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NECHUM PASSED VERY few humans during the late hours, and the sidewalks were all the lonelier for it. London’s dim street lamps lit the evening fog. Their orange glow tinted the floating droplets and blanketed the street shadows in its warmth. Spring showers had purified the air. Little streams trickled down storm drains.
Nechum adjusted his makeshift hood. Usually, his shawl would be wrapped about his shoulders, but the cryptic letter he received from Akela insisted he come in secret. Not knowing why put him in a terrible unease already, but the urgency behind the sender’s heavy handwriting he found even more disturbing.
A single car zoomed by and sprayed water tracks, as Nechum stopped at the crosswalk. On the street corner stood the opulent Church of London. If this were a normal meeting, teams of ministry angels would crowd inside. His kind were vast in number, and without a distinct Archangel as leader, they worked in smaller collectives encamped all across the globe. Tonight, however, Heber, the overseer of the Britain province, summoned him and him alone.
Swallowing down a nervous lump, Nechum hurried. He focused on the massive oaken doors and phased right through. His boots padded against the glossed tile floor. The chapel bells chimed the hour, each dong reverberating through the high arched ceilings. Nighttime suppressed the usual vibrancy from the stained glass windows.
As he passed pew rows, Nechum focused his attention on the ministry angel kneeling in prayer. Candles for the midnight mass illumined his blue linens so that they shimmered in the flickering light.
Nechum stopped and listened. He wished not to disturb Heber’s worship.
Oh Lord God, no matter the time or the place,
You’re the master of angel, man, and space.
Grant to us, your servants, wisdom in every case,
When to be silent, when to speak, and when to show grace.
Amen.
Heber lifted his head.
“Amen,” Nechum repeated. “Brother Heber, you sent for me?” Nechum pulled the shawl off his head and re-pinned it to his shoulders.
“Yes, Nechum.” Heber stood up and gave a kind smile. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Nechum’s fingers wrung together. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Heber motioned Nechum to follow him. They sat on a pew side by side. “What I’m about to tell you must stay with you. Do not speak of it to anyone.”
Mind racing, Nechum nodded. “No one. I promise.”
Heber looked him deep in the eyes. Nechum could see the sincere concern stirring within them. “The Lord has spoken to me regarding you. He asks that you disappear on a military mission with Captain Jediah.”
Nechum’s jaw gaped. The urge to refuse outright arrived first, but he bit his tongue. He would not dishonor God by disobeying. Still, a million questions burned. He put his head in his hands and cupped his face.
“I know,” Heber said. “This is a strange command even to me.”
Nechum straightened. “Uh,” his voice trembled. “W-what does the Lord expect me to do?”
“For Jediah’s team, you’ll be their guide and their teacher in human affairs.”
Searching Heber’s face, Nechum squinted and dipped his chin down. “And what else am I to be?”
Heber drew closer. His voice brought down to a near inaudible whisper. “That’s the part not even your comrades must know.”
Nechum shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Pursing his lips, Heber stared at his hands resting on his lap. “Nechum, we all know how far the Sin Curse has spread. It sickens not only the soil beneath us. It permeates the farthest spaces, both visible and invisible.”
“Yes, I know it well.” Nechum lowered his eyes, as a regretful sadness for an innocence long lost welled up inside.
“There is one in your group who has grown very ill from it.”
An urgent concern struck a chord within Nechum. “Who?”
Heber shook his head. “The Lord would not tell me, perhaps out of courtesy for our hurting brother.” He turned to Nechum, a hopeful smile on his face. “But He asks that you be His hand and help put in motion the events God has planned for our brother’s healing. This mission isn’t just for the world. It’s for him and all of you.”
Bewildered, Nechum stared up at the jeweled cross on the altar. “But who am I? That the Lord should consider me?”
“One of His chosen,” Heber answered. He wrapped a comforting arm around Nechum’s shoulders. “And that, my friend, comes with a promise.”
The sudden weight of responsibility and all its gravitas coursed through Nechum. Fear gripped him by the chest, but the thought of a brother in suffering overpowered his initial hesitance. He was needed.
***
Uncomfortable quiet covered Mexico’s swamps in the late dusk. A few frogs, hidden among the unruly reeds, silenced their croaks as a puny boat passed. Two boys rowed with the weak current, and the point of their canoe cut through the algae. Julio steered the stern, careful to watch their boat’s sides. The churning of liquid could be from their oars or the thick body of a crocodile slipping below the water’s surface.
Julio ducked to avoid the moss curtains that draped from low limbs. He searched the sky behind them. Just above the treetops, orange tinted the night clouds. Mexico City’s lights were a good reference point should they get lost. The bank of Isla de las Muñecas—the Island of Dolls—should come into sight soon.
His little brother, Roberto, leaned over the bow.
“Ay!” Julio yanked him back by the shirt. “Dónde está tu cabeza?” he hissed. “There could be crocs.”
“I wanted to see the island.”
“And get your head munched on the way? Just sit still and keep quiet. We’re here.” A shoreline emerged from the dark.
The boat’s bottom rubbed the riverbed as the water became shallow. Their canoe slowed to a stop. The wooden hull smushed the muck, disturbing the gnats. A stench wafted from the upturned mush.
