The Monastery Of Terror

"Life is a hideous thing, and from the background behind what we know of it peer daemoniacal hints of truth which make it sometimes a thousandfold more hideous."–H. P. Lovecraft

I had been on an excursional quest to the old Aztec ruins when I suddenly found myself lost in the vast forest of ancestral spirits. I walked through thick patches of trees for several kilometres, until I came upon a 16th-century monastery perched on a mountain slope, just outside Mexico City.

It was late in the afternoon, and I could feel the warm rays of the sun piercing through me, as perspiration seeped from the pores of my delicate skin. I decided to seek refuge at the abbey for the time being and ask for directions out of the arboreal expanse. I wasn’t certain whether the monastery was still inhabited by monks. The year was 1920, and my name is Roberto Salazar—an archaeologist from Spain.

I was greeted by an elderly abbot who was in charge of the monastery: a Padre Sandoval, willowy in stature. His eyes were strikingly peculiar—hoary in colour, neither dark nor radiant. His face was partially obscured by a long brown cowl, the hooded cloak of his monastic habit. His attire was typical of a devout monk. He advised me to stay the night, as the sun was already beginning to set. It was dangerous to be out in the forest so late in the day.

I agreed—hardly in any condition to dare the ominous perils of the forest. A room was arranged for me within the monastery, and I was offered a meal in the dining hall. The monks were abstemious men. I could sense the age of the imposing abbatial structure: the stone and mortar recesses of the halls with their niches, the wide rectangular atria and chapels, the single nave, and the intimate cloister.

All of these elements were unmistakably characteristic of the traditional design and architecture of the abbey. I did not know whether the abbot lived alone at the time. When I asked if other monks were in residence, he replied that there were indeed monks dwelling with him.

They were, he said, on the other side of the monastery, occupied with their devotions and duties. I found this peculiar, but refrained from pressing further. The abbot was a private man, and he divulged few details about the monastery. Perhaps it was his quiet demeanour that best reflected his character—and his silence, a veil over whatever secrets lay hidden. The monastery seemed the ideal place for abundant mysteries and spectral tales of the past. What other place could rival its eerie atmosphere?

In his apparent mannerisms, I perceived that he was a selcouth man of grave expression. Essentially, he was a man of few words. Had the gloom and isolation of the monastery so affected him that he had become indifferent to strangers—or was I exaggerating what I observed?

Nevertheless, whilst standing just outside my room, I took the opportunity to examine, with keen perception, the interior’s peculiar design, as strange as the monastery’s exterior façade. I was captivated by the sheer structure of the building and intrigued by its colonial history. All I knew was that it had been built in the late 16th century by Franciscan monks who had arrived from Spain long ago. The abbot himself was a Spaniard—from Toledo, I guessed, based on his distinct accent.

Inside my room, I pondered the isolation of the monastery and its remote location. There was a distinct thrill in the suspense of discovering what truths might lie concealed within the sturdy walls of this ancient place.

As an archaeologist, I had always been fascinated with uncovering lost treasures of the past, especially the wonders of great civilisations long gone. I contemplated the possibility of ancient treasure, either from the time of the Conquistadors or perhaps even earlier—from the days of the Aztecs. Could something so valuable be hidden within these walls? Gold, after all, was what the Conquistadors had sought for countless years.

Part of me wanted to dismiss the relevance of the Spanish Conquest, while the other—the daring adventurer—saw Mexico as an exotic land waiting to be explored. I had travelled through other parts of Latin America before, but this was my first visit to Mexico, and I sensed it would be an experience I would never forget.

I presumed that the abbot and monks slept on the other side of the monastery. On my way to my room, I had noticed what seemed to be a private library. It appeared abandoned. Despite my fatigue, I was curious to read the books or, at the very least, glance through their contents.

