Flies in the Face of Greed by Mark Manifesto

Flies in the Face of Greed by Mark Manifesto

“Sa-má, Baalar. Sa-má, Baalar,” Araceli chanted to the candles across the floor. Liquid wax sealed them to the perimeter of the ideogram around the knife-pinned rat. Crippling stomach cramps cast a sheen over her eyes. “Ze mazav herum,” she said, shuddering to the dagger across her palm.

A groan from the basement. Araceli smiled.

“Hashavakh lensich,” she sang to the sewage-steeped winds. With a sudden shortness of breath, she nearly toppled. In her mind’s eye, she saw the tumors throughout her intestines and heart like frogspawn. “Sa-má, Baalar. Sa-má, Baalar. Sa-má…”

A sudden swarm of fat-bellied flies battered the windows. She squeezed the blood from her hand and her heart skipped a beat, as with the first droplet, the rodent burst into flames. Against the rising buzz of flies, she wondered… was this a mistake? For so long she’d sought an answer that the problem had nearly been forgotten. How many deaf spirits had she called to? Ibeji, Erzulie, Hades, Dea Tacita, Yama…

A violent plume fired from the wicks. She turned from the heat and the candles died. Araceli froze at the foreign breath, pungent, rotten, and dry. In the sudden relighting, her jaw went slack. Opposite the symbol sat a carapaced monster, calm amidst the cloud of mad insects. The demon’s arms hung over its spiked knees and a scaly tail around its body. Its reddish green compound eyes reflected the fire, and atop its head a crown of horns and twitching antenna. Pincers wriggled at the corners of its mouth and within sat rows of needle-like fangs.

Without hope there is no fear.

“Why do you call my name?” the demon asked in a conglomerate of voices.

“… I have a wish,” Araceli stammered. She thought of Camilla and all that should have been hers. “… My sister… she holds the heart of the man I love… bore him a child that should be mine… everything… it should have all been mine. I want it back.”

Was it smiling? “Would you serve in my name?”

“… Yes.”

“Pass it to your children?”

“I swear.”

The candlelight danced in its dark eyes. “… Do you wish for her to know your pain?”

Araceli nodded.

Baalar growled, “Defile the soil. Retrieve an artifact of her heart. Around your desire, a curse will grow. Soon you will reap.”

Araceli bowed her head and thought of awaited redemption.

& & &

Crystal glasses rang over the table and wafted the sweet smell of discount cabernet. Candles burned amongst a bounty of tepid bowls and bottles. Camilla felt the warmth in her cheeks and let herself be pulled in by Troy’s calloused hand. Behind his glasses, she saw nearly the same heart which had pulled her in years ago.

“It’s damn good,” Tío Ricardo said, swirling his glass across the table. His skin was dark, carved by decades picking grapes in the Napa sun.
Troy couldn’t bring himself to truly smile.

“Once people try it, they’ll love it,” Juana said, leaning on Ricardo’s shoulder, cheeks flush. In her aunt’s glossy eyes and white hair, Camilla saw her mother. And herself. Tired bags and wrapped-tamale hips which were fast approaching.
“There lies the problem,” Troy said, pouring another glass. “Not many people are lining up for ‘Purple Lips’ vintages.” He took a prolonged sip.

Juana said, “At three dollars a bottle, I don’t think you could find anything better.”
Ricardo coughed hoarsely, “I thought you were getting a job at Camie’s vineyard. Travel Damar.”

“Travail D’amour’,” Camilla corrected. She avoided Troy’s eyes. “I talked to my boss. He likes our fermentation specialist.”

“They can always use another!” Ricado said, slapping the table.

“… Something will turn up,” Troy said, in a solemn tone.

Camilla forced a smile. She’d give up her position in a heartbeat for him, a fact she’d told Mr. Gates multiple times, but the answer was always the same. Unless he wants to guide tours, I don’t need him.

She kissed his hand before Lucas’s cries claimed the room. The boy wobbled weakly in his playpen, his pudgy hands grasping at her from across the room.

“Poo,” he said. Camilla sighed, checked his diaper, and, Thank God. Who’d have thought ‘poo’ could have so many meanings? She took him into her arms and returned to the table.

Juana took a green bean from the serving tray and said, “I talked to Elena yesterday.”
“Mom talked?”

“Like a stroke could make my sister stop telling me what to do.”

It hurt to think that her toddler would soon be able to communicate better than the woman who brought her into the world, that she’d never hold him or have a conversation. Camilla looked at her glass like an old friend, but Lucas needed to eat soon.

“Thinking of home,” Juana said, unwrapping a stick of Nicorette. “Remember Angelina Diaz?” Camilla rolled her eyes. “Your father said she took over as Chief of Police.”

“Who?” Troy asked.

“No one,” Camilla said.

“Ay, Guapo,” Juana said, “she was the devil. She used to beat Camie black and blue during grade school. The Terror of Tijuana. And you know Camie, the only true pacifista since the apostles.”

Troy’s brows raised. “You never mentioned her.”

He saw she had no desire to explain.

“I don’t know how you did it. If it were me—” Juana mimed cutting a throat.

“So what happened,” Troy began, “Did you win her over with kindness?”

“More or less,” Ricardo said. “Camilla helped her to the hospital after her sister beat her into masa.”

Troy spat a bit of wine. To Camilla’s frustration even Lucas laughed.

“Oh, lighten up,” Juana said. Silence overcame the table. “Have you heard from her?”

No one ever said ‘Araceli’ anymore. At the mention of his once stalker, Troy’s posture took on an uncomfortable rigidness.

“What do you think?” Camilla asked.

Juana signed the cross and Ricardo’s face hardened to stone.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d come to mass with me, Hija,” Juana said. “Father Dmitry puts on a great service and Sunday marks—”

“Two years, yeah…”

“She needs prayers. The repose of a soul—”

“Stop it,” Ricardo interrupted sharply. “You can’t blame a girl in her mid-thirties for not wanting to live with her aunt and uncle.”

