Red Scar - Chaper 3

 

Chapter 3: Ghosts and Exorcisms

 

There was a lot of excitement in Fontebianca that day. The annual gondola regatta, which took place in the last ten days of the month, was proving to be much more exciting than in previous years, thanks to the innovations promoted by the municipality and advertising.

The Gran Regata was a kind of game where teams of gondoliers made up of four people, competed in this race on the water with their boats, crossing the large canals until they reached the lagoon, where the finish line was represented by two large buoys joined by a banner. The event had ancient origins and the locals were keen to commemorate it yearly.

The rowers were all among the best in the industry, their arm muscles seemed to explode while rowing to the point that the boat seemed to fly; it is not for nothing that they trained all year round. Even the gondolas were taken into consideration, they were were specifically designed to be able to slide on the water with less resistance thanks to the use of a wise choice of materials, combined with more dynamic shapes.

The participating groups played to represent their neighborhood, each distinguished by a color and a symbol that, every year on that occasion; they proudly boasted. In the race that day, 10 of the 15 rowers who had distinguished themselves in the first five days of selection had been eliminated, where previously they had formed a large group of 25 participants. Now, the last five remaining would find themselves in the final to compete for the title of champions of Fontebianca, which would take place in a few days.

The following neighborhoods played for the title: two teams from Levantina, one from San Nicola, one from Porta Viva, one from Gugliadoro.

Borgomale, for obvious reasons, was not among the participants.

The queens of the regatta were considered the teams of Gugliadoro, the primary neighborhood of Fontebianca where the church's base of operations was located; and Levantina, the so-called neighborhood of the rich. For many they were among the favorites to win, having already collected many victories in the past, on the other hand, the fans of the other neighborhoods joined forces to support the teams of the other two neighborhoods together. In the city it was common to hear enthusiastic fans discussing animatedly about the race from the bars scattered around, even in Borgomale the residents discussed who would go on the podium, even if in this last case the real reason was to collect as much money as possible on the bets in progress.

In the future catechism classroom of the Church of Santa Azzurra, Don Walter paid no attention to the noise outside, focused on finishing his solitary game of ping-pong.

He had spent the entire afternoon plastering the inside of the building to give it an orderly appearance, and he no longer smelled the musty stench that had tortured his nose since he arrived. Considering that he had been working non-stop for several days now, fighting among other things with the scoundrels who were trying to steal the carpenter robots, he had decided to spend the last hour playing.

He would not have made it without the help of those walking irons that the Holy See had sent him to simplify the work that, although old and creaky, were still functional. The automatons had saved him a lot of hard work, but the day when he could deactivate them was still far away, the little church was not in good shape at all and it was surprising that it had remained standing for so long without appropriate restoration work. Now and then he had stopped to stare at the ceiling, worried by the noise of the creaking wood and the dust that was falling on him. Who knows if it was by luck or by divine miracle that nothing had fallen on his head up to that moment.

He glanced out the window, with Borgomale showing itself in its gray daily life. Since his arrival in the neighborhood, he had not yet managed to have serious human contact with the residents, regardless of whether it was an attempt to introduce himself to the new neighbors or a polite greeting. Those people lived so badly that they did not even trust the priests, how could he solve the problem of their malaise with such hostility?

“Maybe it’s the beard that makes me look too serious.” Don Walter thought innocently.

“I might try inviting someone over for a game of ping pong.” he wondered, looking at the colorful wooden paddle.

Suddenly he heard some excited noises from outside the church.

He rolled his eyes, wondering what the local thieves were trying to do to him now. The thugs had tried to steal his work equipment or his automatons several times, and despite the resounding lecture he gave them each time, they persisted in trying again.

“To err is human… but to persevere is downright idiotic!” he thought.

His little eyes widened in wonder as a crowd of people rushed into the church. Men, women, and children crossed the threshold of the door and dispersed into the large room still dirty with piles of rubble and with the scaffolding still underfoot. Some knelt on the floor and began to pray in front of the large wooden cross still erected on the tabernacle, many others instead began to talk among themselves anxiously.

<< Good God, what is happening? Has Christ, our Lord, risen? >> he asked confused.

<< What Christ! There are ghosts! >> someone exclaimed.

Suddenly all those who were not praying flocked to him, it took a while before he understood the meaning of that chaos of words.

There was a massive manifestation of ghosts. Someone had disturbed the sleep of the dead in one of the cemeteries of Fontebianca, causing their spirits to awaken.

The cause was not yet known, the fact was that the demonstrations had already gone beyond the confines of the cemetery to begin to spread like a plague in the town center. The Holy See had sent the best priests to stem the problem by placing them in defense of the neighborhoods... but the inhabitants of Borgomale knew they did not enjoy the same privilege and turned pale at the prospect of seeing their homes infested by wrathful spirits.

