder taught it to me when I lived in Axapusco, many years ago. It represents the Pyramid of the Moon, which is in Teotihuacán. It’s a construction found at the end of the place they call the Calzada de los Muertos, or ‘Avenue of the Dead’. It’s a funerary. Some Mexicans think that it’s possible to speak with the dead, invoking the Moon Goddess. I don’t know what to say to you...”

“And Gabriela saw you once constructing this pyramid with twigs?”

“She didn’t just watch me, she helped me do it! What’s so bad about that?”

Sancho felt his blood coursing fiercely once more through his circulatory system, causing a painful pounding within his temples, within his chest, within all of the internal organs crowded into his abdomen.

“I don’t know. I’m going to reveal some confidential information, because I believe that your collaboration could end up being important: Gabriela has been possessed by a demon. Right now, she’s in a secret place in Guadalajara, in the hands of an exorcist. Is there anything that you believe he should know?”

The witch sat up, her eyes almost protruding out of their sockets. She was thoroughly enraged.

“Are you accusing me of something? Do you think that I could have had something to do with this tragedy?”

“Not at all... Please... There are several girls involved, they were playing, and they definitely did something without knowing it, but I need to know what!”

“Get out of my house!” cried the seer, as she pushed him away with all her strength. “I don’t ever want to see you around here again!”

Sancho left Yanet’s house under an onslaught of shoves and blows. He accepted a decent amount of the beating, because a part of him understood the unmeasured reaction of the witch, whom he instinctively believed to be a good woman. 

He stayed in the street for a few minutes, disorientated and confused. All of a sudden, he realised that he had his bag with him, but during the commotion he had left behind the photographs at her house. He did not dare go back to collect them. He had digital copies of all of the material, but even so, it bothered him that the woman was in possession of such valuable graphic evidence. Disappointed, he set off in search of his car. He had barely taken a few steps when he heard the woman’s voice, behind him.

“Reporter!”

Sancho immediately turned back, as he thought that there was nothing worse that could happen to him that day. Yanet was waiting for him with the snapshots in one hand, and a small book in the other.

“Forgive me, I should have told you the truth from the beginning. I’m sorry...” he said.

“I’m not bothered about that. I’m not doing this for you; I’m doing it for the girl. Perhaps this could be of some value to the exorcist.

The witch handed him the photographs, along with a small book with black covers and golden letters. In the centre, there was a pentagram.

“What is it?”

“I have a large library. This is a singular manual of satanic rituals. I myself have never practiced these ceremonies, or anything like them. But when I looked back over the photos carefully, I believe I recognised some drawings. Perhaps at some point Gabriela, in secret, read this book, and when she was playing, she mixed up different invocations and rituals. From what you’ve told me, the consequences couldn’t have been worse...”

“Then, can I take it with me?”

“Yes, take it! But I’ll say it again: don’t ever come back here. I don’t ever want to see you again in my life, do you understand?”

The journalist nodded, and went away with his prized treasure in his hands. He had barely got back into his car when he could not avoid noticing that his mobile was ringing.

“Mr Fuentes?”

“Sancho, is that you?” asked the editor in chief of Las Noticias.

“Yes. I have something for the Sunday edition that you’re just going to love.”

“Don’t be all enigmatic with me, just tell me what it is.”

“I’ve finally found out how those girls were possessed.”

XIII. Hidden Warehouse in Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

Padre Salas and Padre Rincón had prepared some mats, so that the girls could lie down, all together, on the dull cement floor of the warehouse. To avoid them hurting themselves, and even though the resulting image seemed somewhat cruel and sinister, they had all been put into straitjackets, with foam-rubber protection. Their ankles were also tied together, but the rope used was thick, made of smooth cotton, so as to avoid the girls incurring any bruising.

“Even though these may seem like drastic measures,” stated Padre Salas, once they had finished with the preparations, and turning towards the girls’ families, “we’re doing this for the good of your daughters. The possessed person usually develops an uncommon, disproportionate strength, and it is of vital importance to be able to control it at all times. Very often, they can hurt themselves, inflicting terrible injuries; on other occasions, they can lash out with barbaric energy at anybody within their reach.”

The girls’ parents were listening attentively, but also in a state of terror, as the scene caused shivers down the spine. In spite of everything, they were keeping calm, and none of them had shown any signs of desperation or opposition. They had accepted with unusual speed that they were in the hands of the Church, and that only those men would be able to save their daughters from the curse that had taken hold of them.

