Curse of the Nightfall

Ramon Arguelles is a priest in the parochial church in town called St. Mary’s Parish and he is one of 4 judges for the upcoming beauty contest to be held at the last day of the festivity, specifically at night. Nobody knows but he has a secret he never intended to reveal. He is gay and a paedophile who keeps porn records of small boys on his computer files. He was never reported to have engaged in any scandalous sexual activity instead he has a clean record, prestigious in the least and a respectable cleric who functions in such a charisma that nobody suspects any ill-doing. He was picked from among a roster of prospective judges, and now is preparing himself for a mass.

His sacristan is preparing, too. His name is Brian.

The church is almost full in that cold morning at the eve of the fiesta, and sparingly few empty seats. The pianist begins her melodic rendition of a catholic hymn as it echoes in the enclosed room. The mass fares well as the priest stands out in his homily too immaculate and impressive. The thing is, his secret is discovered. He forgets to shut off his computer with its interface revealing naked boys in sultry sexual poses. Brian discovers it and in his shock is traumatized to even disclose to anyone except to his mother. He keeps the secret. The priest is too renown and nobody will believe anything against his credibility. Brian is thinking, he knows the repercussion of an attempt to un-dignify the priest. Her mother makes it clear to him. They must rather be silent. So then, nobody ever discovers it, even after when the priest is killed.

Fiesta day. Wednesday. That morning begins the day with a text message. It says,

‘Steph, I’m in town. We just arrived. My mother with me at the old house. Come on here for a chat.’

Yawn. Its 6AM, golly I felt good in my sleep, thanks God. He responded: ‘We will be there. Marie wanted to meet you.’

He called me on the phone so we proceed there on Fred’s car. We pass the town proper but its yet scarcely crowded perhaps some few morning aficionados, joggers and those buying hot bread are visible in town and no stalls are opened but the bakeries and grocery stores. In a short while, we reach the Zambo residence.

A stark contrast to the parked Honda pick-up car on the front yard is the over-all appearance of the dilapidated and once-abandoned house. The steel gate is worn with tattered parts on the bottom edges bec of rust. The gaunt look of an abandoned house exudes in its deteriorating form yet still habitable. Stephen tries to peep in but decides to call.

‘Roland?’, he is reserved a bit.

Roland is upstairs on the 2nd floor, and through the window invites them in. He is dark in complexion but his body built is muscular. He wears an army green Levi’s shirt which makes him looks like a soldier and he is tall.

‘Hey there, kid.’, he greets Steph with a bear hug and both men embrace in such apparently longing and endearment yet nothing is really solid when the face of evil will soon expose its razor-sharp teeth stained with innocent blood—yes, Stephen mother’s blood and who knows others as well. The meeting is quite genuine in emotional attachment as though Roland isn’t the serial-rapist-killer he really is, a secret nobody yet discovers bec his guise as a trustworthy person is somehow fluent. Roland has too an attraction on me bec in the initial meeting we have, he appears uncomfortable with eye-contact yet he manages to hide it through some form of bravado boasting on how he manages to be well-off. I don’t feel comfortable with him. Call it woman’s instinct. It feels like something isn’t right but of course, it’s simply instinct.

‘You have travelled overnight so we might as well go so you can have a rest.’, Stephen is imposing. He sips on the soda prepared by his mother for guests.

‘Yeah, I guess I need to rest a bit but I will be sure to see you around and enjoy the fiesta, right?’, he concludes it in a manner that lacks enthusiasm. He must have been sleepless with that sloth kind of behaviour.

We left the Zambo residence in time for the fiesta parade. The drum and bugle corps is just approaching us so Stephen normally parks on the side road as we watch the on-going activity wherein students and government officials and senior citizens adorned in ethnic and tribal clothing, in uniforms carrying posters and tarpaulins and flags endorsing organizations, institutions and advocacies pass besides us. I took some pictures and we interact through hooting and clapping trying to blend with the indigenous participants.

At the next events such as the sports competition pursue, we roam around the rows of stalls selling assortments of local products. I buy a bignay wine worth 250 pesos. Stephen buy a t-shirt for us, a couple shirts.

‘You like it?’

The caption on it reads, Mr. and Mrs. respectively.

‘Yeah, like its ironic to wear it bec we are still too young for that but for the sake of fun, why not?’, I simply reason out. We wear the shirts and thus expose us to what kind of relationship we have to the public—as apparently husband and wife. Its bit of cringey but I begin to absorb it. We are together for life.