A hush, then Juana erupted, “But she could call! It’s unforgivable! We’re all she has. And with how sick she was… and what she was getting into—” She had more to say but heartache strangled her words.

Ricardo pulled her by the shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “Give her time, Hermosa.”

What strung most was that Camilla couldn’t place the source of her twin’s bitterness. Was it a product of immigration? Resentment towards the divergence of their lives come high school? Anger over the cancer?

“I think—” Camilla started before a horrible pain twisted in her stomach. The world whipped into a spiral. Color faded and breath escaped her.

“Camie?” Troy said.

A chorus of screams rang dully. The last thing she felt was Lucas torn from her arms—

What’s going on, Camilla thought as her eyes fluttered. Troy, Juana, and Ricardo stared from above.

“Camie,” Troy asked, holding her cheek.

“… Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” Ricardo asked, feeling her forehead.

“Yeah… I just got light headed,” she said, feeling it again.

A hail of questions rained. To each she said, “I don’t know.” The haziness cleared but the stomach cramps remained.

“We should get you to bed,” Troy said.

She nodded, and with Troy and her tío’s aid, shuffled up the stairs.

Lucas cried somberly from the playpen. “Poo.”

& & &

The yard was still. Camila winced as the coffee dripped into her belly. The pain came and went. Dew shone across the emerald lawn. Her eye turned from the neighbor’s sunbathing cat atop the toddler’s play structure to the miracle tree in the center of the yard. Just three weeks and already it was taller than her— and strangely not the teak she planted but an african iroko. The large knot was reminiscent of a disgruntled old man. It made her smile.

Her heart sped at the chime of her phone and the reminder of tomorrow’s appointment. She sighed. Stomach issues run in the Raya blood, she reminded herself. It was only Araceli’s whose proved more serious.

The doorbell rang. Camilla took Lucas from the crib and, hello there Mr. Owl. She leaned in and, indeed, though hidden by the iroko’s shade, a third eye glared back. The doorbell rang again.

“Sorry about the wait,” Camilla said, opening the door for Jen. She tried to hide her envy of sculpted twenty-three year old legs and waist.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go back?” Jen asked, dropping her gym bag on the foyer table and nestling Lucas’s nose.

“Spring’s tour season,” Camilla said, handing him over, “And I’m out of sick time.” She checked the time and shook her head.

Camilla tried not to focus on the pain as she drove the country road but instead the morning sun and glistening rows of freshly watered vines. She reminded herself, no single moment is unendurable.

Nodding through Travail D’amour’s lobby and the easter-colored visitors, she dropped her things in her locker and stopped at Mr. Gates’s office. At the knock, he finished fishing the crust from under his wireframe glasses and looked up, “Hey, Camilla.”

“Hey, Tony.”

He aired out his salmon-pink chest. “Sorry I had to call you in, but you know spring,” he said, with a shrug. “See the schedule?”

“I was just—”

He turned back to his computer, “You’re on the ten o’clock round.”

“Can’t wait.”

The sounds of keys rang at an automatic clip as she started off, but with a sudden pang of nausea, Camilla sprinted, hand over mouth, to the closest bathroom. Black vomit splashed from the seat to her face. Each heave twisted the cramp in her stomach. She checked the time and forced out the last bit of bile. With cool water, she washed the sweat from her face, wetted the brown spots on her collar, and said in the mirror, “You’re fine.”

Head still spinning, Camilla returned to the lobby and the vexed crowd of pastel couples and wrestling children. “Sorry about the wait,” she said, wincing to the harsh columns of light.

“You know,” a woman with bee-stung lip said, “Our reservation was for ten o’clock.”

“My apologies—” Camilla paused, catching sight of a skeletal woman within the merlot rows, unkempt and within a cloud of flies. Nevertheless, the resemblance was there. Araceli? The flies whipped into an impenetrable tornado, and as they dispersed, she was gone. The group turned in perplexity.

“Maam?”

“Sorry,” Camilla said, plastering a smile over what felt like a brain fracture. “How about a few complimentary glasses?”

& & &

Through the twists and turns of Red Soil Estates, Camilla was reminded of why the debt was worth it. The suburban lanes and neighborhood parks glowed green and gold in the waning light, but regardless of the beauty, her thoughts were scattered. She felt like she should go to the ER, but between medication, the last visits— already two over the family’s allotment of PCP appointments— they were now eighteen hundred dollars off-budget for the next month.

Was that you, Araceli?

These thoughts fled as, a half block down, she noticed Jen on the front lawn, Lucas one arm and pulling at her hair. She waved frantically in her approach and banged on the window.

“What is it?” Camilla asked, getting out.

“I don’t know what happened,” Jen said, veins flush at the temples. “I was just stretching in the family room, Lucas was taking his nap… they came out of nowhere!”
“Who?”

“Flies!”

Camilla’s mind flashed to the morning.

“… Are you two okay?” Camilla asked, checking them head to toe.

“We’re fine, but they’re everywhere!” she stomped.

The house seemed normal, two stories of unassuming suburbia.

“Just call an exterminator.”

It was hard not to feel some level of exaggeration.

“I’m just going to check—”

“Camie! I’m telling you!”

“Just stay here.” A tingling moment of reconsideration arose as she reached for the golden handle. At the crack of the door, there rang a deafening buzz from within. A pervasive cloud of black, millions whirling through the foyer, dining room, and hall.

A shrill scream pulled from her throat as the horde swept down. They ran, swatting blindly at the vile fog and shaking the insects from their eyes and mouth. Wings buzzed on her tongue. Two blocks down and she took her first flyless breath. In panicked tears they watched the black tornado over the house. A crippling sensation of violation spurred the need for a scalding shower.