“It’s possible that from this instant, we will experience moments of tension, that come with the territory of bearing witness to phenomena that you would never have been able to imagine. I beg of you to trust in us, and do not allow yourselves to be ensnared by the tricks the demons may perform in their effort to disturb our faith. God is much more powerful, believe me. Don’t intervene. As I’ve already told you: if any one of you is finding it unbearable, or falls prey to panic, you can leave the room whenever you want to. But one action on your part at any point throughout the ritual could have fatal consequences, as much for your daughters as for yourselves.”

José Antonio was recording, from one corner, with his Nikon HD camera. He could not avoid thinking about Valeria’s mother. He continued with his task, trying to push away those terrible memories that invariably besieged him with insufferable obstinacy. The filming conditions were not optimal, since the light was very scarce, but he took into account the fact that he was not in any position to make demands, and that it was almost miraculous that he was allowed to even be here, to be a witness, and almost a chronicler, of everything that happened. There were nine children: Magdalena and Camila, from Tonalá; Zoé, Ximena and Natalia, from Zapotlanejo; Adelina and Vanessa, from Puente Grande; and Gabriela and Daniela, from El Salto. They were only missing one: Valeria, whose mother had sacrificed her own life to save her daughter’s.

“Padre Rincón, have you brought the Archdiocese’s stoles?”

“Yes, I have them in the little office.”

“Are they blessed?”

“Yes; in just the way you told me to.”

“Would you please get them?”

Padre Rincón went to the office, and returned with nine purple stoles. Both priests began tying the stoles together, and then they walked around wrapping the blessed cloth around each one of the girls’ necks. Upon feeling the contact of the stoles, the girls emitted moans, grunts, and some of them even cursed in Spanish and Latin. Upon finishing, the priests were now facing each other; one to the left, and the other to the right of the row of girls, and each holding in one hand one end of the tied stoles, and in the other, a copy of the Holy Bible along with a Saint Benedict medal. Positioned on the floor, halfway between the two parishioners, and just at the girls’ feet, a crucifix stood majestically.

“Begin the reading,” indicated Padre Salas.

“Oh Lord, in your name, save me, and with your power defend me. Oh, Lord, hear my prayer; hear the truth I speak, because evil has risen up against me, and men of violence are in pursuit of my life; they have not placed God before themselves. Here, I have the help of the Lord God, who will return the evil back to my enemies; He will cut them down with His truth. I will voluntarily sacrifice to you, oh Lord; I will praise your name, because it is good; because it has liberated me from all anguish, and my eyes have seen the ruin of my enemies.”

Two hours passed in which the priests did nothing else but pray and recite litanies. The journalist was exhausted, along with the family members, but, however, he was the impartial witness for the integrity, the resistance and the resolution of both priests. Then suddenly, something changed, and Padre Salas began to shout out in Latin, as if giving imperious orders to the demon that had taken hold of the girls. The little ones began to twist around, and shout, as if something white hot was burning away within their stomachs. Sancho approached, as he sensed that something important was happening. He was focussing, steadily, on the girls’ faces, which were deformed by pain. It was horrifying, and he could barely hold the camera in his hands. From somewhere, there came sobs and desperate cries, which he attributed to the girls’ parents, who must be completely emotionally torn apart. It was at that moment when one of the girls, Adelina, began to vomit. At first, it seemed to José Antonio to be an amorphous and greyish mass, but upon adjusting the camera’s focus, he discovered to his horror that they were slender snakes, dark in colour, and some thirty centimetres long. Shortly after, the rest of the girls began to double up, suffering from violent convulsions, and then began to regurgitate, almost in unison, snakes identical to those which poor Adelina had just expelled from her own mouth.

––––––––

XIV. Hotel NH Guadalajara, Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

José Antonio Sancho was working intensely, in spite of the fact that it was very late and he felt completely worn out. He had to finish the long article that would be going out in the Sunday newspaper, in which there would be a space reserved for him on page one. Before setting out on the task of writing, he had reviewed all of the recordings and photographs that he had taken to date, and he understood that the material, aside from its horrifying nature, was a gem: it was a report that any journalist would have given their right arm for. So as to avoid potential problems, he made safe copies in each of the online storage facilities with which he had a Premium account: Dropbox and Google Drive. Once all of the archives were on the Cloud, he felt relieved: if for any reason he lost them, they were stolen, or his memory cards or hard disks were destroyed, he would always be able to recover them.

