Hello! To all my amazing, Long Hauling friends!
You know who you are. You’re the ones making canes, supplements, naps, inhalers, wheelchairs, coughing, and more naps look sexy as hell! I see you, and I love you.
It’s been a while so I wanted to give you all an update on what’s been going on with little old me
First stop- I got Botox!
No shit. Doc uses it for Parkinson’s patients with seized limbs and it has been doing wonders with my tremors.
I’ll tell you this much- Botox was NOT on my long haul bingo card.
It’s amazing what a little bit of a watered down, precisely placed botulism can do for a fella’.
Here’s something I really love about this doctor. When I asked him if there are any potential risks, he said, “Well, I’m taking a substance that if I had 2 cups of it, I could kill everyone on the planet and I’m injecting it into your body. So yes, there are some risks.”
Did I mention I love this doctor?
I’ve had three rounds in my arm and leg. All with positive results and minimal side effects.
Abdominal tremors are a little trickier however. Doc has been very conservative with those because if I spasm while the needle is in my belly, all of a sudden he’s poking something really important.
So we started with a new muscle relaxer pill (Dantrium 50mg) that helped give me greater control of the abdominal spasms. It was enough that he was able to Botox my belly as well last time. So far the results there have been negligible, so we’re going to up the tummy dose when I go back this summer.
The other interesting treatment I’ve been trying for the last few months is something called Alpha Stimulation. Or as this Doc likes to say, every week I go hang out in his ‘Zen Den’.
I started this about the same time as my first round of Botox, so it’s hard to pinpoint exactly where the benefits are coming from. But I am feeling benefits.
To be fair, I’m spending an hour in dimly lit room, lying on a heated, vibrating, Biomat, enjoying soothing spa music, and having low level electrical pulses course through my brain via the little clippy things on my ears… I’m pretty sure the biggest risk here is falling asleep before the nurse comes back and forces me to leave.
But enough about that. Let’s just discuss something far more controversial.
Mayo Clinic.
I know a lot of people here have had very, Very, VERY (did I mention very?) mixed experiences with Mayo Clinic. Understand that when I say ‘mixed experiences’ I actually mean that more as anywhere from ‘Meh’ to ‘Fuck You Mayo, You Fucking Fuck!’
I understand both reactions. Really and for truly I do. This is a recounting of my experience and my takeaways. You are, of course, welcome to your own opinions in this matter.
I went there with an open mind and full realization that they did not have a cure. And I’m able to report that they delivered.
I spent a week there, and had a chance to see all the Ologists.
The trip was bookended with appts with my ‘main’ Mayo Dr, who I saw Monday and Friday. It was an exhausting week, and during my Friday visit the Dr commented on how much I had deteriorated. (Lots is the answer)
I passed (failed?) a Fibromyalgia test. The nurse first squeezed my thumb, demonstrating the amount of pressure she was going to apply to various points on my body. She then proceeded to Stab An Ice Pick into my knees, elbows, back, neck, and apologized every time I screamed.
Holy shit ballz! That was eye opening, both figuratively and literally.
My primary doc has now prescribed a Fibromyalgia med (Lyrica 50mg) to see if that eases some of the joint pain. I only started it this week, so nothing to report yet.
I asked all the Drs the same couple questions, and was pleased to get some honest answers out of most of them.
“Based on everything you have read and learned about this, what does your gut tell you the root cause might be?”
“If you were in my position, what would you be doing?”
‘Central Sensitization’ was often repeated as a possible cause, but that answer seems to toe the company line.
Some went a little more rogue and said that they suspected a hereto elusive disconnect in the signals between the brain and the body. And unfortunately, they have seen it with other post-viral conditions for decades and still don’t have a definitive cause or cure.
For the most part, I was already doing most of the things-they-would-be-doing, and keeping a more positive attitude than many thought they would have by this point.
A few of them pointed to a super intensive therapy dealio called the BEST program BEhavorial Shaping Therapy.
All except the Dr of Physical Therapy, who said I was nowhere near strong enough for it. Its PT, OT, Speech, Cognitive, and Talk therapy all rolled into one (horrible sounding) week. We agreed that in my current state the program would grind my bones to dust. But I’ll get there eventually.
My local therapists are researching to see if they can design a scaled down version as a stepping stone.
This next one will sound like a joke, but it isn't. At the end of the Friday visit with the ‘main’ Dr, the last thing she said to me on her way out the door was, “May the Force be with You.”
I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that from someone on my care team. Seriously. It filled my icy, icy heart with blood.
And my final takeaway from this week at Mayo Clinic was a deep and immense sense of gratitude for how truly fortunate I am.
Ive been saying for years that “it could be worse” and while I was there, rolling from appt to appt, everywhere I looked…I saw Worse.
It can be a pain to go to the bathroom. Get my canes out, lock the wheels on my chair, take my gloves off, stand up, hold myself up against the wall or partition, and try not to pee all over my pants…
But I can do it by myself. And thats more than a lot of people I saw can say.
That and so many more examples of Things-I-Can-Still-Do really helped keep my perspective in check.
To all my Long Hauling, Never Quitting, Warrior Champion Friends!
Please don’t stop fighting. I know you’re tired. I know it sucks.
We can’t control the medical world.
We can’t control the media.
We can’t control other people’s opinions.
All we can control is our attitude and our dedication. So continue to do Every-God-Damn-Thing you can do to make yourself Faster, Stronger, Smarter, and Better. Make it to tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.
We also can’t control the future, but if we bust our asses every today, eventually the future will unfold around us, and we will know in our hearts that wherever we are, however we feel, we Earned the right to be there.
And to all the caretakers!
All the caregivers. The spouses, the partners, friends, kids, siblings, neighbors, and whomevers.
Thank you. Thank you so much. This would be so much harder without you in our corner.
I see you all I love you all.
Strength and Health
COVID is Stoopid

1
August 1st, 1833. The accounts I shall leave here are my last hopes of instilling belief in people regarding the realm of darkness. Evil. It exists.
Lying, stealing, killing - human wickedness, sin, a legacy bequeathed to us by "Them". For years, I have absolved sinners and heard abominable things that only the Lord God forgives. I, a wretched human, would not forgive. In the confessional of the church of San Juan, through the square holes of the wooden booth, I heard things that should never have been spoken, much less done. And the atrocities confessed would likely never be uncovered.
Cruelty, malevolence, barbarity. Devices embedded within the human brain. They are tools for extreme situations, where we do not know when we can, or should, use them. But they are there, ready to be shot. Armed like the needle 1 cm from the chamber in a revolver, waiting for the trigger to be pulled. However, I do not recognize these mechanisms as defense. The things I heard... There was no defense in that. There was only sadism, only madness.
As I stated in this document, I want you to contemplate the essence of evil. Therefore, I shall break the sacramental seal and illustrate my theory above with a confession I heard.
On a Tuesday morning, a strong and hoarse male voice filled the wooden cabin. The man made no sound as he sat on the other side of the thin partition. I froze when he told me he was there to confess because he was under a death threat. It was a weary voice. Without seeing him, I could envision his scars and wounds all over his body. That man had flirted with death for a long time. The raspy voice asked me if it was necessary to describe the details; I told him to follow his heart. Shortly thereafter, the man began a grotesque tale, in which he killed, dismembered, and scattered the body of his rival's daughter around the vicinity of the adversary's house, all after raping her. And he had done this because the enemy had killed his brother.
What struck me was the calmness with which that individual recounted the events to me and simply asked me to absolve him. Of course, it wouldn't be me who would absolve him; it would be God. But what if I didn't make that connection with heaven?
That said, I can say that "They" have adapted. “They” have ceased to dwell in the shadows and have taken advantage of our flawed mechanism. They've infiltrated. They've taken over. They exploited the gap, the small fissure between light and darkness that trickles from the human mind. They live among us. And at times, we don't even perceive them.
And "They" are evil. Sin. Malevolence, or simply put, darkness. Yes, darkness. That's how I would sum it up. A kind that no human savagery can surpass or even remotely equal. Something that leads to the absence of light and hope.
Darkness, in its purest form —if that can be said — now accompanies me. It accompanies me on a dark path, like being in a tunnel with no light at the end.
As they must have accompanied Lisa Martin.
2
The Santa Madre convent is no different from others around the world.
Perched atop Mount Los Cuervos, the grand mansion that housed around 8 nuns was built about 150 kilometers from the village of San Juan. Both the convent and the village reached their 121-year mark three months ago —it was quite a celebration. As it always had been.
As ancient as the village itself, the oldest inhabitant of the convent, Sister Roselin, carries out her activities there. She never disclosed her age in the times I encountered her, but she always countered the question with, "If a predator were to run at the speed of my years of life, you'd be in big trouble." She is a gentle and kind woman, welcoming all the women who need a home and carry God in their hearts.
I'm not saying that Lisa Martín didn't deserve to enter Santa Madre, but I have some deep-seated doubts about the girl. In the sixteen years that I've been able to observe her, she was has been quite a peculiar girl to me. It might be an exaggeration to call her special — or maybe not?
My name is George Yahn. I'm a priest in a small town lost in the middle of Mexico. My age doesn't matter - paraphrasing the Mother: a prey running at the speed equivalent to my age is fast, but not fast enough to escape Sister Roselin's predator. I must confess I quite enjoyed the comparison...
What I am about to relate comes from my experience with the girl and the community, from my last visit to the convent, and unfortunately, from these recent days locked in my quarters; sharing my total satisfaction and madness with a new friend. —And from a book, found amidst the blood.
Before I continue, I have to make it clear: I LIVED IN THIS MADNESS FOR 5 DAYS. And maybe it's due to the catastrophic state I find myself in now, but I tell you... He protects me. I'm certain He doesn't want me alive, yet He's shielding me from the lesser ones, He won't let those little demons kill me — not yet. I'm almost certain it's because of this confession I'm making. Maybe I'm still alive only to finish this cursed account.
A question that arose in me this past week was: "Can He live alone?" This is one of many inquiries I couldn't resolve. I no longer know what 2+2 is... I don't even know how I manage to write; it must be Him, He must be having fun with this. Watching this poor soul rack his brain. Me, the candle, the cross, and the moonlight.
I have more questions. And I asked Him.
Silent.
Just laughing.
Damned.
With that smile that continues to disturb me in an unsettling manner. A smile from ear to ear, that stretches open as if two cranes were lifting each corner of the lip, making way for a fleshy, gray gum. How can he have such white teeth?
And there He stands in the corner of the room, gazing at me, with those manic eyes, eyes that seem to have no end, an entrance to a dark tunnel, a bottomless pit that, if you stop to look, you end up finding your reflection in it. Not like a mirror you have in the bathroom, but a reflection so deep that it's as if you step out of your body and into an immense void, a void where shadows have shadows and silence echoes. And you're there, staring at yourself. Hours, hours, and hours. And his eyes don't blink; the eyelids seem to be pulled back by invisible threads. And he contemplates your despair alongside you. The moments spent looking into those morbid sockets are mournful, ethereal moments, where minutes don't count, and hours don't pass. Where the insistent desire to return to yourself only grows.
I've spoken too much. But the eyes of that maniac in the corner of my room leave you like this, as I am, utterly under the control of mental faculties. And I'm even grateful to Him. After all, He controlled my demons. Didn't He?
But getting back to what really matters. —I don't have much time to talk about myself, a man who gazes at the moon and sets the flesh aflame.
Focus.
3
Lisa Martín was born in San Juan, on Callon Street. The daughter of Benice María and José Martín, she had a younger sister named Naría, a few years her junior.
My first encounter with Lisa was at her baptism; her parents arrived with her late. The waters that John the Baptist poured over Jesus Christ fell upon the girl only at the age of 3 —or was it 4? I never knew the reason for the delayed baptism; José never told me. I want it to be recorded.
From the moment José stepped into the church with the girl in his arms, she cried, cried inconsolably. —No, it was Benice who entered with her in her arms, right? Attempts to soothe her were unsuccessful. As I poured the water over her head, she cried, not as if she were trying to get attention or was hungry. She cried as if she felt pain, as if the water burned her skin. In 28 years as a priest, it was the first time I had seen such a thing happen.
There at the baptism, I felt that she would be different. Black and silky hair, tan skin, and...
Years later, Naría visited me at the church. The younger sister was also baptized a bit late, and unlike the elder, she didn't cry.
On Naría's baptism day, I joked with José: "It must have been the mustache or the color of the shirt you were wearing years ago, something was wrong to make the other girl cry..." —That day, we laughed. Today, the displeasure of connecting the dots isn't worth this memory.
The story may be more complex than it seems. It might be more complex than just a girl with family issues and difficulties at school. Perhaps she was truly haunted by the monsters that torment me now. Maybe she lost the battle against her demons.
This is a war of catastrophic levels. Once fought, one side dies, and the other, if it survives, receives the grand prize of irreparable scars.
I didn't even start this war. I surrendered all too easily. I regret not having faith in the one I had been devoted to for over 20 years. I am weak, I admit.
I faltered from the moment I thought about touching or experiencing that scent, the scent that reminded me of Lupita... A radiance that resembled the moonlight.
But Lisa fought. She didn't give up as easily as I did, I'm sure. She truly believed in God the Father and devoted her soul solely and exclusively to Him —in a way that in all my life I never came close to. That's why I think labeling her a martyr wouldn't be a mistake.
Lisa spent her childhood playing in the dirt streets of the poor Mexican village, dusty and barren. The village of San Juan relies primarily on mining. —The people here are skilled with metals and coal.
She grew up as a normal girl, I would say. "Ring-a-Ring o' Roses," "Hopscotch," "Blind Man's Bluff", games that, from what I saw, were constant and trivial. Nothing that the other girls hadn't done. Benice and José raised their daughters with care. Despite being poor, they were very fair and honest. José is a hardworking miner who works hard to support the family, and Benice is an excellent cook; she makes the best pastries in the region, I can vouch for that.
I didn't get close to the two sisters during their childhood. In the square in front of the church where they played, there were many people passing by during the day, inevitably watching the children. And by evening, the little ones went home. But I could observe them from the window of this room where I am now.
In early adolescence, Lisa stood out from the others. While the other girls continued to meet on the streets, she stayed indoors day and night. The few times she left home were to go to the grocery store or run some other errand for her mother. She always went out on Tuesdays and Thursdays, wearing the same outfit; a brown skirt and a beige shirt. Almost always at the same time and always came back with a bag in her hand. To the bakery, perhaps?
She never went out at night, always staying at home, while the other girls in the neighborhood went out to socialize. The square would start to empty by late afternoon, and the girls would gather to gossip or whatever they did. Naría, her sister, attended these gatherings, but she never took Lisa with her.
There was only one occasion, once a year, when Lisa went out at night; the San Juan festival.
Every year, she would go out with her family and come to the church square where there were food stalls, games, and bingo. The stalls formed a circle. In the center of the square, the residents would set up a large bonfire, and around it, there would be dancing and singing. All the children would run and play around there, but Lisa never strayed from her parents, always appearing reserved, shy, yet always wearing a blue and white dress that revealed her knees.
As I have the duty to be officiating during the festival, chatting with the ladies, and blessing the food, I always observed her from a distance, until then.
This year's festival was a bit different; Naría invited her to play blind man's bluff. Or was it hide and seek? This year she separated from her parents and went out to have fun with the other girls.
This year I finally could smell… I could feel… I could tou
I saw her running from inside the church. And returning to the friends group. We She had been there for a while playing hide and seek. She didn't have time to win, people could find out.
I was pleased with the girl's progress, she went out to play on her own, but there was something strange behind it, wasn't there?
After the festival, I went several weeks without seeing the girl, and that's when I began my investigation.
4
The festival was six three months ago, so I guess that's right; I started two weeks ago. Carefully, I descended to Pracito Street and questioned... Rosa, a girl of... 13 17 years who lived two or eight houses behind the Martíns, and she told me this: "Naría and Lisa didn't get along very well. We, the other girls, don't know, we've spent hours talking about it. We saw them together a few times, and when we did, they didn't talk much. We knew Lisa because Naría brought her to the little square a few times. I think it was Mrs. Benice's wish, she always worried about her daughter. That much we know. The two were very different."
My mind clicked like dry wood in a fire. I hadn't put that into my thesis. Where did the sister fit into the equation?— And then she continued: "Lisa used to stay at home. Praying, maybe... Talking to God was something she liked. The times Lisa went to the little square in the late afternoon, she told us about that."
"They were different; Naría didn't like her praying. Other girls say Naría hangs out with those weirdos from downtown, and as everyone knows, they love the devil." Angela's The girl’s confession hit me in an immense way, the pieces coming together once again...
I talked to neighbors, aunt, friends, parents, all sorts of people. I gathered much more information than necessary. I wanted to detail the story of this girl more comprehensively. But I can't, I know I don't have time. My dear moon is hiding behind the clouds, it will soon fall behind the mountain. And He has given me too much time to write already, He's letting the others act. Damn it.
Draw your conclusions for now.
5
