Fetal Bait Apocalypse: 3 Collections in 1

We walked through El Jardin. The sparrows screamed at us. The walkways were drenched in shadow, the gazebo a black silhouette against the backdrop of La Parroquia. An elderly man lay on the gazebo steps, moaning, trembling, his left eye open and darting, as if loose in its socket.

“Where are you taking me?”

The girl looked back at me, shook her head shyly.

What was I doing here? Why was I following this child? I looked down at her, at the back of her neck, at the shimmer of her black hair. We left the edge of the zocalo and crossed the street to La Parroquia.

La Parroquia; a beautiful nightmare church of gothic architecture, sharp parapets, ornate frescoes.

“We’re going there? But it’s closed.”

I knew she didn’t understand, but it was one of those alcohol hazy nights where it helps to speak out loud in order to prove you’re not dreaming.

We walked up pink stone steps to a set of monstrous wooden doors studded with rivets. She let go of my hand, grabbed the brass knob and leaned back. It swung silently open. A cool breeze ripe with the scent of candle wax, old paper, and wet rock caressed my face. She wiped blood from her chin, looked back at me and smiled.

Quick footsteps slapped the stone behind me. I whirled around. An older woman, face grim, radiating anger, grabbed the girl around the waist, picked her up, and spat at me.

“Turista!”

I brushed the spit off my neck, stood there, dumbfounded. Watched as the woman carried her daughter away.

Voices bubbled out from the church.

I’d visited during the day, marveled at the opulence, the highly detailed statues of saints, the thick gold leaf suffocating the altar. Now, as I stepped inside, it was all musty darkness. A soft talcum glow rose from the stairway descending to the catacombs, off-limits to visitors except on the Day of the Dead.

Murmurs. A barely audible chant. A dull steady beat rising from beneath the floor.

The glow in the stairway intensified. And then a voice. Beautiful. Young. Singing. It was a soft warm caress across my soul. I drifted toward the stairway, hovered over the steps, lost to the music. How could I turn away from something so beautiful?

I was halfway down the steps when someone screamed.

The beat turned into a sharp percussive attack that jostled every bone, every organ in my body. I thought my bones would shatter, crumble to dust. I fell back, crab-walked up the steps, ran to the door.

Nobody stopped me. I ran a frantic mile back to the hotel.

As I lay in bed, waiting for the room to spin, I wondered briefly about the young girl, about her ruined mouth. I thought about my own little girl, waiting back home. What would I have done if I saw her hand in hand with a stranger about to go into a dark church?

I wondered about the beautiful voice that drifted up from the catacombs.

I called home the next morning.

“Jane, it’s me. How’s Peanut?” My pet name for Shelly, our eight-year-old daughter.

“She misses you, but otherwise, she’s fine. How are you?”

“I’m good. I can’t talk long. I just — I just wanted to know how she’s doing. Can I talk to her?”

“She’s at school. Remember? School?”

“Oh yeah. What about you? Holding up?”

The way she breathed over the phone, just one breath; I visualized her. Shoulders slumped, eyes closed, nose pinched slightly as she tried to control her breathing.

“I’m okay,” she said. “You’re still coming home Thursday?”

“Yes.” I rested my head against the payphone. “I think I’ll be alright now. I had lots of time to think.”

“You get some writing done?”

“Yes.”

“Good. John? I miss you.”

I sighed. “Miss you, too. Give Peanut a hug.”

We said goodbye and hung up.

I packed my suitcase for the flight home, then took the short stroll to the bar. Tecate, tequila, and tortillas. I began to panic. Three weeks of soul searching, and I hadn’t found a goddamn thing. It was the first time I’d been alone — really alone — in the ten years of our marriage.

I knew I missed Jane. Who was I kidding? Maybe things weren’t perfect, but they weren’t all that bad, either. And I certainly missed Shelly. Peanut. Missed her smile, her voice, her laugh. So what was there to think about? What else did I need?

On the way back to the motel, the sound of moaning stopped me. I looked down the nearest alley. A man stumbled over the cobblestones, apparently drunk. Every few feet he stopped and propped himself up against rough stucco walls. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a fistful of -- something. He stopped. Leaned against the wall. Stared at the contents of his hand.

Blood dripped from his mouth and spattered on the stones like raindrops.

He shook his head. Frowned at what he held. Slowly turned his hand over, letting the contents scatter over the ground.

Tiny white things. Chiclets? Bright-eyed children sold them to tourists in the zocalo. The man gathered himself and continued along the alley. More white things fell from his pockets, hitting the street like dice.

I followed. They weren’t Chiclets. They were hard as pebbles beneath my shoes.

I bent down. Picked one up.

It was a tooth. A speck of blood still glistened on the root.

His mouth…

The girl’s mouth…

Not much further.

I followed him to La Parroquia. He paused at the foot of the steps that led to its entrance. He put his head in his hands. I stood at the edge of the zocalo watching, listening to his sobs. He abruptly turned and walked away.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

“Jesus, John — what is it you’re looking for? Are you tired of this? Tired of being a husband? A father? What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. I—”

Through the large front doors. Down the rough stone steps. Already, the music, that beautiful, saintly voice, pulling me down those steps like a soft velvet rope strung around my waist. I didn’t understand what she sang, but the words weren’t important — it was the way she sang — the melody, the timbre of her voice.

At the bottom of the steps, this is what I saw—

Slabs carved into the stone floor, the coverings of graves etched with the names of dead clergymen. Standing on these tombs were twenty people in a circle — men, women, children — their backs bare and golden in the light of torches, eyes alight with ecstasy, chins dripping blood. And all of their teeth intact. The singing came from within the circle.

Why didn’t I turn and run?

The singing pulled me closer. A sweet melancholic sound full of love. Hope. There was nothing to be afraid of here. I nudged my way into the circle.

She stood over a rough wooden table. As she sang, she smiled. In each of her hands was a long, sharp knife.

She was as beautiful as her voice. Jet-black hair. Skin the color of melting caramel. I couldn’t tell you how old she was. Thirty? Sixteen? I leaned in through the crowd of people to see what was on the table.

The man she worked her knives through wore the robes of a priest. The robes were spread apart to expose