In The Company of Souls
It feels funny sitting here—writing this. I cannot help but feel as if there is something unreal about it all. By here, I mean this church in the middle of nowhere.
Well, not exactly nowhere.
Sitting here, I can hear the sound of the ocean waves crashing on the shore at the beach at the foot of this cliff. And if I strain my ears, I can even hear the occasional screams of joy that the tourists make as they frolic in the waters.
But for all practical purposes, the small clearing within an overgrown clump of trees where this church stands feels like the middle of nowhere. Especially since I cannot leave here.
Oh, but I am getting ahead of myself.
Let me try to be more orderly about this.
For this letter is meant for you, Steve, my dear brother. And I want it to make sense to you. Because I don’t think I will be able to talk to you—or anyone—again.
I honestly don’t know if they—whatever they are or have become—will allow this diary or anything else I have with me—my phone, my handkerchief, the leather purse in my bag, or even this notebook—to survive after me.
Maybe they would burn these things after they burn me—for I feel sure that that’s what awaits me in the next few minutes: a death by burning. Just as those who were considered witches were burned in medieval Europe.
But I am no witch, and this is not Europe.
This is India. This is Goa, where people come to lose themselves, or maybe to find themselves, whichever way you want to look at it.
As for me, when I climbed up this barren cliff, devoid of tourists, I strayed into this abandoned church, and I definitely lost myself.
Though it was an inadvertent action. I didn’t come here to lose or to find myself. I already know who I am.
I am Tracy Mathews, a thirty-two-year-old mother of one, happily married for eight years, and a software engineer who lives and works in Bangalore.
I can’t say that life so far has been bad. It has been particularly good since Alicia’s birth. The only regret I have is that I fell apart from you, Steve.
We had a beautiful childhood. And it was beautiful precisely because we were very close to each other. I never thought that we would fall apart at any point.
But I guess life must take its own course—both for the good things and the bad.
So we fell apart. And you didn’t even come to see my child when she was born. You weren’t there for her baptism, or her christening or her birthdays.
You have probably never seen my child (I sometimes hope that you may have looked at Alicia’s picture in one of my social media pages).
Not that I blame you for not seeing my little girl (she looks like an angel; I am not saying it because I am her mother).
If I were in your shoes, I would probably have done the same.
But I do blame you for our falling apart. And just the fact that I am writing this entry—possibly my last act on Earth—for you, does not mean that I have forgiven you.
You shouldn’t have been so adamant about getting your share of father’s property. Not at that point when the old man was so frail and evidently close to death.
Indeed, it was the violence of your demands that caused his heart to stop—at least, I think so.
You know they—both Momma and Papa—God rest their souls—loved us dearly. The only reason Papa was reluctant to hand over your share of the property was because of your quasi-vagrant life.
And you knew that.
I mean, you were twenty-six at that time and still jobless. You didn’t have any intention of finding a job, either.
Even when Papa himself tried to fix you up with a job at the company of one of his friends overseas, you declined.
You said you would find a job on your own. You said you were your own man, and that’s how you’d like to do it.
But still, you didn’t find a job. Not for a long time. Not after both Momma and Papa were dead.
I know that you are now “settled down”, and that you now have a home of your own.
You might be wondering how I know this. Let’s just say that I have my means, and though we haven’t spoken in years, sometimes I do get curious about you, blood being thicker than water and all that.
I still hope that you will find yourself a good wife. Have a family.
I know you think the entire concept of family is a hoax—a futile attempt at putting together a bunch of people with disparate characteristics inside a box called home, in the vain hope that they would get along.
At least, that’s what you used to think.
Part of the reason for such an idea might have been the rough patches in our parents’ relationship, which we saw as children. And they were indeed quite rough, but that was why we clung to each other that much harder as kids, wasn’t it?
I don’t know if you have changed your opinion or not. Maybe I am even foolish to write about this in these last minutes of my life. Maybe you have already found a girl! But if you haven’t, know that there’s something extraordinarily beautiful about having a family, a joy that you couldn’t experience any other way, a meaning you wouldn’t find anywhere else.
I know it sounds a little cheesy, but I—
Oh, I heard something! I don’t think they want me to be too cheesy with you. Ha ha ha!
The light is getting dimmer. Or rather, sharper. So sharp that my eyes are beginning to hurt with the effort of focusing my sight on the page of this notebook.
