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Lafayette, Louisiana, USA
30th of January, 11:45 p.m. (GMT-6)
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Martinez drove past the parking lot of the Acadian Village to check if there were any parked cars. It had closed at four, but there was no way of knowing if it was booked for a private event after hours. After she visually confirmed it was empty, she turned onto the gravel back road that circled around the complex. There was no traffic at this time of night.
There was a mustering yard behind the pavilion, used for loading and unloading trailers and oversized trunks for festivals and concerts. Its location was ideal—it was closer to the New Hope Chapel than the front entrance and not visible from the main road.
She parked the Ford Escape behind a pylon, taking advantage of what cover was available. They exited the SUV quietly. Martinez had her gear loaded in a backpack while Morris opted for his beaten black leather medical bag. “Ready?” she asked in a low voice.
“Lead the way,” Morris bid her.
They traveled by moonlight, avoiding flashlight use until they were inside. It was unlikely there was anyone here to spot the artificial light, but there was no point in trespassing if you were stupid and got caught. Morris kept pace and was surprisingly stealthy and agile for a big guy who claimed to be in his late fifties. Like many of her coworkers, she didn’t know Morris’s story, but he was quick to identify himself as an old man when it suited him.
When they reached the chapel, Martinez gloved up, took a knee, and picked the lock while Morris covered her. After only a few seconds. Martinez softly grunted as the simple old lock gave way. As planned, they paused long enough for Morris to summon his will and cast the same modified spell from the lighthouse.
Only he could see the haze hanging in the front vestibule. Even in the dark, it glowed a soft magenta. He nodded in affirmation—the poltergeist had definitely been here. He held out his arm, preventing Martinez from walking straight into the metaphysical ether. It was very likely safe, but it was always a good idea to avoid interacting with undead forces so close to the witching hour. She gave him a quizzical look but mimicked the wide berth he made on his way to the sanctuary.
Everything was the same as this morning, but it looked eerie in the dim moonlight coming in through the windows. The large wooden cross hanging above the main altar drew Martinez’s eye. It was simple, unadorned by the image of a crucified Christ, but the stark contract against the white wall spoke volumes.
Like the rest of the chapel, the altar was white and modest in shape and decoration. There were few embellishments to break its clean lines, and the only splash of color was a trace of gold outlining the arches. A brass lectern sat on top, there to hold the word of God, with four candlesticks spread across its length.
They walked up the center aisle, avoiding the bank of windows on either side. A series of small wooden plaques lined the front. Martinez shined her flashlight at one of them: a carved relief of Jesus on the ground, his third fall based on the adjacent scenes. The ninth station, something deep inside her repeated past teaching—neglected knowledge but not forgotten.
The practice of remembering Christ’s final days as a man on earth wasn’t exclusive to Catholics, but they took it to a whole new level, codifying fourteen distinct steps that started with being condemned by Pontius Pilate and ended with being laid in the tomb. Collectively, they became the Via Crucis or the Stations of the Cross. Protestants kept the general practice but changed the terminology to the Passion of Christ.
The idea was if people really understood how horrific his last days were, it would bring more people to the faith. See what God’s son went through to save you? Unfortunately, it was often used to fetishize the gruesome details and really lean into the gore, all in his name.
Martinez had been raised a good Catholic, baptized at birth and attended parochial school until college, but she’d left all that behind her as soon as she was on her own. Even when her mother was still alive, she was more of a Christmas and Easter Catholic. Just looking at the stylized panels reminded her of reciting the devotions during Lent and on Good Fridays at Sacred Heart. To this day, she refused to wear anything plaid.
“I don’t see any doors or panels,” Morris spoke in a low voice.
Martinez turned her attention away from the plaques and onto the altar. “That’s because it’s plaster.” She ran her beam and hands along its surface. “The bones can’t be in there. There’s no way to put them inside without damaging it.”
“Anything is possible with the supernatural,” he remarked and gently tapped a knuckle against it: it resonated. “It’s hollow, and if the bones were completely encased, I wouldn’t be able to see anything from the outside.”
Martinez felt ill at ease. She was a lapsed Catholic, but not that lapsed. “I’m not saying no, but can we at least take a look at the other altar before we deface this one?” she negotiated.
“Sure,” he agreed. It was a reasonable request, and he was nothing if not a reasonable man.
The side altar was wooden, with a depiction of the Last Supper carved in the panels. There were no obvious doors or hinges, but as they moved closer to examine it, Morris saw a faint line of magenta in the wood. “I’ve got something over here.” He traced the seam with his gloved hand and tried to pry it open without any luck. “It’s stuck,” he reported.
“Or locked,” Martinez replied as she ran her fingertips across the etched wood front. “I found a key hole. Hold the light for me?”
Morris held the beam true while Martinez went to work with her lock picks. One by one, the sticky tumblers fell into position, and she felt the lock release a fraction of a second before Morris heard it click. “Ready?” she asked Morris.
