The Last Communion of Emiliano Reyes

In the autumn of 2018, I was a senior altar server at St. Michael’s Parish in the quiet town of Bell Rapids. One evening, after a long day of community service, Father Alvarez summoned me and two other servers—Marco and Lena—to the rectory’s porch. His face was pale, his eyes darting. ‘I need you to come with me to the outskirts of Drowning Creek,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘There’s a family in dire need. But I must warn you: whatever you see, you must keep your faith unshaken.’ Curiosity and a sense of duty compelled us, and we piled into his old sedan.

We drove for nearly an hour, leaving the familiar streets behind. The road narrowed, flanked by dense pines that seemed to lean in as if listening. Finally, we arrived at a dilapidated farmhouse, the last structure before the forest swallowed the land. Its porch light flickered, casting erratic shadows. A group of somber-faced people waited outside, their clothes worn, their eyes hollow. An elderly man, Señor Reyes, approached Father Alvarez, clasping his hands. ‘Thank you for coming, Padre. My grandson—he’s been… taken by something. We’ve tried everything. Only the Church can help now.’

We stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and burnt sage. Candles lined every surface, their flames bending as if a draft was moving through, though no wind was felt. In the center of the living room, on a makeshift bed, lay a boy of about twelve, his body trembling, his skin a sickly gray. A woman—his mother—knelt beside him, reciting Hail Marys, but her words seemed to twist into unintelligible murmurs. The boy’s eyes were open, but they were not human; they were milky white, staring at the ceiling. Father Alvarez began to prepare the last rites, but as he opened his holy book, the boy’s mouth unhinged, and a voice that was not his own spoke: ‘You brought the little lambs to the slaughter.’

We froze. The voice was deep, guttural, resonating from the boy’s chest. The neighbors lowered their heads, as if in shame. Father Alvarez instructed us to hold the boy’s limbs, for what was about to happen. Marco and Lena grabbed his arms, and I gripped his legs. A putrid cold seeped through his clothes, and I nearly let go. Father Alvarez took a small vial of holy oil and anointed the boy’s forehead, but the moment the oil touched his skin, it sizzled and turned black. The boy’s body convulsed violently, and the creature inside him shrieked, ‘You cannot bind me, priest. I have dwelt in this bloodline for generations.’

Father Alvarez began to pray in Latin, his voice unwavering, but the candles around us extinguished one by one, plunging the room into near darkness. The only light came from a single candle on a nearby table, its flame turning a sickly blue. The entity laughed—a horrid, wet sound—and then the boy’s body went limp. For a moment, we thought it was over. But then the mother began to convulse as well, her body twisting at unnatural angles. The neighbors did not intervene; they merely watched, their faces impassive, as if this were a ritual they had seen many times.

We realized then that the cottage was not a home, but a vessel—a place where the Reyes family had been harboring this malevolent presence for decades, feeding it with their own blood. Father Alvarez shouted at us to flee, but as we turned, the door slammed shut, and the voices of the neighbors joined in a low, chanting unison. The entity, now speaking through both the boy and his mother, said, ‘You are now part of this covenant. Your faith will be your undoing, for you have witnessed the communion of the damned.’

I felt a cold hand clasp my shoulder, and I turned to see Lena, her eyes now as white as the boy’s. She smiled, her teeth stained black. ‘We are the keepers now,’ she said, but it was not her voice. I staggered back, but Marco had already collapsed, his body twitching on the floor. Father Alvarez, his face ashen, reached into his pocket and produced a small silver cross. He pressed it into my palm. ‘Run, child. Do not look back. Find the bishop in the city. Tell him the Reyes line has been broken, and the keepers have been chosen.’

I did not need to be told twice. I bolted for the door, but it was not locked. I burst into the cool, pine-scented night, running until my lungs burned. I did not stop until I reached the main road, where I found a gas station. The attendant, a middle-aged man, looked at me with pity. ‘You’re from the Reyes place, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘No one ever comes back from there.’ He handed me a bottle of water. ‘You should go to the church in town. They’ll know what to do.’

I drove back to Bell Rapids in a daze, clutching the silver cross. When I walked into the parish office, I found a letter on the desk, addressed to me. It was from Father Alvarez, dated a week before his call. It read: ‘If you are reading this, I have failed. The Reyes family is not cursed—they are a repository. The thing within them is older than our faith, and it seeks new vessels. I have chosen you as my successor, not as a priest, but as a guardian. You must keep the cross with you always. It is the only thing that can hold the entity at bay. And do not speak of what you have witnessed, for the covenant is binding. You are now a keeper, whether you wish it or not.’

I look at the cross now, still in my pocket. It has started to etch tiny lines into my skin, like veins, growing each day. I do not know what I am becoming. But every night, I hear the voice of the entity, calling out to me, promising that I will soon embrace the truth. And I am afraid that one day, I will answer.