Every July, I always make a visit to the Santa Madre convent, at the request of the archdiocese from central Mexico, a routine task. Mount Los Cuervos is about a day's journey by cart. I had to muster up the courage to face the journey for the first time, and I did.
On the morning of July 26th, my ordeal began. The sun peered out from behind the dry mountains as I hitched a ride with a merchant heading from San Juan towards the center. The cool, smooth sand, despite its cracks, wouldn't be able to evade the powerful light that was about to flood those lands. True to form, that day turned out to be another sunny one, with temperatures around 40°C.
I recall that after a few hours of travel, the seats were as square as the wooden surface of Molinar's cart, the scrap dealer. The cart driver was taking his load to the center, which is 30 km beyond Mount Los Cuervos.
The man would look at me strangely from time to time; I felt as though he was judging me. Was it my unkempt beard? Or the intoxicated air? But as I hadn't paid for the ride, I didn't complain.
The sun was setting when the creaking and cracking of the cart ceased. Another peddler of trinkets, who goes to San Juan every fortnight to make sales, stopped us. The two cart drivers chatted while I was behind the cloth that covered the cart's wooden frame. Strangely, the peddler asked Molinar if he was passing through Los Cuervos, and Molinar said yes. Intrigued by the topic, I emerged from behind the cloth and joined the conversation. At that moment, the man twisted his face in astonishment, widened his eyes, opened his mouth, and gazed into the distance as if having an epiphany. He stopped, came back to himself, and looked at me again. I distinctly remember the man speaking with an altered voice, as if his throat had been slashed by cacti: —"You can't go there. You can't, Father! I don't know what to do. It's horrible. My God..." He gasped, gasped again, put his hands on his head, and rushed off to his cart. —"Don't go! I'm going to call the police! My God..."
Had he foreseen the future? Or was I already going mad? I am…
In any case, I hadn't paid much attention to the man. —God forgive me for that.— We left that cart driver surrounded by dust and immersed in his madness. Molinar and I exchanged glances; it had been truly strange, but I shrugged it off, and we continued our journey.
The night in the desert can be more treacherous than it seems, and it had been a while since I visited at such an early hour. The moon was high, and we were still on the road, the dust billowing behind the thick wooden wheel, which ground and bounced over the stones along the path. A sad and lonely howl of a coyote echoed in the distance. Sounds of rattlesnakes' rattles and the wail of the wind slid through the cold air. And the moon, oh, the moon... That night, it was so beautiful, radiant. With not a single cloud to obscure it, I observed it as my body jostled within the cart.
Both of us slept in the cart that night. And finally, in the afternoon of the 28th, I arrived at the convent.
6
In these last five days I've spent locked in my quarters at the church, despite the pain and chaos, I've pondered much about my life. Despite the hunger and thirst, I tried to reflect on what I've become, what motivated me to follow the twisted path I've tread. So far, nothing; I haven't found any answer that was, at the very least, satisfying. I have a subtle sense of regret, as if this feeling is under a vague shadow and appears timid in the presence of God's light, but God knows everything, and He knows too.
To hell with it. —how liberating it is to say that word out loud— Today, I'm 48 years old, of which 28 I've dedicated to serving God and the community of San Juan, celebrating masses, distributing communion wafers, performing baptisms, and granting confessions. —I expected that God would give me something in return for this, if not for my impoverished soul, at least for my actions in the community.
I was a normal child, you know? I played soccer with the neighborhood boys, smoked and drank secretly with them. Broke windows, shoplifted from Mr. Smith's store, talked behind my parents' backs, normal stuff, I suppose.
My father was a tough guy. The typical penny-pinching head of the household, who wouldn't budge an inch. A poor, God-fearing man who believed women were domestic tools and that things were done his way, amen.
He sported a thick mustache, leather boots, and tight jeans, cinched with a sturdy leather belt adorned with a silver buckle the size of a closed fist. He was more of a dreamy Missouri farmer. —I wish I had lived there. If my old man hadn't been so stingy and prideful as to tear the family apart... who knows.
In our region, there were mercenaries who demanded "security fees" from the farmers. My father refused to pay them, considering it absurd to hand over a calf's worth every month as tribute to those "thieving scoundrels, sons of bitches." I don't disagree with the old man's stance; it truly was absurd. But in the end, he got what he asked for. He didn't deserve it; he was a hardworking man who toiled to earn his land.
I remember one Christmas Eve night, we were having dinner together: my father, my two brothers, my mother, and I. While we were eating, we spotted flames in the barn where we kept the cattle outside. My father lost three-quarters of our herd and many fertile acres of land. He sold the land for a pittance and the remaining cattle for even less. We moved to Mexico. There, we had part of my father's family next to us. He bought land in a town near the capital, —far from San Juan. He spent more money than he expected to earn, and things went from bad to worse. It was there, on a Mexican ranch, that my father tried to teach me to be a man. It was there that the blacksmith forged a cracked sword.
My adolescence can be summarized as follows: an old grouch who didn't lift a finger for his children or his wife, regrets what he's done, and tries to get close again, hoping one of them would take over the cattle business. It could be a good drama movie, a reverse prodigal son story.
By the time I was approaching adulthood, my father was old, without a wife (she ran off with her lover), without children to take over the business, and in poor health. He began to say that God had forgotten him, that all the years of attending Mass and striving to put his children on the path of the church were in vain. After my youngest brother left home at 15, my father suffered his first curse, a shock that made him fall to the ground and foam at the mouth; surely, it was the devil's work, according to him. God wouldn't do that, I suppose. The calamity struck the left side of his body, leaving him paralyzed. My middle brother and I supported the household, working against our will in the old man's slaughterhouse and taking odd jobs elsewhere. I worked in three shifts—during the day in the family business and at night at Chincho's bakery. My middle brother had the same routine, but at night, he worked as a waiter at Viejos Bar.
Without a wife; his children no longer considered him a father; without a business; a God-fearing man became a cheap curser. He stopped attending Mass, forgot the times he forced his children to pray before meals, and to sing songs of glory throughout the house. —He sang well, I heard numerous scoldings and sermons to the tune of country music.
A man who raised his children with the Bible under his arm —literally; we narrowly escaped being smacked with a Bible when my brothers burped at the church door— forgot the divine path.
A God-fearing man turned to cursing the heavens and hell, took off the cross pendant he wore on his chest, removed crucifixes from the rooms, and set fire to the painting of Jesus' birth that hung in the living room — a beautiful painting depicting the Holy Family in the manger, with the three kings and the animals. (I think the influence for this last act came from his mother; the painting was hers.) But in any case, I couldn't fathom what was going on in the old man's mind.
A year later, my middle brother left at the age of 18, finding a better job in the city center and moving out. Then, the second curse befell the old man, a worse one; I can say my father was fortunate to survive, but not quite so fortunate... The second calamity left his right side paralyzed—he couldn't walk, gesture, or feed himself. Could there be anything worse? —For me, I mean.
And so, it was just him and me, me and him, in the house, sharing meals, baths, clothing changes, and medications for about two weeks. I couldn't bear it; it was repulsive, nauseating, to look at that old man's deformed, naked, and paralyzed body —it brought memories to the surface.
I "hired" an aunt of mine who lived in the city to take care of him. She didn't earn much; her financial situation must have been worse than my father's. Then I left home.
Unlike my brothers, I didn't find work in the city center, and I don't think being a bricklayer, carpenter, or painter is for me. Celibacy seemed the most viable path. I was in the center, penniless, homeless, wandering the streets and begging for alms. After a few days of misery, I remembered the seminary nearby. That's when a frivolous daring turned into reality.
A month after entering the seminary, I received news of my father's death. During the short time I spent among the brothers, I learned that God is good and would forgive him if my father had repented. As for me, I didn't do the same.
7
Perhaps, if I had had a better father figure, I wouldn't be in this 4x4 wooden room, with a single window, a bed, and a sink. Besides the desk I'm sitting at and a small image of Jesus. A damp, foul-smelling room full of empty bottles —I'm reeking terribly, but the sulfur smell coming from them is unbearable. If I had a better father, perhaps I wouldn't have become a priest. It was 28 years without permission to touch a woman. 28 years of celebrating masses, giving communion, and absolving sinners. —I pity those who confessed to me and believed themselves absolved of guilt. Perhaps God managed to listen, but I didn't put in the effort.
Maybe I should just leave everything behind; this desk, this candle —on its 6th working day— this pencil, these papers. Maybe I should go out, go to a bar, have a beer; who knows, maybe I'd find another job and start a normal life. Being a priest is not for me. The problem is that it took me 28 years and a demon wanting my soul to realize this.
He won't let me leave this room anymore, but it doesn't really matter either. I can't leave, I know I'm doomed. I curse this demon in my thoughts all the time, and he knows it. He lets out a muffled laughter between his disturbingly perfect white teeth. And he's doing it right now. He's moving his lips as his shadow extends toward me. This nameless demon has been with me since the convent, since I found the bodies, since I found the book. No... I remember... he was already there before. There where?
Since the festival?
I recall something I learned in the seminary, that knowing the demon's name would somehow help. "Pœnitentiam reverti." But anyway...
8
It was late afternoon when I reached the top of the hill. I left Molinar, the cart, and the bottles down at the foot of the mountain; he continued on to the center. My legs were trembling; that hill was more winding than it seemed. Could it be some kind of spell?
The sun was beginning to take on an orange hue. After a few unsuccessful attempts to open the front gate, I decided to jump over the fence that bordered the convent grounds. When I stood up on the inside of the fence,— I still have some bruises from the falling, even though the fence wasn't tall — the building in front of me was a church, the place where the sisters celebrated masses for special occasions.
I once witnessed a celebration led by Mother there. My masses usually last a maximum of 40 minutes, but that one seemed to stretch on for an eternity.
The small church was in order, paintings of Christ's crucifixion adorned the walls. I walked along the central aisle of pews and made my way to the altar; everything was neatly arranged. I entered the sacristy, no one was there. I went to the back room, still no one, no sounds; only the wind angrily pounding against the church wall. It felt strange, very strange.
The church was the entrance to the convent; to the right was the dining hall, and to the left, the main hall with the dormitories. The three buildings formed a "u" shape with an "i" in the middle (which was the church).
📷
I exited through the back door of the church and arrived at the passageway that connected the dining hall to the dormitories. There was a garden that adorned both sides of the passage, quite beautiful, with various flowers and a bit of low grass. There were benches and some tables, yet no one seemed to be enjoying the surroundings. The corridor was quite wide, and I took several dozen steps to reach the buildings.
I headed to the right, choosing to go towards the dining hall first. I walked down the long corridor as the wind sang a melancholic tune, whistling through the cement and brick structures. I paused for a moment in the garden, watching the flowers dance to the tune of the mournful breeze, and stayed there admiring the beauty. The flowers reminded me of Lupita... Wasn't that what you wanted to do with her? The dining hall door was a double solid wooden door that emitted a terrible noise as I wrestled with the worn-out, rusty hinges. Empty. —I'm not completely foolish; I knew something was wrong, I was sure of it. Did God warn them?
It's incredible how the human mind works against its own sanity in moments like that. Imagining shadows, hearing non-existent sounds, feeling nonexistent presences —of course, my mind wasn't functioning entirely at that moment. I didn't need to hide my fear; there was no one there, but I kept my composure.
Two enormous tables stretched across the dining hall, equally long benches flanked them. On the sturdy, dark tables, there was still food left; it seemed to be supper, with meat and bread still remaining on the embroidered tablecloth.
When I entered the kitchen, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows was still illuminating the area. The kitchen was in the same state as the dining hall, unfinished, as if something had been abruptly interrupted. Pots, vegetables, and pasta were scattered across the countertops, waiting for someone to finish the work. The reason for this neglect could have been an emergency meeting with the Mother Superior? Who knows. To me, it wasn't reason enough to leave everything and abandon the place. —but who am I to judge them? A not-quite-priest. I can judge them, but not absolve them.— I returned to the dining hall, passed through the creaking door, and went back to the corridor, heading towards the main hall and the dormitories.
Formless clouds cast their shadows over the hill; rain was imminent.
The stone corridor led me to the entrance of the main hall. The double wooden doors, identical to those of the dining hall, gave the impression that upon opening them, I would come face to face with the dirty kitchen once more. Unlike their twin, these doors didn't creak when opened. I entered the dim light of the place, a focused light coming from a single source, a skylight in the center of the hall. Directly beneath the skylight, there was a large cross that cast a shadow on the floor. The wooden windows high up on the wall were shut, allowing only thin slivers of light to filter through the gaps — lights as inconsequential as offering the host to a drunkard during a morning mass.
It took a while for my eyes to adjust. The place seemed larger. The hall had chairs scattered in front of me; the vast space resembled a disorganized graveyard, and the chairs looked like poorly placed tombstones. "Where is everyone?" was the question that persisted, the phrase felt like a boomerang bouncing back and forth in my mind. I stood in front of the door for quite some time, waiting for an answer.
When one of the last sunbeams passed over my eyes, I snapped out of it. It seemed like I was out of it, standing at the door, for about thirty minutes, I guess.
To reach the altar, I would have to take a few more steps. The elevated part of the place lay beyond the chaos of the disordered pews. I hesitated and followed slowly, taking cautious steps, groping in the darkness. The mixture of brown and black in the environment, combined with the scarce light, made my walk difficult. I expected to bump into something that wasn't there.
I stumbled for the first time, saw nothing; second time, still couldn't see anything; on the third, I stopped.
The sun had dipped below the mountains when I reached about 2/5 of the hall. I was truly taking slow, unsteady steps. Darkness engulfed the space, and I could barely see a bit more than an arm's length in front of me, aside from the eerie shadow of the cross that the skylight cast further ahead.
Since the moment I entered the convent, my mind seemed slower, operating in energy-saving mode. No, I remember... I had been feeling like that before... It started right after the festival.. My thoughts and senses had dulled, as if I had swapped brains with a sloth.I hadn't said anything, but I felt my thoughts sluggish and dragging, like a drunk person's speech. Yes, drunk. My body was slower too, which explains the delay in crossing from one wing to another through the corridor. When I became aware again, the moonlight was already climbing through the window gaps.
I continued to drag myself through the darkness.
The faint shadow of the cross was in front of me when I stumbled for the fourth time. It felt like I had kicked a sack of potatoes or a bundle of dirty clothes, I don't know, it felt warm and substantial. Was it on the way there or back? I blinked and shook my head, looked around again, and found nothing—no sack, no bundle, not even any other clutter I could have tripped over. Did I kick at thin air? No, I don't think so. My intoxicated state didn't allow me to think of anything supernatural at the moment; I just stumbled like a foolish drunkard. I think.
I resumed dragging my legs toward the stairs and stumbled again, but this time, I fell. A dry sound against the floor. I fell right in the middle of the room, under the feeble white spotlight, which contrasted minimally with the shadow of the cross. My head and chest were buzzing danger, clearly it had been a bad fall. I touched my forehead and felt something warm trickling through my fingers. My chest radiated a sensation of earthquake, my bones trembled restlessly. But I didn't feel pain.
Like a knife cut, a thought tore through the fog in my mind: "Why the hell was I skulking around like a thief in a convent?" — Hello! Is anyone there? The sound of the desperate question echoed like a castaway on a deserted island for five days, shouting to a ship hundreds of miles away, or perhaps it sounded more like a fierce bear roaring for the fish that got away? And that yelp was the only thing that dared to break the silence, before he regained control, vigorous.
The wind had ceased, perhaps the pages of the symphony had run out. Crickets chirped faintly in the distance. Inside, only my thoughts collided against my skull.
My hopeless cry for answers was startled by a dry thud of wood at the far end of the hall, behind the altar, within the darkness.
The noise came from where I couldn't see, beyond the wooden stairs. My body was too slow to startle, but a cold cube of ice slid down my spine.
The wind resumed its song outside, the second act of the performance had begun, the monosyllabic and howling sound clashing against the brick walls.
Inside there, emptiness. Every step that echoed on the wooden planks seemed to have a life of its own, amplifying the sound of my shoes.
I had finally ascended the stairs and reached the altar. I managed to touch the main table in front of me and could discern the shadow of a cross on the furniture. Strangely, the light of Christ's body was extinguished. Despite the darkness, I knew that, being near the main table, it should be possible to see the candle illuminating the tabernacle somewhere. —That the nuns were there, I already knew, but why was the light of the tabernacle extinguished?— Christ's body was unlit, and that's when I began to believe in that crazy carter who had stopped me earlier.
I circled around the main table and plunged into the darkness behind it. It was so dense, so sticky, I could almost touch it... no... it was that place... the darkness had nothing to do with it, darkness is the absence of light, simple. This was one step beyond, the blackness surrounding me, it was heavy, had a different smell, it was adhesive. It was darkness.
I extended my arms in front of me like a mummy, in fact, not just my arms, I walked like a mummy.
My hands touched the wall, revealing that the darkness behind the table wasn't endless. I had arrived in front of two doors, two portals to hell. And I wondered, which one should I try first.

