A Second Visit from Saint Michael - A Halloween Story

"Of course," he said, "we do not expect you to bid on something sight unseen."

Two men, also with their faces unmasked, came onto the stage and stood on either side of the struggling young woman. Both had knives in their hands, and they began cutting the clothing from her body. Her muffled cries became more frantic as they sawed through the tough fabric. In a few moments, the blouse and dress-- or what was left of them-- was lying on the floor at the girl's feet. The two then set about cutting through the several layers of home-made slips and petticoats which had been beneath the dress. Soon those garments joined the dress on the floor.

The girl's undergarments were also homespun and homemade. Below the waist she was wearing what appeared to be a loose-fitting pair of old-fashioned pantloons, which looked somewhat like a baggy pair of men's boxer shorts. There was no elastic at the waist, but instead they were held in place by a rough-looking, twine drawstring.

The men cut the drawstring and the pants began sliding down off the girl's body. She spread her knees attempting to keep the bloomers in place, but they continued to slide downward until her hairy crotch was showing just above the waistband. The two men then reached in with their knives and cut the sides from the shorts, allowing them to fall to the floor.

Above the waist, she was wearing a homemade brassier which was not much more than a couple of soft pouches which covered, but did not support, her breasts. When she felt the cold of the knives on her shoulders beneath the bra straps, she renewed her struggles. Those struggles became even more frantic as the knives moved to her sides and the cloth was cut from her body.

She was now totally naked. "I present to you," the rough-looking man said loudly, "Lot Number One!" He then pulled the bag from the struggling naked woman's head.

Her eyes were wild with fear as she struggled in her bonds. There was a knotted piece of fabric wrapped around her face with a large knot tied in it that was centered in the her mouth. One of the men reached his knife up alongside her ear and cut upward through the fabric. She spit the bundle of cloth out of her mouth and immediately began screaming.

"Silencio!" the man screamed. "Silencio!" he repeated. The third time he said it, his arm slashed out and a whip of some sort slapped across the girl's front." "Silencio! Silencio! Silencio!" the man continued to command. Each time he screamed out the word, he slashed with the whip in his hand.

The whip appeared to be a piece of leather about three inches wide and three or four feet long. The last two feet of the leather was split into two smaller straps with about a quarter-inch gap between them. The man did not seem to be very accomplished with the whip and struck rather wildly, but the leather still made a loud smacking pop when it struck flesh, causing the girl to yelp and scream in pain.

Finally the pain of the whip and the repeated cry of "Silencio!" had the desired effect and the girl was reduced to more or less quiet whimpering. Her body was shaking violently as she forced herself to be quiet despite the shame and pain she was feeling.

"And see," the man said to the crowd, "she can be trained. A month from now she will be doing whatever you desire and thanking you for the privilege of doing it.

The man then moved on to the second girl, leaving the first staring wide-eyed out at the masked faces staring back at her.

The second girl was already trembling in fear before the knives began stripping away her clothing. Her body vibrated and bounced as the men cut away her many layers of clothing, but she had heard the cries of "Silencio!" and more importantly had heard the sound of the whip striking bare flesh, so she remained silent.

Once she was totally naked, the man ripped the cloth hood from her head and loudly announced, "I give to you, Lot Number Two."

The men with knives then cut the gag from her mouth. Unlike the first girl, she did not spit the cloth from her mouth and remained quiet even after it was removed.

"Do you see how well they learn," the man said with a self-satisfied smile and chuckle. "Señor Cortez spares no expense or trouble in acquiring the best for you." He stepped slightly forward and said, "I am sure that your bids will reflect the quality of this merchandise."

He then stepped back in front of the third girl. "This is Lot Number Three," he said almost matter-of-factly. When the men began cutting the dress from her body, a puddle of liquid suddenly formed under her body as she lost control of her bladder.

The forked whip struck three times as the man screamed something at her in Spanish which I could not understand. Her gagged screams could be heard with each blow of the whip. Once she was totally naked, the man said gruffly, "Turn her."

