May 15, 2024

Come, Gentle Night
By Roly Andrews

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.




​Monsignor Laurentius sighed.

It was raining again ,as it always did in this hellhole and God-forsaken place. He waved away another infernal mosquito. Sometimes there were so many they threatened to choke should he dare open his mouth. He hated this place, and he hated the people who lived there. 

He cursed to himself, remembering hot, cloudless days on the plain near Toledo, long siesta’s under the shade of laden olive trees, then late afternoon swimming in the cool waters of the Rio Tajo. 

Those were the days; a compliant flock of parishioners, still reeling from the ravages of the trials, bending and genuflecting, scraping and cowering under the presence of God and his representatives on earth. Cardinals, Bishops and Priests lived royally, pillaging souls and, for a young Father Laurentius - plundering bodies.

That was a long time ago, a time before a fateful dalliance with the bishop’s niece.

She was young, of ample portion and eager. It was easy. She was easy. The perks of the job, he thought. Saving people did not always necessitate reading from the Bible. Sometimes you could act out the scriptures. All the clergy did it. It was rumoured the bishop had sired at least three children and had taken multiple lovers. Women seeking a leg over and a leg up toward heaven and salvation. So, why shouldn’t he? Life was good – until.

The page from the Bishops Palace had arrived sweaty and parched. He had run ten miles along a dusty road without stopping to deliver the message. The ruddy-faced lad wore the look that many page boys did. The look of knowing what secrets men hid. And what lay hidden beneath the bishops’ and senior clergy’s cassocks. Laurentis read the scroll. He had been summoned to the Cathedral of St Mary. He was to face trial for indulging in sins of the flesh—carnal Knowledge.

Laurentis gulped, knowing he faced ex-communication or execution. However, fate was even more unkind. The girl had become pregnant, and he was to be expelled to the farthest reaches of the Spanish empire – the Philippines. 

He hated this place and the simple and superstitious people he was supposed to save. They disgusted him. They hedged their bets, they bartered their souls and prostituted their beliefs between myth and truth, between dark and light, between God and monsters. They fornicated like rabbits and lived like animals. His was the cruellest and most vile of punishments, banished from ever returning home. He would be left to die here.

His days were filled with leading a mass no one could understand, baptising babies he knew would be forever damned, and marrying couples who religiously forgot their vows within minutes. He would often perform exorcisms on real or imagined demons, this was the villagers’ favourite rite, and he suspected many villagers feigned possession so that he would have to ‘put on a show’ and display God’s power. People came from miles away to see an exorcism performed. Then he would bury people, prey for their souls, all while dripping wet from the incessant rain and knowing no one was listening. His flock were no better than inbred savages. 

A young man approached as he opened the church door after the lunchtime siesta. 
“Monsignor Laurentis, may I seek your counsel,”

“Yes, my son, how may I help.”

“My name is Ramiro and I wish to know more about the Christian struggle between light and dark. Good and evil.”

The Monsignor looked up and said, “I form light and create darkness; I make well-being and create calamity; I am the Lord, who does all these things, Isiah 45:7.”

“You mean the Christian God also created evil? Why would he do that?"

“No, Son, there is a mystery about evil. The Bible says it is the mystery of iniquity. The battle between light and dark, good and evil, is as old as death itself.”

Ramiro smiled. “Surely you mean life; for without life, there can be no death.”

The old exorcist chuckled, “You are mistaken, young man, but it goes with your age! Death walks with and then stalks us all; it is possible to be both alive and dead, or should I say, dead and alive.”

“This is the wisdom I seek, Monsignor, the reason I have come to see you. As an exorcist, you tread the fine line between the living and the dead, the saved and the damned.”

“Then tell me, my son, how can I help you?”  

“Forgive me, Monsignor, but I think I have fallen in love with an Aswang.”

“This cannot be so, Ramiro. You come from a long line of mortals. A relationship between a mortal and an Aswang is immoral and impossible. I am sure you are mistaken. If you are not, you will be shunned by your family and fellow parishioners. You will be excommunicated. She will be ostracised and vilified. It is an impossible match.”

“But I love her. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was the one.”

“She has bewitched you then.”

“Yes, but I go into this with my eyes wide open. I am mortal. That is true. She is not; that is probably true, also. However, the only thing truer, more honest and righteous than these facts, is true love itself.” 

“You are young. Your heart is filled with lust and lasciviousness. Your head has become confused. Confused primal urges with romantic notions of life and love. Wait, Son, give it time. You will soon see this match cannot be. It will pass, wait and see.” 

“I love her and want to marry her, Monsignor.” 

“Ramiro, Ramiro, your heart is true; I can see that. But it is mistaken. You must believe me! Tell me, where did you meet this Aswang, and what is her name?”

