The Curse: Part 2

  Even in death, a curse can still trap a soul and keep it from progressing and being at peace in the spirit world. 

 It echoes in my mind, still to this day, when that bruja from Los Puertos told me, “You talked a lot about him when you first started coming here—the spirit.  I think he saw all of these things going on and thought you might be able to help him.  You can help the dead.  It just takes much longer.” 

  At that time he had been a gray image in my dreams; a shadow in which visited my bedside in the small hours of the morning. We held conversations, most all of them were about me ‘staying there with him,’ and not to ‘leave.’

  As the years, days, hours in which my death draws nearer and the narrow chasm which has divided both the spirit and myself awaits closure, I think back to when the eruption, the horror in my life began.  Alas, my eyes are cleared of ignorance and I can see through the veil of witchcraft and sorcery which had been cast around me.  The glamour has long faded and the sweet-caramel scent of youth has become a stale debauchery of wisdom. 

  The same bruja had turned the table and accused me of conjuring the spirit, stating I thought he could help me, and that I ‘couldn’t control him.’ I lacked every tool and skill to conjure at that age, and never would have called upon the dead for I was much too afraid of them. 

  In the end, both I and the spirit saved one another. 

  She bound him and the others to their graves, but I released them.  I can think of no other cruelty of greater magnitude. “It will be dark, and they will be afraid,” she touted. 

 As I revisit this life-long relationship with the spirit, I know now why he was so restless, but will not say, for my wicked step-children know well what they have done. 

  It saddens me beyond all I could ever express that while the nonsense and foolishness was going on, the attempts on my life and the whores which were so busy envying me, a soul who was once a human being tried to get a message through to the world during this time of eruption.  Covered in soot from evil, I couldn’t understand fast enough, couldn’t interpret what  I was experiencing.  He shielded me from the whores, the rogues, and he led me to an intensely dark path of magick and voodoo.  These were the tools and skills I gathered on the east coast which made me strong, unbreakable, so I could return and complete what I ought have been able to do, but couldn’t. 

 Stand up to them.

  Once 2013 had passed, my life grew brighter and he showed me new things of beauty and meaningfulness.  The darkness had passed and it was once again time for happier occasions.  Days hadn’t been this more fulfilling since the early 90’s when we freely roamed the highways and took in every moment of bliss he’d experienced in his lifetime.  It was a time of completeness and content, a chapter of the amalgamation of souls. 

  The curse had never been resolved, though. 

  Many years had gone by, and the spirit asked me to learn the rosary. I happened onto a small book in a shop one afternoon which gave a detailed explanation of how to pray a rosary for the dead.

  Dreams had disturbed my sleep for weeks about nuns—strange visions. While driving my car and stopped by a traffic light in downtown San Antonio, an elderly nun stood on the corner and looked directly into my eyes.

  The spirit was impatient with me and sent me messages.  He didn’t want to wait for this assignment much longer. 

  I entered the church where his funeral had been 34 years ago. My presence was striking and I think even unsettling to the residents there.  The secretary uneasily turned on the lights and I sat in the front row, prayed each bead and verse.  While this went on, I could hear the rafters creek and pop, and there were disconcerting shatters in mid-air.  I stayed steadfast to the prayer and never flinched at the disturbances, but it was one of the most difficult things I had ever done, and my insides were afraid and shaken. 

  The spirit had saved my life and stayed at my side all of these years, and there is no question that I’ve come to love him.  Before my trip I’d found a box of things we’d bought when I lived in Brownsville, when I was young in the 80s—slide rulers, drafting paper, blue pencils.  It was just like opening a box of things from a late loved one; full of bitter-sweetness, smiles and tears.  If only I could have known you in this life, spirit. I feel I arrived too late.

  After the rosary and my tearful break, I walked away, just another stranger.  No one could have known what I was feeling that day. No one cared.  I’d done little more than frighten the superstitious locals.

 A slip was mailed to be for the donation I made for using the church that day in which I was not prepared for what I’d find upon opening it:  The devil was talking back to me.  The receipt read 666.

  I gave selflessly of prayer and by most beloved possessions in the name of the spirit, and taunt me though he may, the devil, or great evil, however one wishes to personify it, has no power over me.  Every charm and talisman I possess shields me; every prayer I speak strengthens me.

  In 1982 through 1988, I had no means of transportation, no means of completing college, my health was very poor, and people were trying to kill me. In 2014 I drove by my old house in a brand new car, my education finally accomplished, and I walked over my enemies. 

  Not only had I removed The Curse from the spirit, but I had removed it from myself.