The two men with knives opened up the wrist restraints which held the young woman to the frame and forcefully spun her in place so that she now faced the frame. They then re-closed the restraints.

The man with the whip stepped slightly to the side and flailed seven times with the forked whip. Fourteen welts appeared across the girl's back. When he was finished, she was practically lying across the top of the frame.

The men with knives cut the gag from her mouth and she began to scream. Once again the man yelled out, "Silencio!" and the whip slashed across her ass. A red double welt immediately appeared on her ass cheeks.

Her screams became louder and the man responded with another cry of "Silencio!" and another lash of the whip. He continued to repeat his command and his slash of the whip. "Silencio! Silencio! Silencio! Silencio! Silencio! Silencio!" he screamed as he brought the whip down again and again and again on the unfortunate young girl's ass.

I am not sure if she was eventually able to control her voice or just passed out from the pain, but she was finally reduced to silence and lay unmoving over the top of the frame.

The man turned to face the audience and said, almost apologetically, "Some merchandise is a little more high-spirited than others, but once you have broken their will, they make excellent slaves."

He chuckled slightly as he moved on to the next girl. She stood docilely as the two men cut the clothing from her body. When her hood and gag were removed, she remained quiet, staring out into the crowd as if she were in shock.

The next two girls also remained quiet, but their eyes were not blank like the fourth girl's had been. Their eyes were filled with fear as they stood naked and trembling before the men who would bid on them and purchase them like cattle.

After the first six girls were naked, the two men sheathed their knives and spent a few minutes picking up the cloth that littered the stage at the girls' feet. One of them used a bundle of the cloth to wipe up the piss from between the third girl's legs.

As they were working, I noticed that all six girls were exactly the same height and weight. They also had identical body shapes. There seemed to be very slight differences to their faces, but I would be very hard-pressed to tell them apart. It was obvious that they came from a closed genetic pool indicative of a remote village with very little interaction with the outside world.

The seventh girl, however, was taller. Her skin, though still brown, was much lighter. Even without the obviously store-bought clothing, it was apparent she was not from the same village as the other six girls.

It was not just her skin color or height or clothing that told me she wasn't from the same village, however. I knew for sure that the seventh girl was not from the same village because even without seeing her face, I knew that the seventh girl was my Maria.

When the men with knives moved to stand on either side of her, I nearly threw up. If I had a weapon, I would have rushed the stage and taken her to safety. Even with just a plastic scythe in my hands, I felt myself starting to rise out of my chair, but Saint Michael's words suddenly rang out in my mind. No matter who you see... no matter what is done to them... you must do NOTHING until the clock has struck the midnight hour. Do you understand that?"

I slumped back down into my chair. "Yes," I said aloud, "I understand."

Tears were wetting the inside of my mask as I watched the two goons cut Maria's clothing from her body. As her jeans fell to the floor, I could see bruises on her legs. After the panties were gone, the double welt pattern of the rough man's long whip was obvious on the sides of her hips. It looked as if she had been whipped badly from behind and the tips of the whip had curled around her ass to strike the sides of her hips.

"We have a special addition to our auction tonight," the man said. "She is a gringo reporter who was snooping around trying to find out who we were." He laughed. "I think," he said with almost a snarl, "that we should let her see her future owners."

With that he reached forward and snatched the bag from her head. Surprisingly, she was not gagged, but her eyes had that faraway look of a beaten dog. She stared out at the masked crowd for a moment with a blank expression on her face. Then her face suddenly changed. Her mouth became firm and set and she stood upright in her restraints. There was now fire in her eyes. She was badly beaten, but she was not yet broken.

Standing there with her hood in his hands, the man said, "Perhaps someone would like to come forward and sample this tasty piece of merchandise and tell us if she is worth bidding on."

I don't know if it was my fear of Saint Michael or my fear that I might lose Maria if I acted too soon, but something kept me in my seat. I wanted to run up on that stage. I wanted to save her from the terror she was experiencing. But it was not yet midnight.