For you see, it’s dark outside.
It was already six-thirty by the time I entered this church. I don’t know what the time is now—my watch stopped running the moment I entered the church and so did my phone. But I am fairly certain that at least an hour has passed since then.
And there are no sources of artificial light outside or inside this church, but a red glow fills this church all the same—as though the light is being filtered through an ever-falling wall of blood.
This is among one of the cliffs in Goa that has not been commercialized for tourists. No shops or shacks can be found here, no cozy little restaurant overlooking the ocean, no shimmering lights adorning the trees. There is only nature here. Coconut palms and taller trees, wild bush growing unsullied by frequent human interferences. Although, there is obviously the occasional human interference, as evidenced by the broken beer bottles and cigarette butts I saw on my way up here.
But it was the presence of nature, wild and untouched, which attracted me to this cliff in the first place. I thought it would be a respite from the touristy hubbub.
Mathew had to go to Palolam to meet someone—you know how he is, always trying to mix business and pleasure. Alicia chose to go with him, though I did ask her to stay. Mathew invited me to come along as well, but I didn’t feel like going. I came here to relax, didn’t I?
They left, and I thought I would stay in the hotel room, watch some television and eat junk food, but I was soon bored. Besides, it felt just wrong to be in Goa and spend my time cooped up in a hotel room.
So, I asked the receptionist about the nearest beach. They gave me the name of this beach, and they also told me about the abandoned church on the cliff by the shore. They said the church was built on cursed land.
The Portuguese, they told me, tried to build the church sometime during the 16th century, but were repeatedly hindered in their attempts.
The first time, all of the masons and laborers who worked on it contracted a disease that slowly yet steadily paralyzed them—rendering them incapable of working on the building.
And so a fresh lot of workers were brought in. And this time, a mishap led to a fire engulfing the the partially completed structure.
The third attempt was the closest that they came to erecting a cross atop the roof of the church— the final step of construction.
But just as workers stood at the roof, hoisting the giant cross up with a pulley and rope system, lightning struck them, and they plunged to their death. Supposedly, the sky was completely cloudless at the time, and there had been no sign of impending rain or thunderstorm.
The authorities took the lightning as a sign from the heavens—a sign that they shouldn’t build the church on this ground. Abandoning the project, they built the church elsewhere, on the southern end of Goa.
There are many theories as to what cursed the land.
But the most popular theory, is the theory involving a priest and his sins.
A Spanish priest came as a missionary to Goa during the early fifteenth century. Apart from being a priest, he was also a pervert and a killer.
He raped and murdered multiple women, and it was in the ground atop this cliff that he buried them. The church came to know about this, but they kept it quiet because of the obvious bad publicity. The priest was sent back to Spain, and that was that, as far as they were concerned.
But many believe that the souls of those whom the priest killed continue to roam here.
All of those women were people who trusted him as a figure of Godly authority. But his acts removed any amount of trust or belief that they had in his teachings, so much so that they came to associate the entire idea of worship with hate and lust.
Which is why they don’t let anyone who comes into this church escape with their lives. They kill them in the most brutal ways imaginable, especially the visitors who come in here after twilight, when the souls of the dead get stronger. The souls think that all worshippers are hypocrites who carry lust and rage in their hearts—like the Spanish priest who killed them.
At least, that’s what the receptionist told me.
They even told me that there have been stories about people going into this church and never coming out. They warned me to stay away from here.
Of course, that only piqued my curiosity.
But the moment I entered this church, I knew that the story was no campfire tale. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck as a source-less, red glow filled the damp air inside the church. I saw amorphous figures rising from the dark corners of the room.
I tried to turn around and escape, but I saw crisscrossing lines of red—like a spider web—and splotches of blood cast on thin air, which became thicker than the thickest of walls, preventing my exit.
“You are next,” they whispered. Their voices were a collective hiss, like a hundred snakes raising their hoods all at once and hissing into the air. It was the voice of irrationality and dread, and I knew there would be no getting away.
All I wanted to do—before they kill me with fire or lightning or whatever they choose—was to let you know that I am so sorry that we fell apart.
And as for Alicia and Mathew, I don’t want to think about it. For as I said, family is a joy like nothing else, and when you lose it, it hurts like nothing else.
Dhinoj Dings
Dhinoj Dings is a content writer based in Bangalore, India.