1
August 1st, 1833. The accounts I shall leave here are my last hopes of instilling belief in people regarding the realm of darkness. Evil. It exists.
Lying, stealing, killing - human wickedness, sin, a legacy bequeathed to us by "Them". For years, I have absolved sinners and heard abominable things that only the Lord God forgives. I, a wretched human, would not forgive. In the confessional of the church of San Juan, through the square holes of the wooden booth, I heard things that should never have been spoken, much less done. And the atrocities confessed would likely never be uncovered.
Cruelty, malevolence, barbarity. Devices embedded within the human brain. They are tools for extreme situations, where we do not know when we can, or should, use them. But they are there, ready to be shot. Armed like the needle 1 cm from the chamber in a revolver, waiting for the trigger to be pulled. However, I do not recognize these mechanisms as defense. The things I heard... There was no defense in that. There was only sadism, only madness.
As I stated in this document, I want you to contemplate the essence of evil. Therefore, I shall break the sacramental seal and illustrate my theory above with a confession I heard.
On a Tuesday morning, a strong and hoarse male voice filled the wooden cabin. The man made no sound as he sat on the other side of the thin partition. I froze when he told me he was there to confess because he was under a death threat. It was a weary voice. Without seeing him, I could envision his scars and wounds all over his body. That man had flirted with death for a long time. The raspy voice asked me if it was necessary to describe the details; I told him to follow his heart. Shortly thereafter, the man began a grotesque tale, in which he killed, dismembered, and scattered the body of his rival's daughter around the vicinity of the adversary's house, all after raping her. And he had done this because the enemy had killed his brother.
What struck me was the calmness with which that individual recounted the events to me and simply asked me to absolve him. Of course, it wouldn't be me who would absolve him; it would be God. But what if I didn't make that connection with heaven?
That said, I can say that "They" have adapted. “They” have ceased to dwell in the shadows and have taken advantage of our flawed mechanism. They've infiltrated. They've taken over. They exploited the gap, the small fissure between light and darkness that trickles from the human mind. They live among us. And at times, we don't even perceive them.
And "They" are evil. Sin. Malevolence, or simply put, darkness. Yes, darkness. That's how I would sum it up. A kind that no human savagery can surpass or even remotely equal. Something that leads to the absence of light and hope.
Darkness, in its purest form —if that can be said — now accompanies me. It accompanies me on a dark path, like being in a tunnel with no light at the end.
As they must have accompanied Lisa Martin.
2
The Santa Madre convent is no different from others around the world.
Perched atop Mount Los Cuervos, the grand mansion that housed around 8 nuns was built about 150 kilometers from the village of San Juan. Both the convent and the village reached their 121-year mark three months ago —it was quite a celebration. As it always had been.
As ancient as the village itself, the oldest inhabitant of the convent, Sister Roselin, carries out her activities there. She never disclosed her age in the times I encountered her, but she always countered the question with, "If a predator were to run at the speed of my years of life, you'd be in big trouble." She is a gentle and kind woman, welcoming all the women who need a home and carry God in their hearts.
I'm not saying that Lisa Martín didn't deserve to enter Santa Madre, but I have some deep-seated doubts about the girl. In the sixteen years that I've been able to observe her, she was has been quite a peculiar girl to me. It might be an exaggeration to call her special — or maybe not?
My name is George Yahn. I'm a priest in a small town lost in the middle of Mexico. My age doesn't matter - paraphrasing the Mother: a prey running at the speed equivalent to my age is fast, but not fast enough to escape Sister Roselin's predator. I must confess I quite enjoyed the comparison...
What I am about to relate comes from my experience with the girl and the community, from my last visit to the convent, and unfortunately, from these recent days locked in my quarters; sharing my total satisfaction and madness with a new friend. —And from a book, found amidst the blood.
Before I continue, I have to make it clear: I LIVED IN THIS MADNESS FOR 5 DAYS. And maybe it's due to the catastrophic state I find myself in now, but I tell you... He protects me. I'm certain He doesn't want me alive, yet He's shielding me from the lesser ones, He won't let those little demons kill me — not yet. I'm almost certain it's because of this confession I'm making. Maybe I'm still alive only to finish this cursed account.
A question that arose in me this past week was: "Can He live alone?" This is one of many inquiries I couldn't resolve. I no longer know what 2+2 is... I don't even know how I manage to write; it must be Him, He must be having fun with this. Watching this poor soul rack his brain. Me, the candle, the cross, and the moonlight.
I have more questions. And I asked Him.
Silent.
Just laughing.
Damned.
With that smile that continues to disturb me in an unsettling manner. A smile from ear to ear, that stretches open as if two cranes were lifting each corner of the lip, making way for a fleshy, gray gum. How can he have such white teeth?
And there He stands in the corner of the room, gazing at me, with those manic eyes, eyes that seem to have no end, an entrance to a dark tunnel, a bottomless pit that, if you stop to look, you end up finding your reflection in it. Not like a mirror you have in the bathroom, but a reflection so deep that it's as if you step out of your body and into an immense void, a void where shadows have shadows and silence echoes. And you're there, staring at yourself. Hours, hours, and hours. And his eyes don't blink; the eyelids seem to be pulled back by invisible threads. And he contemplates your despair alongside you. The moments spent looking into those morbid sockets are mournful, ethereal moments, where minutes don't count, and hours don't pass. Where the insistent desire to return to yourself only grows.
I've spoken too much. But the eyes of that maniac in the corner of my room leave you like this, as I am, utterly under the control of mental faculties. And I'm even grateful to Him. After all, He controlled my demons. Didn't He?
But getting back to what really matters. —I don't have much time to talk about myself, a man who gazes at the moon and sets the flesh aflame.
Focus.
3
Lisa Martín was born in San Juan, on Callon Street. The daughter of Benice María and José Martín, she had a younger sister named Naría, a few years her junior.
My first encounter with Lisa was at her baptism; her parents arrived with her late. The waters that John the Baptist poured over Jesus Christ fell upon the girl only at the age of 3 —or was it 4? I never knew the reason for the delayed baptism; José never told me. I want it to be recorded.
From the moment José stepped into the church with the girl in his arms, she cried, cried inconsolably. —No, it was Benice who entered with her in her arms, right? Attempts to soothe her were unsuccessful. As I poured the water over her head, she cried, not as if she were trying to get attention or was hungry. She cried as if she felt pain, as if the water burned her skin. In 28 years as a priest, it was the first time I had seen such a thing happen.
There at the baptism, I felt that she would be different. Black and silky hair, tan skin, and...
Years later, Naría visited me at the church. The younger sister was also baptized a bit late, and unlike the elder, she didn't cry.
On Naría's baptism day, I joked with José: "It must have been the mustache or the color of the shirt you were wearing years ago, something was wrong to make the other girl cry..." —That day, we laughed. Today, the displeasure of connecting the dots isn't worth this memory.
The story may be more complex than it seems. It might be more complex than just a girl with family issues and difficulties at school. Perhaps she was truly haunted by the monsters that torment me now. Maybe she lost the battle against her demons.
This is a war of catastrophic levels. Once fought, one side dies, and the other, if it survives, receives the grand prize of irreparable scars.
I didn't even start this war. I surrendered all too easily. I regret not having faith in the one I had been devoted to for over 20 years. I am weak, I admit.
I faltered from the moment I thought about touching or experiencing that scent, the scent that reminded me of Lupita... A radiance that resembled the moonlight.
But Lisa fought. She didn't give up as easily as I did, I'm sure. She truly believed in God the Father and devoted her soul solely and exclusively to Him —in a way that in all my life I never came close to. That's why I think labeling her a martyr wouldn't be a mistake.
Lisa spent her childhood playing in the dirt streets of the poor Mexican village, dusty and barren. The village of San Juan relies primarily on mining. —The people here are skilled with metals and coal.
She grew up as a normal girl, I would say. "Ring-a-Ring o' Roses," "Hopscotch," "Blind Man's Bluff", games that, from what I saw, were constant and trivial. Nothing that the other girls hadn't done. Benice and José raised their daughters with care. Despite being poor, they were very fair and honest. José is a hardworking miner who works hard to support the family, and Benice is an excellent cook; she makes the best pastries in the region, I can vouch for that.
I didn't get close to the two sisters during their childhood. In the square in front of the church where they played, there were many people passing by during the day, inevitably watching the children. And by evening, the little ones went home. But I could observe them from the window of this room where I am now.
In early adolescence, Lisa stood out from the others. While the other girls continued to meet on the streets, she stayed indoors day and night. The few times she left home were to go to the grocery store or run some other errand for her mother. She always went out on Tuesdays and Thursdays, wearing the same outfit; a brown skirt and a beige shirt. Almost always at the same time and always came back with a bag in her hand. To the bakery, perhaps?
She never went out at night, always staying at home, while the other girls in the neighborhood went out to socialize. The square would start to empty by late afternoon, and the girls would gather to gossip or whatever they did. Naría, her sister, attended these gatherings, but she never took Lisa with her.
There was only one occasion, once a year, when Lisa went out at night; the San Juan festival.
Every year, she would go out with her family and come to the church square where there were food stalls, games, and bingo. The stalls formed a circle. In the center of the square, the residents would set up a large bonfire, and around it, there would be dancing and singing. All the children would run and play around there, but Lisa never strayed from her parents, always appearing reserved, shy, yet always wearing a blue and white dress that revealed her knees.
As I have the duty to be officiating during the festival, chatting with the ladies, and blessing the food, I always observed her from a distance, until then.
This year's festival was a bit different; Naría invited her to play blind man's bluff. Or was it hide and seek? This year she separated from her parents and went out to have fun with the other girls.
This year I finally could smell… I could feel… I could tou
I saw her running from inside the church. And returning to the friends group. We She had been there for a while playing hide and seek. She didn't have time to win, people could find out.
I was pleased with the girl's progress, she went out to play on her own, but there was something strange behind it, wasn't there?
After the festival, I went several weeks without seeing the girl, and that's when I began my investigation.
4
The festival was six three months ago, so I guess that's right; I started two weeks ago. Carefully, I descended to Pracito Street and questioned... Rosa, a girl of... 13 17 years who lived two or eight houses behind the Martíns, and she told me this: "Naría and Lisa didn't get along very well. We, the other girls, don't know, we've spent hours talking about it. We saw them together a few times, and when we did, they didn't talk much. We knew Lisa because Naría brought her to the little square a few times. I think it was Mrs. Benice's wish, she always worried about her daughter. That much we know. The two were very different."
My mind clicked like dry wood in a fire. I hadn't put that into my thesis. Where did the sister fit into the equation?— And then she continued: "Lisa used to stay at home. Praying, maybe... Talking to God was something she liked. The times Lisa went to the little square in the late afternoon, she told us about that."
"They were different; Naría didn't like her praying. Other girls say Naría hangs out with those weirdos from downtown, and as everyone knows, they love the devil." Angela's The girl’s confession hit me in an immense way, the pieces coming together once again...
I talked to neighbors, aunt, friends, parents, all sorts of people. I gathered much more information than necessary. I wanted to detail the story of this girl more comprehensively. But I can't, I know I don't have time. My dear moon is hiding behind the clouds, it will soon fall behind the mountain. And He has given me too much time to write already, He's letting the others act. Damn it.
Draw your conclusions for now.
5
Every July, I always make a visit to the Santa Madre convent, at the request of the archdiocese from central Mexico, a routine task. Mount Los Cuervos is about a day's journey by cart. I had to muster up the courage to face the journey for the first time, and I did.
On the morning of July 26th, my ordeal began. The sun peered out from behind the dry mountains as I hitched a ride with a merchant heading from San Juan towards the center. The cool, smooth sand, despite its cracks, wouldn't be able to evade the powerful light that was about to flood those lands. True to form, that day turned out to be another sunny one, with temperatures around 40°C.
I recall that after a few hours of travel, the seats were as square as the wooden surface of Molinar's cart, the scrap dealer. The cart driver was taking his load to the center, which is 30 km beyond Mount Los Cuervos.
The man would look at me strangely from time to time; I felt as though he was judging me. Was it my unkempt beard? Or the intoxicated air? But as I hadn't paid for the ride, I didn't complain.
The sun was setting when the creaking and cracking of the cart ceased. Another peddler of trinkets, who goes to San Juan every fortnight to make sales, stopped us. The two cart drivers chatted while I was behind the cloth that covered the cart's wooden frame. Strangely, the peddler asked Molinar if he was passing through Los Cuervos, and Molinar said yes. Intrigued by the topic, I emerged from behind the cloth and joined the conversation. At that moment, the man twisted his face in astonishment, widened his eyes, opened his mouth, and gazed into the distance as if having an epiphany. He stopped, came back to himself, and looked at me again. I distinctly remember the man speaking with an altered voice, as if his throat had been slashed by cacti: —"You can't go there. You can't, Father! I don't know what to do. It's horrible. My God..." He gasped, gasped again, put his hands on his head, and rushed off to his cart. —"Don't go! I'm going to call the police! My God..."
Had he foreseen the future? Or was I already going mad? I am…
In any case, I hadn't paid much attention to the man. —God forgive me for that.— We left that cart driver surrounded by dust and immersed in his madness. Molinar and I exchanged glances; it had been truly strange, but I shrugged it off, and we continued our journey.
The night in the desert can be more treacherous than it seems, and it had been a while since I visited at such an early hour. The moon was high, and we were still on the road, the dust billowing behind the thick wooden wheel, which ground and bounced over the stones along the path. A sad and lonely howl of a coyote echoed in the distance. Sounds of rattlesnakes' rattles and the wail of the wind slid through the cold air. And the moon, oh, the moon... That night, it was so beautiful, radiant. With not a single cloud to obscure it, I observed it as my body jostled within the cart.
Both of us slept in the cart that night. And finally, in the afternoon of the 28th, I arrived at the convent.
6
In these last five days I've spent locked in my quarters at the church, despite the pain and chaos, I've pondered much about my life. Despite the hunger and thirst, I tried to reflect on what I've become, what motivated me to follow the twisted path I've tread. So far, nothing; I haven't found any answer that was, at the very least, satisfying. I have a subtle sense of regret, as if this feeling is under a vague shadow and appears timid in the presence of God's light, but God knows everything, and He knows too.
To hell with it. —how liberating it is to say that word out loud— Today, I'm 48 years old, of which 28 I've dedicated to serving God and the community of San Juan, celebrating masses, distributing communion wafers, performing baptisms, and granting confessions. —I expected that God would give me something in return for this, if not for my impoverished soul, at least for my actions in the community.
I was a normal child, you know? I played soccer with the neighborhood boys, smoked and drank secretly with them. Broke windows, shoplifted from Mr. Smith's store, talked behind my parents' backs, normal stuff, I suppose.
My father was a tough guy. The typical penny-pinching head of the household, who wouldn't budge an inch. A poor, God-fearing man who believed women were domestic tools and that things were done his way, amen.
He sported a thick mustache, leather boots, and tight jeans, cinched with a sturdy leather belt adorned with a silver buckle the size of a closed fist. He was more of a dreamy Missouri farmer. —I wish I had lived there. If my old man hadn't been so stingy and prideful as to tear the family apart... who knows.
In our region, there were mercenaries who demanded "security fees" from the farmers. My father refused to pay them, considering it absurd to hand over a calf's worth every month as tribute to those "thieving scoundrels, sons of bitches." I don't disagree with the old man's stance; it truly was absurd. But in the end, he got what he asked for. He didn't deserve it; he was a hardworking man who toiled to earn his land.
I remember one Christmas Eve night, we were having dinner together: my father, my two brothers, my mother, and I. While we were eating, we spotted flames in the barn where we kept the cattle outside. My father lost three-quarters of our herd and many fertile acres of land. He sold the land for a pittance and the remaining cattle for even less. We moved to Mexico. There, we had part of my father's family next to us. He bought land in a town near the capital, —far from San Juan. He spent more money than he expected to earn, and things went from bad to worse. It was there, on a Mexican ranch, that my father tried to teach me to be a man. It was there that the blacksmith forged a cracked sword.
My adolescence can be summarized as follows: an old grouch who didn't lift a finger for his children or his wife, regrets what he's done, and tries to get close again, hoping one of them would take over the cattle business. It could be a good drama movie, a reverse prodigal son story.
By the time I was approaching adulthood, my father was old, without a wife (she ran off with her lover), without children to take over the business, and in poor health. He began to say that God had forgotten him, that all the years of attending Mass and striving to put his children on the path of the church were in vain. After my youngest brother left home at 15, my father suffered his first curse, a shock that made him fall to the ground and foam at the mouth; surely, it was the devil's work, according to him. God wouldn't do that, I suppose. The calamity struck the left side of his body, leaving him paralyzed. My middle brother and I supported the household, working against our will in the old man's slaughterhouse and taking odd jobs elsewhere. I worked in three shifts—during the day in the family business and at night at Chincho's bakery. My middle brother had the same routine, but at night, he worked as a waiter at Viejos Bar.
Without a wife; his children no longer considered him a father; without a business; a God-fearing man became a cheap curser. He stopped attending Mass, forgot the times he forced his children to pray before meals, and to sing songs of glory throughout the house. —He sang well, I heard numerous scoldings and sermons to the tune of country music.
A man who raised his children with the Bible under his arm —literally; we narrowly escaped being smacked with a Bible when my brothers burped at the church door— forgot the divine path.
A God-fearing man turned to cursing the heavens and hell, took off the cross pendant he wore on his chest, removed crucifixes from the rooms, and set fire to the painting of Jesus' birth that hung in the living room — a beautiful painting depicting the Holy Family in the manger, with the three kings and the animals. (I think the influence for this last act came from his mother; the painting was hers.) But in any case, I couldn't fathom what was going on in the old man's mind.
A year later, my middle brother left at the age of 18, finding a better job in the city center and moving out. Then, the second curse befell the old man, a worse one; I can say my father was fortunate to survive, but not quite so fortunate... The second calamity left his right side paralyzed—he couldn't walk, gesture, or feed himself. Could there be anything worse? —For me, I mean.
And so, it was just him and me, me and him, in the house, sharing meals, baths, clothing changes, and medications for about two weeks. I couldn't bear it; it was repulsive, nauseating, to look at that old man's deformed, naked, and paralyzed body —it brought memories to the surface.
I "hired" an aunt of mine who lived in the city to take care of him. She didn't earn much; her financial situation must have been worse than my father's. Then I left home.
Unlike my brothers, I didn't find work in the city center, and I don't think being a bricklayer, carpenter, or painter is for me. Celibacy seemed the most viable path. I was in the center, penniless, homeless, wandering the streets and begging for alms. After a few days of misery, I remembered the seminary nearby. That's when a frivolous daring turned into reality.
A month after entering the seminary, I received news of my father's death. During the short time I spent among the brothers, I learned that God is good and would forgive him if my father had repented. As for me, I didn't do the same.
7
Perhaps, if I had had a better father figure, I wouldn't be in this 4x4 wooden room, with a single window, a bed, and a sink. Besides the desk I'm sitting at and a small image of Jesus. A damp, foul-smelling room full of empty bottles —I'm reeking terribly, but the sulfur smell coming from them is unbearable. If I had a better father, perhaps I wouldn't have become a priest. It was 28 years without permission to touch a woman. 28 years of celebrating masses, giving communion, and absolving sinners. —I pity those who confessed to me and believed themselves absolved of guilt. Perhaps God managed to listen, but I didn't put in the effort.
Maybe I should just leave everything behind; this desk, this candle —on its 6th working day— this pencil, these papers. Maybe I should go out, go to a bar, have a beer; who knows, maybe I'd find another job and start a normal life. Being a priest is not for me. The problem is that it took me 28 years and a demon wanting my soul to realize this.
He won't let me leave this room anymore, but it doesn't really matter either. I can't leave, I know I'm doomed. I curse this demon in my thoughts all the time, and he knows it. He lets out a muffled laughter between his disturbingly perfect white teeth. And he's doing it right now. He's moving his lips as his shadow extends toward me. This nameless demon has been with me since the convent, since I found the bodies, since I found the book. No... I remember... he was already there before. There where?
Since the festival?
I recall something I learned in the seminary, that knowing the demon's name would somehow help. "Pœnitentiam reverti." But anyway...
8
It was late afternoon when I reached the top of the hill. I left Molinar, the cart, and the bottles down at the foot of the mountain; he continued on to the center. My legs were trembling; that hill was more winding than it seemed. Could it be some kind of spell?
The sun was beginning to take on an orange hue. After a few unsuccessful attempts to open the front gate, I decided to jump over the fence that bordered the convent grounds. When I stood up on the inside of the fence,— I still have some bruises from the falling, even though the fence wasn't tall — the building in front of me was a church, the place where the sisters celebrated masses for special occasions.
I once witnessed a celebration led by Mother there. My masses usually last a maximum of 40 minutes, but that one seemed to stretch on for an eternity.
The small church was in order, paintings of Christ's crucifixion adorned the walls. I walked along the central aisle of pews and made my way to the altar; everything was neatly arranged. I entered the sacristy, no one was there. I went to the back room, still no one, no sounds; only the wind angrily pounding against the church wall. It felt strange, very strange.
The church was the entrance to the convent; to the right was the dining hall, and to the left, the main hall with the dormitories. The three buildings formed a "u" shape with an "i" in the middle (which was the church).
I exited through the back door of the church and arrived at the passageway that connected the dining hall to the dormitories. There was a garden that adorned both sides of the passage, quite beautiful, with various flowers and a bit of low grass. There were benches and some tables, yet no one seemed to be enjoying the surroundings. The corridor was quite wide, and I took several dozen steps to reach the buildings.
I headed to the right, choosing to go towards the dining hall first. I walked down the long corridor as the wind sang a melancholic tune, whistling through the cement and brick structures. I paused for a moment in the garden, watching the flowers dance to the tune of the mournful breeze, and stayed there admiring the beauty. The flowers reminded me of Lupita... Wasn't that what you wanted to do with her? The dining hall door was a double solid wooden door that emitted a terrible noise as I wrestled with the worn-out, rusty hinges. Empty. —I'm not completely foolish; I knew something was wrong, I was sure of it. Did God warn them?
It's incredible how the human mind works against its own sanity in moments like that. Imagining shadows, hearing non-existent sounds, feeling nonexistent presences —of course, my mind wasn't functioning entirely at that moment. I didn't need to hide my fear; there was no one there, but I kept my composure.
Two enormous tables stretched across the dining hall, equally long benches flanked them. On the sturdy, dark tables, there was still food left; it seemed to be supper, with meat and bread still remaining on the embroidered tablecloth.
When I entered the kitchen, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows was still illuminating the area. The kitchen was in the same state as the dining hall, unfinished, as if something had been abruptly interrupted. Pots, vegetables, and pasta were scattered across the countertops, waiting for someone to finish the work. The reason for this neglect could have been an emergency meeting with the Mother Superior? Who knows. To me, it wasn't reason enough to leave everything and abandon the place. —but who am I to judge them? A not-quite-priest. I can judge them, but not absolve them.— I returned to the dining hall, passed through the creaking door, and went back to the corridor, heading towards the main hall and the dormitories.
Formless clouds cast their shadows over the hill; rain was imminent.
The stone corridor led me to the entrance of the main hall. The double wooden doors, identical to those of the dining hall, gave the impression that upon opening them, I would come face to face with the dirty kitchen once more. Unlike their twin, these doors didn't creak when opened. I entered the dim light of the place, a focused light coming from a single source, a skylight in the center of the hall. Directly beneath the skylight, there was a large cross that cast a shadow on the floor. The wooden windows high up on the wall were shut, allowing only thin slivers of light to filter through the gaps — lights as inconsequential as offering the host to a drunkard during a morning mass.
It took a while for my eyes to adjust. The place seemed larger. The hall had chairs scattered in front of me; the vast space resembled a disorganized graveyard, and the chairs looked like poorly placed tombstones. "Where is everyone?" was the question that persisted, the phrase felt like a boomerang bouncing back and forth in my mind. I stood in front of the door for quite some time, waiting for an answer.
When one of the last sunbeams passed over my eyes, I snapped out of it. It seemed like I was out of it, standing at the door, for about thirty minutes, I guess.
To reach the altar, I would have to take a few more steps. The elevated part of the place lay beyond the chaos of the disordered pews. I hesitated and followed slowly, taking cautious steps, groping in the darkness. The mixture of brown and black in the environment, combined with the scarce light, made my walk difficult. I expected to bump into something that wasn't there.
I stumbled for the first time, saw nothing; second time, still couldn't see anything; on the third, I stopped.
The sun had dipped below the mountains when I reached about 2/5 of the hall. I was truly taking slow, unsteady steps. Darkness engulfed the space, and I could barely see a bit more than an arm's length in front of me, aside from the eerie shadow of the cross that the skylight cast further ahead.
Since the moment I entered the convent, my mind seemed slower, operating in energy-saving mode. No, I remember... I had been feeling like that before... It started right after the festival.. My thoughts and senses had dulled, as if I had swapped brains with a sloth.I hadn't said anything, but I felt my thoughts sluggish and dragging, like a drunk person's speech. Yes, drunk. My body was slower too, which explains the delay in crossing from one wing to another through the corridor. When I became aware again, the moonlight was already climbing through the window gaps.
I continued to drag myself through the darkness.
The faint shadow of the cross was in front of me when I stumbled for the fourth time. It felt like I had kicked a sack of potatoes or a bundle of dirty clothes, I don't know, it felt warm and substantial. Was it on the way there or back? I blinked and shook my head, looked around again, and found nothing—no sack, no bundle, not even any other clutter I could have tripped over. Did I kick at thin air? No, I don't think so. My intoxicated state didn't allow me to think of anything supernatural at the moment; I just stumbled like a foolish drunkard. I think.
I resumed dragging my legs toward the stairs and stumbled again, but this time, I fell. A dry sound against the floor. I fell right in the middle of the room, under the feeble white spotlight, which contrasted minimally with the shadow of the cross. My head and chest were buzzing danger, clearly it had been a bad fall. I touched my forehead and felt something warm trickling through my fingers. My chest radiated a sensation of earthquake, my bones trembled restlessly. But I didn't feel pain.
Like a knife cut, a thought tore through the fog in my mind: "Why the hell was I skulking around like a thief in a convent?" — Hello! Is anyone there? The sound of the desperate question echoed like a castaway on a deserted island for five days, shouting to a ship hundreds of miles away, or perhaps it sounded more like a fierce bear roaring for the fish that got away? And that yelp was the only thing that dared to break the silence, before he regained control, vigorous.
The wind had ceased, perhaps the pages of the symphony had run out. Crickets chirped faintly in the distance. Inside, only my thoughts collided against my skull.
My hopeless cry for answers was startled by a dry thud of wood at the far end of the hall, behind the altar, within the darkness.
The noise came from where I couldn't see, beyond the wooden stairs. My body was too slow to startle, but a cold cube of ice slid down my spine.
The wind resumed its song outside, the second act of the performance had begun, the monosyllabic and howling sound clashing against the brick walls.
Inside there, emptiness. Every step that echoed on the wooden planks seemed to have a life of its own, amplifying the sound of my shoes.
I had finally ascended the stairs and reached the altar. I managed to touch the main table in front of me and could discern the shadow of a cross on the furniture. Strangely, the light of Christ's body was extinguished. Despite the darkness, I knew that, being near the main table, it should be possible to see the candle illuminating the tabernacle somewhere. —That the nuns were there, I already knew, but why was the light of the tabernacle extinguished?— Christ's body was unlit, and that's when I began to believe in that crazy carter who had stopped me earlier.
I circled around the main table and plunged into the darkness behind it. It was so dense, so sticky, I could almost touch it... no... it was that place... the darkness had nothing to do with it, darkness is the absence of light, simple. This was one step beyond, the blackness surrounding me, it was heavy, had a different smell, it was adhesive. It was darkness.
I extended my arms in front of me like a mummy, in fact, not just my arms, I walked like a mummy.
My hands touched the wall, revealing that the darkness behind the table wasn't endless. I had arrived in front of two doors, two portals to hell. And I wondered, which one should I try first.