A certain sense of guilt tormented him as he wrote out the article, since he was going to share with the public information that he had still not shared with Padre Salas. But he hoped that the priest would understand the position he was in: it was one thing maintaining the due respect towards the girls, and the process of exorcism until it had concluded, and another thing entirely to wait until an indeterminate date without sending a single item of substance to his newspaper. That could entail his having to return to Mexico City, at the very least: or immediate dismissal, in the worst-case scenario.

He finished the article, and read it through several times. He considered it to be accurate enough: on the one hand, it did not reveal any sensitive information; but on the other, it provided for the reader new information that was still absolutely fascinating, and which he was convinced would arouse the interest of hundreds of thousands of people all throughout Mexico. Secretly, he also dreamed of soon receiving offers from the media in the USA and Europe.

The brief report came with a single photograph, which was the one that would take up part of the front page of Las Noticias: the pyramid constructed of twigs, surrounded by those strange and almost imperceptible drawings scratched into the sand. It was a closed shot, so that nobody would be able to identify it as Lake Chapala. And there would be time aplenty afterwards to relate all aspects of this extraordinary investigation in the utmost detail. For the moment, it was better and more profitable to give out the information in small but interesting doses. The headline could not be more sensational: DEMONIC POSSESSION HORROR: HOW IT ALL STARTED.

Feeling rather self-satisfied, the journalist sent the email with the article and high-resolution photograph to his editor. He believed he knew Fuentes well, and he was sure this would bring delight to his office upon reading it. The difficult thing was going to be controlling his anxiety and greed: they would ask more of him, they would urge him to reveal more, to avoid the issue slipping from the public consciousness, or another reporter from any rival media outlet approaching them with any questions. In the end, it was better to contend with the pressure of the demand than with the possibility of adding himself onto the list of unemployed journalists.

Now more relaxed, and his homework done, Sancho contemplated the plastic bag containing the tetrahedron constructed by the girls. He had not taken it out of there since bringing it back from Chapala in his car. Curiosity tempted him, and, with the utmost care, he opened the bag. No sooner had he done that, he thought he could hear a sort of buzzing in his ears; a sound that did not seem to be coming from the outside world: it was as if it were being generated within his own head. Was it a warning? Despite the fear that gripped him, the journalist dared to place his hand upon the pyramid, to check if he would feel the electrical discharge, like he had done the first time he touched it. This time it was different. A burning sensation shot right through his fingers, speeding up through his arms, as if it were travelling through his veins, propelled as if pulsing through his arteries. It was a horrendous experience, and he thought he was living the last moments of his life. Then the burning reached his brain, and set into his pupils, forcing him to close his eyes, squeezing his eyelids together tightly, wracked with pain. And in this state of derangement, he thought he saw a terrifying being: a gigantic monster, with several heads, one of which was a deformed, half human fly, with red pupils that stared at him fixedly, whilst the rest of the heads rocked violently. The beast had multiple limbs, indescribable, as if belonging to very different animals and insects, and out of its shoulders came enormous, bat-like wings, which seemed to be burning, emitting powerful flames with their drawn-out beating. The pestilent creature watched him with its terrible incandescent eyes, observing him, as if reflecting on what to do with him. Finally, it uttered some words that resonated throughout the journalist’s skull like an infernal thunderclap: “Get away from me, human!”

XV. Hidden Warehouse in Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

Padre Salas was feeling lost, and that only served to exacerbate his own fears. He knew perfectly well that an exorcist neither could, nor should, confront a demon whilst afraid, since such panic meant two things: firstly, that he had doubts regarding the possibility of vanquishing the aforementioned malign entity, and secondly, that one could not trust blindly in the help and the power of God being enough to guarantee success. The priest now had many exorcisms under his belt, certainly over a hundred, and in all of them he had managed to liberate the possessed, but each one of them had come at a price, and he had always ended up weakened. He felt the deep wounds from having performed so many difficult rituals, which on occasion had required superhuman strength, and which had left their mark not only on his memory, but also his very faith. He knew that God was not that powerful, and that whilst Satan and his neighbours were not his equals in energy, they were not far behind. And whilst there was only one God, there were many demons: all of which were very dangerous. Just as Padre Rincón was now learning at his side, many years ago he had been a disciple to a great exorcist, who had taught him a terrifying lesson: the angels don’t come to the aid of the priest who practices exorcism; one stands alone against the demons, and the priests’ most powerful weapon was their own faith.

