The scene is Matamoros, Mexico.  A police guard stands outside the
door of a farm shack he does not want to be outside.  But it is his job,
and he must eat.  Nonetheless, he keeps a cross about his neck, in full
view, where it can be gotten to easily.  His hands shake a bit as he
smokes.  And he is a large man.
     Over three years ago, rites were performed within this shack.
Rites forbidden by God.  Rites which resulted in the deaths of human
beings.  The police would not enter this building until a priest had
performed a ritual of his own.  He was none too eager to enter the
shack, either.  But it was his job, too.
     The Americans who wrote of the incident, wrote of it tirelessly for
a public which gobbles up such disaster and crime as so much candy mint,
were somewhat skeptical but even their skeptic's faith had been shaken
by what they had seen, by what they came to hear.  In Mexico, we know
better.
     Tell me Evil does not have a face.  Tell me it does not walk the
earth and claim victims.  Tell me there is no such thing as an
embodiment of everything unholy.  I will laugh.  I KNOW.  I---
     A sound comes from within the shack.
     The guard, automatically, turns on his heel and slams open the
door.  His pistol is at the ready.  And inside, among the dirt and
stain, is...
     Is a shrouded, skeletal figure, sifting the dirt of the floor
between his fingers, smiling and laughing...and laughing...
     And then looking at the guard...
     The guard whose finger moves of its own will and presses the
trigger six times, all of which shots go to their mark, passing
harmlessly through the skeletal figure.  He laughs, and laughs, and
laughs.  Then something opens behind him and he is gone.
     The guard watches for a second, then runs screaming from the
shack.  He will report in, but not at first to the police.  He will
report to the priest.  And then he will go to the police.
     And he will turn in his badge.