My hands were gripping the table so strongly that I was nearly lifting it off the ground. I could feel my muscles quivering as I kept repeating to myself over and over again, "Midnight. Midnight. Midnight. Midnight. Midnight."

Maria screamed once again and I looked back at the stage. The MC, or whatever he was, now had his hand nearly buried between her legs. "This one's not a virgin," he said with a sneer. "But she is VERY expendable."

He smiled out at the crowd, but it was still more sneer than smile. Then he said, "In fact, it would be best if she were used up and disappeared so that she could never be found. That alone should make her desirable to some of you."

Maria screamed again. This time it was more of a wail than a scream. It was the last plea of someone who knew that they had just been condemned to death and would soon die horribly-- alone and forgotten.

Then I heard it. I didn't remember seeing a clock tower anywhere on the ranch, but I very clearly heard a tower clock begin to strike the hour. It rang the traditional chime and then began the slow bong, bong, bong, which counted out the hour.

I counted the bell strikes and stood up at ten. I started walking toward the stage, using the handle of my scythe like a long walking stick. By the time the sound of the final bell had faded away, I was standing directly in front of the stage.

The MC said brusquely, "I am sorry, Señor, but you will have to go back to your seat so we can start the auction."

In response I took off my mask.

"Maria," I said loudly.

Her eyes flew open. She stared at me for just a moment and then yelled out, "Michael, save me!"

The other six women on the stage began yelling in their strange Spanish. I could hear something that sounded like Morty and then something that sounded like Mickey Choo Choo. That was the same way Marvin Summerfield had described the cries of the women that night at his mansion.

I knew to whom they were calling out. They were calling for Saint Michael.

I stood motionless as I had been instructed to do. Maria called out again "Michael, save me."

My body wanted to rush up on that stage and release her, but my mind was somehow able to hold me in place as I followed his explicit instructions.

Maria called out once again. This time it was a wailing scream. "Michael, please!" she cried, "Save me!"

That's when everything stopped. Suddenly, all noise disappeared. Everyone was frozen in place. It was as if I were now standing in a wax museum.

"Take the women outside," came a voice from alongside me.

He was standing next to me. I watched in amazement-- or was it horror-- as Maria stepped out of herself and walked over to me. Her wax statue remained behind, but she was now beside me. Then the other six women on stage also emerged from their wax cocoons to join us.

"We need to leave," I said.

"All of them," came the voice from before and I turned to see the two dozen or so naked slaves step out of their kneeling wax statues and begin to walk over to me.

"Take them outside," he ordered. "I have work yet to do in here."

The women and I hurried out the front doors of the mansion. My stretch limo was waiting for me. So were eight or ten beat up pickup trucks and vans. One older gentleman in peasant clothing hurried up to me and said in very broken English, "He told us to come here tonight at midnight and that his padre would bring our daughters back to us. He has kept his word. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

All the while he was speaking he was pumping my hand furiously with both of his own. Something followed his 'thank you", but I couldn't catch what he said. I looked over at Maria and she told me, "He said something about a padre, but I couldn't catch most of it. It's a Spanish dialect I have never heard before."

"Who told you?" I asked him.

The peasant raised his weather-toughened face toward the sky and said "The Old One."

I wanted to ask him whom he meant. Hell, there couldn't be that many people in his village older than him. He looked to be somewhere way north of ninety. Actually, there were many things I wanted to ask him, but my driver was gesturing wildly to me that we had to go.

"Hurry!" I shouted. "Hurry! We don't have much time!"

I don't know if they could truly understand my words, but they understood my concern... and fear. I helped Maria into the limo and they hustled the naked women into the pickups and vans. We all then sped away from the mansion.

When we reached the main highway, my driver turned north. The remaining vehicles turned south.

As we headed back toward San Antonio, the driver spoke to us through the intercom. "There is clothing in the bag on the seat," he said. "Either a dress or a pair of jeans and a blouse...your choice. Shoes and sandals are on the floor. There's also underwear and a bra."

