The Headless Priest
It was a warm night of winter in San Pedro Perulapán, and I was coming very late, drunk and tired on Friday at midnight. I could barely remember where I was, or where I was going, I just fell down on the pavement and slept. A couple of hours later, some bells were ringing, and I woke up. I looked around; I was in a church that I didn’t recognize. It looked antique like the Colonial times. I merely took my hat off and sat on the closest empty chair. The priest was reciting in a language that I didn’t comprehend well. My grandma always said that 100 years ago, the churches celebrated the masses in Latin, but I wasn’t sure if it was that mythical language because I had never heard it before. The church seemed empty, and I tried going closer to the altar because I couldn’t see it. I felt the potent incense, and the smoke was considerably deep. The roof was completely dark from all the candles over the years. Plus, the saints on the walls, their faces seemed washed out or opaque. I ...