Once inside the library, I began browsing the shelves. The books were covered in thick cobwebs and layers of dust. It seemed to me that both the library and the books had not been used in decades. Despite the decadence, there were Baroque paintings—clearly cracked by age—showing natural craquelure. One such painting was of the Cenacle, the site of the Last Supper. For reasons I could not explain, the books appeared to have been untouched, simply left on the shelves as they were. That was, at least, my firm impression.

The language in many of them was archaic and challenging to translate. Some books dated from the 16th century, others from the 15th—written in Old Castilian. It was astounding to come across such a discovery. The books contained prayers and personal journals from the monks who had once lived in the monastery, now long past and noted only in the annals of its history.

The journals especially caught my attention. I began to read them in detail. Much was written about the ascetic life the monks led and mentions of hidden gold. But the most striking accounts referred to the discovery of a sinister spirit said to haunt the monastery.

One monk wrote of an exorcism that took place in the year 1590. Apparently, there had been a malevolent spirit—or presence—that tormented the local monks and indigenous people alike. There was a specific reference to the name Tlacanexquimilli, who was said to be terrorising the region. The monks had called upon divine intervention to drive the entity away.

According to the legend, the monks were combating the apparition known as the Tlacanexquimilli, described in early Spanish accounts as a malicious spirit. Sometimes it appeared legless, dragging itself along by strong forearms. Numerous accounts described its menacing head as a small, almost shrunken, human skull—with sharp, razor-like teeth.

One particular drawing, created a few decades after the Conquest, depicted the Tlacanexquimilli with a torso adorned with thick feathers at the neck, long arms ending in claws, and a simple skull as its head. The illustration was chilling—deeply unsettling.

The abominable creature would moan like a wounded man, and its horrendous cries could be heard from many kilometres away. The indigenous people believed that the Tlacanexquimilli was a unique creation of the Aztec god Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror God—ruler of the nocturnal sky and keeper of ancestral memories, the sempiternal rival of the great Quetzalcoatl.

Tezcatlipoca had sent the Tlacanexquimilli to Earth to remind humans of their fragile mortality. In the ancestral chronicles, even Emperor Montezuma was said to have feared this wraith. According to both oral and written traditions, whenever anyone heard the plaintive cries of this wicked phantom echoing in the distance, they would soon perish in terror at its merciless visitation.

I could only attempt to fathom the terrifying creature being described. It was difficult to accept that a demon could have existed to such a haunting degree. The more I read, the more my intrigue deepened with every word, and the longer I remained inside the monastery, the more I could sense the evil that had once dwelled there.

Some places are harrowing and dreadful to linger in, and the monastery was precisely one of those places. There was not much daylight to be seen during the day, and flamboyant torches were used at night, giving the monastery its darkened hue. It was the hour when the shadows of death wandered aimlessly.

I had returned to my room with a sudden chill of cold air that had abruptly entered from outside. It was already night, and the precursor to a sequence of mysterious events that would soon unfold. The room I was staying in was not particularly spacious, but it was enough for me to spend the night. I could not complain, since the only alternative was the daunting vastness of the forest. A certain presentiment had begun to stir within me—a prevailing unease that I could not easily dismiss.

It made me instinctively attentive to my surroundings. I was never a man to believe in foolish superstitions, but there was something deeply ironic about the revelations I had discovered in the short time I had spent at the monastery.

Whilst seated on my bed, I heard bizarre sounds—screams and the opening of squeaking doors in the rooms adjacent to mine. The noises were enough to compel me to investigate. Slowly, I entered the narrow corridor and proceeded to search for the origin of the sounds. I saw no one nearby, yet I perceived the presence of something unnatural in form.

What I could not yet conceive was the full magnitude of its essence, nor comprehend the spectral history of the monastery. I grabbed one of the torches to illuminate my path. I approached cautiously, anxiety tightening its grip around me. As I passed one of the erect chapels, I immediately heard footsteps behind me. Had I attracted the attention of one of the monks—or something else? I paused, expecting someone to appear.

