Treasure of the Dead

Chapter 1

The priest sat alone in his church. David Abbe had performed a modest service that morning and then spent quiet time tidying up the place. A small but very old building, the weight of history lay on its two short rows of pews, altar, and simple lectern. An unadorned wooden cross hung on the wall. The decor was functional rather than ornate. The people served by this house of worship were poor, close to the earth, and required no ostentatious displays to feel close to their god.

Though he sometimes longed for a more prestigious appointment in a finer setting, there were some advantages to his current position, Abbe reflected. His current appointment required comparatively little of his time, given that his congregation was so small. This afforded him the luxury of regular rest and reflection, and permitted him time to pursue his other interests. He gazed up at his own podium, trying to see things as his parishioners did, to gain perspective. He had begun to imagine himself delivering a sermon, to let his thoughts drift, when he heard footsteps on the church stairs.

A visitor.

Taking a deep breath, Abbe rose and faced the door. The person who darkened the doorway was tall and slender. He looked as though he could be local, a Haitian black man, like Abbe himself, but the priest did not recognize him. Perhaps this visitor hailed from another village. He addressed the man in Haitian Creole, a French-based language with Portuguese, Spanish, and West African influences that reflected the nation’s diverse history.

“Welcome to this house of God. You are free to sit.” He motioned toward a nearby chair.

The newcomer entered the building but did not take a seat. “Father Abbe,” he replied in English, “I come here not to pray, but to speak with you personally.”

Abbe raised his eyebrows in surprise. This man knew him by name. “Oh? What about?” His best guess was that he wanted money, or perhaps the help of the church for some sort of community fund raiser or charitable act. Or perhaps personal counseling, though that was rare in a place where people were too busy surviving to reflect on things like whether or not they were happy. If it wasn’t one of those three, he had absolutely no idea.

“I would like you to tell me about an exorcism performed by a priest, here in Jacmel.”

“Oh, performed by whom? Father Paulin?” Paulin was a friend of Abbe’s, the priest for the next parish over, and was known to do an exorcism now and again. Contrary to popular belief spawned by Hollywood horror movies, the practice as it was done in Haiti was fairly routine and sometimes little more than easing a tormented soul, a form of therapy, really.

“No, Father Abbe, this particular exorcism was performed in the year 1715.” The visitor paused to let this sink in.

The hairs on Father Abbe’s arms began to stand on end. He told himself to stay calm, that he was getting ahead of himself. He cleared his throat and said, “For historical matters, you would do well to consult the village librarian. I do believe the library is open today.”

“Think hard, Father Abbe. 1715. Exorcism. Tell me what comes to mind.”

The only sound while the two men made eye contact was that of a bird fluttering its wings high in the church’s rafters. Something about the visitor, and not only his odd request, was putting Abbe extremely off balance.

The priest shook his head and held his hands up in a show of emptiness. “Nothing comes to mind, I’m afraid. As I suggested, the librarian might…”

The visitor held up a hand. “Please. There is no need to waste both of our time, not to mention that of the librarian. I am aware of your research into lost treasures. Perhaps if you think about the exorcism in that context, we can enjoy an amicable conversation. If not…”

He let his words hang while watching the invisible noose tighten around Abbe’s neck. This man knows, somehow he knows… But Abbe composed himself and maintained the lie.

“Yes, I have been conducting research for a historical book I’m writing, but I am aware of no connection to an exorcism during that time period, or any exorcism, for that matter.”

The visitor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I will give you a moment to reconsider your answer. Think carefully.”

Abbe did his best to feign indignation and exasperation. He exhaled heavily before saying, “This consultation will have to conclude, sir. I have other duties to attend, and repeating myself over and over is not productive.”

The visitor stared at Abbe for a second, as if considering something, but then said, “I suppose we have no more business. I will be back when you’ve had time to contemplate.”

“I’ve already told you…”

The man held up a big hand, palm facing outward. “Not the exorcism. Take time to reflect upon your own mortality.”

He turned and walked out of the church without so much as a glance back, but something about the way the man spoke the words unnerved Abbe. The voice was very cold, brimming with a negative energy the priest was unable to place yet at the same time was unable to deny.

He waited for a couple of minutes to be sure the man had truly left, that he was not loitering outside the church, composing his thoughts only to return with a new angle of attack. When Abbe felt certain the visitor had departed the premises, he turned and strode to the front of the church. He climbed the short stairway to the elevated platform on which the podium was situated. A woven mat covered the platform behind the podium. He slid it aside, revealing a handle set into a cutout section of wood.