& & &

“Five days!” Troy shouted, pacing the hotel room. The smell of cheap wine and sterilized linens only worsened Camilla’s buzzing headache. She bounced Lucas on her lap and closed her eyes to the phosphorescent glow of the egg-shell room. Even with professional cleaning, they’d be finding fly carcasses for months, fishing them out of cereal boxes, breathing poison. The image of Araceli returned. Troy threw his phone to the pillows.
He took his glasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and grabbed another bottle. “Troy—” she began, before silencing her objections. He was a pretty measured drinker, but no one’s exempt from stress and she didn’t feel like fighting. She grasped at her stomach. It felt like something was moving in there. “What did they say?”

The wine glugged. “Apparently there’s a break in the attic.” He shook his head. “But they’ve never seen anything like it.” A sharp set of cracks snapped as he rolled his neck. “Have you talked to Jen?”

“Maybe it’s best if I call in.”

“Camie,” he said, in an agitated tone. “With the ER visits and whatever mammoth bill we’re about to get slapped with, we need that job. Don’t give Gates any reason.”

“Maybe we can go over the finances again.”

“We already have. Besides, if a position opens up…”

“My recommendation doesn’t mean anything.”

“It’s better than nothing,” he said, with a bite.

“There’s other wineries.”

“Babe, Travail D’amour’s the dream.”

“I thought Perry Selections was the dream.”

“It is! But if we’re going to open up someday, we need money.”

Never before had she hated his pipe-dream family winery as much as now. Camilla nodded weakly and held back her tears. “Could you hold Lucas for a moment?”
Both their faces illuminated with pearlescent smiles as Troy lifted Lucas into the air. Before she closed the bathroom door, he said, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Cold water usually did the trick. Usually. Camilla fought with the rigid window before it shot open in one single explosive movement. Crisp, earthy air cooled her chest. It wasn’t often Camile experienced violent impulses, but in watching the flickering street lights and destitute parking lot, she wished to destroy something.

Hoo! Hoo!

Perched atop a street light, three yellow eyes stared back. She wondered if she’d missed the news that Napa valley was now home to a breed of mutant owl. She wondered too if there was a chance they could be connected—

She turned and screamed.

In the mirror’s reflection was not the disappointing face Camilla had learned to accept, but a bipedal lamb, sheared and pouring blood from an open throat. She tumbled back and tore down the shower curtain. A sharp bullet of pain shot through her head as it cracked the tile.

“Camilla!” Troy shouted. The door crashed and a moment later he pulled the plastic sheet from around her face. “Are you okay?”

Fear and disbelief kept her silent.

“What happened?”

“I… saw something in the mirror.”

“What?” he asked, clear in his expression that he didn’t see anything.

“There was…” How could she explain? Had she really even seen it?

“Shit,” he said, running his fingers along the back of her head and seeing blood. “Camilla, what the hell!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got to take care of yourself!” A rapid fluster ran red through his eyes, but he drew a long calming breath. “What did you see?”

“… I saw myself as a lamb, and my throat was cut.”

“…”

“Troy! I’m serious.”

He sighed,took the towel from the shower rod overhead, and gently placed the rag to the back of her head.

“Do you believe me?” Camilla asked.

“I’m sure you did. But you need some rest, we all do. Can you get up?”

She nodded and took his hand.

“I really did,” she said.

“I believe you.”

She looked again. It was just her.

& & &

Camilla’s head spun as she sipped her morning coffee. Something was strange in the taste. An unusual note of iron. She jumped to the slight buzz of her phone on the kitchen counter. Two weeks removed and she couldn’t help but flinch at anything resembling a fly’s wings.

Jen. Sorry I’m running late. Omw. She checked her email to see if there was anything from the hospital. Nothing since the mass apology regarding damaged servers and data loss. One might assume expedited results from the ‘complementary tests’ given how long she’d waited, at minimum some high dosage acetaminophen, or preferably some morphine. For better or worse, Dr. Klein promised he’d call today.

Camilla massaged her temples, popped an ibuprofen, and looked over the yard. Was something out for her? Gray clouds hardened the sky. A breeze which rippled iroko’s leaves. No sign of the neighbor’s cat today, nor her nocturnal friend.

A sharp pain flared as Lucas’s wooden block bounced off her cheek. The boy clapped in pride, and in a sudden surge of rage she nearly screamed. Camilla rubbed the spot and too the scabbed gash from the hotel. It was probably best that Troy wasn’t here, she felt like saying something she’d regret. This ‘ten year plan’ was going to kill her and she still wasn’t even sure she desired the promised land. What if there was no family come that time?

Hoo!

Camilla turned with knitted brows. Did that come from inside?

Hoo!

She stopped at the base of the stairs and hoo! In the dining room rafters watched three yellow eyes. A string of sensations passed in seconds, alarm, confusion, anger. A watery stream of excrement dropped atop an already stacked mess of half-digested owl pellets on the floor. Camilla leapt at the sudden fluttering of its wings as it readjusted itself. She checked her watch. Eight thirty already. Where was Jen? Just deal with it, she told herself. It’s a bird. What’s the worst that could happen?

Camilla hurried around the house, opening doors and windows through which to shoo it before retrieving the extendable duster. A sharp fear arose in reapproaching the bird. It glared as if daring her to try. She held the duster like a spear, reminding herself the thing weighs less than a bag of sugar— and screamed at the sound of the door bell.

“Jen!” Camilla shouted, pulling her by the wrist.

“What’s going— holy shit! Is that an owl?” Jen asked, her expression furrowed. “Does it have three eyes?”

Hoo!

“Get the broom,” Camilla said.

“Where’s Lucas?” she asked.

“Up stairs. Hurry.”