After several minutes, I realised no one was there. The creepy sound of the footsteps had ceased, but not the dreadful screams. How could the others in the monastery not hear them? They were so audible to my ears. It was impossible not to hear their horrendous echoes and not be alarmed—unless, of course, the monks were already accustomed to them. I could also hear the unmistakable crack of a whip. Was this the secret practice of self-flagellation among the Franciscans?

Whatever was occurring was not normal to me, as an outsider. I tried to suppress my curiosity and intuition, but I could not resist the urge to further investigate the interior of the monastery. There were more mysteries to solve and riddles to decipher with precision. I had an undeniable sense that the monastery was haunted due to its unrevealed past.

Something compelled me to continue in the direction of the monks. But before doing so, I returned to the library to retrieve the journals I had read. I needed a better understanding of what was happening. If the monastery was indeed haunted, then I needed to know the full extent of its dark history.

Back at the library, I began reading more of the journals but was interrupted by the abbot, who had seen me enter and asked what I was doing. He startled me at first. I told him I was simply intrigued by the contents of the library. I didn’t confess the real reason for my presence, thinking he would assume I was prying into matters that did not concern me.

I did, however, manage to ask him one important question: why was the library in such a dreadful state? The abbot replied that it hadn’t been used in decades. He then advised me to return to my room and rest, stating it was unwise to wander the monastery alone during the late hours. He struck me as somewhat mysterious.

I returned to my room, having managed to borrow one of the books relating to the journals of the Franciscan monks of old. I had no intention of stealing it—only of better understanding the dark history recorded within. In my room, I continued to read, delving deeper into the tale and legend of the insidious demon Tlacanexquimilli.

I wanted to understand how this demon had manifested itself to the monks, terrorising them enough that even the mention of its name invoked fear. I could sense a supernatural presence in the ancient monastery—something peculiar and chilling—but I did not yet know its true essence.

All I could surmise was that it was a lurking fear, inexplicably bound to the monastery. What I did not know was in what form I would ultimately come to discover its horror. A flambeau was my only source of light in the room, but it was enough to read the journal intently. What I read next was even more disturbing than what I had seen before.

These contents provided an improved context for what had transpired within the monastery. They unravelled the ambiguity of tales long buried in those ancient pages. As with the previous entries, the impeccable language was in Old Castilian or 16th-century Spanish. Despite the archaic form, I was able to interpret the general meaning of the accounts.

Once again, the presence of an evil spirit was emphasised and made clear. It was unfathomable, yet evidence enough that something scelestic had once stalked the monastery. The Franciscan monks had been desperate to destroy the irruptive demon and had resorted to performing an exorcism. They invoked the divine power of God in this endeavour.

For forty days and nights, they attempted to rid the abbey of the beast—but were unsuccessful. They had only managed to contain it, imprisoning it within the very stone masonry of the abbey walls. The journal stated that no fewer than twenty monks perished at the hands of the demon, along with many local indigenous peasants.

There were calls for the monastery to be destroyed, yet in the end, it was not. The remaining monks eventually abandoned the place and returned to Spain. That was all the journal revealed—but it was enough for me to comprehend the plausible terror that had once gripped this place.

Ghost stories are abundant throughout the Americas, and tales of demons just as vivid in their detail. I lit a candle I had taken from the library. It was incredible to believe that for so many decades, the secrets of the monastery had been concealed from the world. How many more priceless treasures were hidden within its confines?

I had not seen a cemetery or any clear sign of graves or headstones. Where were the deceased monks buried? Somewhere beyond the monastery? I concluded that the horrific events that had taken place were deliberately concealed from the public. I was aware of the oppressive nature of the Catholic Church in those days, and how an incident of such gravity would not have been favourable to its narrative.

That was only my opinion. I did not need to convince anyone but myself of this anomaly. It was significant that I understood the historical context in which the monks had lived. I could not overlook this detail, nor form a conjecture unaligned with the true past of the monastery. Once again, I began to hear the dreadful screams of tortured souls, and a gust of wind shattered the window of my room into jagged shards.

