The Forgotten Children

When I was a nine-year-old boy, in my town, which was a small corner on the Earth where everybody knew each other and knew every tiny secret, the children started to disappear without a trace. Every week we heard of a new kidnapped kid in the neighborhood. The parents were so scared, they stopped sending their children to school. We weren’t allowed to look through the windows or to talk with anybody that wasn’t family.

People distrusted each other. Everyone knew their neighbors, but the situation became so despairing that they didn’t know who to trust anymore. The responsible for the horrible crimes could’ve been anyone among us.

At the center of the town was the church. A big antique building with such an old facade that it could have been taken by one of those gothic structures with intrinsic rooms and hidden torture chambers from the Spanish inquisition.

On Sundays, everybody in town went to the church to carry out their good Christian deeds or “rituals” as like to call it. What should have been a time to relax and reflect turned into a space of suspicious looks and hypocrite greetings.

I despised Sunday mornings because I didn’t like to go there. At such young age, I was full of questions about my parents’ faith and I couldn’t believe the strange events taking place in a town that was so religious. I thought about the “sacrifices” they do to please god, but maybe god just doesn’t pay attention to their pleas. Maybe he just got tired of us. Anyway, praying and repeating the same things day after day wasn’t helping too much.

The mass passed from being an occasion of reflection to a place for worries and anxieties.

One of those Sundays, I was distracted looking to the high roof while the priest was talking. Then I centered my attention on him. I looked at his face while he was reading something from a book.

A chill ran down my spine when I saw his expressions; a sort of discomfort. I don’t know how to explain, but there was something scary about his gestures. I looked away and focused my attention on the background. There was a big statue of Christ on the cross. His face depicting unimaginable suffering. What a contradiction, how could they praise an instrument of torture. It was like killing somebody with a knife and then preserving the object for posterior adoration. Behind it was a curtain and for a moment I remembered Alice in Wonderland’s small door hiding behind.

In a place like that, there should have been many corners to explore. Although, I thought it was quite boring to spend time exploring a church.

After the mass ended, the priest was at the gates, greeting people as they left. Everyone was in a rush, grabbing their kids by their hands and running towards the door to leave as soon as possible. The wrongdoer, after all, could’ve been anyone in the crowd.

My mother took my left hand so strong that I felt she almost broke it. With a quick head node, my parents greeted the priest and we went straight to our house.

I hated what was happening. Not because I could be the next kid, but because I wasn’t free. I couldn’t play on the treehouse my dad and I built together, or spend the afternoons playing with my friends, or even go to school.

We lost the custom of eating outside after church and eating ice cream near the lake. My parents became angrier and silent with each other. I felt alienated in my own house. I didn’t even dare to speak to them. I’m sure I wasn’t the only kid experiencing the same situation.

Later that Sunday, I remember I was reading by the window in the living room when my dad arrived from the grocery store saying a new kid disappeared. It was a 5-year-old girl who lived at four houses from ours.

Dad said her mother was so desperate, she was knocking on every door in the neighborhood asking if her little girl was seen.

It was a matter of time until she reached our door. My mother sent me to my room and locked the door from outside. I was scared thinking about that girl and what might have happened to her. Before the calamity had befallen our town, I saw her a couple of times riding her bike throughout the block. She was a happy child, always smiling. Her beautiful blue eyes watching everything with curiosity. Why would something so terrible happen to such an innocent person? I felt uneasy, my heart was beating fast, and felt pressure on my chest.

I think her vanishing was what took me to see the reality of the events happening all around the town. Before, I was naive, a stupid kid who felt imprisoned by his parents, not wanting to see the truth.

For the first time, I was scared. Scared of the kidnappings, scared for the little girl. Scared because I could be the next.

The following days I didn’t want to leave my room. I grew more silent. My parents thought I was worried about all the things happening. They would reassure me nothing bad would happen to me, that they would take care of me even if they had to sacrifice their own lives. But was that promise to be trusted? Could they prevent me from suffering a terrible fate? Wasn’t that the same promise other parents have made to their worried children?

I put myself in the shoes of those kids as afraid as I was. I realized the emptiness of those words. It made me feel more afraid than I already was because it wasn’t true. My parents couldn’t do anything if I were one of the victims.

The feeling of pressure in my chest grew so strong that it was difficult to breathe. It felt as if the air was gone, my heartbeat so fast I felt it in my mouth.

I became scared of the simplest things like taking a shower because the same pressure would come while I was in the bathroom. It was agony but at the moment I didn’t know I was having panic attacks and never told my parents how I felt. For them, I was just worried and they would do anything in their hands to protect me, as they had promised.

When Sundays came, I invented an excuse to stay in my room. Of course, mom and dad wouldn’t let me alone at home. Those were the days when I felt at the edge of collapsing. I was scared of the priest, of the congregation, of the big christ in the background.

I suffered in silence, feeling a storm of symptoms inside my body, always imagining the worst of scenarios. I was convinced I was going to die before being kidnapped.

That day, the priest said we should move on and leave behind the painful past. But how was that advice comforting to the families who lost their kids?