1
August 1st, 1833. The accounts I shall leave here are my last hopes of instilling belief in people regarding the realm of darkness. Evil. It exists.
Lying, stealing, killing - human wickedness, sin, a legacy bequeathed to us by "Them". For years, I have absolved sinners and heard abominable things that only the Lord God forgives. I, a wretched human, would not forgive. In the confessional of the church of San Juan, through the square holes of the wooden booth, I heard things that should never have been spoken, much less done. And the atrocities confessed would likely never be uncovered.
Cruelty, malevolence, barbarity. Devices embedded within the human brain. They are tools for extreme situations, where we do not know when we can, or should, use them. But they are there, ready to be shot. Armed like the needle 1 cm from the chamber in a revolver, waiting for the trigger to be pulled. However, I do not recognize these mechanisms as defense. The things I heard... There was no defense in that. There was only sadism, only madness.
As I stated in this document, I want you to contemplate the essence of evil. Therefore, I shall break the sacramental seal and illustrate my theory above with a confession I heard.
On a Tuesday morning, a strong and hoarse male voice filled the wooden cabin. The man made no sound as he sat on the other side of the thin partition. I froze when he told me he was there to confess because he was under a death threat. It was a weary voice. Without seeing him, I could envision his scars and wounds all over his body. That man had flirted with death for a long time. The raspy voice asked me if it was necessary to describe the details; I told him to follow his heart. Shortly thereafter, the man began a grotesque tale, in which he killed, dismembered, and scattered the body of his rival's daughter around the vicinity of the adversary's house, all after raping her. And he had done this because the enemy had killed his brother.
What struck me was the calmness with which that individual recounted the events to me and simply asked me to absolve him. Of course, it wouldn't be me who would absolve him; it would be God. But what if I didn't make that connection with heaven?
That said, I can say that "They" have adapted. “They” have ceased to dwell in the shadows and have taken advantage of our flawed mechanism. They've infiltrated. They've taken over. They exploited the gap, the small fissure between light and darkness that trickles from the human mind. They live among us. And at times, we don't even perceive them.
And "They" are evil. Sin. Malevolence, or simply put, darkness. Yes, darkness. That's how I would sum it up. A kind that no human savagery can surpass or even remotely equal. Something that leads to the absence of light and hope.
Darkness, in its purest form —if that can be said — now accompanies me. It accompanies me on a dark path, like being in a tunnel with no light at the end.
As they must have accompanied Lisa Martin.
2
The Santa Madre convent is no different from others around the world.
Perched atop Mount Los Cuervos, the grand mansion that housed around 8 nuns was built about 150 kilometers from the village of San Juan. Both the convent and the village reached their 121-year mark three months ago —it was quite a celebration. As it always had been.
As ancient as the village itself, the oldest inhabitant of the convent, Sister Roselin, carries out her activities there. She never disclosed her age in the times I encountered her, but she always countered the question with, "If a predator were to run at the speed of my years of life, you'd be in big trouble." She is a gentle and kind woman, welcoming all the women who need a home and carry God in their hearts.
I'm not saying that Lisa Martín didn't deserve to enter Santa Madre, but I have some deep-seated doubts about the girl. In the sixteen years that I've been able to observe her, she was has been quite a peculiar girl to me. It might be an exaggeration to call her special — or maybe not?
My name is George Yahn. I'm a priest in a small town lost in the middle of Mexico. My age doesn't matter - paraphrasing the Mother: a prey running at the speed equivalent to my age is fast, but not fast enough to escape Sister Roselin's predator. I must confess I quite enjoyed the comparison...
What I am about to relate comes from my experience with the girl and the community, from my last visit to the convent, and unfortunately, from these recent days locked in my quarters; sharing my total satisfaction and madness with a new friend. —And from a book, found amidst the blood.
Before I continue, I have to make it clear: I LIVED IN THIS MADNESS FOR 5 DAYS. And maybe it's due to the catastrophic state I find myself in now, but I tell you... He protects me. I'm certain He doesn't want me alive, yet He's shielding me from the lesser ones, He won't let those little demons kill me — not yet. I'm almost certain it's because of this confession I'm making. Maybe I'm still alive only to finish this cursed account.
A question that arose in me this past week was: "Can He live alone?" This is one of many inquiries I couldn't resolve. I no longer know what 2+2 is... I don't even know how I manage to write; it must be Him, He must be having fun with this. Watching this poor soul rack his brain. Me, the candle, the cross, and the moonlight.
I have more questions. And I asked Him.
Silent.
Just laughing.
Damned.
With that smile that continues to disturb me in an unsettling manner. A smile from ear to ear, that stretches open as if two cranes were lifting each corner of the lip, making way for a fleshy, gray gum. How can he have such white teeth?
And there He stands in the corner of the room, gazing at me, with those manic eyes, eyes that seem to have no end, an entrance to a dark tunnel, a bottomless pit that, if you stop to look, you end up finding your reflection in it. Not like a mirror you have in the bathroom, but a reflection so deep that it's as if you step out of your body and into an immense void, a void where shadows have shadows and silence echoes. And you're there, staring at yourself. Hours, hours, and hours. And his eyes don't blink; the eyelids seem to be pulled back by invisible threads. And he contemplates your despair alongside you. The moments spent looking into those morbid sockets are mournful, ethereal moments, where minutes don't count, and hours don't pass. Where the insistent desire to return to yourself only grows.
I've spoken too much. But the eyes of that maniac in the corner of my room leave you like this, as I am, utterly under the control of mental faculties. And I'm even grateful to Him. After all, He controlled my demons. Didn't He?
But getting back to what really matters. —I don't have much time to talk about myself, a man who gazes at the moon and sets the flesh aflame.
Focus.
3
Lisa Martín was born in San Juan, on Callon Street. The daughter of Benice María and José Martín, she had a younger sister named Naría, a few years her junior.
My first encounter with Lisa was at her baptism; her parents arrived with her late. The waters that John the Baptist poured over Jesus Christ fell upon the girl only at the age of 3 —or was it 4? I never knew the reason for the delayed baptism; José never told me. I want it to be recorded.
From the moment José stepped into the church with the girl in his arms, she cried, cried inconsolably. —No, it was Benice who entered with her in her arms, right? Attempts to soothe her were unsuccessful. As I poured the water over her head, she cried, not as if she were trying to get attention or was hungry. She cried as if she felt pain, as if the water burned her skin. In 28 years as a priest, it was the first time I had seen such a thing happen.
There at the baptism, I felt that she would be different. Black and silky hair, tan skin, and...
Years later, Naría visited me at the church. The younger sister was also baptized a bit late, and unlike the elder, she didn't cry.
On Naría's baptism day, I joked with José: "It must have been the mustache or the color of the shirt you were wearing years ago, something was wrong to make the other girl cry..." —That day, we laughed. Today, the displeasure of connecting the dots isn't worth this memory.
The story may be more complex than it seems. It might be more complex than just a girl with family issues and difficulties at school. Perhaps she was truly haunted by the monsters that torment me now. Maybe she lost the battle against her demons.
This is a war of catastrophic levels. Once fought, one side dies, and the other, if it survives, receives the grand prize of irreparable scars.
I didn't even start this war. I surrendered all too easily. I regret not having faith in the one I had been devoted to for over 20 years. I am weak, I admit.
I faltered from the moment I thought about touching or experiencing that scent, the scent that reminded me of Lupita... A radiance that resembled the moonlight.
But Lisa fought. She didn't give up as easily as I did, I'm sure. She truly believed in God the Father and devoted her soul solely and exclusively to Him —in a way that in all my life I never came close to. That's why I think labeling her a martyr wouldn't be a mistake.
Lisa spent her childhood playing in the dirt streets of the poor Mexican village, dusty and barren. The village of San Juan relies primarily on mining. —The people here are skilled with metals and coal.
She grew up as a normal girl, I would say. "Ring-a-Ring o' Roses," "Hopscotch," "Blind Man's Bluff", games that, from what I saw, were constant and trivial. Nothing that the other girls hadn't done. Benice and José raised their daughters with care. Despite being poor, they were very fair and honest. José is a hardworking miner who works hard to support the family, and Benice is an excellent cook; she makes the best pastries in the region, I can vouch for that.
I didn't get close to the two sisters during their childhood. In the square in front of the church where they played, there were many people passing by during the day, inevitably watching the children. And by evening, the little ones went home. But I could observe them from the window of this room where I am now.
In early adolescence, Lisa stood out from the others. While the other girls continued to meet on the streets, she stayed indoors day and night. The few times she left home were to go to the grocery store or run some other errand for her mother. She always went out on Tuesdays and Thursdays, wearing the same outfit; a brown skirt and a beige shirt. Almost always at the same time and always came back with a bag in her hand. To the bakery, perhaps?
She never went out at night, always staying at home, while the other girls in the neighborhood went out to socialize. The square would start to empty by late afternoon, and the girls would gather to gossip or whatever they did. Naría, her sister, attended these gatherings, but she never took Lisa with her.
There was only one occasion, once a year, when Lisa went out at night; the San Juan festival.
Every year, she would go out with her family and come to the church square where there were food stalls, games, and bingo. The stalls formed a circle. In the center of the square, the residents would set up a large bonfire, and around it, there would be dancing and singing. All the children would run and play around there, but Lisa never strayed from her parents, always appearing reserved, shy, yet always wearing a blue and white dress that revealed her knees.
As I have the duty to be officiating during the festival, chatting with the ladies, and blessing the food, I always observed her from a distance, until then.
This year's festival was a bit different; Naría invited her to play blind man's bluff. Or was it hide and seek? This year she separated from her parents and went out to have fun with the other girls.
This year I finally could smell… I could feel… I could tou
I saw her running from inside the church. And returning to the friends group. We She had been there for a while playing hide and seek. She didn't have time to win, people could find out.
I was pleased with the girl's progress, she went out to play on her own, but there was something strange behind it, wasn't there?
After the festival, I went several weeks without seeing the girl, and that's when I began my investigation.
4
The festival was six three months ago, so I guess that's right; I started two weeks ago. Carefully, I descended to Pracito Street and questioned... Rosa, a girl of... 13 17 years who lived two or eight houses behind the Martíns, and she told me this: "Naría and Lisa didn't get along very well. We, the other girls, don't know, we've spent hours talking about it. We saw them together a few times, and when we did, they didn't talk much. We knew Lisa because Naría brought her to the little square a few times. I think it was Mrs. Benice's wish, she always worried about her daughter. That much we know. The two were very different."
My mind clicked like dry wood in a fire. I hadn't put that into my thesis. Where did the sister fit into the equation?— And then she continued: "Lisa used to stay at home. Praying, maybe... Talking to God was something she liked. The times Lisa went to the little square in the late afternoon, she told us about that."
"They were different; Naría didn't like her praying. Other girls say Naría hangs out with those weirdos from downtown, and as everyone knows, they love the devil." Angela's The girl’s confession hit me in an immense way, the pieces coming together once again...
I talked to neighbors, aunt, friends, parents, all sorts of people. I gathered much more information than necessary. I wanted to detail the story of this girl more comprehensively. But I can't, I know I don't have time. My dear moon is hiding behind the clouds, it will soon fall behind the mountain. And He has given me too much time to write already, He's letting the others act. Damn it.
Draw your conclusions for now.
5
Every July, I always make a visit to the Santa Madre convent, at the request of the archdiocese from central Mexico, a routine task. Mount Los Cuervos is about a day's journey by cart. I had to muster up the courage to face the journey for the first time, and I did.
On the morning of July 26th, my ordeal began. The sun peered out from behind the dry mountains as I hitched a ride with a merchant heading from San Juan towards the center. The cool, smooth sand, despite its cracks, wouldn't be able to evade the powerful light that was about to flood those lands. True to form, that day turned out to be another sunny one, with temperatures around 40°C.
I recall that after a few hours of travel, the seats were as square as the wooden surface of Molinar's cart, the scrap dealer. The cart driver was taking his load to the center, which is 30 km beyond Mount Los Cuervos.
The man would look at me strangely from time to time; I felt as though he was judging me. Was it my unkempt beard? Or the intoxicated air? But as I hadn't paid for the ride, I didn't complain.
The sun was setting when the creaking and cracking of the cart ceased. Another peddler of trinkets, who goes to San Juan every fortnight to make sales, stopped us. The two cart drivers chatted while I was behind the cloth that covered the cart's wooden frame. Strangely, the peddler asked Molinar if he was passing through Los Cuervos, and Molinar said yes. Intrigued by the topic, I emerged from behind the cloth and joined the conversation. At that moment, the man twisted his face in astonishment, widened his eyes, opened his mouth, and gazed into the distance as if having an epiphany. He stopped, came back to himself, and looked at me again. I distinctly remember the man speaking with an altered voice, as if his throat had been slashed by cacti: —"You can't go there. You can't, Father! I don't know what to do. It's horrible. My God..." He gasped, gasped again, put his hands on his head, and rushed off to his cart. —"Don't go! I'm going to call the police! My God..."
Had he foreseen the future? Or was I already going mad? I am…
In any case, I hadn't paid much attention to the man. —God forgive me for that.— We left that cart driver surrounded by dust and immersed in his madness. Molinar and I exchanged glances; it had been truly strange, but I shrugged it off, and we continued our journey.
The night in the desert can be more treacherous than it seems, and it had been a while since I visited at such an early hour. The moon was high, and we were still on the road, the dust billowing behind the thick wooden wheel, which ground and bounced over the stones along the path. A sad and lonely howl of a coyote echoed in the distance. Sounds of rattlesnakes' rattles and the wail of the wind slid through the cold air. And the moon, oh, the moon... That night, it was so beautiful, radiant. With not a single cloud to obscure it, I observed it as my body jostled within the cart.
Both of us slept in the cart that night. And finally, in the afternoon of the 28th, I arrived at the convent.
6
In these last five days I've spent locked in my quarters at the church, despite the pain and chaos, I've pondered much about my life. Despite the hunger and thirst, I tried to reflect on what I've become, what motivated me to follow the twisted path I've tread. So far, nothing; I haven't found any answer that was, at the very least, satisfying. I have a subtle sense of regret, as if this feeling is under a vague shadow and appears timid in the presence of God's light, but God knows everything, and He knows too.
To hell with it. —how liberating it is to say that word out loud— Today, I'm 48 years old, of which 28 I've dedicated to serving God and the community of San Juan, celebrating masses, distributing communion wafers, performing baptisms, and granting confessions. —I expected that God would give me something in return for this, if not for my impoverished soul, at least for my actions in the community.
I was a normal child, you know? I played soccer with the neighborhood boys, smoked and drank secretly with them. Broke windows, shoplifted from Mr. Smith's store, talked behind my parents' backs, normal stuff, I suppose.
My father was a tough guy. The typical penny-pinching head of the household, who wouldn't budge an inch. A poor, God-fearing man who believed women were domestic tools and that things were done his way, amen.
He sported a thick mustache, leather boots, and tight jeans, cinched with a sturdy leather belt adorned with a silver buckle the size of a closed fist. He was more of a dreamy Missouri farmer. —I wish I had lived there. If my old man hadn't been so stingy and prideful as to tear the family apart... who knows.
In our region, there were mercenaries who demanded "security fees" from the farmers. My father refused to pay them, considering it absurd to hand over a calf's worth every month as tribute to those "thieving scoundrels, sons of bitches." I don't disagree with the old man's stance; it truly was absurd. But in the end, he got what he asked for. He didn't deserve it; he was a hardworking man who toiled to earn his land.
I remember one Christmas Eve night, we were having dinner together: my father, my two brothers, my mother, and I. While we were eating, we spotted flames in the barn where we kept the cattle outside. My father lost three-quarters of our herd and many fertile acres of land. He sold the land for a pittance and the remaining cattle for even less. We moved to Mexico. There, we had part of my father's family next to us. He bought land in a town near the capital, —far from San Juan. He spent more money than he expected to earn, and things went from bad to worse. It was there, on a Mexican ranch, that my father tried to teach me to be a man. It was there that the blacksmith forged a cracked sword.
My adolescence can be summarized as follows: an old grouch who didn't lift a finger for his children or his wife, regrets what he's done, and tries to get close again, hoping one of them would take over the cattle business. It could be a good drama movie, a reverse prodigal son story.
By the time I was approaching adulthood, my father was old, without a wife (she ran off with her lover), without children to take over the business, and in poor health. He began to say that God had forgotten him, that all the years of attending Mass and striving to put his children on the path of the church were in vain. After my youngest brother left home at 15, my father suffered his first curse, a shock that made him fall to the ground and foam at the mouth; surely, it was the devil's work, according to him. God wouldn't do that, I suppose. The calamity struck the left side of his body, leaving him paralyzed. My middle brother and I supported the household, working against our will in the old man's slaughterhouse and taking odd jobs elsewhere. I worked in three shifts—during the day in the family business and at night at Chincho's bakery. My middle brother had the same routine, but at night, he worked as a waiter at Viejos Bar.
Without a wife; his children no longer considered him a father; without a business; a God-fearing man became a cheap curser. He stopped attending Mass, forgot the times he forced his children to pray before meals, and to sing songs of glory throughout the house. —He sang well, I heard numerous scoldings and sermons to the tune of country music.
A man who raised his children with the Bible under his arm —literally; we narrowly escaped being smacked with a Bible when my brothers burped at the church door— forgot the divine path.
A God-fearing man turned to cursing the heavens and hell, took off the cross pendant he wore on his chest, removed crucifixes from the rooms, and set fire to the painting of Jesus' birth that hung in the living room — a beautiful painting depicting the Holy Family in the manger, with the three kings and the animals. (I think the influence for this last act came from his mother; the painting was hers.) But in any case, I couldn't fathom what was going on in the old man's mind.
A year later, my middle brother left at the age of 18, finding a better job in the city center and moving out. Then, the second curse befell the old man, a worse one; I can say my father was fortunate to survive, but not quite so fortunate... The second calamity left his right side paralyzed—he couldn't walk, gesture, or feed himself. Could there be anything worse? —For me, I mean.
And so, it was just him and me, me and him, in the house, sharing meals, baths, clothing changes, and medications for about two weeks. I couldn't bear it; it was repulsive, nauseating, to look at that old man's deformed, naked, and paralyzed body —it brought memories to the surface.
I "hired" an aunt of mine who lived in the city to take care of him. She didn't earn much; her financial situation must have been worse than my father's. Then I left home.
Unlike my brothers, I didn't find work in the city center, and I don't think being a bricklayer, carpenter, or painter is for me. Celibacy seemed the most viable path. I was in the center, penniless, homeless, wandering the streets and begging for alms. After a few days of misery, I remembered the seminary nearby. That's when a frivolous daring turned into reality.
A month after entering the seminary, I received news of my father's death. During the short time I spent among the brothers, I learned that God is good and would forgive him if my father had repented. As for me, I didn't do the same.
7
Perhaps, if I had had a better father figure, I wouldn't be in this 4x4 wooden room, with a single window, a bed, and a sink. Besides the desk I'm sitting at and a small image of Jesus. A damp, foul-smelling room full of empty bottles —I'm reeking terribly, but the sulfur smell coming from them is unbearable. If I had a better father, perhaps I wouldn't have become a priest. It was 28 years without permission to touch a woman. 28 years of celebrating masses, giving communion, and absolving sinners. —I pity those who confessed to me and believed themselves absolved of guilt. Perhaps God managed to listen, but I didn't put in the effort.
Maybe I should just leave everything behind; this desk, this candle —on its 6th working day— this pencil, these papers. Maybe I should go out, go to a bar, have a beer; who knows, maybe I'd find another job and start a normal life. Being a priest is not for me. The problem is that it took me 28 years and a demon wanting my soul to realize this.
He won't let me leave this room anymore, but it doesn't really matter either. I can't leave, I know I'm doomed. I curse this demon in my thoughts all the time, and he knows it. He lets out a muffled laughter between his disturbingly perfect white teeth. And he's doing it right now. He's moving his lips as his shadow extends toward me. This nameless demon has been with me since the convent, since I found the bodies, since I found the book. No... I remember... he was already there before. There where?
Since the festival?
I recall something I learned in the seminary, that knowing the demon's name would somehow help. "Pœnitentiam reverti." But anyway...
8
It was late afternoon when I reached the top of the hill. I left Molinar, the cart, and the bottles down at the foot of the mountain; he continued on to the center. My legs were trembling; that hill was more winding than it seemed. Could it be some kind of spell?
The sun was beginning to take on an orange hue. After a few unsuccessful attempts to open the front gate, I decided to jump over the fence that bordered the convent grounds. When I stood up on the inside of the fence,— I still have some bruises from the falling, even though the fence wasn't tall — the building in front of me was a church, the place where the sisters celebrated masses for special occasions.
I once witnessed a celebration led by Mother there. My masses usually last a maximum of 40 minutes, but that one seemed to stretch on for an eternity.
The small church was in order, paintings of Christ's crucifixion adorned the walls. I walked along the central aisle of pews and made my way to the altar; everything was neatly arranged. I entered the sacristy, no one was there. I went to the back room, still no one, no sounds; only the wind angrily pounding against the church wall. It felt strange, very strange.
The church was the entrance to the convent; to the right was the dining hall, and to the left, the main hall with the dormitories. The three buildings formed a "u" shape with an "i" in the middle (which was the church).
I exited through the back door of the church and arrived at the passageway that connected the dining hall to the dormitories. There was a garden that adorned both sides of the passage, quite beautiful, with various flowers and a bit of low grass. There were benches and some tables, yet no one seemed to be enjoying the surroundings. The corridor was quite wide, and I took several dozen steps to reach the buildings.
I headed to the right, choosing to go towards the dining hall first. I walked down the long corridor as the wind sang a melancholic tune, whistling through the cement and brick structures. I paused for a moment in the garden, watching the flowers dance to the tune of the mournful breeze, and stayed there admiring the beauty. The flowers reminded me of Lupita... Wasn't that what you wanted to do with her? The dining hall door was a double solid wooden door that emitted a terrible noise as I wrestled with the worn-out, rusty hinges. Empty. —I'm not completely foolish; I knew something was wrong, I was sure of it. Did God warn them?
It's incredible how the human mind works against its own sanity in moments like that. Imagining shadows, hearing non-existent sounds, feeling nonexistent presences —of course, my mind wasn't functioning entirely at that moment. I didn't need to hide my fear; there was no one there, but I kept my composure.
Two enormous tables stretched across the dining hall, equally long benches flanked them. On the sturdy, dark tables, there was still food left; it seemed to be supper, with meat and bread still remaining on the embroidered tablecloth.
When I entered the kitchen, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows was still illuminating the area. The kitchen was in the same state as the dining hall, unfinished, as if something had been abruptly interrupted. Pots, vegetables, and pasta were scattered across the countertops, waiting for someone to finish the work. The reason for this neglect could have been an emergency meeting with the Mother Superior? Who knows. To me, it wasn't reason enough to leave everything and abandon the place. —but who am I to judge them? A not-quite-priest. I can judge them, but not absolve them.— I returned to the dining hall, passed through the creaking door, and went back to the corridor, heading towards the main hall and the dormitories.
Formless clouds cast their shadows over the hill; rain was imminent.
The stone corridor led me to the entrance of the main hall. The double wooden doors, identical to those of the dining hall, gave the impression that upon opening them, I would come face to face with the dirty kitchen once more. Unlike their twin, these doors didn't creak when opened. I entered the dim light of the place, a focused light coming from a single source, a skylight in the center of the hall. Directly beneath the skylight, there was a large cross that cast a shadow on the floor. The wooden windows high up on the wall were shut, allowing only thin slivers of light to filter through the gaps — lights as inconsequential as offering the host to a drunkard during a morning mass.
It took a while for my eyes to adjust. The place seemed larger. The hall had chairs scattered in front of me; the vast space resembled a disorganized graveyard, and the chairs looked like poorly placed tombstones. "Where is everyone?" was the question that persisted, the phrase felt like a boomerang bouncing back and forth in my mind. I stood in front of the door for quite some time, waiting for an answer.
When one of the last sunbeams passed over my eyes, I snapped out of it. It seemed like I was out of it, standing at the door, for about thirty minutes, I guess.
To reach the altar, I would have to take a few more steps. The elevated part of the place lay beyond the chaos of the disordered pews. I hesitated and followed slowly, taking cautious steps, groping in the darkness. The mixture of brown and black in the environment, combined with the scarce light, made my walk difficult. I expected to bump into something that wasn't there.
I stumbled for the first time, saw nothing; second time, still couldn't see anything; on the third, I stopped.
The sun had dipped below the mountains when I reached about 2/5 of the hall. I was truly taking slow, unsteady steps. Darkness engulfed the space, and I could barely see a bit more than an arm's length in front of me, aside from the eerie shadow of the cross that the skylight cast further ahead.
Since the moment I entered the convent, my mind seemed slower, operating in energy-saving mode. No, I remember... I had been feeling like that before... It started right after the festival.. My thoughts and senses had dulled, as if I had swapped brains with a sloth.I hadn't said anything, but I felt my thoughts sluggish and dragging, like a drunk person's speech. Yes, drunk. My body was slower too, which explains the delay in crossing from one wing to another through the corridor. When I became aware again, the moonlight was already climbing through the window gaps.
I continued to drag myself through the darkness.
The faint shadow of the cross was in front of me when I stumbled for the fourth time. It felt like I had kicked a sack of potatoes or a bundle of dirty clothes, I don't know, it felt warm and substantial. Was it on the way there or back? I blinked and shook my head, looked around again, and found nothing—no sack, no bundle, not even any other clutter I could have tripped over. Did I kick at thin air? No, I don't think so. My intoxicated state didn't allow me to think of anything supernatural at the moment; I just stumbled like a foolish drunkard. I think.
I resumed dragging my legs toward the stairs and stumbled again, but this time, I fell. A dry sound against the floor. I fell right in the middle of the room, under the feeble white spotlight, which contrasted minimally with the shadow of the cross. My head and chest were buzzing danger, clearly it had been a bad fall. I touched my forehead and felt something warm trickling through my fingers. My chest radiated a sensation of earthquake, my bones trembled restlessly. But I didn't feel pain.
Like a knife cut, a thought tore through the fog in my mind: "Why the hell was I skulking around like a thief in a convent?" — Hello! Is anyone there? The sound of the desperate question echoed like a castaway on a deserted island for five days, shouting to a ship hundreds of miles away, or perhaps it sounded more like a fierce bear roaring for the fish that got away? And that yelp was the only thing that dared to break the silence, before he regained control, vigorous.
The wind had ceased, perhaps the pages of the symphony had run out. Crickets chirped faintly in the distance. Inside, only my thoughts collided against my skull.
My hopeless cry for answers was startled by a dry thud of wood at the far end of the hall, behind the altar, within the darkness.
The noise came from where I couldn't see, beyond the wooden stairs. My body was too slow to startle, but a cold cube of ice slid down my spine.
The wind resumed its song outside, the second act of the performance had begun, the monosyllabic and howling sound clashing against the brick walls.
Inside there, emptiness. Every step that echoed on the wooden planks seemed to have a life of its own, amplifying the sound of my shoes.
I had finally ascended the stairs and reached the altar. I managed to touch the main table in front of me and could discern the shadow of a cross on the furniture. Strangely, the light of Christ's body was extinguished. Despite the darkness, I knew that, being near the main table, it should be possible to see the candle illuminating the tabernacle somewhere. —That the nuns were there, I already knew, but why was the light of the tabernacle extinguished?— Christ's body was unlit, and that's when I began to believe in that crazy carter who had stopped me earlier.
I circled around the main table and plunged into the darkness behind it. It was so dense, so sticky, I could almost touch it... no... it was that place... the darkness had nothing to do with it, darkness is the absence of light, simple. This was one step beyond, the blackness surrounding me, it was heavy, had a different smell, it was adhesive. It was darkness.
I extended my arms in front of me like a mummy, in fact, not just my arms, I walked like a mummy.
My hands touched the wall, revealing that the darkness behind the table wasn't endless. I had arrived in front of two doors, two portals to hell. And I wondered, which one should I try first.

