The Bampire In The Barrio

The Bampire In The Barrio

© 2024, Jeremy Abad.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35093-876-0

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35093-877-7

It was but yesterday I thought of myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life. Now I know that I am the sphere and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.

–Kahlil Gibran

Contents

The Secrets of Nature

The Mystery

The Clouds That Made Lluvia

Riding the Desert

Magda: The Prison

The Powerful Eyes of Tilína

Unclaimed Friendship

The Divided Tierra

Taking Flight

The Marketplace

The Tule Tree

The Roar and Swell of The Escrulixi

The Virgin

The Love Letters

Fragments of Memory

The Secrets of Nature

There are many things that are very secret, things that are taught from objects and instruments that the land holds. Like the white coyote bone they say is used for basket weaving, but is wielded for the quiet death, or the Devil’s Weed that is used to attain power and control of the mind and spirit, to go beyond a world of worlds and to return to a world of pain. My world never shifted from nightmare to bliss. It remained a constant terror as the voices in the air and the growling of the earth reached out to me, talking to me, as I sat silent in my small cell. I breathed in the aroma of wild rain. As it crept closer and closer, and as the scent became stronger, I felt a tension build in the air until, all at once, I heard the rain pour over everything like a waterfall. As the thunder rolled in the heavens, it excited me. I stood and walked foot over foot to the window, where I watched the rain fall like glass beads, plummeting from the sky, reflecting the light from the lantern that stood in the courtyard twenty feet away. I watched the power of nature move. It was my ally. Nature moved water, earth, and air for me, revealing a path and knowing all my intentions.

In that moment, a voice came out of the falling water and spoke to me. It was a voice I had heard before. It told me in a whispering command, Go, go, go. The walls will melt, so go. Listening to this voice that only came from the world of happiness where everything is the same, I stood back from the wall and glanced around the world outside my cell. I was shaken out of my world, and saw a different sunrise that met the edge of the earth. It was the smoke of the Devil’s Weed that made my mind see beyond seeing. It also made my senses more aware of the moment when Padre Pasillo was making his round on that quiet morning.

I grabbed the black blanket Aristeo gave me after he died, and my old brown, green, and rust plaid hat that was once my father’s, stuffing it into my back pocket. I was afraid that Padre Pasillo and his young victim, an altar boy named Pedro, would come in at any minute.

As I looked out of the small square window in the door, my eyes scanning to the right and to the left, I heard a rumbling coming from the north, and I glanced at the thick beige wall and saw it absorbing the rain and puddles that were on the other side of the wall. The moisture was crawling slowly to the ceiling, and in that moment, I stood back watching the wall burst outwards.

I covered my face with the back of my hand, flung my thin tattered black blanket in the air, and then tied it around my neck. Preparing to flee from the place that I had known more than half my life, I saw Padre Pasillo and his shadow walking toward my cell door and he growled and screamed at me, Tulio, get way from the wall. Get over here now! I turned to look at him and a voice that only I was able to hear came out of the night and said, Let’s gooooo. Followwww meeeee! To the town! The town that makes you silent. I stood in the cell, afraid to see Padre Pasillo’s face come out of the darkness. He jingled the large key ring that held the key to my door, and as he came towards my cell, I saw the face of a beast, snarling with teeth, and he crashed into the door, reaching his claw-like hands through it, tearing at the air and almost tearing my shirt with his long nails. I stared at him, and I watched him fumbling for the key, screaming at me in a deep thrashing tongue, "Tulio, get over here now, and stand against the wall! There will be a consequence. I dare you to walk out that threshold."

I glanced at his big beast hands and fingers fumbling and moving through the keys and his eyes became darker than the shadows in the room. I looked at him and replied gruffly, I will tell everyone about you. What you do to the little children, the old women, and the slow ones that you hurt. I became terrified of what could happen if he caught me. Again, he reached for me through the small window in the door, but I stood back as I watched his old strength and his dark anger shake the wall. He warned me calmly, Tulio, if you step outside that wall, I will come and look for you. I will search every house, bush, and tree. I will search the land and God will guide me to your destination. He will know your disobedience; He will show me where you are, and He will see what kind of man you are. I will make sure you will be lost in limbo.

I turned around and wobbled, and I stepped out into the courtyard where my worn black boots sank into the clay mud, making it hard for me to walk. I felt the sanitarium didn’t want me to leave, but the voices urged me forward, saying, Take the steps into the night. I had to go. Padre would have caught up with me and captured me in several seconds. His old quickness was sharp and severe. I continued to hear the echoing voice in the darkness. Looking back at the hole in my cell, I saw his beast-like shadow coming toward me, trying to catch up to me, but as I looked back several times, I saw the rain hit his old face.