Sometimes I had nightmares where the priest was preaching his nonsense and suddenly, he turned into a big infernal, and dark monster. A door opened behind the curtains on the church and the remnants of the kidnapped children came out in avalanche, filling the entire terrain.

I’d woke up sweaty and terrified, with everything hurting in my body.

Two months passed by without another disappearance. Nobody seemed to remember the mourning parents longing for their lost children. The police forgot as well.

The Sundays at the church weren’t as depressive as before. The people wanted to forget as the priest said once, leaving every trace of pain behind. I couldn’t conceive why we should forget and give up looking for them. I wonder if my parents would accept that advice if I had been one of the victims. After all, they believed in god, who was “speaking” through the priest, who was a man of god. It was god’s advice.

People resumed their normal activities as if everything was part of a distant past forgotten by time.

In the blink of an eye, the months turned into years. I turned 13 and the weight of puberty was on my shoulders. I was taciturn and rebellious, always questioning the rules my parents set for me. but, no matter what I did or said, I couldn’t break free of going to church every Sunday.

One day, when the mass was over, my curiosity impelled me to walk around the church while everybody was greeting or baring farewell. The priest was outside, at the gates. Everyone was distracted, so it gave me time to wander freely. I went to the podium, checked the christ and the curtain. I hesitated a little bit. I looked around to see if someone was looking at me and hid behind the curtain as quickly as I could. I heard the murmurs of casual conversations from the families that were still there.

I turned and to my surprise, there was a small door behind the curtain, as I have imagined. I tried to reach it, but when I was about to grab the doorknob, the priest appeared on the other side.

“What are you doing, son?”- his words sounding calmed, but he was trying to hide the surprise in his tone. I couldn’t articulate the right words to answer his question. I just stood there, crouching in front of the small door.

My parents couldn’t see me behind the curtain, so I was hoping he wouldn’t say my name aloud. I didn’t want them to know that I was lurking in the church. What explanation would I give them anyway?

“Kids shouldn’t be here, now go to your mom and dad and stay out of trouble”- he continued amicably, but for me, it sounded like an implicit warning.

My parents were waiting for me outside. The priest escorted me to the exit and told them we were having some doctrinal conversation about heaven and hell. He praised me in front of them, saying I was a smart kid and they should exploit my intelligence sending me to one of their summer camps. Mom and dad felt proud, said farewell and we started our way home. I looked over my shoulders and the man was still looking at us, following every step with his gaze. Why had he lied? I thought he would scold me and tell my parents I was insolent and needed discipline. Instead, he lied. To protect me? I doubt it.

He had an ulterior motive to do it. I had to find out, but carefully. Now that he found me, he would be watching me in case the incident happened again.

I connected the small door with all the disappearances that took place in the past years. A strong feeling that a clue was hiding there stroked me and hunt me for some time. There were days when I only thought about it. I wanted to know what was at the other side of that door. But most of all, why the priest lied to my parents. I even dreamed I was in front of the door one more time. The church was dark, although it wasn’t nighttime. There were no images, just a space with a curtain in the end. When I reached the doorknob and opened the door, all I could see was pitch darkness. I crouched inside a few inches, but a horrible stench shot me, preventing me to go forward. I heard a buzz and thought of flies. But then a tiny voice, almost imperceptible spoke in my ears: “It was him”.

I awoke at three in the morning with the sound of thunder. My heart pounding so fast like it was going out of my chest. My room’s windows were open and I hurried to close them. I sat on my bed trying to process the dream.

“It was him”- the voice said. Who?

I couldn’t go back to sleep.

Maybe the priest was hiding something behind the small door. I couldn’t forget about the kidnappings, without any explanation as other people had done. There wasn’t a day I wouldn’t think about those children. I could’ve been one of them.

The next Sunday, I decided to check the small door when the mass finished. I had to wait, for precaution, that everyone left. But we all had a surprise that morning.

Everyone was puzzled to see another man standing at the podium. He announced there has been an accident on Friday night. On the morning of Saturday, the former priest was found injured on his bed. He was transported to a hospital in the city and they were waiting for his recovery. We were stunned to hear that. After all, in such small-town news like that travel as fast as the light. But apparently, nobody knew about Friday night’s incident.

When the mass ended, I was still convinced to search behind the door. I waited until the area was cleared up. I saw mom and dad went to ask the new priest for the health of the previous one.

I pulled the curtain and found the small door sealed.

Hundreds of questions were spinning in my mind. I felt the pressure on my chest. but managed to stay calm. I went outside carefully, trying not to get undesirable attention. My parents were looking for me.

The way home was silent, as usual. None of us mentioned the “accident” of the priest.

All I could think about was the sealed door, the vanishing of the kids, the sudden replacement of the priest. Nothing made sense. Everything was like a part of a script of a horror movie.

The former priest died a few days later. The kidnappings that took place during his years of service were forgotten. I thought it was “convenient” that he had an accident and the blocked door only intrigued me more. Maybe he was responsible, maybe he kept his victims inside a chamber under the church. You know I always had a strange feeling when he spoke. But I never told my parents about my suspicion. After all, nobody would distrust a “man of god”.

END