The incident startled me and prompted me to rise at once and inspect the window. Outside, darkness loomed, with little visible light from the moon above the mountains. For a moment, I wondered whether the evil spirit had broken the window on purpose. I did not wish to overreact, but I could not help but wonder—what else might occur beyond explanation?

The hour of the haunting truth was soon to arrive—an unrelenting terror buried for centuries. I stepped out of my room and walked down the corridor towards the abbot’s quarters to inform him of the broken window.

As I walked, I beheld the strange image of a ghostly beast approaching. It had a shrunken head, razor-sharp teeth, and beady eyes that glowed with sinister intent. I hid behind one of the altars as it passed, its breath heavy and monstrous. The moment felt surreal—and yet, it felt terrifyingly real.

The unfathomable had become tangible.

From that point on, nothing in the monastery appeared to be normal. I waited until the ghostly being had vanished into the corridor ahead. Could it be that I had caught sight of the legendary Tlacanexquimilli? Thereafter, I quietly made my way towards the abbot’s room. Perhaps it was madness to remain within the monastery, but I did not know whether I could escape without becoming lost in the endless forest. I had to confront the madness in person—and that meant confronting the abbot.

I was apprehensive as I searched for his room, yet I knew that he possessed knowledge about the demonic entity inside the monastery. I heard the rattling of chains. Thus, I proceeded with caution—keenly aware of the imminent danger that lurked amid the shadows and torches. Nothing could have prepared me for the consequential events of that night. What I would discover and encounter was not of this earthly world.

I finally reached the other side of the monastery, where the abbot and the other supposed monks resided in their rooms. The screams had returned—and so had the mystery. I began to whisper the abbot’s name as I passed each room, but there was no response from him or any of the monks. I knocked on every door I could see. No one would answer, nor would they open their doors. Were they simply ignoring me? Were they preoccupied, or did they not hear my voice? I was baffled by their utter silence.

I noticed a chamber near an altar that was eerily ajar. The question arose—who had opened the door? Suspense gnawed at me as I walked towards it. The screams persisted. I began to sweat, as I could feel more strongly the presence of evil within the monastery. I did not know what lay within that chamber, but I was determined to uncover its enigma.

When I stepped inside, I beheld a horrifying sight: a young boy bound in solid chains. The screams had come from him. He was possessed by the demon Tlacanexquimilli. His alabaster eyes and pale face unsettled me the moment I entered. It was pure horror to witness.

The demonic boy stared directly into my eyes and let out a terrible shriek of provocation that deafened my ears. I fled from the shadowed chamber and returned to my room, gripped by sudden dread. Had I been paranoid all along, seeing things that weren’t truly happening?

The question remained—would my mind survive the night, or would it succumb to my haunting thoughts? The one thought that echoed constantly in my mind was: what truth had I uncovered about the monastery? Without doubt, it was something fearsome in origin, yet many details remained unresolved. Who was the boy I had found in that dreary chamber, bound in heavy manacles? Who had chained him like a wild animal?

Then I remembered the journals describing a supposed exorcism. Could this be the same one referenced by the monks back in the 16th century? How could that even be possible? The madness of the monastery affected me so deeply that I feared I was losing my mind—and my sense of reason. It seemed inconceivable that I was witnessing such macabre visions, incomprehensible to ordinary reality.

I rose to my feet and made my way to the library, thinking I might uncover more information about the exorcism. Whilst there, I began to hear the eldritch sound of footsteps. When I looked into the darkened corridor, I saw a procession of monks in cowls passing by—as if they did not see me at all.

Were they so distracted as to be oblivious to reality, or had I been hallucinating from the beginning? I had no time to dwell on either possibility. Thus, I resolved to follow them, wherever they were heading. I could smell the scent of incense in the air.

They led me to the same chamber where the young boy was bound in chains. He remained possessed. The sight of his possession, the terror in his eyes—it chilled me. The monks were attempting to extract the demon Tlacanexquimilli with prayers and holy water. The implacable demon resisted them, shrieking, lashing its long tongue, and spitting into the monks’ faces.