<< Don't be so pessimistic. >> said Don Walter trying to contain their fear. << If they sent priests into the field, it means they are good boys. >>

<< Oh, sure they're good, but only if they do it for the other neighborhoods. >> someone grumbled.

A woman with round hips, long black hair tied in a ponytail, and hazel eyes hidden behind dirty-rimmed glasses made her way through the crowd. She looked “cleaner” than the others, her olive-green suit, though not well made, gave her a more orderly, almost schoolmarm-like air.

<< Whatever problem touches Borgomale, they wash their hands off it. High water, pigeon invasions, clogged sewers… these are problems that only persist here, and the ghosts are no exception. >>

<< Isn't this the first time a ghost infestation has appeared in the city? >> 

<< Of course! It's a problem that's been going on for years. Everyone here knows about it. >>

<< Oh, really? >>

Don Walter put his hands on his hips, at that moment he seemed to become even more imposing and intimidating and this did not go unnoticed by some.

<< How many times a year does this happen? And for how long, exactly? >> he asked the woman since she knew a lot about it.

<< At least once a year and for how long I can't say, maybe sixty years. A very long time. >> She answered him, trying to emphasize the length of time with her hands.

That was enough of an answer for Don Walter.

With a long, heavy stride he entered his office/storage room and picked up a single bulky suitcase from the pile of luggage. He opened it and rummaged around inside without taking anything out, then closed it and headed for the exit, gripping the leather handles tightly. The crowd made room for him, intimidated by his gaze that seemed to have become somehow darker.

<< You, madam. What is your name? >> he asked the bespectacled woman.

<< Angela Mazzini. >> she replied.

Don Walter handed her a very heavy bunch of keys, consisting of at least five pieces in total.

<< You seem the most trustworthy one here. I'll leave the church in your care. >>

Mrs. Angela tried to say something, surprised by the sudden assignment, but Don Walter went away slamming the door without waiting for her answer. After a couple of minutes, the door opened again, and his head emerged from the doorway. With a serious and thunderous voice, he said:

<< If when I return I find that something is missing or you have hurt the lady, I will be seriously angry. >>

And then again, the door closed.

 

When Don Walter arrived at the cemetery of San Andrea, the area had been cordoned off by the church's special forces. The priests were praying in Latin and spreading incense with a very particular smell in the air, covering the entire external perimeter to prevent the spirits from leaving the sacred ground again. Much further away, a radio crew was broadcasting live minute by minute with an excessive emphasis more suitable for a football match than a religious intervention.

At that moment the priest saw two things that he didn't like: one was the radio commentators who were transforming the problem into a media event, and the other was the lack of effective intervention by the exorcists. 

Prayers and incense were, yes, important steps to expel demons or re-establish harmony among spirits, but only for the first few minutes of the emergency, then the actual exorcism had to be performed immediately. He checked his pocket watch, on whose face was engraved a duck: since the emergency had started at night (from what he heard from reporters), too many hours had already passed since the spirits had awakened and this meant it would be more difficult to resolve the problem.

<< Well? What are you waiting for? For a miracle to happen by itself? >> Don Walter asked the group in general.

A couple of them stopped and glared at him, one of them, a freckled man in his thirties with a shaved head, approached him enthusiastically.

<< You are Don Walter Mezzanotte, aren't you? >> he asked, holding out his hand, a gesture the priest did not return.

<< His Excellency, Cardinal Della Rosa had warned us that you would come. >>

<< Of course he told you. He knew very well that I would come, that damned greased turkey. >>

<< Excuse me? >>

<< Are you the one in charge of these guys? Why haven't you started the exorcism yet? It's been more than ten hours since the beginning of the demonstrations. >>

<< We know, but we have decided to take a more cautious route. We are still considering the best method to operate. >>

<< Yes, I would have agreed with this idea if it had been implemented preventively. Not after ten hours. We are no longer in the zone of “caution”, but of “Get to work and kick some spiritual ass”. >>

<< W-what do you mean, sir? I don't think I understand. >>

<< Open the gates. >>

<< How? >>

<< It seems to me that you have hearing problems, have your ears checked. I said open the gates; I'm going in. >>

<< Sir, it is not prudent! The Cardinal warned me of your abilities, but I think that you can also work from the outside… >>

Don Walter slapped the man on the back of the head. The blow made a loud crack.

<< If you didn't want me to take any risks, you should have thought about it before. Now, to solve the problem, I must go straight to the source. So, shut up and do as I ask. >>

The priest did not dare to contradict Don Walter again and told the brothers to hurry up.

