Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 37 | EARLIER TODAY

Drip.

I can't move.

Drop.

Where am I? Why is it so dark?

A droplet impinged upon a liquid surface (a puddle perhaps?) with the steady and ominous cadence of a ticking clock, counting down the seconds. Was it raining outside? That would explain the clogged drainage odor creeping down his throat. Whenever it rained, San Isidro reeked of stagnant water and mold.

"Wake up. Can you hear me?"

Confused, Bishop López meant to ask the man shrouded in darkness who he was, but there was no way of knowing if a single word had left his lips; his mouth felt like wet cotton.

"Time for your confession," continued the man and, although he was just a shadow in the dark, there was something familiar about his manner of speaking.

That voice... López thought with some relief. The way his tongue caressed every syllable, the silky smoothness of his S's. Oh, how he loved to hear him speak! It's you.

"Julian," the bishop struggled, fighting the powerful paralysis that prevented him from controlling his arms and legs. "Help me. I need your help."

"It's always about you, isn't it? About what you want, about pleasing your needs."

Bishop López didn't understand. His thoughts were nothing more than the echoes of his numbed soul, bouncing aimlessly inside the empty husk of his body. What is going on? Where am I? Wherever this was, it was beyond the reach of light.

"Is this real?" López asked.

The deacon sighed in frustration at the question, and this awoke a primal dread in the bishop as he waited for an answer. The only time he'd experienced such anxiety creeping up in his chest was that morning decades ago, before breakfast, when his auntie called him and asked him where he was and if he was alone. As his aunt fought her own tears, a terrible silence stretched forever, and he could tell his life would never be the same after that call. That day he found out his mother had passed away, and yet, he was sure something far more horrifying than that crushing grief that almost killed him years ago awaited him tonight.

"Tell us about Anibal." Julian's voice was sharp.

"Anibal?"

"Yes. Your second cousin, your former altar boy. You know all this! Why are you making me repeat you what you already know?" The deacon snapped his fingers twice. "Hey! Stay with me!"

Why is he talking like that? In his sudden fear, López's mind should have only focused on a single thing: survival. However, a part of him couldn't help but wonder why Julian was so cold to him. Even if this was a nightmare (and it had to be one!), his icy words were like stalactites piercing his heart.

"Julian, I..."

"Wow! These drugs did a number on you."

"I have to wake up."

The bishop's head suddenly jerked sideways; it wasn't until a second later that he felt a slight tinge of pain in his cheek.

Did Julian slap me?

A heavy door creaked open, letting in the pattering sound of the violent rain outside and just enough pale light to outline the shapes of the room where they were in.

There were cracks dripping water in the low-arched ceiling above, small patches of exposed bricks on the decayed walls, and puddles on the floor that reflected memorial plaques behind him. Oh, God! The bishop's pitiful screams never made it out of his throat once he understood that being inside a mausoleum was not the most terrifying thing of this nightmare. The worst part was realizing he was lying in a coffin.