“Are you tired?” asked Padre Rincón, entering the office of the warehouse that the Archdiocese of Guadalajara had given them for the ritual.

“Yes, I’m exhausted. You are young, strong, and have an unbreakable faith. You’re being a great help to me, and I can see you being an outstanding exorcist.”

“I appreciate your words enormously. But right now I’m worried about your health; you seem really worn out.”

“I am, but those little girls can’t wait. In spite of everything, their weak bodies could also do with a short break.”

“It’s Beelzebub, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand,” replied Padre Salas, confused.

“I mean that it’s so difficult to expel this demon because we’re dealing with Beelzebub. You told me, the day you realised that it was he who had possessed the girls, that this demon had spoken to you in the Aramaic that you feared.”

“Yes, that’s true. But forget it. You must not fear the demons, Padre Rincón, or you will never get to be the exorcist that I hope you will become.”

“But you, however, respect them.”

“Beelzebub entered into me, on one particular occasion, many years ago, and even though I got off lightly, it had its consequences. It’s the risk we take as exorcists. That is why I retired away to a little church in Coyoacán. I just wanted to dedicate myself to a handful of people who needed me, and to be in direct and permanent contact with God.”

“And is that the very reason why Beelzebub resisted your orders so much?”

“No, Padre Rincón. That’s what’s got me puzzled. Beelzebub entered into those girls’ bodies in a strange way. It had to have been through a ritual that I’ve never faced before, and that is why I’m having so many difficulties. The problem is not the demon. The real obstacle is the way in which Beelzebub took possession of the girls.”

“So, to carry out an exorcism, it’s important to know the root cause of the possession, then?”

“I would say that in many cases it’s indispensible. Right now, we’re a little lost.”

“We could visit Valeria, the girl who was saved. Perhaps she could give us some information.”

“I’ve thought about it, but I want to give that family some breathing space. Beelzebub was cruel with the mother, and I don’t want to provoke his rage with any faux pas. If something bad has to happen, I want his fury to fall on us.”

Both clergymen remained in silence, reflecting. Padre Salas tried everything to soothe his nerves and catch his breath, whilst Padre Rincón tried to transmit his impregnable faith and strength to his companion. They must have been meditating there for at least an hour when somebody knocked on the office door.

“What’s happening?” asked Padre Rincón.

“There’s something I want you both to see,” replied one of the fathers, uneasily.

The priest opened the door and found himself confronted by a man whose face was incandescent with rage.

“What’s happened?”

“This! This is what’s happened!”

The father handed over a copy of Las Noticias, with a three-column article on the front page, above a photograph of a strange pyramid: “DEMONIC POSSESSION HORROR: HOW IT ALL STARTED”.

XVI. Guadalajara Cathedral, Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

Padre Salas had decided that it was better to speak with the journalist José Antonio Sancho in the same place they had met, far away from the warehouse in which the exorcism was taking place, to avoid adding any more tension to the already stressful situation going on there. Padre Rincón had remained there to care for the girls and their parents.

The priest was angry, and felt that Sancho had betrayed his confidence, putting the girls at risk. Whilst he waited, he had read the article over again, and still did not believe it. Sancho’s disloyalty had disappointed him, but then he also remembered that human beings frequently tend towards meanness and the stupidest egotism. When the reporter finally arrived, he could not avoid raising his voice a lot more than was usual for him.

“How could you!” he exclaimed, slamming his hand down onto the front cover of Las Noticias.

The journalist closed the office door, to avoid the priest’s shouting alarming the other people passing through the Cathedral. It was very clear to him that he was going to receive quite a telling off, and he deserved it, too. He should also accept that his self-interest had to be more than repugnant to this man who was devoted to God, and to those most in need.

“It’s difficult for you to understand. In order to keep a place reserved in the rest of the issues, I needed to send something to the paper.”

“You’ve put these girls’ futures at serious risk!”

“I’m sorry. My editor in chief doesn’t understand anything about waiting, or public opinion, and if I didn’t send any news, I would definitely have been obliged to return to Mexico City.”

“Then, none of what you’ve written is true?”

“No, it’s all true. At the time, I wasn’t completely honest with you, and I held back certain information. I investigated, and that’s how I managed to follow the trail and find the evidence that’s formed the basis of this article.”

