The Shapeshifter: A story for @freewritehouse's Steemzuela Ventest.

in #ventest5 years ago (edited)

Greetings, Steemians.
This is my entry for the @freewritehouse contest Steemzuela Ventest. Details here: https://steemit.com/ventest/@freewritehouse/steemzuela-ventest-week-4-and-winner-announcement

Source

The following story has been altered for dramatic purpose, but the core of the story is, if you ask my mother, as true as my name or yours. She told me the author of this letter told her about his shocking discovery. The relationship between the main characters was the same in real life. Stories of brujos and brujas who could transform themselves into animals were very common in my hometown, Yaguaraparo. It was commonly believed that devilish women who had pacted with the devil could transform into black birds at night, but less common accounts of men transforming into tigers or dogs were also part of our daily lives. These stories were never told as legends or myth, but as truth with names and last names. The geographic details are real. Two formerly mighty rivers converge in my hometown. I grew up in that area. The shapeshifter mentioned in the letter was actually my family's neighbor. He and his wife provided us with all the real-life horror stories that could fill volumes.

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My name is Alcides López and if you’re reading this that means I’m dead.

I’ve lost a long battle to a devilish cause and put an end to a life of torment.
I lost that battle even after I received Jesus as my Lord and Savior, which attests to the power of the devil.

I became a Prefect of the town and a religious leader in the community, which was supposed to help me guide my conduct towards doing good and shun away from any deviation from the path of salvation. But how can you be saved when even those selected by providence to love and protect you are the conveyors of perdition?

Shall I blame my parents? Did they know about his course? I was entrusted to his care. He was my godfather and mentor.

When the rumors of strange disappearances of young virgins and the horrendous deaths of vagrants in our sleepy town started to spread, my godfather—whose company and advice I looked for, as I started to become a man, even against my inner voice, which told me his house smelled foul beyond the mere stench of tobacco, cocoa seeds and country seclusion—advised me to remain indoors at night.

I had already heard stories about his wife, who incidentally and out of respect I also called godmother, even though she did not officially baptize me. I should have read her reluctance to step in a church as a sign, but again, so much evil is perpetrated even by the so-called “men of god”, it is very hard to discern in this department.

My godfather was the impersonation of wisdom and goodness. Bald, clean shaven, always wearing clean white, after the long dirty farming labor. Always sitting in the porch smoking his pipe, reading from books you did not find in any library or bookstore (not that we had many in town, anyways). He had the carriage of a benevolent old man, a sage of sort. The more so considering the fact that he was always willing to go to the homes of those who called him to santiguar the little ones against the evil eye or worm attacks.

But my curiosity was stronger than any word of advice and when the 5th virgin disappeared I started to roam at night along the rivers’ banks, a preferred place for lovers to consummate their passion. Here virgins stopped being virgins even if only before the ever changing eyes of the merging rivers.

Source

It was in one of those nights that I saw a huge canine figure near the iron bridge moving along the river in ways regular dogs never do; half searching, half hiding with an almost human demeanor. I followed it one night to the fork, where Little River and Clear River meet. At that point, it vanished. The hanging bridge that connects the town with the west bank everybody called La Chivera, but whose residents called Bella Vista (apparently La Chivera was a couple of blocks further and represented a step lower down the social ladder) had not been built yet and the rivers had still streams and fish to boast about. It was very dangerous to cross this point at night. The current was strong and the treacherous rocks were a sure fall for the unwary

But, when I saw the strange creature disappear from the east side and spring up into shape on the west ford I knew I had to cross the fork.

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I spent that fated night hiding in the bushes, risking being bit by a snake or worse, when I heard the muffled sound of a crying girl. I crawled down the river and saw the beast feasting from her flesh and soul in ways only the hyperbolic mind of perverts can do.

I must have uttered a cry because the beast turned around and ran. I remained hidden hoping it was gone when I felt the piercing pressure of sharp teeth crushing in one of my legs.

I pulled away and turned but saw nothing. I said all my prayers, entrusted my soul to our Lord Jesus Christ, and promised that if I survived that night I’d devote my life to serving Him.

That’s when I saw the animal rushing silently across the stones towards the west shore. I waited and crawled into the river, slithering around the rocks and sticks as if propelled by a magnetic force. I did not feel the cold water banging my body against the rocks. The silence of the night was broken only by chirping crickets and singing túngura frogs.

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I got out of the bushy shore and turned left on the main street limping silently south where the street ends. I panicked when I saw that the creature, whose shape I could see vanishing some 100 meters away, was heading towards Mr. Lezama’s house. He was a respected national guard, but spent long seasons away on some commissions. He had two young daughters. He also happened to live next to my godfather’s.

I stopped by Mr. Metteau’s house (the current square was not there yet). Only an empty lot with some guava trees separated me from the beast. It passed Mr. Lezama’s house like a smoke being blown away by a gust of wind. It jumped over my godfather’s barbwire fence. When it emerged on the other side it was my godfather himself, painfully morphing into shifting forms that seemed to rip him apart in every twist.

Since then, I have battled this demon unsuccessfully. My godfather died unceremoniously some years ago, of what people say natural causes. I refused to see him or attend his funeral. He called for me, I was told, but still died peacefully, as if released from some obligation. Of course he was released. I carried his course and that of his wife from that fateful night on. I became the bird, the dog, the tiger, the toad found in the belly of somebody’s enemy.

The flesh is weak, they say to justify carnal trespassing; so is the soul before the overpowering commands of devilish forces. The virgins kept disappearing and I found myself more than once smeared in blood that was not mine.

No tie or refined clothes stopped it.
No prayers stopped it.
No act of contrition did stop it.
I did.

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Photographs of river by ELIAD JHOSUE Villarroel at:
https://eliadjhosuevillarroel.blogspot.com/2010/06/aspectos-politicos-y-geograficos-de.html
modified at fotoram.io

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Visítanos en: www.equipocardumen.com.ve

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Trully a good story, and the one selected as a winner of this edition of Steemzuela Ventest, congratulations!

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