Small, light, quick steps could be heard in the forgotten roads of the countryside on that cold winter night. Snow still had not arrived, though a deep fog stilled the already chilly air in place. Ah, but what a night it was in Afragola. Everyone was fast asleep, snug in their beds or cots to shelter them from the bitter frost lain outside their own door; all but two young women, one the mere age of fifteen or so, and the other only five, hurrying down the rugged road. Each of them donned a black coat, scarf, and headscarf with black heels- in the case of the young girl black Mary Jane’s- and a black purse. The younger girl had black hair, as black as night, with light blue eyes, like the sky, the sea. The oldest, oh I could never forget her, had red locks, like fire, a true phoenix's flame and blue eyes that shifted, changed, depending on the light. At that moment they were dark blue with just a speck of violet, just as serious and cold as the air surrounding her.

Even though they were frozen and shivering, the girls walked on, all the way to St. George’s Church to catch the first service at 5:00 sharp. But you see kind reader, it was not at all the time that these children thought it was, and that had been my doing. Winter is my favorite time of year; the sun is hidden for longer hours, and I get to cause mischief everywhere, undisturbed by my “holy” counterpart. All I had to do was slip underneath the older girl’s mattress and absorb all of its warmth; why, I even stole the bed heater. Once she woke, I stared into her eyes, inches away from her face. She did not see me, for who sees me at all these days. Slowly, slowly, I implanted the thought of going to church into her mind; oh, and also that she was late. As soon as I looked away from her, she jumped into action and started to panic, muttering softly to herself.
It took them about thirty minutes to walk from their own little house in the countryside to the church, trotting oh so noisily in their black shoes. As the two ladies saw the large great cascade of steps, which could only belong to the church, they slowed down to a graceful, flowing movement, to not appear unruly to the supposed onlookers in the church. Simply divine I tell you. Why, I nearly thought they were floating up the stairs compared to the racket they were making just a few moments before. Silently, though still quickly, they rose up the steps to a large, plain, black door. Something was not right. The doors… they were closed. Not ajar as they always were every first service on Sunday. The oldest girl stared doubtfully at the door, a bit confused, I’d say, from the look on her face. However, a serious demeanor soon overcame her face. She walked slowly to the door, took the worn brass handle in her hand, and gently opened it.
The two young ladies crept in quietly, not to disturb those praying inside. The church was luminous and my eyes ached for days after witnessing that event. As the ladies scouted out a place to sit they were surprised to find that every row was full of people; not one chair was free. Every person in the church had dressed in black and mumbled, no, chanted in a language not understood to the living. The younger girl did not notice any difference in these strange peoples language but the oldest did, and she was curious.
"Excuse me, but what language do you speak?" she asked one of the white cloaked strangers. The stranger stared straight ahead and replied to her in a foreign tongue. Puzzled, she nodded her head, her young sister in hand, and asked the question yet again to three other people who replied in the same foreign language.
As she stood halfway into the church, the oldest felt a frosty chill creep up her spine, as if a dead man's cold hands had just crawled up her back. Oh, her blue eyes! How they turned baby blue and very frightened. Finally, if not a moment to soon, she noticed that all of these people were all dressed the same- all wearing black with red scarves- and they never turned their face, even when she asked a question.
She grasped her sister’s hand tightly and turned, running as quick as she could towards the door. However, every black cloaked stranger stood up, and all the rows of benches started to go down, their cushions facing the ceiling, as she moved closer and closer towards it; the chanting of the cloaked strangers rising higher and higher, nearly screaming at her in their foreign tongue.
"Sin! Sin! Sin! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!” they seemed to say but nothing is for certain. As the two ladies sprinted towards the door, the doors started to close, and they slipped through them just before they shut with a loud BANG!
They ran, oh how they ran, down the stairs of that church as if the Devil himself was casting plagues behind them; and I assure you, he was. Huffing and puffing, and still they ran. While on the country road the oldest girl broke the heel of her shoe. She stumbled, nearly falling and bringing down her sister with her, but she regained her composure and ran and ran. All the way home they went, shutting the door with such ferocity that it shook my very soul. If not at long last, the oldest stared up at her worn clock for the time. Her eyes widened in shock and fear. It was just past twelve, just past the hour of the dead. Her delicate face paled, and she immediately felt ill, sweating all over.
The next morning she lay sick in bed, and the next, and the next. It followed like that for a couple of months in fact. No one, not one person, could give her an explanation of what happened that night. Why her little sister was too small to even remember! So, in her audacity, she made up her own explanation; and she and I both know that hers was true. She had witnessed the midnight reunion of dead souls, past souls, those who are unseen to the living. Personally, I was doing backflips inside. The older girl died a few months later, from fright of course, and my flawless plan had succeeded. Another innocent soul had been brought to hell, and even though I could have achieved my goal in other, more cruel and despicable, manners, I chose fright to be the most entertaining; for what is more entertaining then seeing a poor girl die from fright? To tell you the truth, there are many ways to bring those of my choosing to the “other side,” but it always depends on what I want in the end. I ALWAYS have the last say.