1
August 1st, 1833. The accounts I shall leave here are my last hopes of instilling belief in people regarding the realm of darkness. Evil. It exists.
Lying, stealing, killing - human wickedness, sin, a legacy bequeathed to us by "Them". For years, I have absolved sinners and heard abominable things that only the Lord God forgives. I, a wretched human, would not forgive. In the confessional of the church of San Juan, through the square holes of the wooden booth, I heard things that should never have been spoken, much less done. And the atrocities confessed would likely never be uncovered.
Cruelty, malevolence, barbarity. Devices embedded within the human brain. They are tools for extreme situations, where we do not know when we can, or should, use them. But they are there, ready to be shot. Armed like the needle 1 cm from the chamber in a revolver, waiting for the trigger to be pulled. However, I do not recognize these mechanisms as defense. The things I heard... There was no defense in that. There was only sadism, only madness.
As I stated in this document, I want you to contemplate the essence of evil. Therefore, I shall break the sacramental seal and illustrate my theory above with a confession I heard.
On a Tuesday morning, a strong and hoarse male voice filled the wooden cabin. The man made no sound as he sat on the other side of the thin partition. I froze when he told me he was there to confess because he was under a death threat. It was a weary voice. Without seeing him, I could envision his scars and wounds all over his body. That man had flirted with death for a long time. The raspy voice asked me if it was necessary to describe the details; I told him to follow his heart. Shortly thereafter, the man began a grotesque tale, in which he killed, dismembered, and scattered the body of his rival's daughter around the vicinity of the adversary's house, all after raping her. And he had done this because the enemy had killed his brother.
What struck me was the calmness with which that individual recounted the events to me and simply asked me to absolve him. Of course, it wouldn't be me who would absolve him; it would be God. But what if I didn't make that connection with heaven?
That said, I can say that "They" have adapted. “They” have ceased to dwell in the shadows and have taken advantage of our flawed mechanism. They've infiltrated. They've taken over. They exploited the gap, the small fissure between light and darkness that trickles from the human mind. They live among us. And at times, we don't even perceive them.
And "They" are evil. Sin. Malevolence, or simply put, darkness. Yes, darkness. That's how I would sum it up. A kind that no human savagery can surpass or even remotely equal. Something that leads to the absence of light and hope.
Darkness, in its purest form —if that can be said — now accompanies me. It accompanies me on a dark path, like being in a tunnel with no light at the end.
As they must have accompanied Lisa Martin.
2
The Santa Madre convent is no different from others around the world.
Perched atop Mount Los Cuervos, the grand mansion that housed around 8 nuns was built about 150 kilometers from the village of San Juan. Both the convent and the village reached their 121-year mark three months ago —it was quite a celebration. As it always had been.
As ancient as the village itself, the oldest inhabitant of the convent, Sister Roselin, carries out her activities there. She never disclosed her age in the times I encountered her, but she always countered the question with, "If a predator were to run at the speed of my years of life, you'd be in big trouble." She is a gentle and kind woman, welcoming all the women who need a home and carry God in their hearts.
I'm not saying that Lisa Martín didn't deserve to enter Santa Madre, but I have some deep-seated doubts about the girl. In the sixteen years that I've been able to observe her, she was has been quite a peculiar girl to me. It might be an exaggeration to call her special — or maybe not?
My name is George Yahn. I'm a priest in a small town lost in the middle of Mexico. My age doesn't matter - paraphrasing the Mother: a prey running at the speed equivalent to my age is fast, but not fast enough to escape Sister Roselin's predator. I must confess I quite enjoyed the comparison...
What I am about to relate comes from my experience with the girl and the community, from my last visit to the convent, and unfortunately, from these recent days locked in my quarters; sharing my total satisfaction and madness with a new friend. —And from a book, found amidst the blood.
Before I continue, I have to make it clear: I LIVED IN THIS MADNESS FOR 5 DAYS. And maybe it's due to the catastrophic state I find myself in now, but I tell you... He protects me. I'm certain He doesn't want me alive, yet He's shielding me from the lesser ones, He won't let those little demons kill me — not yet. I'm almost certain it's because of this confession I'm making. Maybe I'm still alive only to finish this cursed account.
A question that arose in me this past week was: "Can He live alone?" This is one of many inquiries I couldn't resolve. I no longer know what 2+2 is... I don't even know how I manage to write; it must be Him, He must be having fun with this. Watching this poor soul rack his brain. Me, the candle, the cross, and the moonlight.
I have more questions. And I asked Him.
Silent.
Just laughing.
Damned.
With that smile that continues to disturb me in an unsettling manner. A smile from ear to ear, that stretches open as if two cranes were lifting each corner of the lip, making way for a fleshy, gray gum. How can he have such white teeth?
And there He stands in the corner of the room, gazing at me, with those manic eyes, eyes that seem to have no end, an entrance to a dark tunnel, a bottomless pit that, if you stop to look, you end up finding your reflection in it. Not like a mirror you have in the bathroom, but a reflection so deep that it's as if you step out of your body and into an immense void, a void where shadows have shadows and silence echoes. And you're there, staring at yourself. Hours, hours, and hours. And his eyes don't blink; the eyelids seem to be pulled back by invisible threads. And he contemplates your despair alongside you. The moments spent looking into those morbid sockets are mournful, ethereal moments, where minutes don't count, and hours don't pass. Where the insistent desire to return to yourself only grows.
I've spoken too much. But the eyes of that maniac in the corner of my room leave you like this, as I am, utterly under the control of mental faculties. And I'm even grateful to Him. After all, He controlled my demons. Didn't He?
But getting back to what really matters. —I don't have much time to talk about myself, a man who gazes at the moon and sets the flesh aflame.
Focus.
3
Lisa Martín was born in San Juan, on Callon Street. The daughter of Benice María and José Martín, she had a younger sister named Naría, a few years her junior.
My first encounter with Lisa was at her baptism; her parents arrived with her late. The waters that John the Baptist poured over Jesus Christ fell upon the girl only at the age of 3 —or was it 4? I never knew the reason for the delayed baptism; José never told me. I want it to be recorded.
From the moment José stepped into the church with the girl in his arms, she cried, cried inconsolably. —No, it was Benice who entered with her in her arms, right? Attempts to soothe her were unsuccessful. As I poured the water over her head, she cried, not as if she were trying to get attention or was hungry. She cried as if she felt pain, as if the water burned her skin. In 28 years as a priest, it was the first time I had seen such a thing happen.
There at the baptism, I felt that she would be different. Black and silky hair, tan skin, and...
Years later, Naría visited me at the church. The younger sister was also baptized a bit late, and unlike the elder, she didn't cry.
On Naría's baptism day, I joked with José: "It must have been the mustache or the color of the shirt you were wearing years ago, something was wrong to make the other girl cry..." —That day, we laughed. Today, the displeasure of connecting the dots isn't worth this memory.
The story may be more complex than it seems. It might be more complex than just a girl with family issues and difficulties at school. Perhaps she was truly haunted by the monsters that torment me now. Maybe she lost the battle against her demons.
This is a war of catastrophic levels. Once fought, one side dies, and the other, if it survives, receives the grand prize of irreparable scars.
I didn't even start this war. I surrendered all too easily. I regret not having faith in the one I had been devoted to for over 20 years. I am weak, I admit.
I faltered from the moment I thought about touching or experiencing that scent, the scent that reminded me of Lupita... A radiance that resembled the moonlight.
But Lisa fought. She didn't give up as easily as I did, I'm sure. She truly believed in God the Father and devoted her soul solely and exclusively to Him —in a way that in all my life I never came close to. That's why I think labeling her a martyr wouldn't be a mistake.
Lisa spent her childhood playing in the dirt streets of the poor Mexican village, dusty and barren. The village of San Juan relies primarily on mining. —The people here are skilled with metals and coal.
She grew up as a normal girl, I would say. "Ring-a-Ring o' Roses," "Hopscotch," "Blind Man's Bluff", games that, from what I saw, were constant and trivial. Nothing that the other girls hadn't done. Benice and José raised their daughters with care. Despite being poor, they were very fair and honest. José is a hardworking miner who works hard to support the family, and Benice is an excellent cook; she makes the best pastries in the region, I can vouch for that.
I didn't get close to the two sisters during their childhood. In the square in front of the church where they played, there were many people passing by during the day, inevitably watching the children. And by evening, the little ones went home. But I could observe them from the window of this room where I am now.
In early adolescence, Lisa stood out from the others. While the other girls continued to meet on the streets, she stayed indoors day and night. The few times she left home were to go to the grocery store or run some other errand for her mother. She always went out on Tuesdays and Thursdays, wearing the same outfit; a brown skirt and a beige shirt. Almost always at the same time and always came back with a bag in her hand. To the bakery, perhaps?
She never went out at night, always staying at home, while the other girls in the neighborhood went out to socialize. The square would start to empty by late afternoon, and the girls would gather to gossip or whatever they did. Naría, her sister, attended these gatherings, but she never took Lisa with her.
There was only one occasion, once a year, when Lisa went out at night; the San Juan festival.
Every year, she would go out with her family and come to the church square where there were food stalls, games, and bingo. The stalls formed a circle. In the center of the square, the residents would set up a large bonfire, and around it, there would be dancing and singing. All the children would run and play around there, but Lisa never strayed from her parents, always appearing reserved, shy, yet always wearing a blue and white dress that revealed her knees.
As I have the duty to be officiating during the festival, chatting with the ladies, and blessing the food, I always observed her from a distance, until then.
This year's festival was a bit different; Naría invited her to play blind man's bluff. Or was it hide and seek? This year she separated from her parents and went out to have fun with the other girls.
This year I finally could smell… I could feel… I could tou
I saw her running from inside the church. And returning to the friends group. We She had been there for a while playing hide and seek. She didn't have time to win, people could find out.
I was pleased with the girl's progress, she went out to play on her own, but there was something strange behind it, wasn't there?
After the festival, I went several weeks without seeing the girl, and that's when I began my investigation.
4
The festival was six three months ago, so I guess that's right; I started two weeks ago. Carefully, I descended to Pracito Street and questioned... Rosa, a girl of... 13 17 years who lived two or eight houses behind the Martíns, and she told me this: "Naría and Lisa didn't get along very well. We, the other girls, don't know, we've spent hours talking about it. We saw them together a few times, and when we did, they didn't talk much. We knew Lisa because Naría brought her to the little square a few times. I think it was Mrs. Benice's wish, she always worried about her daughter. That much we know. The two were very different."
My mind clicked like dry wood in a fire. I hadn't put that into my thesis. Where did the sister fit into the equation?— And then she continued: "Lisa used to stay at home. Praying, maybe... Talking to God was something she liked. The times Lisa went to the little square in the late afternoon, she told us about that."
"They were different; Naría didn't like her praying. Other girls say Naría hangs out with those weirdos from downtown, and as everyone knows, they love the devil." Angela's The girl’s confession hit me in an immense way, the pieces coming together once again...
I talked to neighbors, aunt, friends, parents, all sorts of people. I gathered much more information than necessary. I wanted to detail the story of this girl more comprehensively. But I can't, I know I don't have time. My dear moon is hiding behind the clouds, it will soon fall behind the mountain. And He has given me too much time to write already, He's letting the others act. Damn it.
Draw your conclusions for now.
5
Every July, I always make a visit to the Santa Madre convent, at the request of the archdiocese from central Mexico, a routine task. Mount Los Cuervos is about a day's journey by cart. I had to muster up the courage to face the journey for the first time, and I did.
On the morning of July 26th, my ordeal began. The sun peered out from behind the dry mountains as I hitched a ride with a merchant heading from San Juan towards the center. The cool, smooth sand, despite its cracks, wouldn't be able to evade the powerful light that was about to flood those lands. True to form, that day turned out to be another sunny one, with temperatures around 40°C.
I recall that after a few hours of travel, the seats were as square as the wooden surface of Molinar's cart, the scrap dealer. The cart driver was taking his load to the center, which is 30 km beyond Mount Los Cuervos.
The man would look at me strangely from time to time; I felt as though he was judging me. Was it my unkempt beard? Or the intoxicated air? But as I hadn't paid for the ride, I didn't complain.
The sun was setting when the creaking and cracking of the cart ceased. Another peddler of trinkets, who goes to San Juan every fortnight to make sales, stopped us. The two cart drivers chatted while I was behind the cloth that covered the cart's wooden frame. Strangely, the peddler asked Molinar if he was passing through Los Cuervos, and Molinar said yes. Intrigued by the topic, I emerged from behind the cloth and joined the conversation. At that moment, the man twisted his face in astonishment, widened his eyes, opened his mouth, and gazed into the distance as if having an epiphany. He stopped, came back to himself, and looked at me again. I distinctly remember the man speaking with an altered voice, as if his throat had been slashed by cacti: —"You can't go there. You can't, Father! I don't know what to do. It's horrible. My God..." He gasped, gasped again, put his hands on his head, and rushed off to his cart. —"Don't go! I'm going to call the police! My God..."
Had he foreseen the future? Or was I already going mad? I am…
In any case, I hadn't paid much attention to the man. —God forgive me for that.— We left that cart driver surrounded by dust and immersed in his madness. Molinar and I exchanged glances; it had been truly strange, but I shrugged it off, and we continued our journey.
The night in the desert can be more treacherous than it seems, and it had been a while since I visited at such an early hour. The moon was high, and we were still on the road, the dust billowing behind the thick wooden wheel, which ground and bounced over the stones along the path. A sad and lonely howl of a coyote echoed in the distance. Sounds of rattlesnakes' rattles and the wail of the wind slid through the cold air. And the moon, oh, the moon... That night, it was so beautiful, radiant. With not a single cloud to obscure it, I observed it as my body jostled within the cart.
Both of us slept in the cart that night. And finally, in the afternoon of the 28th, I arrived at the convent.
6
In these last five days I've spent locked in my quarters at the church, despite the pain and chaos, I've pondered much about my life. Despite the hunger and thirst, I tried to reflect on what I've become, what motivated me to follow the twisted path I've tread. So far, nothing; I haven't found any answer that was, at the very least, satisfying. I have a subtle sense of regret, as if this feeling is under a vague shadow and appears timid in the presence of God's light, but God knows everything, and He knows too.
To hell with it. —how liberating it is to say that word out loud— Today, I'm 48 years old, of which 28 I've dedicated to serving God and the community of San Juan, celebrating masses, distributing communion wafers, performing baptisms, and granting confessions. —I expected that God would give me something in return for this, if not for my impoverished soul, at least for my actions in the community.
I was a normal child, you know? I played soccer with the neighborhood boys, smoked and drank secretly with them. Broke windows, shoplifted from Mr. Smith's store, talked behind my parents' backs, normal stuff, I suppose.
My father was a tough guy. The typical penny-pinching head of the household, who wouldn't budge an inch. A poor, God-fearing man who believed women were domestic tools and that things were done his way, amen.
He sported a thick mustache, leather boots, and tight jeans, cinched with a sturdy leather belt adorned with a silver buckle the size of a closed fist. He was more of a dreamy Missouri farmer. —I wish I had lived there. If my old man hadn't been so stingy and prideful as to tear the family apart... who knows.
In our region, there were mercenaries who demanded "security fees" from the farmers. My father refused to pay them, considering it absurd to hand over a calf's worth every month as tribute to those "thieving scoundrels, sons of bitches." I don't disagree with the old man's stance; it truly was absurd. But in the end, he got what he asked for. He didn't deserve it; he was a hardworking man who toiled to earn his land.
I remember one Christmas Eve night, we were having dinner together: my father, my two brothers, my mother, and I. While we were eating, we spotted flames in the barn where we kept the cattle outside. My father lost three-quarters of our herd and many fertile acres of land. He sold the land for a pittance and the remaining cattle for even less. We moved to Mexico. There, we had part of my father's family next to us. He bought land in a town near the capital, —far from San Juan. He spent more money than he expected to earn, and things went from bad to worse. It was there, on a Mexican ranch, that my father tried to teach me to be a man. It was there that the blacksmith forged a cracked sword.
My adolescence can be summarized as follows: an old grouch who didn't lift a finger for his children or his wife, regrets what he's done, and tries to get close again, hoping one of them would take over the cattle business. It could be a good drama movie, a reverse prodigal son story.
By the time I was approaching adulthood, my father was old, without a wife (she ran off with her lover), without children to take over the business, and in poor health. He began to say that God had forgotten him, that all the years of attending Mass and striving to put his children on the path of the church were in vain. After my youngest brother left home at 15, my father suffered his first curse, a shock that made him fall to the ground and foam at the mouth; surely, it was the devil's work, according to him. God wouldn't do that, I suppose. The calamity struck the left side of his body, leaving him paralyzed. My middle brother and I supported the household, working against our will in the old man's slaughterhouse and taking odd jobs elsewhere. I worked in three shifts—during the day in the family business and at night at Chincho's bakery. My middle brother had the same routine, but at night, he worked as a waiter at Viejos Bar.
Without a wife; his children no longer considered him a father; without a business; a God-fearing man became a cheap curser. He stopped attending Mass, forgot the times he forced his children to pray before meals, and to sing songs of glory throughout the house. —He sang well, I heard numerous scoldings and sermons to the tune of country music.
A man who raised his children with the Bible under his arm —literally; we narrowly escaped being smacked with a Bible when my brothers burped at the church door— forgot the divine path.
A God-fearing man turned to cursing the heavens and hell, took off the cross pendant he wore on his chest, removed crucifixes from the rooms, and set fire to the painting of Jesus' birth that hung in the living room — a beautiful painting depicting the Holy Family in the manger, with the three kings and the animals. (I think the influence for this last act came from his mother; the painting was hers.) But in any case, I couldn't fathom what was going on in the old man's mind.
A year later, my middle brother left at the age of 18, finding a better job in the city center and moving out. Then, the second curse befell the old man, a worse one; I can say my father was fortunate to survive, but not quite so fortunate... The second calamity left his right side paralyzed—he couldn't walk, gesture, or feed himself. Could there be anything worse? —For me, I mean.
And so, it was just him and me, me and him, in the house, sharing meals, baths, clothing changes, and medications for about two weeks. I couldn't bear it; it was repulsive, nauseating, to look at that old man's deformed, naked, and paralyzed body —it brought memories to the surface.
I "hired" an aunt of mine who lived in the city to take care of him. She didn't earn much; her financial situation must have been worse than my father's. Then I left home.
Unlike my brothers, I didn't find work in the city center, and I don't think being a bricklayer, carpenter, or painter is for me. Celibacy seemed the most viable path. I was in the center, penniless, homeless, wandering the streets and begging for alms. After a few days of misery, I remembered the seminary nearby. That's when a frivolous daring turned into reality.
A month after entering the seminary, I received news of my father's death. During the short time I spent among the brothers, I learned that God is good and would forgive him if my father had repented. As for me, I didn't do the same.
7
Perhaps, if I had had a better father figure, I wouldn't be in this 4x4 wooden room, with a single window, a bed, and a sink. Besides the desk I'm sitting at and a small image of Jesus. A damp, foul-smelling room full of empty bottles —I'm reeking terribly, but the sulfur smell coming from them is unbearable. If I had a better father, perhaps I wouldn't have become a priest. It was 28 years without permission to touch a woman. 28 years of celebrating masses, giving communion, and absolving sinners. —I pity those who confessed to me and believed themselves absolved of guilt. Perhaps God managed to listen, but I didn't put in the effort.
Maybe I should just leave everything behind; this desk, this candle —on its 6th working day— this pencil, these papers. Maybe I should go out, go to a bar, have a beer; who knows, maybe I'd find another job and start a normal life. Being a priest is not for me. The problem is that it took me 28 years and a demon wanting my soul to realize this.
He won't let me leave this room anymore, but it doesn't really matter either. I can't leave, I know I'm doomed. I curse this demon in my thoughts all the time, and he knows it. He lets out a muffled laughter between his disturbingly perfect white teeth. And he's doing it right now. He's moving his lips as his shadow extends toward me. This nameless demon has been with me since the convent, since I found the bodies, since I found the book. No... I remember... he was already there before. There where?
Since the festival?
I recall something I learned in the seminary, that knowing the demon's name would somehow help. "Pœnitentiam reverti." But anyway...
8
It was late afternoon when I reached the top of the hill. I left Molinar, the cart, and the bottles down at the foot of the mountain; he continued on to the center. My legs were trembling; that hill was more winding than it seemed. Could it be some kind of spell?
The sun was beginning to take on an orange hue. After a few unsuccessful attempts to open the front gate, I decided to jump over the fence that bordered the convent grounds. When I stood up on the inside of the fence,— I still have some bruises from the falling, even though the fence wasn't tall — the building in front of me was a church, the place where the sisters celebrated masses for special occasions.
I once witnessed a celebration led by Mother there. My masses usually last a maximum of 40 minutes, but that one seemed to stretch on for an eternity.
The small church was in order, paintings of Christ's crucifixion adorned the walls. I walked along the central aisle of pews and made my way to the altar; everything was neatly arranged. I entered the sacristy, no one was there. I went to the back room, still no one, no sounds; only the wind angrily pounding against the church wall. It felt strange, very strange.
The church was the entrance to the convent; to the right was the dining hall, and to the left, the main hall with the dormitories. The three buildings formed a "u" shape with an "i" in the middle (which was the church).
I exited through the back door of the church and arrived at the passageway that connected the dining hall to the dormitories. There was a garden that adorned both sides of the passage, quite beautiful, with various flowers and a bit of low grass. There were benches and some tables, yet no one seemed to be enjoying the surroundings. The corridor was quite wide, and I took several dozen steps to reach the buildings.
I headed to the right, choosing to go towards the dining hall first. I walked down the long corridor as the wind sang a melancholic tune, whistling through the cement and brick structures. I paused for a moment in the garden, watching the flowers dance to the tune of the mournful breeze, and stayed there admiring the beauty. The flowers reminded me of Lupita... Wasn't that what you wanted to do with her? The dining hall door was a double solid wooden door that emitted a terrible noise as I wrestled with the worn-out, rusty hinges. Empty. —I'm not completely foolish; I knew something was wrong, I was sure of it. Did God warn them?
It's incredible how the human mind works against its own sanity in moments like that. Imagining shadows, hearing non-existent sounds, feeling nonexistent presences —of course, my mind wasn't functioning entirely at that moment. I didn't need to hide my fear; there was no one there, but I kept my composure.
Two enormous tables stretched across the dining hall, equally long benches flanked them. On the sturdy, dark tables, there was still food left; it seemed to be supper, with meat and bread still remaining on the embroidered tablecloth.
When I entered the kitchen, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows was still illuminating the area. The kitchen was in the same state as the dining hall, unfinished, as if something had been abruptly interrupted. Pots, vegetables, and pasta were scattered across the countertops, waiting for someone to finish the work. The reason for this neglect could have been an emergency meeting with the Mother Superior? Who knows. To me, it wasn't reason enough to leave everything and abandon the place. —but who am I to judge them? A not-quite-priest. I can judge them, but not absolve them.— I returned to the dining hall, passed through the creaking door, and went back to the corridor, heading towards the main hall and the dormitories.
Formless clouds cast their shadows over the hill; rain was imminent.
The stone corridor led me to the entrance of the main hall. The double wooden doors, identical to those of the dining hall, gave the impression that upon opening them, I would come face to face with the dirty kitchen once more. Unlike their twin, these doors didn't creak when opened. I entered the dim light of the place, a focused light coming from a single source, a skylight in the center of the hall. Directly beneath the skylight, there was a large cross that cast a shadow on the floor. The wooden windows high up on the wall were shut, allowing only thin slivers of light to filter through the gaps — lights as inconsequential as offering the host to a drunkard during a morning mass.
It took a while for my eyes to adjust. The place seemed larger. The hall had chairs scattered in front of me; the vast space resembled a disorganized graveyard, and the chairs looked like poorly placed tombstones. "Where is everyone?" was the question that persisted, the phrase felt like a boomerang bouncing back and forth in my mind. I stood in front of the door for quite some time, waiting for an answer.
When one of the last sunbeams passed over my eyes, I snapped out of it. It seemed like I was out of it, standing at the door, for about thirty minutes, I guess.
To reach the altar, I would have to take a few more steps. The elevated part of the place lay beyond the chaos of the disordered pews. I hesitated and followed slowly, taking cautious steps, groping in the darkness. The mixture of brown and black in the environment, combined with the scarce light, made my walk difficult. I expected to bump into something that wasn't there.
I stumbled for the first time, saw nothing; second time, still couldn't see anything; on the third, I stopped.
The sun had dipped below the mountains when I reached about 2/5 of the hall. I was truly taking slow, unsteady steps. Darkness engulfed the space, and I could barely see a bit more than an arm's length in front of me, aside from the eerie shadow of the cross that the skylight cast further ahead.
Since the moment I entered the convent, my mind seemed slower, operating in energy-saving mode. No, I remember... I had been feeling like that before... It started right after the festival.. My thoughts and senses had dulled, as if I had swapped brains with a sloth.I hadn't said anything, but I felt my thoughts sluggish and dragging, like a drunk person's speech. Yes, drunk. My body was slower too, which explains the delay in crossing from one wing to another through the corridor. When I became aware again, the moonlight was already climbing through the window gaps.
I continued to drag myself through the darkness.
The faint shadow of the cross was in front of me when I stumbled for the fourth time. It felt like I had kicked a sack of potatoes or a bundle of dirty clothes, I don't know, it felt warm and substantial. Was it on the way there or back? I blinked and shook my head, looked around again, and found nothing—no sack, no bundle, not even any other clutter I could have tripped over. Did I kick at thin air? No, I don't think so. My intoxicated state didn't allow me to think of anything supernatural at the moment; I just stumbled like a foolish drunkard. I think.
I resumed dragging my legs toward the stairs and stumbled again, but this time, I fell. A dry sound against the floor. I fell right in the middle of the room, under the feeble white spotlight, which contrasted minimally with the shadow of the cross. My head and chest were buzzing danger, clearly it had been a bad fall. I touched my forehead and felt something warm trickling through my fingers. My chest radiated a sensation of earthquake, my bones trembled restlessly. But I didn't feel pain.
Like a knife cut, a thought tore through the fog in my mind: "Why the hell was I skulking around like a thief in a convent?" — Hello! Is anyone there? The sound of the desperate question echoed like a castaway on a deserted island for five days, shouting to a ship hundreds of miles away, or perhaps it sounded more like a fierce bear roaring for the fish that got away? And that yelp was the only thing that dared to break the silence, before he regained control, vigorous.
The wind had ceased, perhaps the pages of the symphony had run out. Crickets chirped faintly in the distance. Inside, only my thoughts collided against my skull.
My hopeless cry for answers was startled by a dry thud of wood at the far end of the hall, behind the altar, within the darkness.
The noise came from where I couldn't see, beyond the wooden stairs. My body was too slow to startle, but a cold cube of ice slid down my spine.
The wind resumed its song outside, the second act of the performance had begun, the monosyllabic and howling sound clashing against the brick walls.
Inside there, emptiness. Every step that echoed on the wooden planks seemed to have a life of its own, amplifying the sound of my shoes.
I had finally ascended the stairs and reached the altar. I managed to touch the main table in front of me and could discern the shadow of a cross on the furniture. Strangely, the light of Christ's body was extinguished. Despite the darkness, I knew that, being near the main table, it should be possible to see the candle illuminating the tabernacle somewhere. —That the nuns were there, I already knew, but why was the light of the tabernacle extinguished?— Christ's body was unlit, and that's when I began to believe in that crazy carter who had stopped me earlier.
I circled around the main table and plunged into the darkness behind it. It was so dense, so sticky, I could almost touch it... no... it was that place... the darkness had nothing to do with it, darkness is the absence of light, simple. This was one step beyond, the blackness surrounding me, it was heavy, had a different smell, it was adhesive. It was darkness.
I extended my arms in front of me like a mummy, in fact, not just my arms, I walked like a mummy.
My hands touched the wall, revealing that the darkness behind the table wasn't endless. I had arrived in front of two doors, two portals to hell. And I wondered, which one should I try first.