The abbot was conducting the exorcism. I stood there, observing the entire scene—disbelieving what was unfolding before my eyes. Then, the chamber door suddenly closed, and I could no longer see inside. All I could hear were the continuous screams and shrieks of the possessed boy.

I wished to intervene, but I could not move. I was confused and overwhelmed, unable to believe that all these strange occurrences were real. Again and again, I questioned my sanity and my reasoning. Too much had happened for it all to be a mere coincidence. The things manifesting were linked to the realm of the preternatural. How could I possibly rationalise events that defied logical explanation, except by acknowledging the abnormality of their progression?

The monastery’s mysteries were inextricably tied to the evil unfolding within it. How much more would I have to witness before I lost my mind—or worse, my life? I walked down the pitch-dark corridor with cautious steps, dreading what I might find. Yet my curiosity compelled me to pursue the irrefutable truth.

I suspected that the monastery was haunted, and that a malevolent presence, terrifying in form, lingered there. I knew of the demon god and the possessed boy—but many questions remained unanswered. Chiefly, the mystery surrounding the abbot and the other monks.

I had pondered every occurrence in detail—except for one unanswered question. Were the monks and the abbot even real? Could they be immortal spectres, trapped within the confines of the monastery? The thought entered my mind: would I too become trapped there, like them?

The only person who might confirm the truth would be a caretaker—but if such a person existed, they were nowhere to be found. I would have to wait until morning to find out—if I could bear to stay in the monastery any longer. I was torn over what my next course of action should be. All I knew was that I had to survive the night—however I could.

There was no other option. I began to hear murmuring voices approaching. Three monks and the abbot passed into a narrow corridor, carrying a large wooden cross. They were returning to the chamber where the possessed boy was imprisoned. I followed them surreptitiously until I reached the same chamber.

At the door—now wide open—I witnessed something that would chill me to the very core. With grotesque violence, the possessed boy was murdering the monks, including the abbot. He sucked their blood and devoured their flesh. Blood dripped from his parched mouth. I watched in horror as his teeth crushed the bones of the fallen monks. I was aghast at the gruesome image and the savagery.

Then he saw me standing at the doorway and let out a terrible shriek that once more deafened my ears.

I fled the area and ran into the narrow corridor, as he had pursued me with great celerity. I dashed into the library where I could hide from the beast. I could feel his wicked presence. He was no longer the possessed boy, but the demon god Tlacanexquimilli. His heavy breathing and foul stench were both noticeable and palpable. It was spine-chilling.

I had grabbed an axe that I had prehended nearby. It had been left there for some reason unbeknownst to me. I waited for the beast to reach me, but it never did. After several minutes, I returned to my room, full of apprehension and consternation. How much more could I endure of this insidious madness? What was keeping the demon from killing me? There was nothing within my power that could prevent it from snatching me.

I had only an axe to defend myself—but how could an axe possibly stop the immediate advance of an enraged demonic spirit? I held tautly onto the axe, as if my life depended on it. I was not willing to die, nor to succumb to the insanity of the monastery.

After several more minutes had passed and the demon had still not found me, I opened the dusty pages of the monks’ journals. I began reading the more intrinsic information within, hoping to answer the pressing questions that remained unsolved. I learnt that the monastery was built over an ancient Aztec ruin that had been deliberately destroyed by the Spaniards, due to prior encounters with the evil god Tlacanexquimilli. I had been unaware of this vital information.

This allowed me the capacity to make the connection between the veracious origin of the location and its historical significance, upon which the monastery was constructed. I had read a plethora of accounts transcribed during the period of the Spanish conquest of Mexico, yet never had I encountered the horrific tale of the demon god Tlacanexquimilli.