The priest stepped through the entrance without waiting for it to be fully opened. The gates closed behind him immediately with a metallic thud that echoed throughout the cemetery. He rolled up the sleeves of his tunic to his elbows and clapped his hands vigorously together until they fizzed, his ritual for energizing himself.

 

Walter Mezzanotte was not only a priest, but he was also an expert exorcist.

A person charged with casting out the devil and evil spirits wherever they have taken root in good souls to consume and corrupt them.

There were two ways to become an exorcist: the first was to study a lot and practice (and prove suitable), and the second was to have what they called the "specific requirement", that is, the innate ability to perceive spirits and their energy. This part indeed said that may sound like something witchy, but that was actually what this kind of gift was called.

In his case, at least as the church saw it, it was a gift that was hard to find in those days among those who embraced the faith of God. For his part, however; he considered it a great nuisance, if not, at times; a curse.

Walter Mezzanotte would have preferred to be a simple priest, especially because that had been his choice. Becoming an exorcist, instead, had been a constraint and he hated being forced to do something he didn't want to do.

A weeping angel suddenly began to sing, Walter took a step back in surprise. What he had thought was a statue was instead a cleverly disguised robot, programmed to reproduce sacred chants for the modest price of a coin. The fake angel opened and closed its mouth pretending to sing for a few minutes before deactivating, bowing its head downwards. Then he began to hear them: the sinister whispers, the cold air that freezes your blood, the shadows that can only be seen out of the corner of your eye... typical signs of a classic infestation. The deeper he went into the cemetery, the stronger the spiritual energy became; all the hair on his body stood on end and even his beard seemed to swell. What worried him most was the tension in the air, a sign of the anger the "residents" were feeling.

When he had to judge the restlessness of a ghost, he imagined it as a sturdy rope: the more frayed and worn it was, the closer they were to losing their patience. If that happened, it would be a tough sell for everyone.

“I must remember to ask the names of the morons who desecrated the graves.” thought the priest.

Along the way he heard snippets of news on the radio about how the problem had started. If the keepers ever recovered from the trauma, he would give them another one himself.

<< Go back…! >>

Don Walter was suddenly surrounded by a thick crowd of ghosts, whose bluish figures together formed an anomalous cold fog like that which formed in winter. A normal person would have already begun to scream in horror at that floating mass of glassy eyes, grim glances, and even decayed forms, but Don Walter, instead; remained impassive.

<< Go away…! Get back…! >> repeated a disembodied voice.

He opened his briefcase and took out a metal crucifix and a large bottle with holy water floating in it. The ghosts continued to moan, threaten and get closer without moving their legs. The spirit of a grown man, perhaps a worker judging by the clothes he was wearing, approached quickly with a growing bloodcurdling scream and hands outstretched, one of which was missing half an index finger. Just before they could even touch Don Walter, he turned towards him and sprinkled a generous amount of holy water on him.

The wraith made a sort of leap backward, suddenly its moans were more human, and even its appearance less disturbing. And so it was for the other spirits, who reacted to the splashes like touchy cats.

<< That's enough! You're such a pain in the ass. Give it a rest. >> said the priest, continuing to spray them.

Where the fluid alone was not enough to calm them, he accompanied the unusual rite with the classic prayers which, however, were more than once alternated by his grumblings such as: "In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit give yourself a damned calm down", or "Hail Mary, full of grace... give them a good dressing down because I'm losing my patience" ... and so on. Despite the unorthodox method, almost all the ghosts recovered lucidity, calming down as a result.

<< That's enough people, you have every right to be angry that they exhumed your bodies without permission, but not to take it out on the living who had nothing to do with it. >> he said, at a moment when the moans stopped.

There was still someone who continued to be angry despite the exorcism, more precisely a man who could have been his age and who was wearing an old police uniform. The man had large bullet holes from which one could assume that he had died on the job, the color of his soul, unlike the others, tended to a barely hinted pale pink, a bad sign that indicated that he risked transforming into an angry spirit that not even the word of the Lord would be enough to calm him down. He didn't want it to get to that point, not when there was so little left until lunchtime.

<< Damn, you're about to lose your patience. >> he muttered to himself.

Don Walter tried to calm him down, but the former policeman “answered” with screams that were almost inhuman and the few words he uttered were parrot-like repetitions of random words, perhaps related to his last moments of life or to what he had done in life. He wasn't surprised, it was a state in which the soul was beginning to lose its humanity and consciousness.

<< Come on, try to remember how you were, instead of screaming. Don't make me use strong methods to calm you down, okay? >>

His question was met with yet another shout in response, as well as an attempted attack.