“Her name is Julieta. I met her when my friends and I infiltrated a strange occult gathering deep within the woods.” 

“Why would you seek out and attend such a coven of depravity? Did you have no concern for your safety or the sanctity of your faith?”

“We disguised ourselves as ghouls, covering ourselves with pigs’ blood, then rolling in the foul bog of Capiz. We were safe from the underworld, but not from our noses.”

Ramiro smiled; the Monsignor’s body stiffened. His forehead creased.  

“Why pray tell, would you do such a thing?” 

“My friends took me there to forget about a girl. A girl called Resare.”

“Is she an Aswang as well?"

“No, she is a mortal like me.”

“Why then was there the need to forget her?”

Ramiro lowered his head and spoke softly, “unrequited love.”

A deep chuckle erupted from the Monsignor’s lips. His facial hair, beard, and moustache, unamused, remained in stasis. 

“Now let me understand,” he started, “to get over a girl – your friends decided to drag you, kicking and screaming, no doubt, to a debauched klatch deep in the forest. Then, to ensure your mortality remained undetected, you defiled yourself with pigs’ blood and filthy quag!”

Ramiro shrugged his shoulders, “it sounds foolish, I know. Although mistakes often prelude good fortune. "

“Let’s not stop there, though, my son. While you were there, you met an Aswang wench called Julieta. A being you have fallen madly in love with!”

Ramiro gulped, “yes Monsignor.”

“She has bewitched you; cast a spell! The Aswang you have fallen for is a vampire. These vampires live deep within the forest, far from our towns and villages, yet they crave a diet of human blood. Disguising themselves in the shape of beautiful young women, they hope to attract a mate to marry and infiltrate the mortal community. Once married, they slowly suck the lifeblood out of their foolish husbands and the community they live in. Can you not see your folly?”

“That is an old wives tale,” Ramiro scoffed.     

The Monsignor stood, “you came here seeking counsel, you feebleminded young man. Please do not throw this in my face. I have had Aswang in my church! They are clever; they accompany their husbands to Mass, only to dodge, duck, and weave the blessings I throw their way. I have seen it with my own eyes. Aswang are exhibitionists; they are vile and lewd. Did she expose herself to you? Did you see her naked flesh?”

“It is true love,” argued Ramiro, now blushing. “Even if she is an Aswang, I wish to marry her and seek your support and blessing. She comes here at sunset, expecting we will marry and be together for eternity. That is what she told me.”

“I will happily marry you both if you can prove this Julieta is not an Aswang,” suggested the Monsignor. “Have you seen her in the daylight? As you know, the old wives say they do not like the sun! Tell me, have you met her parents? Does she have the slippery tongue of a serpent and the teeth of a shark?"

Ramiro sat in silence. 

The Monsignor softened his tone, “You are a gullible young man, but you aren’t the first, nor will you be the last. I cannot marry you, Ramiro; I would be signing your death warrant and going against every covenant of my faith and humanity. 
Ramiro, tell me honestly, did she kiss you? Did you feel her warm and ravenous tongue in your mouth? There is no point in denying it -see how the Holy oil boils when I bring it close to you. I noticed it simmer as you walked through the chapel doors.” 

Ramiro nodded.  

“Then there is no time to waste, Son. Quickly follow me – I have a plan. We must prepare!”  

                                                                   ***

The setting sun gave the impression that St. Francis Borgia’s big bald head was sporting a halo. A good omen thought the Monsignor. The stained-glass window never looked so vibrant and alive. After genuflecting, he crossed himself and said a silent prayer. 

He was dressed in a red chasuble to symbolise blood shed for Christ. A purple stole clashed on top. Just as well Aswang suffered blurred vision, he thought, the colour combination was undoubtedly a cardinal sin against decorum.   

He looked around the chapel. Four cramped chickens clucked in a bamboo cage within the transept. The chapel smelt of vinegar, urine, and spice, well-known Aswang deterrents. There were sufficient votive candles to fill a Quiñón, all gleaming softly, their flickering light filling the chapel with peace and serenity. 

He had prepared as well as he could, and the cold feeling from the two hardened blades of his Boko knives hidden beneath his vestments gave him added comfort.      
He looked over at Ramiro, his hands and feet bound in strips of red cloth. The same material was tied around his waist and neck. 

“It is time, Ramiro,” he said after a moment. “Are you prepared?”

“No, Monsignor, I’m afraid.”

“Do not be frightened; the loving arms of Jesus Christ will keep you safe. Trust in him, and you will be saved. Drink this, and I will perform the exorcism to drive the evil from your body. You will sleep; you won’t feel a thing. The colour red and the power of the Lord will keep the Aswang away from you. I will save you from her.” 

The Monsignor took a chalice from the altar and brought it to Ramiro. “Drink this – all of it.”