It was in the early morning, I had intuited, when I clearly saw through the window a ray of sunlight entering the room. I did not know the exact hour, but I knew the morning had finally arrived. Somehow, I had survived the encompassing horror of the night. Then, I began to hear menacing footfalls, approaching my room. I stood there, attentive, having prepared myself to confront the horrendous demon if necessary, the axe gripped tightly in my hand.

Slowly, the doorknob turned to the side, and the door creaked. Someone was attempting to open it unannounced. Was it the intrepid demon, come for me at last? My heart began to beat faster, and my clammy hands sweated profusely. I could not bear the suspense.

When the door finally opened, it was an old caretaker whose name was Hilario. He had come to the monastery and noticed the light in my room as he entered. I was so relieved to see him, though still unnerved by what had transpired the night before.

He asked what I was doing in the monastery. I explained that I was lost in the forest and had come upon the monastery. I had been invited by the abbot, Padre Sandoval. He looked at me with a puzzled expression before stating that the abbot had been dead for centuries. I was stunned by this candid admission.

I told him I had never experienced a night like the one I had spent in the monastery. Judging from his expressive gestures, he was familiar with the horror I had witnessed. How could he not know about the haunting presence of the roaming demon and the rest of the monastery’s eeriness, including the peculiar behaviour of the monks? Yes, the Franciscan monks. I insisted I must speak to Abbot Padre Sandoval at once. I could not believe he was not alive.

The caretaker was confused by my erratic comportment. He reaffirmed that the abbot had been dead for nearly four centuries. When I enquired about the other monks, he told me the same. I was incredulous and had to prove what he said was factual and not mere mendacity. I asked him to take me to the abbot’s room.

He escorted me to the room where the abbot and the other monks had once resided. I was utterly shocked to find their skeletal remains inside dilapidated wooden coffins of contiguity—old and covered in dust. The caretaker revealed to me that they had all been preserved and kept within the monastery like relics of solemnity, as instructed by the abbot before his untimely death.

According to the abbot’s petition, none of the monks’ bodies were to be buried. The only gold seen was in the aureate altars. The demonstrative evil that haunted the monastery and took the monks’ lives, according to legend, was never to leave the abbey. It had to be trapped along with the perished souls of the monks.

Regrettably, the possessed boy had died, and his soul too was trapped forever. His name was Pedro. When we went to his chamber, we found his skeletal remains intact. What the caretaker later confessed was that he was a descendant of that young boy. When I asked him why he remained the sedulous caretaker of a monastery where his ancestor had been imprisoned, he told me it was because he could not permit the evil to escape.

It was his kindred duty, he declared. It was incredible that, knowing what evil resided within the monastery, he still chose to be its faithful guardian. I left the monastery that morning in a hypnagogic state, ready to depart from its unholy sanctuary. I had not slept at all.

I handed the caretaker the journals I had discovered in the library and told him that I would never reveal the secret about his ancestor, nor disclose what had transpired in that horrendous monastery. Its history would remain concealed. I was not the one to rewrite its haunting story or inconfutable past. The Spaniards had brought their Catholic religion to Mexico—but they had also awakened the demon from the Aztec religion.

Verily, it was impossible to explicate in mere words the experience I had endured there in its entirety. The episodes were compossible with the truth. They were cognoscible, and they had indeed bechanced consequentially, while I was present. I had convinced myself of their verisimilitude. But who would believe my sober narrative and its basal origin? Who would believe that I had a supernatural encounter with the demon god Tlacanexquimilli?

Before I could leave the monastery entirely, the caretaker—Hilario—implored me to follow him to a part of the abbey that had long been sealed: a subterranean vault beneath the chapel floor. He claimed that no soul had entered it in over a century, but that I, having endured the harrowing presence of Tlacanexquimilli, might be permitted to witness what remained hidden there. My mind was wearied and clouded with uncertainty, but curiosity compelled me to agree.

With a rusted iron key, Hilario opened a small trapdoor at the base of the altar. Beneath it lay a narrow stone staircase, descending into a darkened void that reeked of mildew and ancient incense. As we stepped down into the depths, our flickering lanterns cast trembling shadows along the stone walls, illuminating obscure sigils etched by hands long since turned to dust.