“Camie, we should call someone—”

“It’s just a bird! Come on. I’m going to poke it, if it comes down, shoo it towards the windows. Okay? But don’t hurt it.”

Jen was too thrown to object. Camilla approached, swallowing her apprehensions, and with trembling arms, pressed the feather duster into the owl’s belly. It didn’t move. A bit harder and it leapt over a few inches. Its eyes grew wider.

“Camie—”

“Just get ready,” Camilla said. “It doesn’t want to be in here anymore than we want it.”
With pursed lips, Camilla jabbed, and they screamed. Its wings sprawled, the interior patterning like a fractal of eyes, and swept down. Jen swung the broom and Camilla blocked with the duster. The heat of razor talons raked her cheek. Hoo! the owl mocked back on the rafter.

“Camie, really, let’s call animal control.”

Camilla felt the red stripe on her cheek and gripped the duster tighter.

“We’re fine!” she said.

Once more, Camilla prodded. The owl shot downwards. She ducked and it soared overhead and up the stairs. “Lucas!”

Jen followed, two steps at a time. They froze. The midnight owl sat perched on the plastic railing of Lucas’s playpen, glaring at the boy. There was no thought, no care beyond the pudgy child reaching affectionately for his new feathered friend. Camilla swung the duster with the entirety of her strength. The metal pole connected harshly and the weightless creature soared with an explosion of feathers. It crashed against the wall and dropped, only a few spastic twitches remaining. With Lucas in her arms, that violent anger liquified to sorrow. The heat in her cheek pulsated, blood dripped down her jaw, but it didn’t matter. The last throes of life stilled but the owl’s three eyes remained open. Jen crept forward and grinned, “Good hit.”

& & &

“Hey, Mr. Gates,” Camilla said. He looked up with impatient, red eyes. “Did you see my message? There was—”

“— An owl,” he said, tossing his glasses to the desk with a sigh. “Can you take a seat? Close the door.”

Her cheeks went hot and eyes watered in panic. She put on a smile.

Mr. Gates scratched his liver-spotted forehead and put his hands up, as if surrendering, “I don’t know how to put this.”

She understood. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if it’s drugs or alcohol, but something’s wrong. You had two weeks off and came back like… this. You spend hours in the bathroom everyday and guests complain that you sneak off during tours and come back smelling like vomit.”

“There’s just been some problems at the hospital. I had to redo my tests—.”

“Couldn’t you just go to another hospital?”

Her nails dug into her palms. Maybe if he offered her coverage.

“Eden’s the only hospital that accepts my husband’s insurance,” she said.

Try as she did to get him to look at her, he wouldn’t meet her eye. “If you’re really sick, then I can’t have you coming in. It’s not fair for anyone.”

“Sir… Tony, I need this job.”

“And I need someone reliable. Maybe when you’re better, but for now… I mean… it’s tour season. You get it. ”

Heat burned beneath the skin, violent urges she’d never felt directed at another. What was she going to tell Troy? Dischargement was a badge of failure. She’d never been fired. This wasn’t real.

“Please,” she said, hands in prayer position. She wondered why she was begging. Pride? There was a time when she liked her job, but since Lucas’s birth she’d dreamt of a reason to stay with him. But not like this.

“I’m sorry, Camilla. We all love you, but I don’t want to be responsible for whatever’s happening.”

Her mind shot through avenues of rectification. Litigation, belittlement, blackmail… She closed her eyes. That wasn’t her.

“I’ll have Marge cut you a check—”

She didn’t hear the rest. Camilla stood, her thoughts and heart far away from this room.

“Thank you for everything, Sir.”

& & &

It wasn’t until she reached the front door that she realized the car was still running. She turned back and for a moment considered driving off. The world was white noise. High-frequency waves she couldn’t perceive. She twisted the front door key and fear flushed her heart.

Jen stood there in the hallway, Troy’s rec-league bat cocked back, a manic look in her eye.

“Jen…” Camilla whispered

“What were you doing out there?” Jen asked, in a thin voice. “What the fuck was that!”

Camilla flinched, completely lost. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jen’s eyes darted in cognitive dissonance. Afraid to exacerbate whatever was going on, Camilla remained completely still, unbreathing.

“Can you please explain why you have a bat?” Camilla asked.

“I saw you out there,” Jen said, tears running down her cheeks.

“Sweetie—”

“Show me your hands!” Jen said.

For some reason the sight of her palms eased Jen’s temper. She took deep breaths, closed her eyes, and bit by bit, lowered the bat.

“So it wasn’t you?” Jen asked.

“No. Whatever it is, no,” Camilla said.

“I saw you, I swear…”

“Saw me where?”

Jen drew another deep breath. “About an hour ago, Lucas and I were having oatmeal in the kitchen. Somebody walked around the side, naked and out of it. I was going to call the cops, but then I realized… it was you. You always wear your hair back, so I didn’t notice at first, but the longer I looked, I was sure. I was about to go out, but you… she seemed a bit off, so I just watched from the kitchen. She went over to the tree and knelt. I think she was talking to it. After a bit, she started bowing and singing, then sliced her hand open.”

“What?” Camilla asked, in goosebumps recalling those rituals Araceli had been so fascinated with.

“It was disgusting! She squeezed her blood out all around the tree. Eventually she came to the door. I grabbed Lucas and made sure it was locked, but she didn’t try to come in. She just stood there. After maybe thirty minutes she started screaming and pounding the glass.”

The hair down Camilla’s arms stood rigid and cold. “What happened after that?”

“I put Lucas upstairs and grabbed this,” Jen said, shaking the bat. Even with renewed composure, distrust lingered in Jen’s eyes. “Why are you home so early?”

Camilla’s first instinct was to try and explain around the fact, but she didn’t have the energy. “I got fired.”