He put his leather bag down on the front pew and withdrew a large silver cross. “Open it.”
Hail Mary, full of grace... she summoned her will and opened the door. The entirety of the space was filled with bones, neatly stacked from top to bottom. It was impossible to tell if all of the missing women were here at first glance, but five skulls were set in the wall of bones. In front of the central skull was a diamond engagement ring.
A wall of anguish hit Martinez, like standing knee deep with her back to the ocean and getting slammed by an unseen wave. She kept to her feet as it rolled off her esoteric protections, but they only lessened the impact. Tears started to well in her eyes and she stepped back, putting distance between her and the remains. She took a seat on a pew and grabbed the rosary in her pocket.
This pain was nothing new to Morris. It was the agony of a life cut short without mercy or compassion, times five. He did not fear or shun it; instead he was humbled by it. He stepped up and took its measure. “You think you could lock this thing up again?” he asked Martinez.
She discreetly wiped her eyes and regained her composure. “Sure,” she replied, staring at the macabre scene. “The mechanism is stiff but not seized.”
“Then it’s time to put these poor souls to rest,” he said resolutely. He extracted his tools from his bag and laid them out on the pew: a candle in a tall glass jar, a box of long matches, a small brass bell, and a slim strip of white cloth with blue strips running perpendicular to its length. He lit the candle with a long match and set it on the floor a few feet away from the altar. Then he unwrapped the dampening cloth from clapper of the bell.
“No matter what happens, don’t put yourself between me and them,” he instructed Martinez. Normally, he would have made this a learning opportunity for a newer agent, but it was too dangerous with this many souls. “Do you understand?”
Martinez dumbly nodded her head. “I need you to say it out loud,” he insisted. All traces of his laid-back demeanor were gone.
She repeated his words. “No matter what happens, I won’t get between you and them.”
Satisfied, Morris centered himself. I will fear no evil... He rang the bell, and the single chime filled the whole chapel. Martinez couldn’t imagine any other sound existing until its peal had dissipated.
He stood in front of the open altar, cross in his hand, and spoke his will. “You are no longer flesh. You are no longer bound to your pain.” Even though he was speaking at a normal volume, it vibrated with authority and Martinez felt its echo in her chest.
“Let this fire burn the horror of your death. Do not carry it with you. It will bring you no joy,” he commanded. The flame flickered and bounded above the height of the jar, like adding fuel to a fire. The flame lurched progressively higher until it was four feet in the air. Each surge generated an unseen energy that saturated the air, causing the hairs on Martinez’s arms to stand on end.
After the fifth leap of the flame, Morris’s voice turned tender, although no less commanding. “Your death has not gone unseen. Cling no more to this place. It is time to go home.” A gust of wind appeared out of nowhere and flew around the chapel. Martinez didn’t know if it was a byproduct of all that pent-up energy or if the owners of the bones were not going to go quietly. She held on to her rosary and said a Hail Mary, bracing herself for whatever was next. It didn’t bother her that this wasn’t a Catholic place of worship because she wasn’t praying.
Morris stood his ground and held his cross tightly. His other hand was placed across his chest and the ends of his prayer shawl flapped in the gale. He’d done this enough times to know the difference between bluster and defiance. He spoke again, but this time gentler, “Your time has come. Be at peace.”
Martinez could still hear his soft words laced with magic despite the whipping wind. The roar was loudest right before all the air rushed out of the room. In an instant, the high flame sunk back into the jar. She didn’t know where the wind had gone—none of the windows or doors were open. She held her breath, not knowing if there was anything left should she try to take another.
Morris stood immovable as the chapel fell silent and empty. He scanned the bones and saw all the taint gone. He rang the bell once more. This time, its volume was small but its tone still true. His work was done.
“It’s over,” he said for Martinez’s benefit, who was still plastered in the pew by the catharsis that had just blown by. His voice pulled her back to the here and now, and she suddenly remembered to breathe. She inhaled sharply and turned her flashlight to the side altar. All that remained of the flame was a trail of thin black smoke drifting up from the spent wick.
She spoke as she rose from the pew, mentally dusting herself off. “Right, I’ll just lock this back up.” Martinez approached the altar carefully, poking it with her will—not that she didn’t trust Deacon, but better to be safe than sorry. When she perceived that whatever was there before wasn’t there now, she dismissed her will. Flashlight in mouth and lock picks in her hands, she set the tumblers back in the locked position while Morris packed his gear, arranging everything just so in the well-worn leather bag.
She tugged gently on the panel to make sure it was locked and slung on her backpack. “Done and dusted. Not bad for a night’s work.”
Morris grabbed his bag and ushered her down the aisle toward the exit. “We’ll have the Mine call in a tip. Tomorrow, we start tracking down this spirit.”