The ghost tried to scratch him, and as a result, the air became very hot for a moment. Don Walter instinctively touched himself even though he hadn't even been touched, he knew he had to be very careful.

<< Well, since I have no choice… >>

He opened his trusty briefcase once more, carefully placing down the tools he had been using until now. In their place he took a small jar containing a white powder with large grains, scooped up a generous handful and rubbed it vigorously on his hands, whitening them. Having completed that rite, without adding prayers or other unusual rituals, something in his gesture awakened in the ghost a faint forgotten sense of anxiety.

Don Walter's large hand, fully open and spread like a fan, crashed into his face.

The policeman spun around like a top, even his eyes seemed to spin like marbles. He shook his head, regaining lucidity. Screaming like an animal he lunged at the priest, who however managed to dodge his attempts to scratch him with great ease. He moved with the agility of a boxer both to dodge and to strike. And what blows! Even if they were slaps, from the noise they made you could deduce how much they were hurting. Don Walter was strong, so much so that he managed to grab one of the ghost's hands and force him to slap himself while he repeated in an authoritative, albeit monotonous, voice:

<< Give yourself a break. Give yourself a break. Give yourself a break. >>

The treatment lasted almost a full minute, enough for the spirit to come to its senses. After a final, forceful slap, it was like waking up from a bad dream. Even though he was dead, his cheeks were red and even slightly swollen. He should have wondered how a person still alive might have been able to hit a ghost, but at that moment he had no intention of asking questions.

<< Have you calmed down? >> the priest asked him, looking him straight in the eye.

The ghost nodded vigorously and without causing any further trouble returned to his eternal rest, apologizing for the inconvenience caused. The other ghosts, who had been watching until that moment, imitated him one after the other. Don Walter nodded satisfied; the atmosphere of the cemetery was much more peaceful now. Of course, he would have to go back again before he could dare to say that there would be no more manifestation, and that would mean doing double the work than was required.

<< So? Did everything go well? >> asked the priest, when he saw him come out.

Don Walter gave him another hard slap.

<< Of course everything went well, but only because I arrived in time before the situation degenerated. When you have to do an exorcism, you must never procrastinate, otherwise it's bad news. Understood? >>

<< O-Okay. Next time we'll be more careful. >>

<< Rather, can you arrange a meeting with the Cardinal for me? I need to have a chat with him about this matter. >>

<< I think it's possible… maybe His Excellency can receive you in a month. You know, he's very busy… >>

<< I want to see it in a week. >>

<< But I just said…. >>

<< One week. >>

<< As you wish, sir! >>

The priest ran off towards the nearest telephone booth, his hands shaking as he tried to reach his purse of coins.

It was a matter of a week, but it would be hard for Don Walter to be patient until then, especially with all that unbridled desire to express his opinions to Cardinal Della Rosa. Now it was clear to him why they had called him to Fontebianca.

Before leaving, he took one last look at the cemetery, observing through the bars of the gate the statues and tombs quiet again, at least for now. He realized that there was one of the "guests" who was watching him secretly, he didn't see him, but he felt him, as well as his restless aura. As soon as he could return, he hoped to be able to help anyone who still needed comfort even after death.

Vinny finished listening to the exorcism story on the newsagent's radio. He crossed himself; he didn't like hearing certain ghost stories; they made him anxious.

A short and long whistle, produced by someone who quickly passed by him, caught his attention: it was the signal that he could move. Maintaining a normal attitude, he entered the usual alley behind Gianni's fish shop, making sure that no one was following him. Well, who was supposed to follow him? There were only housewives shopping, at that moment there, in the market area.

The street narrowed toward the end like a funnel, giving a strong sense of claustrophobia as the walls of the adjacent buildings narrowed inward. There was nothing in there except a couple of boxes that would be gone by the end of the day and a little secret hidden right there. Vinny counted to ten and a segment of the wall in front of him, a small window opened and a short man smoking a crooked cigarette looked out while he finished punching the keys of a mechanical calculator. He handed him a rectangular paper bag, patting it gently.

<< Well done, the Seagull liked the work. He gave you an extra dose of gratitude. >> said the little man, still holding the cigarette in his mouth.

<< Are you sure you don't want to join the gang? We could use someone like you. >>

Vinny responded to the proposal by giving him the middle finger.

He was in a bad mood, ever since he had been forced to do that asshole's bidding, he had been brooding over it all. Forcing him to steal from the church... what the hell was that madman thinking? Even though he hadn't been caught, he felt like they might come for him at any moment. But then, the real question was: what the hell was he supposed to do with a reliquary?