It was as if Jen had taken the blow herself. “I’m sorry…”

The bat clicked atop the glass of the foyer table. Camilla let her head fall to the girl’s shoulder. The comfort was needed but fleeting. “What am I going to tell Troy?”

“Tell him the truth.”

Camilla shook her head. “You’re very cute.” She wiped her tears. “Are you okay?”

Jen nodded. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“I could use some time alone.”

“What if that girl comes back?”

It could answer a lot of questions.

Left in solitude and silence, the house took on a bitterness. The air tasted sour and smelt of iron. Lucas looked up from the nursery crib with a boundless love that, for a moment, made her feel like she wasn’t empty. She took him up, smelled his sweet blonde hair, and went to see the truth. The splattered blood dripped wet on the glass. She crossed the yard cautiously, and her breath went cold. The tree’s knot had changed. It appeared now to be wailing in agony. What are you doing, Araceli? She’d been troubled before she disappeared, but what could drive a person to this?

Afraid of how to answer Troy’s imminent questions, she got to scrubbing the window. As she squeezed the last of the sudsy pink water out of the sponge, her phone buzzed. Her hand locked clawlike.

“Hello, Dr. Klein,” she whispered.

“Sorry it’s taken so long to get back to Mrs. Perry. I’ve seen some crazy things in this hospital, but a dead cat in the servers? Some things aren’t even worth trying to figure out.”

“It’s fine,” she said, suppressing her real thoughts and locking the door behind her.

“Are you able to talk?”

“Yes.”

There was a prolonged silence. “Can you sit down, Mrs. Perry?”

A question possibly worse than any diagnosis. “Okay…” she said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “How does it look?”

He sighed, “The biopsy’s pretty clear… Gastric cancer. Late stage.”

The shooting pain in her stomach and sudden shortness of breath seemed to be waiting for just now. A single question came to mind. Why me?

“How late?” she asked, her throat contracting.

“We’ll have to run a few more tests, but signs point to stage four.”

She bit down hard on her lower lip. “How’s this possible? I just had my blood work done a few months ago,” Camilla said, hoping she might find a loophole.

“Blood work doesn’t show most cancers, but given how far it’s spread, I don’t really have an answer. The metastasis is unprecedented.”

A weight of hopelessness crashed upon her shoulders, too bitter rage at their unprofessionalism. “How sure are you?”

“I’m sorry, but there’s no question.”

Camilla buried her face within the darkness of her palm and drew a long, quivering breath.

“I think it would be best if we met to discuss treatment options,” Dr. Klein said.

Camilla looked to Lucas in the playpen and both tried and tried not to imagine his life without her. She thought of her funeral and the few people who’d attend. A father who didn’t know her anymore, a mother who couldn’t speak, a child who’d never remember her face, and a husband left to chase an impossible dream.

“When would be a good time for you?” Dr. Klein asked.

Camilla wiped her cheeks and considered the necessities. “How expensive is this sort of thing?”

“We shouldn’t be thinking about finances right now.”

“Please, I just want to know.”

“… It all depends on the effectiveness of any treatments or surgeries. But over the next year or two, a couple hundred thousand. But there are payment plans and loans. No matter what, it’ll be worth it.”

Would it really? Bankrupting her family?

“And what’s the likelihood of beating this?” she asked.

“Percentages are hard, just know nothing’s impossible.” That was enough of an answer. “For now, what day works for you?”

“… Can I get back to you?”

“Mrs. Perry, I know this is overwhelming, but you’ve got to be strong if we’re going to fight this.”

“I know, thank you. I just need some time.”

Camilla dropped the phone on the table, a numb tingling throughout her body, and stumbled to the family room. She fell to her knees, pulled Lucas’s tiny hands to her cheek, and wept. She kissed them again and again. A thousand times to make up for the ones she’d never give and imagined the man he’d become. “I’m so sorry.”

In time her tears dried, but the dull ache at the back of her throat— that was now a constant of life— persisted. Hours passed as static. She leapt to the sound of the front door, and unwilling to take chances, raced down the hall, prepared for the worst. Troy smiled and unslung his pack. “Sorry I’m late. How you doing?”

Shame held her voice captive. “… Fine.”

He held up a plastic bag from Szechuan Garden. “Hungry?”

“… Could you watch Lucas for a moment?”

“Sure…” he said, watching her quizzically as she raced up the stairs. “Babe?”

“One second,” she said, in a breathless voice. Camilla closed the bedroom door behind her and drew to the window. A harsh breeze crashed against the glass. She imagined it taking her away, scattered particles, nothing. The darkness of the evening felt absolute. There was hardly a light throughout the neighborhood.

Something caught her eye near the back fence. Two reddish-green beads with a slight iridescent shimmer. She continued to stare, unable to truly see until, in a passing ray of moonlight, dread struck her cold. Perched atop the rear fence on two claw-like feet, a man turned insect, or vice versa. A monster. Its black carapace shone dully, on its head a crown of antennae and horns. Splayed pincers and sinuous wings. Within its gaze, Camilla felt she was staring into the heart of evil. She drew a slow breath, afraid to provoke it by movement.

“Camie?” Troy asked, knocking on the door.

She screamed. Troy recoiled in confusion. She turned back to the fence and saw an owl. All at once, the world was too much, too big. Camilla hurried to the bathroom and slammed the door. “Troy, don’t go outside!”

For the first time since high school, Camilla got on her knees, and with the taste of tears on her tongue, prayed.

& & &

“Can we talk?” Troy asked.

She’d felt his stare for sometime but didn’t have the clarity of mind to confront what lay before her. The first light of dawn shone through the window. Dried tear streaks formed crust around her eyes. She rolled over and held his hand to her cheek. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Try your best.”