It hit his face like broken glass, making him squint his eyes as both of his feet landed in a mud puddle. Hand and arms sprang from the water, grabbing at his ankles and legs, stalling his every move. I felt scared and happy at the same time. A nervous giggle emerged in my throat and stuck there.

I ran and ran, trying to catch up to the deep voice, but it seemed to disappear and appear in every direction of the night. As I ran, I left Padre Pasillo behind. I could hear his echoes, I am coming for you!

I didn’t recognize the small town or the streets, trees, and lights that guided my way. Finally stopping, I could hear my heart beating like it has never beaten before. It was strong and deep like the sound of a drum. I heard it in my ears and head, and then tasted the wild green air that instantly reminded me of my longtime friend Lluvia, and within that air came a curtain of drizzle that opened up and revealed to me a small house of dark green, and the drizzle said to me softly, You are home.

Scanning my surroundings and wiping the water from my brow, I realized that I was standing in front of cement steps with a metal railing. My mind was thinking of Lluvia and how familiar the steps seemed. My eyes and wits became clear and I saw that it was my old childhood home. Standing several feet from the entry, I could see something dark moving inside, gliding from room to room as if searching for something.

I walked up the steps and stood in the empty kitchen waiting for whoever was inside to reveal themselves from the other room. I glanced around the kitchen trying to remember one day of ease. I stepped forward to go further into the home, and as my foot hit the weathered floor, I saw a small black and white picture several centimeters away, and I moved toward it, picked it up to see the faces of two young women sitting together. One was older than the other, with the eyes of friendliness and sincerity; the other young woman had a smile of deception, but carried a light within her for the woman she sat next to. When I looked closer at the photo, my aged eyes saw deeper and more clearly that it was my own mother, sitting with a woman I never knew or saw before in my life. As I looked at it, I turned it over, and I could see faded cursive writing that read: Magda and Bla…. Moisture had whisked the ink away, making it impossible to see the woman’s name. They both wore white dresses with decorative fabric around their necks, and their long black hair resting on their shoulders.

At that moment, the house began to shake and doors began to slam inside. I ran to the front door and grabbed the silver doorknob, trying to quietly shut it. Just then, a force came quickly, violently, and tried to keep the door from closing. It was a power that was not a man, and with all my strength, I put the picture between my lips and grabbed the doorknob. With both hands I slammed the door shut so whatever demon or spirit that was inside would not escape.

My heart jumped inside of me with fright and I warily turned around and leaned on the cold metal railing, taking the photo from between my lips and tucking it into my back pocket, trying to forget about what just happened. Demons don’t like to be forgotten. My clothes and long white hair were damp with water, and I wiped my hair from my face and grabbed the edge of my blanket that was tied around my neck like a cape. I dried my face, stepping down on each step. As I reached the bottom, I saw a giant puddle of water the size of a small pond mirroring the light of the moon and the streetlights, and absorbing the shadows of the trees.

In the pond, I saw my image. I didn’t recognize myself. I believed I was the young boy of yesterday, but I was older as I touched my stubbly face, feeling the thinness of my skin, the bones in my cheeks and jaw, and examined the elastic texture of my skin. My face was an entity of its own. The hair grew when it wanted to, and my thin body felt like it wasn’t mine. I was lean and unfamiliar and it pained.

Out of the corner of my eye, as I was inspecting my old hands, I saw a fire that burned in a round metal barrel. Walking towards it, I could see moths flying into the light and heat as bats pursued them, catching their nightly meal. The fire glowed hotter than anything that I have ever felt or seen. I could feel the heat whipping through the air, drying my hair and my clothes.

I watched the moisture on the edges of my shirt cuffs disappear. The cold had done something to my bones. It made me feel as though I had been dead all those years. The heat gave me strength to feel myself again. I then rubbed my hands together and kneaded my lifeless arms.

As I warmed, I listened to every snap and pop that came from the fire. I pulled my hair behind my head and heard noises that were long forgotten. They were the voices of every cricket, the crunching of their jaws and the musical notes of their legs. I could hear every spider spinning its nightly web, making the soft sounds of weaving fabric. Most of all, I heard the squeaking of the small brown bats that filled the starry sky. They flew through the stars and dived into the breeze, catching their prey and playing off the sounds of the night. They dove among the stars that always winked their yellow and blue eyes when I would peek out of my cell window. Perhaps these very bats have always been by my side.