Have a Pixel 8 that I got at release. Was fine until the first update, then I had all sorts of odd problems - freezing, crashing, the third party launcher problem.
Did a factory reset and it didn't help. Most recent QPR2 update and factory reset and it got even more unstable.
Finally turned on the "force wipe all partitions" option on the web-assisted USB clean image installer direct from Google.
Bingo. It's been a week now and while it's a little jittery and laggy, no more crashes and launcher problems. Very odd, but maybe had to do with the A/B partition setup.
Edit: Flash tool here. But frankly, you shouldn't trust random links posted by randos on the Internet. Just Google "pixel factory image flash tool". https://flash.android.com/welcome

Hello everyone and welcome to the discussion of the second of our October-November Discovery read novellas: Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan. Despite being a short book it deals with some pretty heavy themes.
Summary
Bill Furlong is a coal and timber merchant in his late 30s, who is married and has five daughters. His mother became pregnant at the age of 16 and was cut off by her family, but Mrs Wilson, the Protestant widow who employed her, kept her on and Bill grew up in her house. Bill never found out who his father was; his mother died suddenly when he was 12, and there was no father’s name on his birth certificate.
Bill’s business is doing well, but signs of the recession of the 1980s are all around him – dole queues getting longer, people unable to pay their bills, others emigrating, a boy drinking milk left out for a cat.
The Furlong family gets ready for Christmas – they attend the town’s Christmas lights being turned on, then make a Christmas cake together and the girls write their letters to Santa. Bill reflects on his childhood Christmases.
The Good Shepherd nuns have a convent on a hill overlooking the town, and it is generally known that they run a “training school” for girls although people don’t know much detail about this. They also have a laundry business. However, there are rumours that the girls at the training school aren’t actually students but are the ones doing the laundry. Bill doesn’t think much about these rumours, but one evening he delivers a load of coal to the convent and while looking for a nun he discovers a group of young women and girls who are polishing a floor. One of them, whose hair looks like it has been cut roughly with shears, asks him to help her by taking her as far as the river. He declines to get involved, and a nun turns up, so he completes the delivery. He is distracted and unsettled while driving away, thinking about the state the girls were in as well as other details he had noticed like the padlocked doors and the broken glass along the walls.
That night he tells his wife, Eileen, about what he saw, but she tells him that it has nothing to do with them, and there are things in life they have to ignore. She makes a dig about his mother being unmarried, which is the first time she has ever used this against him in an argument. She sort of apologises, but adds that “It’s only people with no children that can afford to be careless.”
As Christmas approaches, snow is forecast and people make panic orders of fuel from Bill’s yard. Another big order comes in from the convent and Bill resolves to deliver it himself the next morning. He arrives there before dawn and there appears to be nobody about. When he opens the coal house door, he discovers a girl locked in there – she has clearly been there for more than one night. He puts his coat around her and helps her outside, and she doesn’t appear to know what time of day it is. He rings the convent’s doorbell, and a nun reacts with shock when she sees them, shutting the door. The girl asks Bill to ask them about her baby, who is 14 weeks old and has been taken away from her.
The Mother Superior appears at the door, and pretends that the girl had gone missing from her bed. She tells the girl to come inside and have a hot bath, and insists that Bill come in for some tea. The Mother Superior is calm, but the younger nun seems agitated and jumpy about his presence. The girl is brought back to sit with them, with wet hair and wearing clean clothes. The Mother Superior asks her why she was in the shed, and the girl says they were playing and she got locked in there, although she starts sobbing. The Mother Superior tells the younger nun and cook food for the girl and tries to get rid of Bill, but he stubbornly stays a little longer. She gives him an envelope with money, adding that she will expect an invoice as well for the coal. Before he leaves, he sees the girl sitting in the kitchen and the younger nun fries breakfast. He speaks kindly to the girl, who cries “the way those unused to any type of kindness do when it’s at first or after a long time again encountered.” She tells him her name is Sarah and that she is from Clonegal, but the younger nun signals for her to stop talking. Bill tells her his name and where he works, and that she should let him know if she ever needs anything.
At home, Bill gives Eileen the envelope which contains a Christmas card and 50 pounds. She notices he is out of sorts, but he doesn’t tell her about the girl he found in the coal shed. He gets ready for mass, and as they enter the chapel grounds Eileen makes another dig about Bill giving change away to hungry children. He is distracted during the service, and doesn’t go up to take communion with the others.
Later that day, the Furlong family put up their Christmas tree and other decorations, then Eileen and their daughters make mince pies. Bill longs to get away as he feels the room is closing in, and he decides to go to see Ned, the farmhand who worked for Mrs Wilson while Bill was growing up. When he arrives, the woman who opens the door tells him that Ned has been in hospital for a couple of weeks with pneumonia. She comments that Bill must be related to Ned as there is a strong resemblance. Bill is shaken by this and sits in his car for a long time, but when he leaves he thinks back to the girl at the convent, regretting that he never asked about her baby like she had asked him to, and had left with the money then gone to mass like a hypocrite.
On Christmas Eve, Bill and his workers do a half day at the coal yard, then go to a local place run by Mrs Kehoe for a Christmas meal. When Bill goes to pay, Mrs Kehoe speaks quietly to him about his “run-in” with the Mother Superior at the convent, and warns him to be careful what he tells people about what he may have seen there, as the nuns have a finger in every pie.
Outside, the snow has started, and Bill enjoys the fresh air as he walks along the quays. He goes for a haircut, then picks up the shoes he had ordered for Eileen for Christmas. He finds himself walking back to the river and across the bridge, where he thinks about the curse of the River Barrow. He passes several houses and sees the people inside, then goes up towards the convent and into the coal house. The same girl is locked in there again, and he gives her his coat and walks her out. He considers taking her to the priest’s house, but realises that the priest would already know what is happening at the convent. On the way back to his house, they pass many people, some of whom realise that Sarah is from the laundry. He wonders to himself what the point of being alive is if we don’t help each other, and how you could call yourself a Christian if you don’t. He thinks about how his own mother could have ended up in that place if it hadn’t been for the kindness of Mrs Wilson. He knows he will pay for this action, and that there will be a world of trouble waiting for him, but it would be worse to live with himself if he hadn’t done it. In his heart, he believes that they will manage.
Cultural context
The book is set in 1985 in New Ross, which is in the southeast of the Republic of Ireland. There has been a settlement there since the 6th century, and it was an important international port from the 13th century to the 19th century, when ships got too big for the shallow water. American readers might be interested to know that former US president John F Kennedy’s great-grandfather was from near New Ross, where this book is set – JFK visited Ireland in June 1963, and here is a video of him giving a speech at the New Ross quayside.
The Republic of Ireland was going through a pretty bad recession at the time this book is set. According to a policy paper by the Center for West European Studies, “The period 1980 to 1987 was one of prolonged recession, falling living standards, a dramatic increase in unemployment and, once again, the prospect of emigration as the best option for the young. Total employment declined by almost 6 percent and employment in manufacturing by 25 percent.”
As for the influence of the Catholic church – when the island of Ireland was partitioned, the Catholic church gained a lot of political influence in the 26 counties of what is now called the Republic of Ireland, and at the time of partition 92.6% of the population was Catholic (this does not include Northern Ireland, which is a different kettle of fish). The church also controlled most of the country’s hospitals, schools, and a lot of other social services.
In 1985, the year this book is set, legislation that made condoms and spermicides available at pharmacies without prescription to people over 18 was approved (quite controversially, as the Catholic church was very against it), although advertising contraceptives was still illegal and the birth control pill was still restricted. Supplying artificial contraception with a prescription to married couples had only been allowed since 1979.
Other things that were illegal in the Republic of Ireland in 1985 include: homosexuality [decriminalised in 1993], divorce and remarriage [overturned by referendum in 1995], same-sex marriage [legalised by popular vote in 2015], abortion [overturned by referendum in 2018], selling alcohol on Good Friday [legalised in 2018].
What I’m really trying to get across here is how much power and influence the Catholic church had over Irish society, including politicians, at the time.
Magdalene laundries
The Wikipedia page on Magdalene Laundries in Ireland says they “were institutions usually run by Roman Catholic orders, which operated from the 18th to the late 20th centuries. They were run ostensibly to house "fallen women", an estimated 30,000 of whom were confined in these institutions in Ireland. In 1993, unmarked graves of 155 women were uncovered in the convent grounds of one of the laundries. This led to media revelations about the operations of the secretive institutions.”
The Irish singer Sinead O’Connor, who died a few months ago, was sent to one of these institutions when she was 14 and spent about 18 months there.
A 1998 documentary, Sex in a Cold Climate, features interviews with four women who were in Magdalene laundries. It is worth watching if you have a spare 50 minutes, but of course trigger warning for the interviewees discussing the sexual, psychological and physical abuse they were subjected to. This documentary was used as inspiration for the 2002 film The Magdalene Sisters.
The last Magdalene laundry in the Republic of Ireland closed in 1996, and it is apparently the only one that has not been demolished. In 2022 the government announced it would be turned into a National Centre for Research and Remembrance.
In 2013, the Taoiseach Enda Kenny (the head of government, roughly equivalent to a prime minister) gave an official public apology to the women who were incarcerated in Magdalene laundries (short video clip, and the full transcript). The Irish state has since paid compensation to some of the survivors, but the religious organisations involved have not. An Irish Times article from March 2022 reported:
All four religious congregations involved in running Ireland's 10 Magdalene laundries… have refused to contribute to a State fund to compensate the women who worked in them.
A total of €32.8 million has so far been paid by the State in awards under a redress scheme created in December 2013 which has given awards since of up to €100,000 to 814 survivors.
However, the Religious Sisters of Charity, the Sisters of Mercy, the Sisters of Our Lady of Charity and the Good Shepherd Sisters have "declined" to make a financial contribution to the Magdalen Laundries Restorative Justice Ex Gratia Scheme, the Department of Children confirmed to The Irish Times.
Incidentally, Magdalene laundries are not unique to the Republic of Ireland – they also had them in Northern Ireland, the United States of America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and Sweden.
Bookclub Bingo 2023 categories: Discovery Read, Historical Fiction (green)
Trigger warnings: Storygraph users have marked the book with the following trigger warnings: Forced institutionalization, Child abuse, Confinement, Religious bigotry, Physical abuse, Emotional abuse, Suicidal thoughts, Death of parent, Vomit
Other links:

• Claire Keegan on Wikipedia
• Small Things Like These on Wikipedia
• An interview with Claire Keegan about the book
• Video – Claire Keegan answers readers' questions about 'Small Things Like These'
• The bookclub discussion of Foster, another of Claire Keegan’s works

The discussion questions are in the comments below.
Join us on Monday 13th November when u/DernhelmLaughed leads the discussion on the final novella, Galatea by Madeline Miller.

My desktop rig is an Arch based (RebornOS) distro that is at kernel 6.5.8 and QEMU 8.1.2 (see below for specs).

$ inxi -Fazy Kernel: 6.5.8-arch1-1 arch: x86_64 bits: 64 compiler: gcc v: 13.2.1 clocksource: tsc available: hpet,acpi_pm parameters: BOOT_IMAGE=/boot/vmlinuz-linux root=UUID=fd99a9f1-dc16-46b1-ac33-6ddd13fc1dd2 rw intel_iommu=on iommu=pt pci=noaer Desktop: Xfce v: 4.18.1 tk: Gtk v: 3.24.36 info: xfce4-panel wm: xfwm v: 4.18.0 vt: 7 dm: LightDM v: 1.32.0 Distro: Arch Linux Machine: Type: Desktop System: ASUS product: N/A v: N/A serial:  Mobo: ASUSTeK model: PRIME Z590-V v: Rev 1.xx serial:  UEFI: American Megatrends v: 1601 date: 05/07/2022 Battery: Device-1: hidpp_battery_0 model: Logitech K850 Performance Wireless Keyboard serial:  charge: 100% (should be ignored) rechargeable: yes status: discharging Device-2: hidpp_battery_1 model: Logitech M720 Triathlon Multi-Device Mouse serial:  charge: 100% (should be ignored) rechargeable: yes status: discharging CPU: Info: model: 11th Gen Intel Core i7-11700K bits: 64 type: MT MCP arch: Rocket Lake gen: core 11 level: v4 note: check built: 2021+ process: Intel 14nm family: 6 model-id: 0xA7 (167) stepping: 1 microcode: 0x59 Topology: cpus: 1x cores: 8 tpc: 2 threads: 16 smt: enabled cache: L1: 640 KiB desc: d-8x48 KiB; i-8x32 KiB L2: 4 MiB desc: 8x512 KiB L3: 16 MiB desc: 1x16 MiB Speed (MHz): avg: 1464 high: 4400 min/max: 800/4900:5000 scaling: driver: intel_pstate governor: powersave cores: 1: 853 2: 800 3: 800 4: 885 5: 800 6: 3169 7: 4400 8: 800 9: 800 10: 800 11: 3362 12: 800 13: 800 14: 2757 15: 800 16: 800 bogomips: 115232 Flags: avx avx2 ht lm nx pae sse sse2 sse3 sse4_1 sse4_2 ssse3 vmx Vulnerabilities: Type: gather_data_sampling mitigation: Microcode Type: itlb_multihit status: Not affected Type: l1tf status: Not affected Type: mds status: Not affected Type: meltdown status: Not affected Type: mmio_stale_data mitigation: Clear CPU buffers; SMT vulnerable Type: retbleed mitigation: Enhanced IBRS Type: spec_rstack_overflow status: Not affected Type: spec_store_bypass mitigation: Speculative Store Bypass disabled via prctl Type: spectre_v1 mitigation: usercopy/swapgs barriers and __user pointer sanitization Type: spectre_v2 mitigation: Enhanced / Automatic IBRS, IBPB: conditional, RSB filling, PBRSB-eIBRS: SW sequence Type: srbds status: Not affected Type: tsx_async_abort status: Not affected Graphics: Device-1: Intel RocketLake-S GT1 [UHD Graphics 750] vendor: ASUSTeK driver: i915 v: kernel arch: Gen-12.1 process: Intel 10nm built: 2020-21 ports: active: HDMI-A-1 empty: DP-1,HDMI-A-2 bus-ID: 00:02.0 chip-ID: 8086:4c8a class-ID: 0300 Device-2: AMD Navi 23 [Radeon RX 6650 XT / 6700S 6800S] vendor: XFX driver: vfio-pci v: N/A alternate: amdgpu arch: RDNA-2 code: Navi-2x process: TSMC n7 (7nm) built: 2020-22 pcie: gen: 4 speed: 16 GT/s lanes: 16 bus-ID: 03:00.0 chip-ID: 1002:73ef class-ID: 0300 Display: x11 server: X.org v: 1.21.1.8 with: Xwayland v: 23.2.1 compositor: xfwm v: 4.18.0 driver: X: loaded: modesetting alternate: fbdev,intel,vesa dri: iris gpu: i915 display-ID: :0.0 screens: 1 Screen-1: 0 s-res: 2560x1440 s-size:  Monitor-1: HDMI-A-1 mapped: HDMI-1 model: LG (GoldStar) QHD serial:  built: 2021 res: 2560x1440 hz: 60 dpi: 93 gamma: 1.2 size: 698x392mm (27.48x15.43") diag: 801mm (31.5") ratio: 16:9 modes: max: 2560x1440 min: 640x480 API: OpenGL Message: Unable to show GL data. glxinfo is missing. Audio: Device-1: Intel Tiger Lake-H HD Audio vendor: ASUSTeK driver: snd_hda_intel v: kernel alternate: snd_sof_pci_intel_tgl bus-ID: 00:1f.3 chip-ID: 8086:43c8 class-ID: 0403 Device-2: AMD Navi 21/23 HDMI/DP Audio driver: vfio-pci alternate: snd_hda_intel pcie: gen: 4 speed: 16 GT/s lanes: 16 bus-ID: 03:00.1 chip-ID: 1002:ab28 class-ID: 0403 API: ALSA v: k6.5.8-arch1-1 status: kernel-api tools: N/A Server-1: sndiod v: N/A status: off tools: aucat,midicat,sndioctl Server-2: JACK v: 1.9.22 status: off tools: N/A Server-3: PipeWire v: 0.3.83 status: active with: 1: pipewire-pulse status: active 2: pipewire-media-session status: active 3: pipewire-alsa type: plugin tools: pactl,pw-cat,pw-cli Network: Device-1: Intel Ethernet I219-V vendor: ASUSTeK driver: e1000e v: kernel port: N/A bus-ID: 00:1f.6 chip-ID: 8086:15fa class-ID: 0200 IF: eno1 state: up speed: 1000 Mbps duplex: full mac:  Device-2: Intel Dual Band Wireless-AC 3168NGW [Stone Peak] driver: iwlwifi v: kernel pcie: gen: 1 speed: 2.5 GT/s lanes: 1 bus-ID: 08:00.0 chip-ID: 8086:24fb class-ID: 0280 IF: wlp8s0 state: down mac:  IF-ID-1: bridge0 state: up speed: 1000 Mbps duplex: unknown mac:  Bluetooth: Device-1: Intel Wireless-AC 3168 Bluetooth driver: btusb v: 0.8 type: USB rev: 2.0 speed: 12 Mb/s lanes: 1 mode: 1.1 bus-ID: 1-10.2:4 chip-ID: 8087:0aa7 class-ID: e001 Report: btmgmt ID: hci0 rfk-id: 0 state: up address:  bt-v: 4.2 lmp-v: 8 status: discoverable: no pairing: no class-ID: 7c0104 Drives: Local Storage: total: 8.87 TiB used: 2.98 TiB (33.6%) SMART Message: Required tool smartctl not installed. Check --recommends ID-1: /dev/nvme0n1 maj-min: 259:0 vendor: Western Digital model: WDS100T1X0E-00AFY0 size: 931.51 GiB block-size: physical: 512 B logical: 512 B speed: 63.2 Gb/s lanes: 4 tech: SSD serial:  fw-rev: 613000WD temp: 45.9 C scheme: GPT ID-2: /dev/nvme1n1 maj-min: 259:4 vendor: Samsung model: MZVLB512HAJQ-00000 size: 476.94 GiB block-size: physical: 512 B logical: 512 B speed: 31.6 Gb/s lanes: 4 tech: SSD serial:  fw-rev: EXA7301Q temp: 36.9 C scheme: GPT ID-3: /dev/nvme2n1 maj-min: 259:9 vendor: Western Digital model: WD BLACK SN850X 4000GB size: 3.64 TiB block-size: physical: 512 B logical: 512 B speed: 63.2 Gb/s lanes: 4 tech: SSD serial:  fw-rev: 624311WD temp: 43.9 C scheme: GPT ID-4: /dev/sda maj-min: 8:0 vendor: Seagate model: WDC WDS240G2G0A-00JH30 size: 223.58 GiB block-size: physical: 512 B logical: 512 B speed: 6.0 Gb/s tech: SSD serial:  fw-rev: 0000 scheme: GPT ID-5: /dev/sdb maj-min: 8:16 vendor: Western Digital model: WD2002FAEX-007BA0 size: 1.82 TiB block-size: physical: 512 B logical: 512 B speed: 6.0 Gb/s tech: N/A serial:  fw-rev: 1D05 scheme: GPT ID-6: /dev/sdc maj-min: 8:32 vendor: Western Digital model: WD10EZEX-08WN4A0 size: 931.51 GiB block-size: physical: 4096 B logical: 512 B speed: 6.0 Gb/s tech: HDD rpm: 7200 serial:  fw-rev: 1A02 scheme: GPT ID-7: /dev/sdd maj-min: 8:48 vendor: Smart Modular Tech. model: SHGP31-1 000GM-2 size: 931.51 GiB block-size: physical: 2048 B logical: 512 B type: USB rev: 3.2 spd: 5 Gb/s lanes: 1 mode: 3.2 gen-1x1 tech: N/A serial:  fw-rev: 0C20 scheme: GPT Partition: ID-1: / raw-size: 64 GiB size: 62.44 GiB (97.57%) used: 30.63 GiB (49.1%) fs: ext4 block-size: 4096 B dev: /dev/nvme1n1p2 maj-min: 259:6 ID-2: /boot/efi raw-size: 300 MiB size: 299.4 MiB (99.80%) used: 304 KiB (0.1%) fs: vfat block-size: 512 B dev: /dev/nvme1n1p1 maj-min: 259:5 Swap: Alert: No swap data was found. Sensors: System Temperatures: cpu: 46.0 C mobo: N/A Fan Speeds (rpm): N/A Info: Processes: 329 Uptime: 6h 37m wakeups: 30 Memory: total: 64 GiB note: est. available: 62.57 GiB used: 2.33 GiB (3.7%) Init: systemd v: 254 default: graphical tool: systemctl Compilers: gcc: 13.2.1 Packages: pm: pacman pkgs: 1326 libs: 383 tools: pamac,yay Shell: Bash v: 5.1.16 running-in: xfce4-terminal inxi: 3.3.30 

I use libvirt with virt-manager for managing my VMs, totaly gave up VMware and VBox. I recently ran in to an issue with a Manjaro 23.0.2 guest in which it would hang on shutdown, while the host would remain unaffected. Libvirt would ultimately kill the domain when its monitor timed out. Nothing in the host's logs and the guest's logs must have still been in cache. My best debugging effort was from booting the guest with plymouth disabled where the last shutdown message displayed was
Stopping User Manager for UID 1000...
I have several other VMs and none of them have this issue. I also have two other linux distros installed on my rig, so I decided to see how they behaved. Both of them had no issue running this Manjaro as a guest. So I tried my laptop which also has the same RebornOS installed on it (10th Gen Ice Lake). No issue.
Next step for this old SW guy is to dive in to the Is/Is Not logic. I iterated through the differences and found that downgrading QEMU to 7.2 (which the other two distros run) fixed the hang. I see that this post is way too long, so let me get to my discovery of why just my desktop with QEMU 8.1.2 (I ruled out libvirt because I iterated through configurations using QEMU directly from the terminal).
I discovered that the hang is related to using spice audio (libvirt default) for the guest. Switching to the pulse audio driver fixed the issue. Still no root cause, and why just my desktop. Turns out the desktop has iGPU + dGPU (which is assigned to VFIO at boot for use in my macOS VM) and the laptop just iGPU. I yanked out the dGPU and bingo, spice audio works! Well I have to have my hack, so I'm using pulse audio for this Manjaro guest as my solution.
Here's hoping my story saves someone else two weeks of problem solving; and, that possibly someone knows the real root cause.
​

Hi everyone !
Recently my PC (only Windows 10) started to take several minutes to boot (up to 15 minutes the 1st time I had this issue, really distressing...)
It was stuck on the MSI Arsenal Gaming loading panel. I updated the BIOS but still the same issue.
During this loading time, I heard a cracking sound from one of my 2 HDDs. I then unplugged them and bingo, when my 3To Hitachi is unplugged, the boot is like 15s !
This HDD has always been used to store media or portable softwares, but never a Windows partition nor games...
I tried defragmenting it, but it did nothing.
CrystalDiskInfo says "Caution" because of the reallocated sectors count (495) and the current pending sector count (24).
Can I do something or is my HDD dead ? :/

(Don't want to scroll? See the primer and deck list here.)
​
A few of months ago I was scouring the options of my next potential brew. The caveat this time was an underexplored and underdeveloped region of the colour pie, and came to a decision point between 2 options:
​

• Gruul: The right choice. Had some things good things going for it Dockside, Underworld Breach, Snoop (Sorta?), Hulk and hamsters? And I'm going to be honest here Dino storm was not on my bingo card here.
• Orzhov: The painfully wrong choice if you aren't playing Tymna or Tevesh in the command zone, and still probably the wrong choice. I knew the colour offered reanimation synergies, removal options and most importantly Silence. I chose this one...

​
So what're we working with here for Orzhov:
​

• Combo wise in these colours we're using reanimation shenanigans, we have [[Razaketh, the Foulblooded]], [[Abdel Adrian, Gorion's Ward]], the recently printed [[Hoarding Broodlord]] and a cat? Or we're using commander combos like the classic [[Teysa, Orzhov Scion]] and [[Darkest Hour]]/[[Painter's Servant]] or [[Blood Artist]] + some wonky loop.
• In the ways of interaction, [[Silence]], [[Ranger Captain of Eos]], [[Soul Partition]], [[Swords to Plowshares]] for white, [[Deadly Rollick]], [[Toxic Deluge]], [[Cut Down]] and [[Dismember]] for black, and the Orzhov options like [[Damn]] and [[Vanishing Verse]]
• Tutors like [[Entomb]], [[Vampiric Tutor]], [[Demonic consultation]], [[Tainted Pact]], [[Unmarked Grave]]...
• Alongside these we have the classic stax suite in [[Rule of Law]], [[Hush Bringer]] and [[Rest in Peace]] effects alongside the all you can read [[Chains of Mephistopheles]].
• Protection effects like [[Mother of Runes]], [[Giver of Runes]], [[Alseid of Life's Bounty]] and [[Grand Abolisher]]
• [[Ad Nauseam]] and [[Peer into the Abyss]].
• Other powerful things this colour combo provides are discard effects but don't scale well compared with 1v1, Rituals like [[Dark ritual]] but no [[Dockside Extortionist]], [[Opposition Agent]] and the recent additions to the colour in [[Orcish Bowmasters]] and [[Lotho, Corrupt Shirriff]].