“I think I’m cursed, Troy. Terrible things are happening all around us and it’s because of me.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s true,” Camilla said. Even she, who’d grown up with stories of angels and demons, still struggled. But the proof felt irrefutable. “… Would you believe me if I told you the devil was watching me?”

“…”

“I got fired yesterday.”

The stress lines on his forehead wrinkled. His eyes fell to the bedcovers. “Is that it?”

“… You don’t care?”

“Jobs come and go.” He pulled her hands to his lips. “Is that all that was bothering you?”
She drew a deep, stinging breath. “… My results came in.” He understood her tone. “Stomach cancer… it’s already spread. He used the phrase, ‘nothing’s impossible’.”

Troy bit his lip pale. He pulled her in and buried his face in her shoulder. Something about being his rock gave her strength.

“We’ll beat this,” he said, voice muffled by her sweater.

“… We can’t afford to. I asked about the costs and checked our savings—”

“Camilla,” he said, in a harsh voice, eyes wide with malice. “I’ll never ask for anything I don’t truly need. Don’t you dare say a word about money.”

“Troy, I’m serious. If we fight this, it’ll bankrupt us. And there’s no guarantee I’ll even pull through—”

“I don’t care!” His voice carried down the hall and Lucas’s cries returned. “We can’t live without you! Do you understand that! Whatever we have to do, we’re doing it… Starting with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll get the money.”

“Where?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just focus on what we have to do. Fight, Mi Amor.” At times it’s easy to forget what you have when you see it everyday. “Don’t leave us,” he said, kissing her knuckles.

As they stared into each other’s eyes, Camilla understood that the only free souls were those tethered to another.

& & &

Juana’s voice blared through the phone in a hysteria Camilla hadn’t heard since her mother’s stroke. “Amor! I saw your sister!”

“What?” Camilla answered, moving Lucas to her other leg as she shouldered her phone.

“Last night! I heard someone in your old room. I called out and they fell down the stairs. It was Araceli.” Sobs rented her voice. “I told her to wait… she looked so broken.”
Camilla’s mind ran incoherent circles.

“She took your wedding dress!” Juana said. The words stung for a number of reasons. “I’m going to look for her!”

Her mouth was too dry to speak. “Tía… careful.”

“Why?”

“… She was here yesterday.”

“What?” Juana asked, clearly offended that she didn’t already know.

“I wasn’t here, but apparently she came naked around the side yard and—” Camilla didn’t know how to put it.

“She sacrificed her blood to our tree.”

Muted prayers carried from the other side. “The devil finds life in faithless hearts. Do you remember those terrible women she was talking to online?”

Everyone back home had some story of sour magic or demons, but none ever struck Camilla as anything more than a generational game of telephone. But now, she wished she’d done many things differently.

“… Your friend, Father Dmitry…” Camilla said, as she drew to the nursery window. Her gaze settled on the iroko. Somehow that thing was connected to all of this. She felt like a fool for asking, “Do you think he might understand what’s going on?”

She could almost hear Juana’s smile through the phone. “Sometimes the merging of paths are more than coincidence.”

A notification emerged on her phone. “Can I call you back? Troy’s calling.”

“Be safe, Amor.”

A sudden influx of chilled air circled the room.

“Babe,” he said. “I’ve got our answer.”

Her brow furrowed. It had been at most five hours since he’d left for work. “Really?”

“I’ve been calling some of my old classmates from Sonoma,” he stammered, “Long story short, do you remember Cole Andrews?”

“Not really.”

“Well he’s a production manager for a huge brewery in southern Oregon. Black Pine. Apparently they’re looking for a fermentation specialist.”

“Really?” she asked, guilt weighing on her tone. A smile rose up Lucas’s cheek upon recognizing Troy’s voice.

“He already got me an interview. And listen to this, the starting salary is twice what I make!” There was a long measure of silence. “The only thing is, they want the interview to be in person… next week.”

A nightmare of hers was forcing him away by dictating his life.

“Do you think you’ll be okay?” he asked. “I’ll have to get a hotel room for the night.”

“I’m not that helpless,” she said.

“That makes one of us.”

Maybe she was cursed, but remedies come in many forms.

& & &

“Poo,” Lucas said, the sweet potato mash dribbling down his lips. His legs kicked gaily through the holes in his highchair and arms slapped the plastic serving tray. “Mooooo—”

“Yeah?” she asked, wondering if this was going to be it? His first time saying, Mom.

“Maaaa”

“Yeah?”

“Poo.”

Camilla sighed and checked for any word from Troy, likely just crossing the Oregon border now. Nothing. The doorbell rang. She took Lucas into her arms and swallowed her nerves. “Let’s see how this goes.”

On the porch stood Juana, dressed in black flats from which made her feet look like dough. Her hair was tied back in the tight knot Camilla knew meant business. Before her, a man she’d imagined— based on Juana’s stories of fortitude and strength— differently. Father Dmitry sat upright in his wheelchair in a traditional black cassock. His sharp face was softened by a scraggly beard, and though likely over sixty years old, he bore only a few streaks of gray.

“Hola, amor,” Juana said, pushing Dmitry in without prompting. “Father, this is Camie.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Camilla said, shaking his stone hand.

His attention struck her as scattered as he inspected the foyer and dining room. With a raised nose, he sniffed, and nodded.

“You have a beautiful home,” Dmitry said, in a thick russian accent, rolling himself towards the photos on the wall.

“Thank you,” Camilla said. In shame she wondered if he was the sort of man who could really do what she needed. “I’m sorry to bother you about this.”

“When the need arises, so do I,” he said. He turned with impassive and cutting gray eyes.
“May I see your hands?” She nervously affirmed. “I asked your aunt not to tell me anything more than the basics.”

“So what are the basics?”

“That you are in trouble and willing to accept help.” He carefully felt around her eyes, inspecting the whites and pupils scrupulously. “How sick are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“How bad is your condition?”