They continued to squeak and chirp as they flapped their leathery wings around my head. As they brushed near my ears, I heard them saying something I couldn’t quite understand. I could pick out one word, Brrrrooootttthhheeerrrr, within their wings and their breath.

Being Aristeo’s apprentice, and he being my benefactor, I learned to hear the voices of the air, the words that came from the depths and the edges of the land that guided me.

It was a late afternoon when Padre Pasillo put me in the cell with Aristeo. I stand against the door a frightened little boy; afraid of what Aristeo will do to me. He sits in the far corner of the cell with his eyes closed as the orange light of the day covers him. He wears thick white pants that had been weaved and a shirt with small red animals woven within the sturdy fabric. His black and white hair is tied and braided behind his head and his dark tan face is clear and without hair. I examine his face. His lips are thin and dry, but what draws my attention is the small round scar in the middle of his forehead. He is quiet, peaceful, but seems trapped.

I walk to the small bed I think is mine, and he opens his hazel eyes and watches me for several minutes before speaking. Oh, you are more than what you think you are. Come; find a place in this room that will make you feel without fear. I listen to him. He is the last of the diableros. He opens his eyes and says softly, You are my kin. You have been found. I sit down on the hard clay listening to the sounds of the sanitarium, and the emerging hum of the night animals. He makes me listen, to gain strength in the ear, and to hear his guiding voice after he is gone.

The memory of Aristeo made me want to weep, like the day my father died, but I held myself together and knelt down next to the barrel to rest. I thought about what the voiced told me, what Aristeo told me, Go to the town that will take you silently. I had to find the town. I began to believe I was already there. My new world was spinning. My stomach began to ache and growl. There was a bubbling in my belly and my tongue began to stick to the top of my mouth; my left arm began to give me pain. In the past, I had been hungrier, and thirstier. How hunger was used to control me, quiet me, like the time when Pedro tried to take advantage of old Evodia. I told him in a quiet, calm voice that I was going to tell Padre Pasillo, even though he did the same thing to her. He deprived me of food for two weeks and I grew so thin that my pants fell to the floor, and I could barely stand.

As the pains began to disappear, I glanced up into the heavens and saw the biggest, brightest star right above the moon’s head. As I stared at it, energy emerged in me. I tried desperately not to think about Aristeo so I wouldn’t become upset. I raised my arms into the air to dance around the fire. I grabbed the edges of my cape and pretended I was flying through the air, inhaling the sultry breeze after the cold rain. I was hovering above the earth, but dancing and jumping with excitement around the fire, as the bats swooped around me and under me, gathering my hair in their claws and twisting it above my head.

They knew who I was. After many years of making their home in the eaves outside my cell window, they gave me a sense of belonging, as if they had been waiting for me and, at that moment, they were welcoming me home. As I danced, my feet came together as though they had been tied and a force pushed my back. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. Landing on my hands and knees, I sensed something standing over me. It was the same feeling I would get when my mother was present. Her shadow overcame everything. I could feel goosebumps emerge on the back of my neck and the tops of my arms. As I lay there on the semi-warm soil, I was perplexed and wary—was there someone evil like the fiendish witch La Catalina that Aristeo always told me about, or the energy of the spirits of the dead that knew more than I did, telling me to move on?

In my tired mind and heart, I breathed slowly and thought about the photo that was in my pocket; I slid it out with my two fingers and brought it to my eyes. As I looked at it again, I saw my mother’s young face, which gave me a feeling of pity and hatred. She was of the age that I remembered her. I knew her as being dead, but as for the woman named Bla. . . who had the eyes of a sad bird, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to find an old face and eyes to match it. But if I was close enough, I knew I would be able to spot her. The shape of an eye never changes, only its luster.

I reached over behind me and pulled my blanket cape over my undersized hips, tucked the photo in my shirt pocket and covered my shoulders, my black worn denim pants and my old brown long-sleeve shirt that was once someone’s long forgotten clothes. My thin blanket cape engulfed and enfolded me and immediately warmed and comforted me. As I closed my eyes, I stretched my lips over my gums and settled my tongue in its rightful position. I rested deeply under the cold night.

While I dreamt, I could feel myself spinning with the earth, seeing and feeling myself standing tall as a giant as the world spun. The wind slicked against my face and whistled in my ears as the light of the sun heated my face, making me feel like hot candle wax melting and evaporating into the world.

