A Demon’s Fury

One bright summer afternoon, my brothers and I grabbed our baseball gloves and ball and headed over to the park to play catch. As a follower of “the religion” I had learned years earlier about the laws of the spirit world, and the different spirits that ruled specific locations. Whenever I entered the park, I was supposed to cross my arms over my chest in tribute to the demon spirits that ruled the foothills and woods there. My brothers always stood in awe and fear, making sure I entered the park with reverence, because if not they feared they would be harmed as well as me. But today I had other things on my mind and sauntered through the gate without stopping to pay respect. In my conscience I felt the weight of those demons hovering over me, waiting for me to pay them respect, but I pushed it aside.

“Hey, John!” Eustaquio called out. “Did you forget?”

“Forget what?” I shot back. “Let’s just play baseball . . . that’s what we came here for.”

My youngest brother looked uneasy, knowing how seriously I took my witchcraft rituals. “Okay, I just warned you—that’s all I’m doing.”

I shrugged him off. “Don’t worry about it. Come on, let’s get a game started.” We rounded up a few other guys and decided to play a real game, not just catch. A handful of their friends took seats

on the bleachers to watch the game. As it turned out, it was a baseball game nobody forgot.

Halfway through the game the sky turned dark as thunderclouds gathered overhead. We kept looking up at the sky, surprised to watch it turn from bright sunshine to dark so suddenly.

“Come on, play ball!” someone shouted from the bleachers. “Don’t worry about the weather.

You’re one hit away from taking this inning.”

“Batter up, batter up! Get a hit!” another guy yelled.

A violent gust of wind blew through the park, bending the tree branches as they rustled against one another. Suddenly a lightning bolt cracked the sky wide open, followed by a rumble of thunder so loud it shook the ground. Somebody screamed.

“Whoa, did you see that?” the pitcher yelled, but his voice got drowned out by another bolt, this time hitting the large oak tree near the baseball diamond. We heard the tree trunk splinter and crack as a guy from the opposing team ran to second base.

By now the wind had picked up even more, howling and whipping against our faces and tossing our hats off our heads. I knew the rain couldn’t be far behind, and a downpour would surely end the game on the spot.

“Bring him home, bring him home!”

We all felt the adrenaline of the moment—the game was close, and one more run would give the opposing team the winning advantage. Meanwhile it seemed all hell was breaking loose in the sky overhead and the contorting trees around us.

Crack! The next guy up at bat hit a huge pop fly ball, but our outfielder missed it and dashed after the ball. The batter tore off running, yelling for his teammate on second base to bring it home.

“Home it, home it!” his teammates chanted, and as the guy on second rounded third and then slid into home base, his left leg twisted in a horribly unnatural position. I knew it was broken even before I heard him scream.

Instantly a cluster of guys surrounded the boy writhing on the ground at home base. Amid the crack of thunderbolts, the sky opened up, unleashing a torrent of rain over the ballpark.

“Let’s get outta here!” one guy yelled, looking up at the angry sky. He and another teammate carried their wounded friend away, their backs bent against the lashing rain. The bleachers cleared out as the onlookers ran for cover, scattering to their cars and the picnic pavilions.

My brothers and I stood in silence as we watched the ballpark empty. At this point everything was gloomy and dark, as if nightfall had come early that day. Fear gripped us and our hearts pumped wildly, because we knew something supernatural was happening. We all felt it.

Eustaquio glared at me. “I told you, man! This is all your fault. I knew you should have done what you were supposed to do when we came into the park. You should have paid your respect! Now look at what’s happened! It’s your fault.”

Julio and George stared at me sullenly, not saying a word. They didn’t have to. I knew Eustaquio was right. My cavalier attitude had roused the anger of the spirits that day.

“I’m sorry!” I shouted to the heavens. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 571