Juana’s eyes turned to Camilla in narrowed betrayal.

“A few weeks,” Camilla whispered, with warm cheeks.

He nodded, contemplating the fact.

“Is it true you worked at the Vatican?” she asked.

“No, just studied.” He crossed his arms over his waist and asked insouciantly, “Have you encountered any demons?”

What good was lying? A sudden chill ran through her skin in thinking upon the creature. “Last week. I saw… I don’t know how to describe it… an insect I guess… or a man. Before that, I saw a vision of myself as a slaughtered lamb.”

He took the facts unperturbed and looked at a shot of Camilla as a child on her father’s shoulders with Araceli on their mother’s. Identical in matching butterfly-patterned dresses. “It’s easy to share blood, not so much everything else.”

“… What do you mean?” she asked.

“Can we look around the house?”

They moved silently from the dining room, to the family, to the kitchen— where his gaze became fixed on the iroko tree. She thought about offering a trip to the second story, though didn’t want to be rude. Thankfully he said, “I’ve seen what I need.”

“Would you like anything to drink?”

He raised his hand in objection, “I fast Tuesday through Thursday.”

“What do you see, Padre?” Juana asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

He stared at the table in an inquisitive manner. “You’re sister’s a jealous woman, no?”

Camilla ground her teeth, unwilling to admit the truth.

“She is, Father,” Juana said.

He nodded pensively. “Devils surround more often than they become.” Camilla clutched Lucas tighter as Dmitry turned his chair to face the yard. “Has your sister interacted with that tree?”

“Yes…”

Camilla’s mind buzzed in dissonance. She realized it wasn’t in her head, but from a mounting swarm of flies beyond the glass.

“Even the land has become defiled. As far as I see, this isn’t possession, but inhabitation, but you’ve figured that out, haven’t you?”

Camilla nodded.

He paused, seemingly lost for words. “Sometimes explanations aren’t as complete as the truths which they aim at, but if you want to rid yourself of the evil around you, it starts there.”

“How?” Juana asked, through tears..

“Chop it down, tear the roots, and burn it all. You can try leaving but it will follow.”

All Camilla could think, This isn’t real. But the world had become disreality, this was just another day.

“Do you have an ax?” Dmitry asked.

& & &

Camilla rolled her fingers over the splintering wood handle of the rusty ax and stared at the base of the iroko. Its diameter had swollen to nearly three feet and its height around twelve. The yard was a buzzing, black hailstorm. She closed her eyes to the incessant bouncing off her cheeks and into her hair. Juana stood behind, batting wildly, Father Dmitry on the porch, arms over his lap, watching with gray eyes.
He called out, “Give no opportunity.”

She nodded, lined her strike, and thunk! The dull edge hacked a shallow divot. Thunder rolled from the slate clouds. With an arduous heave, she pulled the ax. Another firm impact shocked her arms. She quickly realized just how long this was going to take. She pulled back once more and froze at the sight of seeping blood from the divot. Her brows knitted in consternation, she tried to reason how, but the only thing that came to mind, a hideous miracle. Father Dmitry watched unshaken.

Blood splattered her face and hands, wood debris burst in chunks. The stream pooled around the trunk and stained the soil red. The world became chaos as the black clouds unleashed a torrent of rain. Flies buzzed ever harder to fight against the sheets and the lawn flooded. Lungs aflame and arms pulsating lactic acid, Camilla dropped to one knee. Hot sweat mixed with cool drops. She looked around the yard and saw it had become a thick, iron-scented bog of blood.

“Hija,” Juana said, taking the ax from her hand. “Let me.”

“Your heart, Tía. This sort of work—”

Juana interrupted, “Is what I grew up doing.”

Juana pulled her up— with strength Camilla didn’t realize still existed— and took a wide-footed stance before the tree. She heaved, and with all the force she could muster, thud! She grunted painfully with each swing, the act clear torture upon her old bones. The breath quickly escaped her, and after a mere dozen goes, she grasped her chest. Camilla stepped forward in alarm.

“… I’m sorry I’m weak,” Juana panted.

“You’re not even close,” Camilla said, taking the ax back.

Debris and blood slashed and somehow, regardless of exhaustion, her strikes grew more powerful. The flow of blood slowed as, in ripping the blade, she saw a dark hollow. Camilla leaned forward. There was something in there. Through the slow, undulating flow, she reached into the darkness and tore out a blood-stained garment. She looked incredulously to Juana, Dmity, and back to the dripping, black wedding dress. She let it fall, reached in again, and pulled forth a matted clump of hair, rotted bones, and human nails. An eerie chill ran down her spine, as with each handful, she salvaged more of the same, until with the last, she pulled out a rock.

“What does it mean?” Juana asked.

She looked around the swamp and whipped the hair from her fingers. Fear quieted her voice. “I should check on Lucas.”

Juana batted at the flies and took the ax. Camilla hurried through the storm, each step splashing her jeans with blood and mud. She tried and gave up cleaning herself with a towel at the door and watched Juana hack away with a somber weight in her chest. Perhaps she was really losing her mind. That would make all this a bit more believable.

Her soaked slippers plopped up the stairs and left a dank trail of red mud. A small measure of peace settled at the sight of the boy sleeping peacefully in the crib. The patter of the rain, for a moment, made her feel safe. The thought arose in watching him, The Devil’s real. That meant he could be taken. Tears wetted her eyes. Why did Araceli have to be born?

A muted scream cut through the pounding of the storm. Head cocked and listening, she wondered if she’d actually heard it. There existed a vacuum like void in the silence, the palpable presence of malice.

