In the late 90s, James lived in the small town of Bolton, located in a corner of the northern coast where the heat of the Magda River blended with the military dread that drifted down from the Maria Mountains.
At that time, the town was a war zone; the shadows of terrorist groups moved through the wilderness, imposing a law of silence that could be felt even in the air one breathed.
James had an uncle named Arthur, a blurred figure in his memory. He had only seen his face in photographs, for when Arthur disappeared at the height of the armed conflict, James was just a child playing in the yard. However, his uncle's name lingered in the house like a foul odor that no one wanted to clean.
Through fragmented conversations and phrases dropped by his family, James had gathered that his uncle Arthur had not died as an innocent victim. Rumors said that Arthur had become involved with one of those subversive groups, but his end did not come from an enemy bullet. He had been killed by his own illegal militants in the heart of the jungle, for internal reasons that the family seemingly preferred to keep under lock and key—perhaps out of a shame that weighed heavier than grief.
But Arthur's stain ran deeper. James knew his uncle had been no saint. He had also heard stories about one of his cousins. The mere mention of Arthur's name was enough to transform her face, shifting from hatred to terror and back again in a second. Apparently, an act or an attempted sexual assault had been perpetrated by him against her. Everything James knew, he had simply overheard from his surroundings; the elders always kept their lips sealed.
One early morning, while the town slept under the watch of the crickets, James woke up feeling as though someone had crossed the entrance to his room. Lying on his side, with his eyes half-open, he heard a voice that did not belong to the present. A man's voice, mature and dry, which pronounced with terrifying clarity both his first and middle names together:
—“James Andruw,” it whispered.
James froze. No one at home called him that; to everyone, he was simply James.
James turned over, but he saw only shadow in the absolute darkness. He felt a cold that didn't come from the river breeze, but rather one that was born deep within his bones. Right then, he remembered what the old women in town used to say: “If you answer the invisible, you bind yourself to its sorrow.” So, he simply squeezed his eyes shut and curled into himself, seeking refuge beneath his sheets. The silence that followed was so heavy that he could almost hear the beating of his own heart thumping against the mattress.
That call came from the blood, from a past that refused to die and that, from the lower astral plane, sought a witness to return the existence that sin and evil had stripped away.
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