My sleep felt no more than five minutes as the beams of light illuminated my eyelids, making oranges, reds, and yellows, burning a round image of the sun into my head. Hesitantly opening my eyes but slowly adjusting to the light, I unwrapped myself from my cape and raised my arms over my head and stretched my body, feeling alive as my bones began to pop and snap out the cold, vibrating my whole body to create energy for my day.

Swiftly, I stood on my feet refreshed. I spun and swept up my cape into the air. Turning around, I saw my shadow jump in front of me. The morning sun allowed me to witness my image. My hair was sticking up on both sides of my head, which made me look like an animal. The bats had done this to me. As I touched my head, I could feel how the bats had created tangles and knots that were thick and spongy. As I patted my hair with my hands, it felt wild, like a dry bush.

From my elongated black shadow, I saw four small brown bats lying next to the warm metal barrel. I walked toward them, picked them up, and noticed several long white strands of my hair tied around their claws, but they were dead, burned by the flames. The hair on their bodies was singed and their brown leathery skin and faces were burned. Bending over the warm barrel, I could see the orange embers glowing under the gray ash. I placed each one of the bats inside the barrel, each brother who welcomed me into this old place once again. I watched their bodies ignite; they seemed to flicker with the same strange colors I saw when Padre Pasillo cremated Aristeo’s body.

It is the morning after Aristeo died. Padre enters and drags him out by his two legs alone, pulling his body out to the small red brick crematorium. There Padre and Pedro put him on the long slab and when I see the smoke and light come from the small building, it quickly burns a dark green color and the smell of mint erupts in the air. Soon the air turns a brown hue that creates an odor of cloves, the same smell that makes my mind forever hold his memory, as well as the memory of my brothers that burn in the metal bins.

With a clear mind and the fresh morning breeze slightly pushing at my back, I leaned over and tucked my pants into my thick black boots and buttoned the cuffs of my long-sleeve shirt. I walked swiftly away from the old back yard that I, as a child, once played in. In the morning sunlight, I glanced back at my childhood home and saw the shadow of a woman standing and staring at me from the bedroom window that was once my mother’s sewing room. She had the eyes of my mother, and she lifted her hand to the window and pointed at me, screaming a silent cry. I became overwhelmed, but fought the feeling with the idea that I was alive and she was dead, she was gone. Forgotten. I walked briskly out into the semi-lit alley that was behind the house, shaking off all dread and apprehension.

As I walked, my eyes took in every leaf that grew from the walnut trees and saw every color that emerged from the sunlight. Off in the distance, on the dirt of the alleyway in my beloved city of Juntura, there were several yellow daisies, their petals scattered over the warm ground. I fixed my eyes on the dirt floor and my head began to spin. Something came over me. I could smell the gloomy thick air that was stuck between the trees and saguaros that grew next to one another. The mingled odor of jalapenos, onions, and incense lingered in the atmosphere. There was a suffering, something brutal and secretive had occurred that night when I ran from the sanitarium. As I looked at the ground, I saw flashes of violation, ache, blood, and most of all, the loss of breath that came from the lips of a young girl child.

From afar I heard a rumbling, as if something large was tumbling across the desert floor, and as it came in my direction, the warm desert air cleaned a path for me to walk. I wanted to turn back, but I stopped and I listened. I waited until the wind blew through the tall saguaros. It hummed a deep voice that said to me, Even the ones who crawl go not backward. I stood and listened to the voice over and over again. I watched the direction the leaves and petals were tumbling and I tiptoed around them. When I walked around them, I saw visions of anguish. I was afraid for the person who was attacked and I held my hand over my mouth in disbelief, feeling the spaces of my missing teeth, triggering my mind to think of how they were lost many years ago.

I walked out of the alley as fast as I could, and again, I glanced back to see if there was someone hiding or standing in the shadows. There was. On the top of that giant walnut tree, I saw a black crow watching me, not saying a word. In the instant I made eye contact with him, he flew over my head and I followed him into the old abandoned street named Calle Iglesia. It was once a main street that buzzed with the energies of the invention of the car with horse carriages and wagons being pulled by small, strong donkeys and the laughter of people everywhere. Today, fifty years later, I watched a couple, maybe a husband and wife, walk with their metal lunch boxes, talking softly but then suddenly startled by the uncanny sounds of explosions in the distance. They glanced at me and the woman quickly spoke, La Guerra, la Guerra, La Revolucion, and they ran off to their destination. I listened to the noise of guns thundering, and the high-pitched squeals and whistles. A war was occurring as well as the war within me. My war that would never end. I followed the couple, afraid as they were, yet inquisitive and in wonder of the sounds. I was pushed and pulled in every direction, listening to the voice that had guided me once before, and it came from between the branches of the trees and from the water in the gutter telling me, Proceed . . . in the direction . . . of the running water. I followed with hesitation, but without fear of what may come around the corner any minute.