Camilla ran the stairs and froze before the sliding glass door, jaw slack and staring at Father Dmitry slumped in his wheelchair, head driven back by the knife handle deep in his forehead. By the tree, Juana lay limbs sprawled, the ax buried in her chest. She covered her mouth, devoid of breath, tears stinging her eyes. Her instincts were to scream and hide, but there were things more important than herself, and without reservation, she raced to the woman who’d raised her. She stopped by Father Dmitry and found him limp, eyes rolled back. A swell of nausea rolled up her neck. She noticed Juana’s hand moving.
She ran across the yard and dropped. Her skin crawled in seeing the full gore, the flesh curled back around the wound, the underlying tendon and chestplate. A harsh pounding beat the back of her skull. Juana’s eyes fluttered, filled with rain and tears. Each breath was a horrid wheeze. So this is what it was to watch a soul evaporate. Her mind turned to the police, but how could she explain all this? But what choice was there?

“Tía…”

“Get…” Juana exhaled, “Luke…”

A sudden blow to the back of her head left her blind. Camilla dropped with a splash. Stars flashed as she rolled over to a devil in the form of a woman, eyes glowing red, dressed in a filthy gray jacket and trousers. Camilla tried to move, but her body was unresponsive. Camilla whispered, “Araceli?”

Araceli dropped her knee painfully into Camilla’s chest, placed a tender kiss upon her forehead, and wrapped her hands around Camilla’s throat with an inhuman force.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Camilla flailed in agonizing hysteria, breath constricted and lungs burning. She choked weakly, “Please… stop.”

“My life is more than I can bear,” Araceli cried, rage and sorrow in her eyes.
In her panic, Camilla’s hand fell upon a large stone. She grasped it tight, raised it up, and let it go. Past the manic eyes of her sister, and perched in the tree above, smiling through pincers and fangs, sat a black carapaced demon.

“I’ll take care of them,” Araceli said, with a crazed and twitching smile.

A powerful rumble shook the sky. Vision flicked. Deafness overcame her. The world withdrew behind a veil of blackness. Camilla closed her eyes, unable to draw life.……

“You will find rest,” a voice said, “But not yet.”

A crack of thunder, so fierce it shook the firmament whole.

Camilla’s eyes opened, pulled back to an anguished and burning body. In the clouds there rippled the rescinding tendrils of lightning. She could still feel their electric touch crackling through her muscles, looked down and saw both clothes and flesh blackened. The smell of burned meat singed the nostrils. In her mind’s eye she saw naught but Lucas’s three toothed grin. She fought with all she had against the tides of inertia and boulder limbs, and rose.

Heaving breaths through her teeth, she slogged through the muck. Goosebumps rose upon seeing the second set of red footprints down the hall. She limped through the pain and heaviness of her limbs. Her eye turned in the foyer to Troy’s wooden rec bat in the umbrella basket.

Araceli’s voice carried in a soft tune down the stairs, “Sa-má, Baalar… Sa-má, Baalar…”

Camilla turned the nursery corner to Araceli holding Lucas at the crib, clothes and hair soaking, flies abuzz, eyes glittering at what was a part of her.

“Put him down,” Camilla said, in a sharp voice.

Araceli turned in shock and looked Camilla from head to toe. “How are you…”
Camilla had nothing more to say, and Araceli saw that.

“Wait, child of Baalar,” Araceli said, placing a kiss on Lucas’s forehead before laying him in the crib. “This won’t take more than a—”

It was much like the feel of the ax against the tree— though with a more sickening crack.

& & &

Camilla had never visited a prison. Not even sound could escape. Each tap, each swallow, each breath echoed from the concrete walls. Camilla sat anxiously, staring at the textureless titanium table and running her soles over the bolts sealing it to the floor. A few others waited in silence, a hunched elderly woman with cobweb hair and coke-bottle glasses two tables down, a tired balding man with a perfectly round belly, and in the far corner a dapper— though manic— looking young gentleman with flowers.

She wrung her hands and stared at the light through the window. It was a miracle. Everything was. Most especially the fact that she was alive. Even Dr. Klein, faithfully serving for over thirty years, couldn’t only describe it— both her revival or the abrupt disappearance of tumors— as such. She wondered, if she was now in debt to something beyond?

An alarm sounded. Camilla sat tall with a racing heart. Four inmates were ushered through the steel doors. Araceli stopped with a dumbfounded expression. A deep purple bruise and long stitched gash painted the side of her face. Her left eye shone a bright, bloody red. Though cleaner, she was even more pale than that day, mostly bone with black straw hair. Even as she took her seat, she couldn’t seem to grasp that Camilla was really there.

They stared silently for sometime.

“I won’t apologize,” Araceli finally said.

“I didn’t expect you would.”

The deflection left Araceli more indignant. “Tío couldn’t curse me out himself?”

“You broke his heart.”

Araceli smiled, but after a moment, a sort of puzzling consternation forced her eyes away. “I was just taking back what’s rightfully mine… I came into this world before you.”

Camilla sighed and looked at the chains between Araceli’s wrists. “My life isn’t as perfect as you think. I’m just grateful.”

“Easy to say when you have something to be grateful for.”

And therein lie the source of her destruction.

“I talked to the DA,” Camilla said, “Two life sentences.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Araceli said. “I won’t make it a year.”

Camilla’s throat tightened in sorrow. “I’m here because this will probably be the last time I see you. Troy and I are moving.”

“Is this your victory lap?”

Now came the nightmare, the very reason she came. “I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry. You didn’t want to become this…” Camilla closed her eyes and breathed life into the words. “I forgive you.”

A slight twitch showed in Araceli’s right eye. A sheen of tears showed, but she snarled them away. Camilla flinched at the pair of flies which buzzed past her ear.

“It might not be too late,” Camilla said, laying a photo on the table. Two girls in matching butterfly dresses, hoisted on their parents’ shoulders, smiling without a care in the world.

Camilla closed her eyes as the spit hit her cheek.

* * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Mark Manifesto 2024