Maria dressed hurriedly. I was sure she would choose the jeans, since she almost never wore a dress. But to my surprise, she slipped the dress over her head. Noting my expression she said simply, "My ass is way too sore to squeeze back into a pair of jeans."

She then leaned against me and promptly fell asleep. I must have also fallen asleep because it seemed like only a few minutes later, rather than the hours I expected, when we pulled up at the entrance to the departure area at San Antonio International Airport.

The trip through the airport was, if anything, faster than before. A uniformed security officer met us and said, "I have been instructed to guide you through screening and insure that you are safely on the plane."

We had no baggage since all I had brought down with me was the Halloween costume and Maria's luggage was in storage at the hotel where she had been abducted. So, in minutes we were aboard the plane.

Once we were airborne, she turned to me and asked, "How did you manage that?"

"It's a very long story," I began, and started to tell her about my evening visit from Saint Michael.

"No," she cut me off. "How did you get us through the airport so fast?"

"Friends in high places,' I answered with a laugh. I then suggested that she should again sleep, or at least try to relax on our flight home.

Another limo-- smaller than the previous ones-- met us at the airport. I wasn't really expecting it, but a driver at the gate was holding up a sign that said, "Michael & Maria" and I asked him if he was there to pick us up.

He said he was and offered to get our luggage for us.

"We're traveling light," I answered. "There's no need for that."

As we started to pull away from the terminal, he slid the glass open between himself and us and asked, "Which apartment? Or do you want to go to the office?"

I started to tell him to take us to Maria's apartment, but she cut me off with, "The office. I have to get some things written down while they are still fresh in my mind."

Luckily I had my keys with me. Twenty minutes later we were both sitting at our desks typing feverishly. Her story was different than mine. They intersected at that horrible Halloween Party, but even then, there is a great deal of difference between watching someone tortured on stage and actually being that person enduring the torture.

After an hour or so, we had both written as much as we could in one sitting and were doing a first edit of our rough drafts. That's when he walked into the room. Neither of us had heard the door open, but suddenly he was there, walking across the office toward us.

"Thank you both," he said warmly. "These less-than-snakes knew that I couldn't act against them because they always, intentionally, took only six young women from the villages at a time."

I couldn't help myself. I repeated what Summerfield had told me during the interview. "You are powerless to act until the seventh voice calls your name for the third time on the Day of the Dead."

"Not powerless," he replied with a smile, "I can always act, but for something this powerful, yes, seven must call my name on the Day of the Dead."

He turned to Maria. "They took you because you were interfering. They had no worry that you would call upon me because you did not know of me."

He turned toward me and added, "That is why I had to send my priest in my place."

"Padre," I said aloud. "The old man said you promised that your padre would bring out their daughters." I stood in shock for a moment and then sputtered out, "But I'm not your priest!"

Again he smiled, this time accompanying that smile with a soft laugh. "Oh, yes, you are," he said, "even if you didn't know it."

He approached my desk and stood directly in front of me. "When you published the first story, you were speaking for me at my command." He cocked his head and said, "And since then, you have called to me on behalf of other people... or at least you called to me on behalf of one other person."

I must have looked very confused. "Do you not know what brought me to you the other night?" he asked. "When you were sitting there at your desk staring at where Maria should be sitting, you whispered a prayer to me. You were thinking about how your beloved was somewhere calling out to you, but you were powerless to act. The words you spoke were,'Saint Michael, save her.'"

Stepping back so that he could clearly see both of us, he said, "So, you see, you have spoken for me to the people. And you have brought the prayers of others to me on their behalf. Is that not what a priest is supposed to do?"

He became serious as he continued, "Even more importantly, being my priest makes you my presence when I'm not there. That means that what is said to you is said to me."

Gesturing toward Maria he continued, "So, when she cried out to you to save her, she was crying out to me. Her voice became the seventh voice calling out to me from that stage. The other women saw your robe and your scythe and thought it was me, so they also cried out."

He pointed directly at me and said, "Because you, my priest, were there, she and the other six women on the stage each cried out to me three times... and it was after midnight. It was the Day of the Dead."