“You’re insensitive. You don’t understand anything at all. I want you to tell me everything right now. It’s imperative for the success of the exorcism!”

Padre Salas was beside himself. He had never been so infuriated in all his life, and he deplored the fact he was unable to contain his rage. But right now, the only thing he was worried about was the future of the nine possessed girls, who were currently wrapped in straitjackets, awaiting his return.

“Basically, I say everything in the article. I’ve brought you the book that the seer I mentioned gave to me.

Sancho handed over the volume with the pentagram on the cover. The priest cast a quick eye over it.

“And the pyramid?”

“I haven’t been able to bring it,” lied Sancho, who did not want to hand over that extraordinary treasure to anyone. He knew that the tetrahedron was key and that, somehow, it really was gifted with some sort of supernatural energy.

“Well, I need it. I need it with the utmost urgency!”

“What do you think happened?”

“You need me to explain it to you? You’ve already taken it upon yourself to put it in writing in your rag of a newspaper!”

Sancho let out a deep breath, and tried to relax. He should just calmly accept any insult or vexation from the priest who was mad with rage, and surely with all the reason in the world.

“It’s important. I was surmising, and I admit my mistake, but I would like to know what happened with those girls, now that you have all of the information,” said Sancho.

“What for? You only want to know my version, so that you can go rushing out to write a new article. The only thing that you care about is your damned professional career.”

“It’s imperative in order for me to give you the pyramid,”” said Sancho, well-timed.

Padre Salas sat down, and ran his hands down his face. For a second, he thought that he was going to faint, but fortunately he was able to stay upright and conscious.

“Alright, I’ll give you my opinion. But in exchange, you’ll give me that malign object and stop attending the sessions; I’ve lost all confidence in you. When I say so, you’ll be able to make use of all the information, and write the report of your life, which is your only motivation. Agreed?”

“I accept the agreement.”

The priest let out a long sigh and concentrated, so as not to lose his nerve, on speaking very slowly and quietly.

“I don’t know how it was possible, but I think that little Gabriela mixed up various rituals. Somehow, the girls were able to summon Beelzebub, and he took over their bodies. I don’t believe that was their intention, but thus was the consequence of their dangerous game. On occasion, fate conspires against us, especially if we go messing around with ceremonies that are capable of attracting malign beings, which really do populate our world.”

“And do you think that the pyramid played a fundamental role in Beelzebub’s being able to possess the girls?”

Sancho needed to swallow after asking the question, and conceal his growing anxiety, pressing his toes against the soles of his shoes.

“Without a doubt. That object is cursed. I need it urgently, because by destroying it, I believe that perhaps I’ll be capable of liberating the girls easily.”

“Destroying it?”

“Yes. The objects used as links in satanic rituals are, very often, shall we say, the umbilical cord between the person possessed and the demon that has infected their body. Reducing these objects to ashes is, on occasion, the only way for the exorcism to end well. It is an act that carries with it great risks for the exorcist, because it is very dangerous, but there’s no other alternative.“

XVII. Hotel NH Guadalajara, Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

The journalist had spent a day and a half now reflecting on his conversation with Padre Salas, and narrating every experience he had had, from the start, in an extremely lengthy article. He had not revealed the names of the priests, the little girls, or the doctor; but the facts were depicted just as they had been, including all of the suffering.

The priest’s words had made a deep impression on his conscience, and now he could only think about those poor little girls, to whom he had surely committed an injustice, putting their existence at risk all for the sake of a formidable headline.

No sooner had he finished writing the article, he made a safe copy of it, attaching a good proportion of the photographs and recordings taken and made at the warehouse. He had now edited them so that their faces were unrecognisable. Then, he opened up his email to send a message to a colleague in the editorial department of Las Noticias, programming it to arrive two days later. After doing so, he called him on his mobile.

“Francisco? It’s Sancho.”

“Hi, buddy, you’re going down quite a storm! All around here, everyone’s going crazy for your articles.”

“I’m calling you about a delicate topic.”

“You sound so serious; what’s up?”

“Francisco, I’ve programmed an email to be sent to you, containing a username and password to a document on the Cloud, saved in Dropbox. If you receive it within two days, access its content and publish the article and photographs that are in it.”

“Now you’re scaring me...”

“Don’t worry, Francisco. I know what I’m doing, it’s only a precautionary measure.”