I continued down the dirt street, staring up into the blue air and into the tree branches swaying in the mild breeze. I then peered out into the vast desert that lay beyond the trees, remembering how it once felt to walk into the desert. Listening and feeling the energy in the gentle wind, I tasted the earth that traveled from a distant place. This was how it felt when I was a child. It felt like paradise, seeing everything with magnificent color, to hear every bee buzz and to see, from a great perspective, every leaf fall from a tree.

I crossed Calle Claro and walked through the backyards of people who still lived in Juntura. On the metal fences, they hung their clothes to dry. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a strange piece of fabric or clothing that was round and white. It was hard, with four pieces of metal running down the top of it to the bottom, with white strings zigzagging in and out of small holes. It reminded me of something Padre Pasillo once used on Olivia, who was a wild little girl and who grew to a wild old woman.

I stepped away from that jail of fabric and metal and saw several colorful houses in shades of blue, green, and yellow. As I came to Calle Arroyo, I passed the old white and pink adobe church, La Iglesia de Juntura. I marveled that it was still standing after all those years. I crossed to Alta Avenida and stood on the main dirt road leading in and out of Juntura. I could vaguely see where the road turned and curved to the east in the direction of the small town which, I believe, was called La Perla. When I turned myself to the west, I distinctly remembered where the straight road led. The city was called Charco de Pena. In my heart, I always knew that someday one of these roads was going to lead me out of here.

Then something hit me like Padre Pasillo’s thick stick. I had to visit the cemetery where my father was. I began to panic. Trying to adjust my sense of direction, I ran up the street to the decorative black wrought iron that was inscribed El Cementerio de la Criatura. The sun shined sparkled its long bright rays through the citrus tree leaves, reminding me of the orange morning dawn that once shone through the small window of my cell. I watched the burnt light swirl on the beige mud wall, creating energy and an awakening, remembering the screams and cries that it caused when no one wanted to see the light. Whenever I smelled the odor of orange blossoms, I knew that a spirit was close or was looking over me.

I climbed and jumped over the small rock wall and walked several steps to where my father and Señora were buried. I saw two white wooden crosses with names carved into them: Miguel Chagoya Garcia and Magda Podromo Garcia. I leaned over and delicately touched my father’s cross, and I closed my eyes to hold back my salty tears, and I tried to remember the soft, thin texture of my father’s hair, the supple roughness of his skin, his breath and masculine touch, and his scent of wood and sugarcane. As I sat on his grave, I tried to recall every moment I was with him, but the memories were long gone.

I could feel the hot sun burning my back. I shifted my eyes to the right and saw Señora’s white cross. Looking at her photo and being where she was buried were two different feelings. The feelings of sickness and misfortune for her came over me. I tried to fight the two by breathing deeply and thinking of a place of clarity, but my jaws began to tingle, giving me the urge to vomit. I stood up swiftly and flung up my cape over my eyes. Señora has masked my eyes and face with a big dark pillow, making me unable to breathe. I squirm and fight for my tiny life but as I become weaker, she brings the pillow over my nose and mouth so that she can stare into my eyes. Taking a breath that calms my heartbeat, I see the pleasure in her darkness and as she looks deeper into me, she must see something that I don’t know. She jumps off of me, throwing the pillow over me until I wake in the light of the day to see my grandfather’s headstone as I massaged my throat. I took a momentary look at the other headstones of family members who despised me. I glanced at the dates that were carved into the rocks and wooden crosses, and they were all in the same year, several days apart from one another. The year on each headstone was 1932, the year my sisters left me at the sanitarium. How could they all die so quickly, and what led them to their decline?

As I was lying on the thin grass remembering my father, I saw Padre Pasillo and Pedro walking from the church together, hand in hand, talking secretively, under the shade of the trees. Padre reached for Pedro’s head and brought his old lips to the young man’s and kissed him like an animal. His mouth overcame Pedro’s mouth and Pedro stood shocked and helpless. Padre unbuttoned his black slacks and pulled down his pants and showed Pedro everything he had hidden in his underwear. While I stood shocked several feet away, Padre saw me and screamed, TULIO! I ran from him and jumped