“What’s in it?”

“Nothing to worry about, garlic, lemon, spices, salt, ash, and crab blood. It will put you to sleep. Keep you safe when Julieta arrives. I will wake you up when it is over. I promise.”  

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me, son; I am a man of God.”

The instant the last drop passed Ramiro’s lips, he started choking. He fought hard against the binds that held him, straining to scream and cough. The Monsignor rushed over; pulling Ramiro’s neck bind, he inserted his wooden crucifix into the bind at the back of the neck. He twisted and turned it further, garrotting Ramiro until his eyes bulged. 

After a few minutes of writhing, Ramiro collapsed dead on the chapel floor. 

The Monsignor smiled; exorcism may save the souls of the damned, but murder was a hell of a lot easier and quicker. He picked up Ramiro’s limp body and carried him to the pews before the altar. He propped him upright with the help of bibles and twine cinctures. He walked to the vestibule, the hinges of the molave door groaning and creaking as the heavy church doors swung open. Now he just had to wait.  

The moon rose; excited, the nearby animals raised their voices and made their presence heard. The night belonged to them, and they knew it. The bats, the flying lemurs and eagle owls greeted the night with tumult-filled hysteria. “Tiktik, wakwak,” they cried to the sky, mocking the humans lying in their beds, hiding behind locked doors. 

The Monsignor hid behind a panel in the vestibule; for his plan to work, he would need to lock the door behind the Aswang.  

A tailless Leopard cat, eyes bulging, ears twitching, appeared from nowhere, poking its nose tentatively through the chapel doors. Picking up the scent of the deterrents, it spewed a deep guttural growl. It froze, hairs standing up. After a moment, the cat turned and walked away. 

Damnation, the Monsignor cursed silently. 

But the cat returned, sniffing the air, growling, baring its teeth. It peered into the chapel, spying Ramiro on the front pew opposite the altar. Without warning, the cat miraculously transformed into a bat! Then it took off at breakneck speed, flying straight into the arched wooden beams of the chapel’s ceiling. 

“Got you,” the Monsignor whispered before quickly slamming the chapel doors shut.
Perched upside down, the bat screamed on hearing the doors slam, “who’s there?”

“I am Monsignor Laurentius; Ramiro asked me to marry you both. I presume you are Julieta?”

“Why is Ramiro not moving? Is this some holy trick – priest?”

“He is sleeping, that is all; come down and look for yourself. You can wake him, and we can start the ceremony. Be quick.”

“Why should I trust you.”

“Because I believe in love as much as I believe in Christ.”

Julieta changed shape again. She appeared in front of the altar as a beautiful young woman dressed in a long white wedding dress. Her beauty was immense, her hair the colour of ebony, her skin deep mocha. She smiled at the Monsignor, beautiful white teeth flashing behind full luscious lips. She floated over to Ramiro. 

The Monsignor walked toward her, Bible in one hand, wooden crucifix in the other “I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions….”

“He is dead, she screamed; you have killed him!”

“…by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ….”

She shape shifted again, this time tearing toward him in the shape of a wild boar, mouth-frothing, tusks protruding, dying for a fight. 

The Monsignor dropped his Bible and reached with two hands under his chasuble. He pulled out his two Boko knives, planning to dodge the charge and plunge the knives into the back of the passing boar. 

But the boar stopped. Julieta appeared before him naked. 

“Take me, priest,” she cooed. “Look at my flesh; it is warm, firm, and willing. Take me. Take me now!”

The Monsignor hesitated, his eyes drifting like a pilgrim on a trail.

She clasped her breasts, cupping them. “Look,” she said wide-eyed, “when was the last time you saw the beauty of God’s creation?” 

Memories of warm summer evenings on the Banks of the Tajo flooded back. The bishop’s niece, Eugenie, was sixteen and ripe. How he had indulged and savoured, how he missed that.

The Aswang sashayed closer, eyes fixed on his, then looked down, smiling at his growing erection.

“You want me. You need me, come, I will give you what you desire. I will take you places you have never been, priest. A life of virtue is surely no fun.”

The Monsignor started to shake and tremble; his mind began to race. No one would know, he thought. No one would know. 

Julieta batted her eyes, lifted a round shoulder, tilted her head and twizzled her long locks. 

“I know you want to. Believe me; there is more pleasure in my body than within the gates of heaven. Give in to your dreams of carnal pleasure; let me be your guide.” 
She slid her hands toward her pudenda, her fingers gliding through her downy blaze.  

The Monsignor’s loins were on fire, the dull ache of chastity replaced by the agony of abstinence. The sins of the flesh calling to him, demanding to be heard.

“No, no, no”, he stammered, “no” – lashing out with his knives, slashing indiscriminately at fresh air. He had already paid such a hefty price for prostituting his piety. He would not do it again.