Julio whipped out his flashlight. He clicked it on and pointed it into the trees. Countless dolls were strung up by the neck, swinging like carcasses neglected to rot on the gallows. More dolls were tied to the tree trunks and others were strewn on the ground. Caked in mud, the toys from the newest to the oldest mimicked stages of decay. Green and sun-bleached splotches spoiled once smooth plastic. Several had their hair missing in patches. The most ancient of these couldn’t be distinguished at all, save for their empty eye sockets.
Julio couldn’t stop staring back at the glass eyes. They seemed to bore into him. He straddled one leg over the boat’s rim, and his foot planted a print into the mud. “Do you have Anita’s dolls?”
“Right here,” Roberto replied. In one hand, he clutched the stolen toys.
“Okay then. Let’s go.” Julio moved one step, then stopped.
Roberto stayed frozen in the boat as if someone had nailed him there. “Hey, Julio. Do you think those tales about that drowned girl are really true? That her ghost drove the island’s caretaker mad, then drowned him?”
Visions of corpses multiplied in Julio’s mind. The stench of bogs raised the tiniest hairs along his arms to a stand. “Well, he collected these dolls to appease her, didn’t he?”
Roberto shuddered. “M-maybe we should go.” He bent down and bumped the boat with the oar.
Julio grabbed his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t chicken out now, hermano.”
Roberto shot a scathing glare out of wounded pride. “I’m not chicken!”
“Then man up. You wanted to come with me.”
“But I didn’t believe in ghosts then.”
“Roberto.” Julio pulled him close to his face by the collar. “We planned this prank for months. Papa’s not going to be home for hours and Anita’s at her friend’s. It has to be tonight. Now, come on.” He yanked Roberto to his feet, then marched into the woods.
He could hear Roberto’s quickened pace and muttered complaints.
Farther into the trees, Julio grew far less confident and wary. Dolls, dolls, and more dolls surrounded him. His heart fluttered. The air seemed to thicken, and he heaved quiet breaths.
“Julio?” Roberto’s voice quivered.
“They’re...they’re just dolls, amigo,” Julio gulped. He sensed a million faces scrutinizing him. As though weights were strapped to his ankles, his steps grew heavy, slowing to a shuffle.
A dreadful change altered the atmosphere. No fog covered the path, but clouds screened the moonlight into an eerie dimness. Julio’s heart quickened. His body heat tingled up his arms and circled beneath his cheeks. Fear stole his will. He felt as though a monstrosity stalked him, and whether or not he moved made the difference between life and death. Terror incarnate pressed inside his chest.
Then came that breath: a sickening, warm breath that moistened on his skin. The sensation spread down his neck, making him more uncomfortably hot than before.
Roberto huddled closer to him. His shoulders hunched as he hugged Anita’s dolls. “Let’s go back. P-please?”
Julio’s tongue stuck to the floor of his mouth. He nodded and forced his legs to twist around towards the beach and their boat. Then a voice tickled his ear. His eyebrows raised, and he stopped.
“What?” Roberto hushed his own gasp. “What is it?”
“Did you hear that?”
“What are you talkin’ about, you loco?” Roberto rambled. “I don’t wanna hear nothin’. I wanna go home—alive!”
Julio batted his hysterical brother aside. “Shut up, hermano.”
Roberto crouched lower, as though sinking into a panic. “D-do you think it’s h-her? The ghost girl?”
For once, Julio didn’t have an answer. That strange, innocent giggle seemed to flit side to side, yet Julio dared not fidget.
“That thing! Over there!” Roberto shook a pointed finger.
Julio’s eyes darted toward the item in question. “What thing?”
“I swear, Julio, that doll opened its eyes.” Roberto’s tanned finger quaked at a bound doll; its dress long soaked by the tree trunk’s moss.
Julio crept closer to the sorry looking thing. Webs covered its shorn head. The lace fringe had rotted off the mildewed satin, and an old spider sack sat anchored on its neck. But those unnatural glass eyes were indeed open. They were clean too—seemingly untouched by the elements, and its lips were cracked open, as if caught mid-speech.
That same giggle escaped its mouth. Julio jolted backwards into Roberto. “It’s nothing,” he stuttered, feigning bravery. “Just a voice string.”
“I...see...you,” it whispered, like a tiny girl at play.
Julio could feel his eyes bugging out.
“I...see...you,” it chanted again. Its eyes turned directly at them. “I...see...you.”
Julio hustled away from the accursed thing and dragged Roberto along with him.
Then another voice behind them repeated, “I...see...you.” They whipped around to see another hanging doll open its eyes. “I...see...you,” said one to their left. More and more voices joined.
Taunting laughter surrounded the boys, and they took off like a shot for their canoe. Loose leaves slipped around under Julio’s sneakers. A splat from behind forced him to turn back.
Roberto struggled to lift himself up from the foul mud where he fell.
“Come on! Come on!” Julio hoisted Roberto by the pants. He threw Anita’s dolls and screamed in case the phantoms could hear. “Here! Take them!”
They made another break for it, and the dolls fell silent as their oars splashed back down the bayou. What they didn’t hear was the whispered acceptance of their offering.