Looking up once at the doorway, Abbe lifted the wood panel out of the platform and set it aside. He reached into the space below the platform where he kept a few items that others need not know about. A loaded pistol. A knife. A small cache of emergency canned food and water. Abbe was a man of God but also a man who believed that God helped those who helped themselves. When he reached even further into the concealed space, past these contingency items, his fingers passed over a weathered, wooden cigar box.

He removed the box and opened its lid, rejoicing in the familiar, sweet smells, odors that lingered even though the box had not held cigars for many years. He carefully lifted a sheaf of brittle, yellowed papers from the container and eyed them with a mix of promise and trepidation. Words written in longhand filled the pages, some in Spanish, others in French.

Abbe read over some of them, not for the first time, his heart racing. He looked up at the empty doorway and a thought overtook his senses, slowly at first but gathering momentum by the second. The priest smiled as he tucked the box beneath his cassock and replaced the section of wood back into the platform. He needed to get these somewhere safe, and he knew just what to do with them.

Abbe stepped out of the church and into the warm, humid night air. Though still unnerved by the strange visitor early in the day, he took comfort in the fact that his research was on the way to somewhere safe, and the rest of the day had passed without incident. He locked the door, descended the short flight of wooden steps and began to walk the familiar quarter-mile or so to his residence. He had gone no more than a few steps when a ragged man with unkempt hair, threadbare clothes, and a gap-toothed leer, staggered toward him out of the bushes.

Abbe gave him a glance and frowned. Under a different set of circumstances he would offer assistance, but tonight was not that night. “I am sorry, church is closed for the night. Come back in the morning there will be a simple breakfast and prayer.” He was accustomed to helping those in need, but in Haiti, the poor were, as the scriptures said, always among him, and even the most faithful servant had to rest.

The man kept coming.

“Please, come back tomorrow and the church will see to your needs.”

But still he approached. Abbe took a closer look at him now. Was the man in need of medical attention? There were no street lights in this part of the village, and so Abbe could make out little detail of the man. But something was definitely off about him — the way he said nothing, his odd movements. Abbe decided he could be in danger — the individual could be on drugs — so he speed-walked down the road. At the first intersection he reached he turned left…

… only to be confronted with a similar, ambling figure.

At first Abbe questioned whether this could be the same man he had seen a block back — that he had somehow beaten him to this spot, even with his ragged gait. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? It had been a long day, after all. But then, as his eyesight adjusted to the low light, he realized that the clothes this person wore were different. Not the same man.

Yet he acted like the other man, stumbling, not speaking even though he had clearly seen Abbe. What kind of man said absolutely nothing to another when passing by on the street at night? Not a simple hello, hey, good evening… .nothing to assure the other that he harbored no ill intentions. Very strange for the village.

And then another individual stepped onto the road out of the trees, and still another after him.

Abbe stopped in his tracks. This must be some kind of gang, doped up on God knows what. He would report it tomorrow to the police and offer his church’s assistance. For right now, though, he needed to get out of here and back home safely. This way wasn’t going to work, so he turned around to go back the way he came. He’d rather deal with a single one of these freaks than a whole gang of them.

But as soon as he faced the opposite direction he was stunned to see no fewer than four more of the figures coming his way.

“What is it you want?” he called to them, repeating himself as he spun in a circle. None of them answered, but all of them continued to close in on him. The figures now blocked the road in both directions, leaving the thick jungle on either side as his only option for escape.

He ran for it, more than willing to take his chances with the spiders and snakes and whichever of God’s creatures lurked inside, but as he stepped off the road onto the wet, high grass that bordered the trees, two more of the men emerged from the forest, arms outstretched toward him.

Flabbergasted, Abbe spun around to bolt for the woods on the opposite side, but three more of them were upon him, hands tearing at his clothes, scratching and clawing at his exposed skin with long, dirty fingernails. He could hear and feel their ragged breathing, but even in the throes of their physicality they remained wordless, violence their only language.

“Please, I serve the Lord. Have mercy…”

But apparently these were not men of God, nor were they men of words, for just as they didn’t use them, they didn’t respond to them, either. The weight of his attackers pushed Abbe to the ground. Hands clutched him, nails dug into his skin. Hot breath assaulted his nostrils. His scream drowned in a gurgle of blood as teeth tore through his throat.