She disappeared. “I’m up here,” she mocked.

He looked toward the ceiling beams; she was now a giant brown rat, teeth protruding from a bewhiskered pointy face; fleas jumped from her body, and he could smell her foulness from where he stood.

The Monsignor started to pray again. “I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every satanic power of the enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, begone and stay far….”

“Argh,” the rat spat back, scuttling across the beams toward the altar. It settled immediately above the wooden crucifix of Christ and proceeded to defecate over Christ’s head. The Aswang laughed.

“That’s what I think of your Lord Jesus Christ!”

The Monsignor became angry; he raced to the chicken cage. Reaching in, he pulled out a squawking recalcitrant chicken. The chicken was headless in less than a heartbeat, blood spurting explosively from its neck. He threw the excited but expired chicken into the air. It half flew, half ran in mindless circles throughout the chapel. All the while, blood spewed into the air, onto the pews and floor. 

The noise, the smell of blood, and the moving animal thrilled the Aswang. It leapt down and slivered quickly along the ground, stalking the ever-slowing chicken. The Monsignor saw the serpent’s tongue darting this way and that, in and out, so it might taste the still-warm blood. 

The Monsignor killed and released another Chicken. This time the snake moved with lightning speed and swallowed the chicken whole.

“More priest, more,” it cajoled, “this is such a tasty appetiser before I feast on you!”

He felt sick. The snake was covered in chicken blood and feathers; its devil eyes possessed the stare of the dead. All the while, its proboscis-like tongue ravenously sought more gore. 

He grabbed the remaining two chickens, despatching and releasing one at once. The chicken gyrated in its death throws. 

“I love this game,” the Aswan gloated, slithering off and quaffing the chicken, splaying its feathers into the soft light of the chapel. “More, priest more. I see you have one left!”

“You must come and get this one,” the Monsignor demanded. 

He cut the chicken’s throat with one hand while the other held it firmly, refusing to release it to the evil stalking the chapel. 

“Well, what are you waiting for, come and get it,” he jeered, blood splattering all over him.

The snake evaporated back into Julieta, the woman. Again, she was naked. She sauntered, hips wagging, breasts gently swaying. She moved toward the Monsignor, smiling and giggling. “I will take the chicken. Then I will take you.”  

Before she reached the last two feet, the Monsignor threw the chicken into the air directly behind the Aswang. Excited, she turned to chase. The Monsignor raised his knife and stabbed her in the back. She screamed; she fell. She raised the dead with her almighty fury. The Monsignor reached for his other blade and stabbed her again. This time the power was such that it impaled her to the Chapel floor. 

She grovelled, she cried, she spewed vile. She demanded the Monsignor release her. He didn’t. Instead, he poured the holy oil over her wretched body. It burned, and she convulsed. Smoke rose from her body, head to toe. She released a smell so foul it made him gag.

He started to pray again. “Begone in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Give place to the Holy Spirit by this sign of the holy cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.”

In one final act of defiance, the Aswang returned to the beautiful bride Ramiro dreamt her to be. She wore a virginal white gown, her face soft and innocent—a truly magnificent example of God’s aesthetic, an ironic illustration of light triumphing over dark.

The Monsignor shook his head in pity and dismay as he removed the knives and picked Julieta up.  

He carried her gently and laid her next to Ramiro. He removed Ramiro’s binds and laid him down also. 

It was heavily raining the following day. Just after sunrise, Ramiro’s maid came to see the Monsignor.

“Father,” she said, “Father, Ramiro’s family are worried sick; he did not return home last night. Do you know where he might be?”

The Monsignor took her by the hand and led her into the chapel. 

“I am sorry; when I came to the chapel this morning, I found Ramiro and this woman called Julieta dead in my chapel. It appears he has been poisoned, and she has been stabbed!”

“This cannot be,” the maid cried. “Why would someone do such an evil deed?”

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished;
For never was a story of more woe.
Than this of Julieta and her Ramiro.”

The Monsignor looked up at the recently polished crucifix and sighed. 

Head down, he slowly walked to the alter. Forever condemned, he opened the Bible and re-read Proverbs 6:16-19.

There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers.

He smiled, and whispered, 
“O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,
Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law,
And turn'd that black word death to banishment:
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.”
 
For while he was damned, at least young Ramiro had been saved.

All credit is given to William Shakespeare – thank you, Sir.   


​                                                             💀💀💀


Roly Andrews lives in Nelson, NZ, in his spare time he enjoys tramping. After many years of practising, he is still trying to learn to play the trombone! A champion for everyone, he has mentored rough sleepers and supported people affected by suicide. He advocates for the rights of people living with disabilities.
WEBSITE: rolyandrewsauthor.com Twitter: https://twitter.com/Roly_Andrews
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