The silence grew increasingly oppressive the farther we went. The air grew colder, thinner—as if reality itself were being squeezed from the passage. When we finally reached the bottom, I beheld a chamber circular in form, constructed from black basalt and embedded with symbols foreign to my understanding. It was not made by Franciscan monks—this was far older. Hilario affirmed my suspicions: it was part of the original Aztec ruins buried by the Spaniards.

In the centre of the room lay a stone pedestal, upon which rested a small obsidian idol—grotesque in its form, neither beast nor man. It had a wide, grimacing mouth filled with pointed teeth and six eyes arranged in a circular pattern about its head. Hilario whispered the name with solemnity and dread: Tlacanexquimilli. The object seemed to exude malevolence. I dared not approach it.

But I was drawn to it nonetheless. As I stepped forth, something in the room changed. The temperature plummeted; the lanterns dimmed; the shadows on the wall began to shift as if they had minds of their own. I heard whispers—fragmented voices speaking Nahuatl and Latin, entwined in a cacophony that echoed within my skull. I fell to my knees, overcome by vertigo and terror.

It was then that I had a vision—or perhaps a revelation. I saw the abbot, Padre Sandoval, standing in the centre of the chamber, surrounded by his monks. They were chanting, not in Latin, but in an older tongue, one stolen from the Aztecs themselves. The ritual had not been Christian at all—it was a fusion of borrowed Catholicism and Aztec invocation, a desperate attempt to imprison the god Tlacanexquimilli in the idol. Their bodies had become the sacrificial seals, their souls the eternal prison walls.

The abbot's voice echoed in my mind, distorted by time but clear in intent: 'We did not come here to save the native souls—we came to contain the god that consumed them'.

I awoke lying on the cold stone floor, Hilario beside me, concern etched into his weathered face. He asked what I had seen, and I told him all. He nodded in recognition, not disbelief. Then he admitted that the idol was not merely a remnant of the past—but a vessel. It contained the essence of Tlacanexquimilli, and it fed on fear, confusion, and death. Each time someone entered the monastery with a vulnerable soul, the god stirred. It was not bound by time or flesh. It existed beyond linear comprehension, in states unknown to man.

I asked why he had shown it to me. Hilario replied that he was dying, and someone would soon need to carry on the custodianship. He believed I had been chosen—not by fate, nor by some divine will, but by the god itself. I protested, vehemently, insisting that I was no priest, no keeper of evil. But Hilario only shook his head and said something that has stayed with me since:

'You do not guard the god to keep others safe. You guard the god to keep it dreaming'.

Those words sent a shiver down my spine. For days, they echoed in my mind like a solemn incantation. I realised then that Tlacanexquimilli was not awake—not fully. What I had experienced during the night was but a tremor, a dream-thought of the demon god. If it were to fully awaken, no monastery would suffice as its tomb. It would reclaim what had once been offered in sacrifice: blood, chaos, and dominion.

I returned to the surface with Hilario, the trapdoor shut firmly behind us. Dawn was cresting the mountains. The world seemed as it had always been, yet I felt it differently now. I had glimpsed into a reality layered beneath the skin of this one—a spiritual strata older than Christianity, older than man. A place where will and essence, fear and worship, coalesced into power.

Hilario handed me a bundle—inside were the original Nahuatl chants and prayers used by the monks, along with a crude sketch of the idol and a sealed letter. The letter contained a warning: that if the chanting ceased for more than a lunar cycle, the seal would weaken. The god would begin to wake.

I left the monastery not as the same man who had entered. I carried with me not only the horror of one night, but the burden of a secret older than time. A god, sleeping in obsidian dreams, fed by memory and guarded by silence.

Even now, as I write this, I hear its whispering in my sleep.

And I wonder…did I escape the monastery? Or has it followed me?

Recommend Write a ReviewReport