​
Now from all this I looked at [[Tymna, the Weaver]] and said "What can I do that isn't you, is powerful and can fix that I didn't mention card draw above..." (or something like that? Yeah sounds right.)
​
The obvious answer can be found by looking at many of the other commanders in low colours to see what their justification is:
​

• Category 1: Kinnan, Winota, Magda; They Cheat out creature cheating on mana value and card selection and have win conditions cool
• Category 2: K'rrik, Urza, Selvala; Okay cheating on mana to increase speed whilst also being a combo card got it
• Category 3: Koll, Godo, heliod; Okay literal combo piece got it probably the weakest overall

​
So after looking at this I compared the Orzhov options minus tymna and tevesh to determine which ones had a decent looking chance:
​

• [[Lurrus of the Dream-Den]]: Sweet card advantage engine in the command zone one you get stuff into yard, doesn't cheat on mana or have a identifying combo most requiring an outlet.
• [[Teysa, Orzhov Scion]]: Identifying 2 card combos with minor advantage in the command zone, but requires an outlet? An example of the age ol' orzhov outlet problem, even with [[Darkest Hour]] and [[Painter's Servant]] being so low to the ground. Though it's historically been the one of the premier example.
• [[Nalia de'Arnise]]: Card advantage and a combat win condition in the command zone no defining combos.
• [[Lotho, Corrupt Shirriff]]: Pretty good mana advantage engine in the command zone and one of the best orzhov cards we've gotten recently. But struggles the same as many with the requirements to combo being either a lot of mana and/or a lot of cards. I personally think the card is better in the 99 for the current time until we get a good combo post [[Ad Nauseam]]/[[Peer into the Abyss]].
• [[Ratadrabik of Urborg]]: 1 card combo with Sidisi and a couple of other things 🗸 can set up nasty engines with sacrifice loops 🗸 costs quite a bit of mana to do the 1 cards. ✗ (Now there is some interesting stuff with the recent LotR set and the ring tempts you someone bust that stuff)

​
Here we find the issue with a lot of this, Orzhov is awkward and found myself asking a lot of questions;
​

• Yes it has the tutors, some of the interesting reanimation pieces, but does it have the ramp to fuel these?
• Does it have the density to actively combo early?
• Is there anything we can do that other lists can't as well?

​
These are the questions I looked into cause really I can't be stuffed playing hard stax in orzhov when other colours and commanders do it much better.
​
So what I decided on for my brewing was [[Elas il-Kor, Sadistic Pilgrim]] a commander that is literally just a worse [[Blood Artist]] in the command zone. Now in saying this, this is pretty average, like if you're expecting "the next metabuster deck!" This is not it but I think it actually is a lot closer than it seems to viable. Lets start with the negatives:
​

• Doesn't cheat on mana.
• Doesn't cheat on cards.
• Doesn't have 1 card win conditions for a realistic amount of mana.
• Is in Orzhov.

​
So yeah this is sounding bad... like unplayable bad, but trust me there is a minor trade off:
​

• We have an array of 2 card combos (+ commander), the first set of combos goes through RoL, Null Rod and can be instant speed, the other makes them [[Pact of Negation]] a [[Walking Balista]] for x = 0.
• Combo lines are fairly accessible and aren't actually too dead of cards.
• You can run backup commanders in the 99.
• You can play at instant speed a lot of the time and rreeeaalllyyyy want to test your own patience.

​
So if you've gotten this far I'm sorry, don't know why you're still here, but we can start now. Here I introduce the Il-Gotten Gains primer a tempo combo list focusing on graveyard based combos that are tricky to interact with:
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https://www.moxfield.com/decks/8EPYMbjiQ0-liaHG5cNNoA/primer
​
​

I've been playing with the stock card for a while and wanted to move on to Garlic OS and use TBS. I gather all the materials and programs. Downloaded all the files.
Migration hasn't been smooth. I've followed both Joey's and Retro Game's guides. I can boot into Garlic OS but I don't see any icons in the consoles tab. Both instructions seem to jump over certain step, probably to not incur the wraith of litigation. It's becoming frustrating.
Now, I've stepped back and reformatted my 16GB card and set it up like it's a single card setup but I have both cards in. Added a few choice games and tried again. No change. Reading Retro's write up instructions, I see the blurb about NeoGeo. So, I copy each of the bios files for the consoles and paste them into their roms counterpart's folder. Start it up and bingo! I see icons can play games. Though, still not seeing anything from the second card. Which is a Samsung 128GB I had from an old phone. It's something!
Now it has me thinking, how do I know it's reading my second card? It works in the computer just fine.
Just to add to the story. I got my device from Temu back in April. Looks like it came directly from China as it cleared customs and took like 12 days, the last day to arrive. It has the 2600mAh battery.
Edit: Thank you to XQuader for your help. There was one additional partition that was hanging around the second SD card. Now I see everything.

Vista and XP dual boot
Not sure where else to put this but I am in a bit of a pickle.
So my old laptop has Vista on it. That's what it came with (but no disc so I'll get to that in a moment) butt he sticker and product code is on it. A while ago I got to thinking I'd put XP on it also so I could run my old games like warcraft (the first one) and the like.
Well I finally got around to doing it. Apparently the last time I tried all the farther I got was making two partitions and putting Vista on it. I tried putting warcraft of that but it didn't work, then I remembered about putting XP on it. So I have my xp disc which I found in a roller coaster tycoon case. Odd. But whatever I had it.
I laid it up and it goes through, asks for product key, which is on the sleeve...not sure where that is. I go online find a code bingo bango XP is loaded on. But now Vista won't boot. My copy of Vista is missing with the xp sleeve with the product code on it. I also need the activation code for XP which I had written on the sleeve. And I'm not sure how to boot to Vista
I did some digging and apparently putting XP on breaks the Vista boot and there were some commands to fix it but they didn't work for me so now I need the disc again.
Anybody else been through this? Or anybody have any pointers for what to do? I used to be way more into computers but now I even forgot all the command prompts :/

Not sure where else to put this but I am in a bit of a pickle.
So my old laptop has Vista on it. That's what it came with (but no disc so I'll get to that in a moment) butt he sticker and product code is on it. A while ago I got to thinking I'd put XP on it also so I could run my old games like warcraft (the first one) and the like.
Well I finally got around to doing it. Apparently the last time I tried all the farther I got was making two partitions and putting Vista on it. I tried putting warcraft of that but it didn't work, then I remembered about putting XP on it. So I have my xp disc which I found in a roller coaster tycoon case. Odd. But whatever I had it.
I laid it up and it goes through, asks for product key, which is on the sleeve...not sure where that is. I go online find a code bingo bango XP is loaded on. But now Vista won't boot. My copy of Vista is missing with the xp sleeve with the product code on it. I also need the activation code for XP which I had written on the sleeve. And I'm not sure how to boot to Vista
I did some digging and apparently putting XP on breaks the Vista boot and there were some commands to fix it but they didn't work for me so now I need the disc again.
Anybody else been through this? Or anybody have any pointers for what to do? I used to be way more into computers but now I even forgot all the comment prompts :/

this is a prototype Yugen Glyph (hunt for my previous post lol or my medium article here ). Magic is not yet ready, this is just a prototype for capturing full concepts, I think instead of making it it's own language, it should act as a wrapper for all existing languages.
Put numbers where the text in the example is, put that numbered up version of the graph, on the front page of a document or sub-document, and then use bulleted paragraphs, or bulleted hyperlinks to parallel documents, and in each paragraph or parallel document: be as detailed or vague as is your accurate impression of the subject.
for example someone who really loves mathematics, will have a very detailed and huge document tree centered around this graph about their impression of math, and what is the opposite of math? for some folks the opposite is literal Nothingness with a capital N because math is Everything with a capital E. For others, the opposite of math is social studies, or art (people who think math and art are opposites, I mean I'd like to have a word with them, and would like to impress upon you that I think they are WRONG!! because perspective and symmetry and even the chemistry of the optics of our perceptions and neurochemistry of our impressions- all of art, is just layers... and layers... of math, but at the same time I feel why they may be misguided into that perception, because math not as a subject but as discipline is rather rigid whereas art is like Bob Ross' TV persona, it embraces mistakes as a part of the process whereas math as a discipline sternly rejects them! but math the subject and math the discipline are two different animals, math the subject is just pattern recognition and construction taken into the furthest reaches of human capacity as an elevated artform. so math the discipline is a bit like professor Snape from Terfy/Harry Potter, math the subject is a friggin kaleidoscopic rainbow of infinite imagination and possibilities, math professors create worlds with the best of em man. Like portraits of possibility written out like the rules to an otherwise inconceivable game! I love math! I hate being taught it, but I LOVE exploring it!!!! Just as much as I love a good anime or trip to the art museum or a fun creative novel or cool visual patterns on cute clothing Math Art what's the difference really, art is just math with fun inaccuracies, math with wiggle room, but they'll always be two heads attached to the same Demogorgon)
I rambled... where was I.... Yes, I may disagree with someone who thinks art and math are opposites but disagreement, truckloads of it, all of the disagreement that is physically capable of existing in the same place at once without collapsing into a blackhole, none of it will invalidate their experience and that's what this linguistic wrapper is about. It's about...
...Dreams Nightmares The Holy Spirit, Trips to the depths of Hell, good days and bad days, weird experiences that last only a fleeting instant and leave a deep impression. All of that.
Doesn't matter if you believe in it or not, because the it as it was perceived may not exist, whilst at the same time (and read this maybe a few times) the it as a perception is irrefutable.
Peoples WRONG >-( feelings are still valid man... I mean you may think drinking your own pee kept you hydrated in the desert and drinking alcohol kept you warm in the tundra, you'd be oh so very wrong (to the point of nearly killing yourself) but that comfort you felt when you thought you were surviving in the wilderness like a pro, that was real, the way misinformation was munched on by your brain like it was the good stuff, that was also very real and you, yourself are valid no matter what.
Like what is reality? that's a linguistic question more than a scientific one.
If you define it as what is felt to be real, then hey, people who remember shit vividly, even when it's factually incorrect, like how myself among many others remember the Bearenstein Bears, whom according to all outside stimuli I generally trust, were actually historically always the Bearenstain Bears, and likely because of the cartoon introduction pronouncing it with a thick accent, and me reading them when my trained mental optical character recognition skills for the english language were at a fledging capacity because I was very very VERY young, my ears hear the woman with the thick accent call them Bearenstein, my eyes were not yet trained to strongly discriminate between "a" and "e". I can safely conclude I remembered it wrong and was the victim of multimodal confusion.
However a good deal of people have come to a much cooler set of conclusions; ready?!
They believe that either A) they are from a parallel history that was destroyed by something and their souls migrated here; B) that a bunch of very skilled book ninjas replaced every book with an identically weathered copy of itself except for small changes to the print, or C) that God did like the ninjas in the previous example did, and either physically changed history but left some of us with a spiritual memory of our alternate history for whatever reason, or to the same effect God just did as the ninjas in the previous example did and used God power to rearrange the ink on every page of the books.
Hey those conclusions are wild, and sometimes when I'm feeling fanciful I do indeed like to imagine or even convince myself I am from a parallel earth where minor details about things are definitely different because I remember them "wrongly" so vividly, it would be MORE fair of a world if my memory was flawless and thus proof that I am a world wrangler of some kind. I don't believe that. that's not my reality.
But that's my point, from an evidentiary perspective trying to prove you are from a parallel universe is like trying help Sisyphus take a break, or trying to reconstruct the 'original' ship of Theseus even whilst the ship is still arguably here. it's not impossible per se, but what does it even mean man? is it even possible? does it even make sense to say outloud? ...or is it just some gnome chopsky meaninful gibberish type stuff?
mind-blown... but whilst they might not be from a alternate universe, because that would imply that evidentiarily there would be some kind of coordinate to visit where they come from... is it really wrong to say they're from an alternate reality? I'd argue no, reality is a word that linguists bitch about, because in English we use the same word and spread it over a couple of separate concepts, the physical present as the arithmetic mean of measurers' consensus has it, and then present internal personal experience. both are reality.
I mean if you stick something friggin cold on my skin, I might experience an internal reality of paradoxical heat, whilst someone peeping through a thermal imaging cam would experience a physical external measurement of me being exposed to extreme cold.
which one is "true"?
well for us, "us" the cold is true, but for me, myself, I, alone; the hot was what I felt most vividly, that's "my truth" as the south of the USA annoyingly puts it. (the idea that truth isn't singular still annoys me).
(TRUTH is singular, but I'd argue TRUTH is also beyond the perceptual capacity of mortals)
we don't converge on truth we converge on measurable contemporary consensus about our perceived external reality, which as luck would have it is practically the same as truth but slightly different. We'll never know if the universal constants we take for granted are just one click away from some cosmic teenager tweaking a couple setting on their screensaver and erasing us from existence, and since we can't measure this cosmic teenager, we don't bother about them, but hey, maybe someday they'll get bored of their current screensaver, we'll all just kind of disintegrate like when Thanos Snapped in the Marvel End Game event.
Just minding our own business and then atoms all over the world turn to jelly when exposed to sunlight or something. not likely according to what we know, but we know we can't know everything, so just be grateful it isn't our current reality and continue taking thing for what they appear to be for now I guess.
As for internal reality, that's what's driving me to write this. that's what drove you here for whatever reason. we have more direct contact with internal reality, external reality is just some consistent pattern pattern we or you or I feel internally as if we have less control over it than we do over our thoughts, so it feels external, whether or not reality warpers that can bend reality just as easily as you can choose to compose a naughty joke in your head exist, that's a matter for science fiction writers and philosophers and fringe bio-physics researchers.
And subtractively some people have more intrusive thoughts than controlled thoughts, some people have and other people don't have inner voices; some people have high resolution internal imaging software for pictures and sounds that they vividly hallucinate at will, other people have very delicate and subtle to no imagination capacity, if we can subtract from inner reality it makes sense to imagine that adding to it is not out of the question.
is control and perception of your limbs inner reality? yes, but does it have some small interference effect on this external reality we feel exposed to... (rather than as familiar with as a bodily or mental sensation) ...sometimes, not if you're percieving the movement of a severed or paralyzed limb though.
what about dreams, they can feel just as external as the waking world, but with this weird capacity to exist on a scale of externality to internality, a lucid dream, is basically what the external world would be like if your thoughts could reshape it at will. I find that depressing, so maybe my soul if you believe in that sort of thing cordoned off its godlike powers to enter a simulation (this place) willing so that it could feel the comfort of a world that is managed by relatively firm seeming laws, rather than one where my intrusive thoughts might erase things from history or change the people I love without their consent, maybe this "external"/"physical" universe is like a mental hospital for reality warpers who have intrusive thoughts, and we belong to some hive mind species from an external universe, but we're in therapy right now, to learn to tell the difference between concepts that are important to our ilk, and or to just be allowed to safely be ourselves without accidentally committing super powered crimes against our ilk unintentionally.
for most people under most circumstances in this world a thought does not immediately cause an action, our mind subconsciously proposes several possible actions and we analyze them come to a few conclusions pit those conclusions against eachother, and then let the winner lead us to the most victorious action/behavior chain, and then immediately after doing all of that subconsciously we become consciously aware of our behaviors, make up some random likely rationale for why we chose those behaviors, and then we sit back and enjoy the show as the consequences of our conscious and subconscious choices roll in, which we consciously and subconsciously react to and mull over to lead to hopefully better decisions in the future, or atleast that's my understanding of the gist of it.
now what if that whole automatic suggestion of possible actions we could take, which we you know, think of as a good thing, is actually a mental illness in some culture we don't know we belong to, and when combined with our mental reflexive power to warp reality, makes us basically their cultures version of violently reactive psychopaths, but because they can read minds they don't harbor ill will towards us, they just know we're not put together correctly, so they've made us a new type of external reality that neutralizes our bad nature and allows us to live with this incurable mental illness in a safe environment with the opportunity to seize happy lives for ourselves?
If our minds were wiped after the simulation box was activated around us, I mean it's just a scifi twist on the allegory of the cave, and the matrix did pretty much it similarly.
but what this does illustrate besides my urge to do creative writing, is that internal and external reality are separated by a fuzzy line, if there's even a line there at all.
Yet whilst on one hand the boundary is so ill defined it looks more like a continuum.
On the other hand the boundary is night and day.
I don't live in your fricken head, and if you live in mine you've been really respectful cos I haven't noticed ya.
and people get hurt because the way they think things works is proven wrong the hard way and it sends them to the hospital all the time.
Like oh, petting this bear is a smart decision... ...3 hours later, wakes up on the hospital bed feeling drowsy and with strange sensations in random parts of the body, nurse leans over face: "your lucky to be alive" says the nurse.
because guess what, weirdly it's obvious what's part of your reality and what's part of our reality, until you try to give a fuck, then it's nonobvious again.
circling back around, are people whom genuinely feel as though they are from alternate realities crazy? maybe.
Are they actually experiencing what it is like to be from an alternate reality? yes, absolutely, they know how strange it feels, to them it is real, their experience is valid, and their feelings matter!!
No I speculated about meta-realities a couple times here (realities that are outside "the matrix" as the kids say). but I haven't like vividly experienced a meta-reality, infact most people want "out" I want in deeper, I'm a gamer and a dreamer, I want more of the good stuff, and for me that's a machine of my own making within the machine we all call home, If I were Plato in the cave, and I escaped my shackles, I'd go spelunking for a deeper cave and a better fire, I wouldn't worry about what the sun was on about or how fresh feels superior to grimey cave air, I'd be ALL about my shadow puppets man, and differently colored fires, pretty much the only way that I'd be bothered to leave the cave, would be to get supplies to pimp out my cave. That's just my perception of myself, and it's valid.
You wanna leave, well, don't kill yourself illegally, but when you die of natural causes, for find a legally sanctioned way to off yourself under the supervision of the law and behind a lot of red tape to ensure that you are just clinically depressed and trying to fix temporary problems with permanent solutions... ...like, leave, you're not my hostage. I care. I want you to be happy. but my cave's not for everybody and I respect if you've had enough of this ride man. #love by the way please really don't kill yourself without asking your local family and municipalities for permission, suicide is like vigilante justice mixed with self harm, it might seem cool if you're emotionally stunted in some way, but Pheonix Jones ("the only real life superhero" look him up.) allegedly (and I use that word mostly to avoid being sued) allegedly turned out to be a drug dealer, that's how he got money for his cool hero cave and his bullet proof armor and stun sticks and fancy form fitting outfit and probably a lot of the stuff that made him seem cool... drug dealer... "I'm gonna save people can't swim" he says, jumping into the pool, without knowing how to swim.
Beating up people for the minor crime of being drunken assholes, meanwhile secretly a hardcore drug dealer.
Don't idolize the people who beat people up for fame, idolize the people who give food to homeless people and money to shelter programs.
Likewise don't idolize suicide, your valuable, and I know you don't know anymore about the afterlife than I do, nobody has measured it thus far so your playing bingo and Russian roulette at the same time when you die, is Shiva the master of all things? Is Santa clause? AM I GONNA BECOME AN ELF WHEN I DIE!? Who the fuck knows, it's a bad idea to fuck around and find out. So step back from that ledge my friend. maybe we're all just shopping mall mannequins who dream of being alive and each time we die we wake up paralyzed and faceless and powerless trapped in our own bodies and ignored by everyone save those whom want to vandalize us and dress us up in clothes we're not allowed to pick for ourselves, and maybe we're even telepathically subjected to the thoughts of every soul in the mall from the others like us to the selfish shoppers to the rats in the ventilation shafts, and then these moments of fleeting life our the most precious things to our existence until our plastic bodies gradually get buried beneath the earth or overgrown of abandoned malls and country dumps and thousands of years later we enter the geological cycle and are crushed and melted by the powers of the earth into unrecognizable forms and our minds will be set back to the carefree lives of amorphous inorganic formless chemical floating across the universe as we once were before some chemist in a lab trapped us into the form of a plastic press fit human sculpture... ...you don't know man... you may only get to live like us in your dreams and who knows what schedule a mannequin dreams on... most people think you're inanimate and you only get to feel the pleasures and pains of life for yourself when you have blessed dreams like these. So don't throw this dream way.
If you are in a dark place, and want to kill yourself to fix it, I find that to be a kind of paradoxical optimism. you really think that it'll be better on the outside? when has anyone ever said, "man I am so glad I have to go to work and stop playing my favorite videogame." NEVER (unless they meant in hindsight because they met their future romantic partner during an otherwise normal work day, but aside from uncommon exceptions nobody says that!) life is a game, you're stuck on a hard part right now, don't press the quit button, because the haters are invading, and the world needs more good people like you alive in it, so that other good people can live comfortable lives, and possible share that happiness with you down the road once they find out what a cool person you are!!
Now that I've gotten the "who knows what's out" the "are they really crazy" and the "please don't commit suicide willy nilly" out of the way, let's get back to wrapping things up, this is a quasi-conlang, it's like a framework that any written language can squeeze into to augment itself.
It's a graph that you can put pictures numbers petroglyphs or ideograms on, whatever is your speed.
If you write really small you can fit all of the information on the graph and then just use A FRIGGIN MAGNIFYING GLASS (or microscope honestly) to read back what you wrote to yourself, alternatively you can make citations that lead elsewhere wherehaps there is more writing space :-)
then you fill out the glyph with your maximum literary capacity, take a break, comeback, read everything again and internalize it and mentally partition it to each aspect of the Yugen Glyph, then you stand back and look at the Yugen Glyph one last time fully appreciating it by picturing all of the aspects of this particular version of the glyph, in simultaneity and symmetric juxtaposition. this isn't just the concept in some idealized platonic form, this is much much cooler than that; it's your inner world's platonic atomic unit of that concept, albeit, you're now able to reflect and express full perception that your past self had...
....and sadly as a state cannot fully observe itself without changing and thus getting caught in one of those nasty infinite polymorphic loops, the moment you fill this graph out in whatever languages of your choice... (I'm gonna mix english with my emoglyphs with this graph/wrapper because english is my native language and my emoglyphs depict other important aspects of the inner reality in great detail) ...is the moment you confront this concept in its truest form as you are currently capable of perceiving it. Some things like to change the moment you observe them. You may go, "oh wait I can add more details now..." or "oh wait, it suddenly feels different to me now that I've gotten a good look at the way I'm looking at it". and that's okay, this sort of pulls the concept out of your body.
I forgot whether it was Sophie's world (a book I read a long time ago) or an actual philosopher who gave this example, but basically rivers are always flowing, their only constant is change, humans are much the same way. When a person is standing in a river they are in sync with the river they are closely acquainted with this river, they are one with the flow and the flow has become one with them. Then when that same person steps out of the river to go dry off and get a snack, they are obviously no longer one, but when that person eventually comes back to that river, even if they stand in the same map coordinate as before, them and the river have to get reacquainted, as they have fallen out of sync, it's a new river, there are new grains of sand under this person's feet, and this person isn't quiet as young as the last person, even if they are technically "the same person" according to the memory and experiences of this new person.
These concepts are like people standing in the river of your mind, and my Yugen Glyph is like some mystical force that can eject them from you, so that you can get reacquainted with them in your own right, or distribute them to other rivers to help you propagate and introduce some concepts native to you into the public zeitgeist.
Some of these concepts are like people who have entered you by force and then become one with your flow, others are like the local wildlife that has been a part of your flow in a flowing away eversince your flow first formed, either way the intent of these Yugen Glyphs is to empower you to control the ecosystem of your flow and the flows around you better, because everything is connected and power of concepts is itself a powerful concept.
The YugenGlyph filled with placeholder text that you might need to zoom in on super closely to read in some parts... lol XD.
​
​
The Blank conceptogram for you to save and print out and draw on. If you ask me nicely, I'll make a printer friendly version, but you have to beg and make me feel like royalty XD JK lol, nah, if any body is interested in printer friendly just ask I'll simplify the design add some patterns to compensate for the lack of color (black and white no gray) and then I'll be like \"K, here, you can play with it now.\" :-)
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the end that's it you made it
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postamble: remember this is a prototype I may adopt more than one thing as my "Yugen Glyphs" before I settle on a final design.
This is MK1 of an unknown incoming number of Yugen glyphs, please offer creative stirrings to me.
I'm not really open to criticism at the moment as I'm, just doing this to get steam out and hence don't care for advice on how to do it right, it's an energy sponge project, it's here to capture my excess energy and channel it into something non-destructive and it is doing its job very well I can attest to that. if it bothers you that I don't care, no one is making you hang out with me, just leave, stop torturing yourself it encourages my evil side to laugh at you. (rightfully so since you coming here to complain would be self inflicted psychic slapstick comedy in a way)

I recently upgraded my CPU and Motherboard, wishing it would be ready for Windows 11, but struggled to enable Secure Boot.
My issue came down to my existing C: drive being formatted as a Legacy MBR. It needed to be formatted as GPT in order to truly enable UEFI Mode.
I found my solution in this article:
https://answers.microsoft.com/en-us/windows/forum/all/convert-an-existing-windows-10-installation-from/aa8c2de3-460b-4a8c-b30b-641405f800d7
To check your boot method, run msinfo32 (Win+R)
BIOS Mode should be UEFI.
If your BIOS mode is Legacy, you need to follow the instructions in the above link to convert your drive to GPT.
That was it, I'm now ready for Windows 11.
Now for a little background how I got here.
I was running an i7-4790K and ASUS Z97 Deluxe.
I upgraded to an i7-13700K and ASUS PRIME Z790-A WIFI.
I re-used my existing Samsung 950 Pro NVMe drive.
At first it wouldn't load Windows until I enabled CSM Mode in BIOS. But I had to select "UEFI and Legacy" in order to boot windows. If I selected UEFI only, no Windows.
Secure Boot requires UEFI, and after running msinfo32 I realized I was booting in Legacy mode.
Changed partition to GPT, set BIOS to UEFI only, and bingo. Secure Boot ON.
It took me a while to get to this, so hopefully this post will save others the headache.
There were a few other steps in between, like enabling TPM and suffering through a few BSOD's until I got the new chipset and MEI drivers installed.
If you can, it's probably best to just start from scratch and re-install Windows, but I use so many apps for work I wanted to save all the hassle of re-installing everything. So I'm really glad I got to re-use my existing install without having to wipe it and start clean.