“Listen, if you want, I’ll get in the car right now and I’ll be in Guadalajara in a blink of an eye.”

“You’re the best! I don’t think there’ll be any need, but if I do need your help, you know I won’t hesitate to call you.”

“Don’t go abandoning me, now.”

“Come on, don’t be silly. Like I said, it’s only a precautionary measure, so don’t worry about it.”

Sancho was a little while in reassuring his colleague, but he managed to put him at ease in the end. Perhaps he had been too hasty: perhaps it had been insensitive to implicate a third person, but he did not wish to run the risk of the story being lost due to imprudence.

Sancho emptied the small metal bin in the bathroom, and then placed inside it a towel drenched in gasoline. With the determination of an automaton, he went to look for the bag in which he was keeping the tetrahedron the girls had constructed and which, according to Padre Salas, was cursed. He suspected that the priest was right: he had experienced its energy first-hand. He returned to the bathroom and hit the bag with all his strength, so as to destroy the little pyramid without actually touching it with his hands. He felt euphoric upon doing so. Then, he placed the bag along with its contents in the bin, dropping on top of it a lit match. There was a sort of mini explosion, followed by a weak flame that quickly died out. Incredibly, the towel, the bag, and the broken up sticks had been consumed in a matter of only seconds. Sancho thought that he had done what he should, and he took comfort in that. But he hardly had any time to enjoy this sensation of profound peace within himself: an intense heat, coming from his abdomen, spread rapidly throughout his entire body. Then, the unbelievable burning reached his hands, and he watched in terror, with his own eyes, as he began to spontaneously carbonise. Soon his fingers, turning into ash, began detaching from his hands, one after the other, and then his hands did the same. The journalist barely had the strength to cry out in pain, and in one final moment of lucidity, he understood that Beelzebub was taking his revenge, and that his destiny was now nothing but Hell itself.

XVIII. Hidden Warehouse in Guadalajara, State of Jalisco

Padre Salas was feeling increasingly weak. Only the future of those unfortunate little girls managed to give him the ability to draw strength from weakness, and allow him to keep fighting, on virtually no sleep, against the malign Beelzebub, who appeared to be mocking him; laughing at his fragility, and ostentatiously demonstrating his own power. But the priest knew that he had God on his side, and that if he persisted, the light would finally triumph, and that the monster would be dragged back down to Hell, his only home.

Padre Rincón approached his teacher, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He was much younger, and even he was now exhausted: he could not even imagine how Padre Salas must be feeling.

“Shall we rest?”

“No, we should continue... The demon is growing increasingly weak, and we can’t allow him to draw a single breath.”

“We’ve barely slept in the last 48 hours.”

Padre Rincon’s voice became mixed in with the cries of the little girls, who were next to them. They were cries that sounded too human, very far removed from the guttural shrieks they had been accustomed to.

“Did you hear that?” asked Padre Salas, excited.

“Yes, it seems as if they’re suffering again.”

“No, no, it’s a sign! Those cries were from the girls; they didn’t belong to the beast. Quickly, get the Holy Water, right now!”

Padre Rincón went running to the office, and returned a moment later with a bottle of Holy Water. Padre Salas, on his part, held in his hands the crucifix that had been presiding over the warehouse.

“What do I do?”

“Sprinkle the girls’ bodies with the Holy Water.”

Padre Rincón obeyed. Whilst the holy water fell onto the straitjackets, a dense, greyish fog came out through the mouths, ears, and noses of the girls. Cries, screams and moans mixed together, as if a great multitude had congregated within the body of each one of the children. Padre Salas gripped tightly onto the crucifix, and began to exclaim, in an imperative voice:

“I exorcise you, Beelzebub, trickster of mankind! Leave the bodies of these girls, manifestations of God! Leave them, for God made them holy temples! Leave, Beelzebub, in the name of God! Leave, Beelzebub, by the faith and the prayer of the Church, by the sign of the Holy Cross, by our Lord Jesus Christ!”

Padre Rincón joined Padre Salas, holding the crucifix high in his hands. The family members, in terror, were squeezed together into one corner of the room, watching the terrible spectacle, powerless. One by one, the girls, with unusual strength, began tearing at the straitjackets and the ropes still tied around their legs. The cries and howls mixed in with the priests commanding voices, who repeated the litany tirelessly, again and again.