John meets up with the scientists. What happens now? I hope you enjoy.
The next chapter will be out on Saturday.
A Terran Space Story: The Lieutenant Saga
Academy Days First Previous Next

Chapter 108: Stranger Danger

20 Minutes later, 20:30 Apus Minor, Warehouse District
John was walking down an empty street. He had passed through the invisible line separating the warehouse district from the residential one. It was a pretty standard and typical design, not unlike what is found in human colonies. The similarities were striking.
Perhaps humanity was doing something right. John was smiling when he thought that. If these figurative giants of science did it so long ago, then their doing it made sense. There was a transitionary area, not unlike the one found at the central portion of the colony, separating the residential buildings from the industrial ones. They, like humans, likely wouldn’t want to live directly next door to any kind of industry.
As he casually walked through, and completely annihilated a barricade, he began to chuckle quietly to himself. The amount of chatter in the scientist’s private channels was declining, which was a sign that the number of scientists had decreased. Also, too many were assembled at one singular location for any to be missing. His alertness level rose significantly, was this when they were going to try something?
“Evening folks,” John said as he approached them, “The clock is ticking, seventy-five minutes and closing. Y’all find anything interesting?”
Kenneth rolled his eyes at John, “Yes we have, but we need more time.”
“Can’t make more for you lot, unfortunately,” John shrugged, “That fusion reactor is running on damn near bingo fuel. When it has no more juice the outer walls of the colony will lose atomic cohesion. Then the mountain is going to come down crashing atop us.”
“That is unacceptable,” Gavin said, “Go do your military things and…”
John looked around, “Where’s your chief of security? You look like you are down several people.”
“Alas, unexpected injuries have occurred. The state of decay in this place is unexpectedly high,” Dr. Hamelin said, “Mateo opted to assist the four injured to return to the surface and wait for us at the shuttle.”
“Smart plan. I found some cool garden tools in the residential area. Too bad everything turned to dust that I touched.”
“Why did we experience visions?” Lina walked up to John and stared at his helmet.
“It was a latent psychic imprint in a home I was exploring. Damn potent one I might add,” John said as he looked down at the diminutive scientist before looking away from her ugly face, “Psychics can imprint upon places or objects if the stars align, and do certain things to make it stick. It’s hard to explain really. But the family that last lived in that home wanted to leave something behind.”
“What did you see?” Dr. Hamelin asked, “All we got was portions of an image.”
“Portions that don’t add up to the sum total either,” Kenneth spat out, “Nothing makes sense from what we can tell.”
“The family was dying a slow and agonizing death. They were amongst the last to yet live here. They opted for communal suicide instead of trying to prolong their suffering. Before they did, they wanted to share a portion of their story,” John said solemnly.
“It was a burst of images. You got all of that from an imprint?” Gavin could hardly believe his ears.
“Psychic Imprints share information in a way that is not dependent on linear progression. Ideally, you’d be able to experience the same imprint multiple times to get a clearer image. Humans have not evolved to the point to do that safely with the Predecessor’s imprints.”
“And you know this how?” Dr. Hamelin asked.
“That’s classified. Now then, I’d recommend taking a peek at the residential area before we head back to the surface,” John said as he walked around the scientists.
He knelt down and looked at a tote filled with relics still in good shape. John was careful not to damage it, but he was surprised by the number of items they had found. Ultimately, it was a bag of knick-knacks. John stood and turned to face the scientists.
“So, are y’all going to keep on tiptoeing around how your guests are Alliance citizens unlawfully in Confederate space? Or how you sent the two remaining pirates to attack me?” John grinned as his speakers boomed his questions, “And how all of you are complicit in violating emigration orders?”
Gavin’s face became flushed and turned a bright shade of pink. Lina’s demeanor changed suddenly and now looked like she was guilty of something. Kenneth wore the look of one deeply insulted by the accusations. Dr. Hamelin was the only one unphased by the accusations.
“Lieutenant, you’ve no idea what we’ve uncovered. Nothing else matters. We must investigate this place.”
“With our enemies?” John raised an eyebrow inside his helmet, “That makes all of you traitors. Funny how that cool data feed of yours is interrupted too. It’s so weird how random shit like that happened.”
Kenneth pulled out his tablet. The color of his face drained away when he looked at the status of the connection. His eyes bulged at the revelation.
“We stopped transmitting ten minutes ago,” Kenneth shook as he spoke, “Everything is all there, it’s just caching everything.”
“How?” Gavin asked slowly.
John drew his pistol and aimed it at Gavin, “The better question to ask is ‘How do I survive this situation?’”
Lina grinned as she tapped on a data slate. Eve displayed warnings in his HUD immediately. Whatever scheme the scientists had come up with was being enacted. His suit’s locomotors and joints were seized, he was nothing more than a threatening statue.
To the scientists that are. The scrap code that they had come up with was easily rectified and partitioned into an unused sector. It would be deleted once there was no further need for such deception. Eve ensured that they look like they were played perfectly.
John decided to play the part of a useful idiot, “WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?”
“Exactly what was needed,” Dr. Hamelin spat out, “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to accomplish this without your kind’s intervention?”
“My kind?” John angrily replied.
“The military, you glorified ape,” Kenneth said, “The military destroys or corrupts every scientific breakthrough we’ve had for the last two centuries.”
“And yet you are apparently cool with accepting help from military scientists from the other side,” John grinned as he saw Gavin’s reaction, “Oh don’t try to cover that up. You are one of the lead research and development scientists working for the Alliance Military. Sure, it’s through a company that employs you as a long-term civilian contractor, but you work for the military. Don’t suppose you left that little tidbit out to my traitorous countrymen?”
“Is that true?” Kenneth looked angrily at Dr. Hamelin, “Is he working for the military?”
“I was not…” Dr. Hamelin was interrupted.
“Oh, please doctor,” John boomed through his external speakers, “You’ve known from the start. The money to fund this shitshow had to come from somewhere. You decided to eschew money from our, and technically your, military and take it from an illegal source. The Alliance military. Great job on ensuring the military doesn’t co-op your discovery you fucking cretin.”
Dr. Hamelin turned to face John and puffed his chest out confidently, “It was a necessary evil. The likelihood that any of the discoveries we’ve made will be readily implemented was low. Therefore, there won’t be an arms race which could result in our side losing. If anything, it may level the playing field.”
“I know about you. So, the rumors are true. You really were an intelligence operative,” Gavin said as he walked nearer to John, “Yes, yes, it is true. I work for the Alliance military. And we did fund about eighty percent of this mission. Unfortunately for you, you’ll be the only one left behind. Accidents happen in relic sights at an alarming rate. ‘Tis a shame your end came in such an undignified manner.”
“If I get out of this, I am going to kill each and every one of you,” John said as he ground his teeth together.
“My boy, we’ve seen to that. Your end is here. Once we verify the status of the fusion reactor, we will either extend the mission here or leave at the last possible moment,” Dr. Hamelin grinned as he tapped John’s breastplate, “You will remain here.”
Laughter boomed from the giant suit of power armor. Uncontrollable laughter was the only thing that could be heard. The suit stood there motionless though, which made the laughter more uncomfortable to hear. All of the scientists felt a pit in their stomachs. For good reason, they didn’t have a clue how much John had pulled the wool over their eyes.
3 Days Previously. 07:25 CNS Waukesha—Captain’s Ready Room
John was sitting at his desk reviewing crew rosters. He was merely looking busy for the sake of looking busy. The rosters were already locked in, and everyone was jiving with their fellow crew during their shifts. The ship was running about as optimally as one could get.
In truth, this was just an act to make his guest feel more uncomfortable. Mateo, the scientist’s chief security officer, was asked suddenly to speak to John while he was eating breakfast. That’s not an entirely unrealistic request, but one that caught him off guard. Especially given the subterfuge that was ongoing with the scientists.
To say Mateo felt guilty and anxious would be an understatement. Unlike John, who held his emotions in check most of the time, Mateo exuded no confidence. In fact, it was painfully obvious to John that he looked and felt guilty. It was finally time to offer absolution to the man.
“Uhm, why did you call me here?” Mateo couldn’t handle the silence anymore.
John continued looking busy. He didn’t even look at Mateo much less indicate he had heard him. The so-called work continued.
Mateo looked around the room uncomfortably. The seat no longer felt welcoming or comfortable. Did it ever feel welcoming? The room was squeezing in on him. It was safe to say he no longer wanted to be there. But it wasn’t readily apparent if he could leave at will, though he thought that was not a likely option at this point.
John finally spoke a moment before Mateo lost his mind, “You’ve read my file. I know that you have because I ensured you received a partially unredacted one,” John swung his chair a bit to the right and stared at Mateo’s soul, “Partially redacted, the key word here is partially. I am a great many things Mr. Ortega, but I am not tolerant of lies or deception. Especially when that is directed at the military. And even more so when it’s directed at me, in fact, I find it plain insulting when it’s done as half-assed as your employers are doing.”
“Look, I don’t know what to say here,” Mateo was almost pleading, “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
John nodded, “I agree with you. I actually think you’ve not done anything wrong. But I do know that the security team that you brought on board isn’t security for the scientists. No one goes to college for eight years to get a PH.D. in security or decides to give up academia for a run-of-mill gun-for-hire job.”
“They were playing the role of guards but are scientists. I’m the…”
“The only one that isn’t a doctor,” John interrupted Mateo, “Let’s run with the assumption I know everything already. You really are in dire need of a confessional.”
“Lord knows that’s the truth, but the last time I check you aren’t a Catholic priest. What are you offering me?”
A belly laugh erupted from John, “That is so true. What we offer you is going to depend on what you have to share.”
“No, no that’s not how this works,” Mateo shook his head and leaned forward in his chair, and tapped John’s desk with his finger, “No, I get a deal first. Then I spill my guts.”
“That’s a highly dubious position of bargaining you’ve got there,” John grinned, “I know everything already though. Why do I need to cut a deal with you?”
“You don’t know everything. I found out several things recently that have made my stomach turn,” Mateo stared at John, “And I have hard data, messages, and communique stored that dirties my compatriots up mightily.”
“And yet you're clean as a newborn baby?”
Mateo shook his head, “I’m not entirely innocent. What they did with this other crew, I had no idea of. I spoke out when I could but…”
John looked down at his second screen. Dwayne was shaking his head at John. Clearly, he was annoyed that John did exactly as he said and managed to maneuver Mateo into the precise position he said he would. Despite the agent’s annoyance and John’s confidence and abilities, he nodded to John.
“What deal do you want?”
“Immunity, a ride to an inner core colony, and cash to get me back on my feet.”
“Ballsy. Very ballsy, but tell you what, I’ll give you one of those three,” John leaned forward and grinned, “Though only one option will be usable by you.”
Mateo sighed. He looked around the room nervously. The poor security agent thought he could negotiate something in a position of power. He should have known better, Lieutenant Lief was playing him. No, he was playing all of them. It was as if he knew everything that was going on before they had acted.
A moment later Mateo sighed and spoke, “Ok, I’ll take immunity. Here’s everything I’ve got.”
Mateo held up a data slate. He set it down on John’s desk. A grin formed on John’s face. He looked more arrogant than he did before.
“Much appreciated, but to be brutally honest with you I had already copied that data slate of yours when you walked in this room,” John’s face took on a devilish look, “Naval Intelligence appreciates the new intel. Looks like I didn’t need you after all, but it’s very appreciated that you are willing to turn on your soon-to-be former employers.”
Mateo looked scared. John couldn’t help but grin. Dwayne was shaking his head like he had lost a bet.
“Now now, I’ve given you my word. Don’t make a mess out of yourself. We have a deal,” John gave Mateo an impish grin, “Now let’s get to it, oh, and make sure they don’t know you squealed to us.”
20:45 Apus Minor, Warehouse District
The scientists were arguing with one another. There were three distinct groups. John thought the third group that had both Alliance and Confederate scientists in it was an odd pairing. It was no surprise that Gavin’s and Dr. Hamelin’s cliques were dominating the conversation.
“The fusion core just surged,” Eve said, “The time remaining is likely overestimated by at least thirty-five minutes.”
John grinned, “Basically it’s time to stop being a statue and get the fuck out of here.”
“Yes,” Eve’s response was simple and to the point, “That would be ideal.”
John started, but then suddenly stopped undoing Eve’s locomotor locks. The scientists began talking once again. If the enemy is about to incriminate them, don’t interrupt them. He still had time to gather more intel to bury this group.
Gavin was pointing at John as he spoke, “How do we know he isn’t transmitting anything? Both of our feeds mysteriously died at the same time.”
“We’ve already scanned the available wavelengths. There is nothing that has left of this facility,” Lina said.
“Did you scan the military frequencies?” one of the Alliance scientists said, “They don’t use the normal civilian band.”
Gavin’s eyes grew wide as he stared back at the statue formally known as John Lief. He grabbed Dr. Hamelin’s coat and shook the man. Rage was all that he could feel.
“HE’S BEEN BLOCKING OUR TRANSMISSIONS AND SENDING HIS OWN YOU DAMNED FOOL!” spittle flew everywhere as Gavin raged out.
Dr. Hamelin firmly removed Gavin’s hands from his coat and shook his head, “That is not…”
“That is confirmed…” Lina’s confident voice trailed off, “Nothing we’ve sent has made it back to the surface beside the notices we sent to the shuttle crew. Everything has been rerouted to somewhere else. There’s a military pulse every five minutes, but like ours, it’s outgoing only.”
Gavin reached into his coat and grabbed a small metallic device. He turned angrily to face John. John could see pure hatred radiating from those eyes. It was hard not to be proud that he could push a rational man this far.
“Check and mate,” John said with a hearty chuckle.
“I am going to end you!” Gavin shouted.
As soon as Gavin had made his threat John’s suit was in action. The fusion reactors immediately powered up followed by the boosters on his backfiring. The distance between the two closed at a horrifically quick pace. Much too quickly for Gavin to realize the danger that he was in. Much less react.
All of the scientists, whether Confederate or Alliance, stood there in slack-jawed terror. They watched as Gavin took a backhanded punch. The sound that they heard would forever be etched into the rest of their short-lived lives. The human body shouldn’t make a sound like that. Every organ in Gavin’s chest cavity was lacerated or pierced by bone fragments.
The massive among of trauma suffered thankfully caused the righteous asshole to pass before he landed on the ground. He flew some twenty feet backward and landed with an equally sickening sound. Then the suit of armor turned menacingly at the rest of the scientists. When John spoke, it brought them out of their stupor.
“Scurry off into the ruins. Continue with your research. Do what it is you do best,” John snarled the words, “You should have listened to your chief of security. He understood the risks.”
Dr. Hamelin had fallen to his knees. His world came crashing down around him. How had this happened? He was smarter than this barbarian in power armor. There was no way he could be outmaneuvered. The doctor could feel the ground shake lightly when he looked up that very same power armor was looming over him.
“What… What… What are you going to do to us?”
John picked the man up roughly. For a moment he thought he’d squeeze the man’s head. He looked over at the residential district and then sighed. It was bad enough that he had killed two people in this place. No more needed to die by his hands, and any more bloodshed because of his actions would further disrespect the race that once called this place home.
“Nothing. I’m no longer your judge. That’s someone else’s responsibility,” John let go of the doctor.
Dr. Hamelin stumbled backward and was caught by Kenneth and Line. The trio of leaders watched as John turned around quickly and began walking down the main road. It was clear that his mission was over.
“You’re just leaving? Just like that?” Kenneth shouted.
“Yup. I’m done in here,” John didn’t look back as he walked out.
“What’s going to happen to us?” Lina’s question had a surprising amount of venom attached to it.
John paused but didn’t look back, “Arrested and tried. I can’t imagine anything other than a life sentence. Probably a few years of hard labor. The death sentence is in place for several of you.”
“No no no, this cannot be happening. Everything was going so well,” Dr. Hamelin stared at the ground and wept.
“Nothing you’ve uncovered here will remain with you or your companies. The military is confiscating everything. I’d imagine the majority of people will end up with convictions of some sort,” John continued walking, “Leave with me and face your punishment head on or stay here and keep on doing your research. It matters not. I’m leaving now.”
With that, John stopped responding. There was nothing more that needed to be said. This could have been among the most interesting and rewarding scientific explorations possible. Instead, it was corrupted. The scientists wanted it all for themselves and didn’t care what actions they took to get there. John’s brutal nature, a reflection of humanity in general, is shown as well.
It wouldn’t be hyperbole to say that there hadn’t been a murder in this colony in over a hundred thousand years. All it took was for a human expedition to this alien colony to change that. What it really took was for John to be present. That feeling didn’t set well with him, it was done in self-defense, though he was never in any real danger from anyone.
Now was the time to leave. Reflection could happen in the future. Dying here wouldn’t do anyone any good. The mission had to be completed and those that needed to be brought to justice could. All he needed to do was pick up a couple of things he hid away, and he could begin the trek out of the bowels of this mountain.
A Terran Space Story: The Lieutenant Saga
Academy Days First Previous Next

Hello guys. I am newbie in non-win OSs in general and Qubes in private so I've read the table of laptops which are compatible with Qubes. I've found a laptop which is discontinued but which is worse than one that I have ultimately bought. I've downloaded Qubes, checked sums etc and used rufus to upload the OS on a flashdrive. First several times there was a loading black screen on which I have seen several lines of code or something. One line was red and the process seemed to fail. But then I left my laptop and got back in 20 minutes and bingo I finally saw an first step of installation process. I've created a password, username etc. The last one that I haven't done so far is allocating space for the OS. My laptop came with must di... win 11. So I understood that after installing qubes i would lose winit (like anybody cares about this piece of). I was willing to format all discs but I couldn't. It said I don't have free space, like 5 mb out of half a tb of ssd. I tried at least to install win 10 to check if I can install from flash. And then during the installation process i couldn't find ANY disc even though i have like 3-4 of them. Seems that the partition type bars me from installing any os. I tried to change the partition type but I failed.
Guys please, imagine you are Holy Apostles and i am heathen dying to find out about new faith and learn something new. This is the type of situation I am facing now. Help me. I want to try this os.
Again, I am not sure if the partition type is the key problem problem because during the loading process some of the tasks failed. Or maybe these two issues are related. I dunna.

So over Christmas I decided to build my first build for my brother since he's been really wanting one. I bought the parts, slapped it all together bingo bongo turns on great! Went to install windows and then that was a bit of a hassle. The monitor would say no signal and the PC wouldn't POST made sure it was connected to the graphics card alright good, still wouldn't POST and saw that on the motherboard troubleshooting lights that when booting up the CPU light shined a bright white for about three seconds until it went off and the VGA light did the same except continued to stay on.
Great.
Looked up what to do tried doing a flash bios of the latest bios through MSI's website as my motherboard(MSI B550M PRO-VDH WIFI) had that button and still didn't POST eventually I saw someone saying that if I put the USB Partition of Windows 10 In the USB 2.0 slots it would work so I did and boom we Houston had blast off, the motherboard would POST finally and It went into windows setup had a couple issues with that like driver couldn't be found but eventually I got it to the actual setup except when it asked me for WiFi I went ahead and connected an Ethernet but as it finished and installed it was still connected but the Ethernet just wouldn't work and there was no WiFi list of networks, no worries I thought I'll just go install the drivers for both online from my laptop. Did that, installed them, it worked! Switched to WiFi and so on to my big victory! Pats on the back, high fives and all of the sorts. The lights were no longer turning on so I thought this sorted it out.
So that just brings us to now.
The WiFi kept going out so I tried the Ethernet cable and the same thing would work for about 5 minutes until it didn't. The lists of networks just didn't show up. I tried installing the drivers through the USB. It works and then it doesn't, same symptoms and all the network tab just doesn't appear, try installing them again to my USB give it another go same result. I then saw a post on Tom's Hardware with somebody with the same problem said to remedy it with the driver disc it came with. Of course, how stupid could I be! I get an external disc drive I have laying around and plug that in to install the AMD Chipset drivers, Network drivers and the Realtek drivers of the disc reset and boom it works and stays.
Finally
Until my brother starts using it to play Fortnite and he says it's all smooth until it lags a lot and then he gets disconnected to where his character can't move. I check and the WiFi is in fact disconnected but the list of networks stays so that's progress in my book. He also tells me the PC apparently stays on but windows randomly resets and when this happens it just stays in post and won't boot windows and I notice the VGA light comes back on but you can just turn off the PC by holding the power button and then it will will be just fine minus the WiFi problem. This is happening consistently with the same result and I'm up to my last brain cell at this point. I've tried the ram in different slots, I've checked the connection of the GPU. I've checked the cables. I'm scared it might be a problem with the motherboard or PSU but hopefully not. I don't have another PSU to test with so I just don't know. This WiFi problem and this reboot problem make me want to just go to Microcenter and give it to their support team so it's their problem. I'm just so disheartened by this point. I really hope someone can help me.
I don't know what to do.
Thank you in advance for even reading.
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TLDR: The WiFi going out with new PC build and Reboots on its own sometimes. help
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PC Parts List:
*CPU** [AMD Ryzen 5 5600 3.5 GHz 6-Core Processor] **Motherboard** [MSI B550M PRO-VDH WIFI Micro ATX AM4 Motherboard] **Memory** [Corsair Vengeance LPX 16 GB (2 x 8 GB) DDR4-3200 CL16 Memory] **Storage** [Samsung 970 Evo Plus 1 TB M.2-2280 PCIe 3.0 X4 NVME Solid State Drive] **Video Card** [Sapphire PULSE Radeon RX 5600 XT 6 GB Video Card] **Case** [Thermaltake Versa H18 MicroATX Mini Tower Case] **Power Supply** [Corsair CV650 650 W 80+ Bronze Certified ATX Power Supply] **Case Fan** [Bitspower Touchaqua Notos O RGB Hydro Bearing 120mm Case Fan 5-Pack]