Suddenly, all was quiet. All of them plunged into absolute silence, waiting. With a gesture, Padre Salas calmed and restrained Padre Rincón, as he had made to go towards the girls, who appeared to be lying lifelessly on the mats. Then, the nine girls turned in unison, face up, and opened their eyes, completely awake. Some seconds later, thousands of black flies began to break free from their mouths, escaping from the warehouse through an open window, and a crack in the front door. The buzzing of the insects’ wings was deafening, and provoked a panic. Ten minutes passed before the girls stopped releasing flies from their mouths, and at that moment they appeared to awaken from an incredibly long sleep, and burst into tears. It was a clean and pitiful cry of human beings. Everyone present understood that the nightmare had ended, and that Magdalena, Camila, Zoé, Ximena, Natalia, Adelina, Vanessa, Gabriela and Daniela were back.

“Is it over?” asked Padre Rincón, stunned.

“Yes, my son, it’s over. It’s all finished,” replied Padre Salas, with tears in his eyes.

Padre Rincón could not contain himself, and went to hug the little ones, and their parents. They were all crying and giving thanks to God. Everybody felt that this was the happiest day of their lives.

Padre Salas returned to the little warehouse office, and allowed himself to sink heavily into a chair. He was afraid, and gripping onto the Saint Benedict medal, he said the Lord’s Prayer. It was in that moment that he understood that the Spanish journalist had played a crucial role in the miracle, by destroying the cursed pyramid, and would have surely paid a heavy price for his audacity. That gesture of infinite generosity, for which he was not prepared, had, at least, been key in the salvation of the nine innocent souls.

XIX. Metropolitan Cathedral, Mexico City

The right hand man of the Prime Archbishop of Mexico approached Padre Salas, walking calmly, but mournfully.

“Have you really decided to leave?”

“There’s no other option.”

“I believe there’s always another option. We weren’t mistaken in thinking of you, when I visited you at your little church in Coyoacán.”

Padre Salas could not avoid remembering his parish with resignation, as he would never be returning to them.

“This time, I need to hide much further away.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t think I’ll tell you, and you don’t want me to lie to you.”

“Of course I don’t. But think about all the good you could keep doing here, in your own country, in Mexico. Evil never rests.”

“Believe me, I know.”

The Archbishop’s right-hand man held out a copy of Las Noticias from the previous day.

“Have you read this article yet?”

“No, to be honest.”

“I didn’t think so. Keep it, it’s interesting; although there’s a lot of artistic licence in the last bit.”

“I’m not interested. A man has been condemned for all eternity by his own imprudence, by my blunder and, finally, by his immeasurable generosity. That is the only true thing.”

“If, in the end, you decide to change your mind, we’ll be waiting.”

“I doubt I will change my mind.”

The right hand of the Prime Archbishop of Mexico embraced Padre Salas, for a few seconds, as if through such an unusual and close gesture, he would be able to achieve what he had not been able to through words.

“We’re going to miss you. Myself, and many other people in need.”

“I’m in no condition to help anybody. I’ve made myself a danger, and I hope to liberate myself from the evil that stalks me. Only God and prayer can save my soul now.”

Padre Salas did not say any more. He left the cathedral, and the Plaza de la Constitución, reflecting on where his next destination would be. No sooner had he stepped onto the street, he came across a swarm of black flies, thronged around some object on the ground. The priest knew that this was no coincidence, and that these insects were a message sent directly to him from Hell. Fortunately, Zócalo was a bustling hive of vehicles and people at this time, and that calmed him. He had not been transparent with the Archbishop’s right hand man, and had not told him that he was fleeing Mexico for one sound reason: Beelzebub was coming back, lying in wait for him, and Baal was circling in some strange way throughout his insides. Now, whenever he looked at himself in the mirror, he no longer saw his own face: he saw the deformed head of a large insect, with white-hot pupils. It was such a horrifying scene, that he was rendered both paralysed and subjugated at the same time. He gripped tightly onto the Saint Benedict medal, which he had in his pocket, and picked up his pace. He had already decided on the destination for his retreat to prayer and devotion to God: he would escape to Spain, to Madrid. Perhaps there, the Lord of the Flies would forget about an insignificant priest who had dared to challenge him, and who had also triumphed on several occasions. Perhaps in the capital of the motherland he would find the ideal pardon, even from the demon itself, for his repeated acts of defiance.

––––––––