Sin Eater

1

Believ

I follow in the wake of a man whose footsteps clatter on the gravel. The atmosphere is clammy and heavy, not helped by the fog that surrounds us. Only the sharply angled roof manages to cut through the suffocating clouds, revealing the age of the building almost entirely covered in bright red Virginia creeper. Despite the mansion”s breathtaking appearance, an oppressive, inquisitive, and suspicious feeling pervades.

“It”s this way,” says the man without so much as a glance, as he had stared at me unabashedly when I entered his property.

Although he does his best to conceal it, his unease is palpable. His gloved hand trembles as he points to a narrow staircase that presumably leads to the basement. He”s terrified.

How can you blame him?

Everyone knows that it’s forbidden to use a Sin Eater. And the penalty for offenders isn’t anecdotal, but pure and simple death.

How could we at this point go back and legitimize such radical penalties?

Just a few decades ago, it was abolished in favor of more proportional, humane, and reversible penalties. Why is the simple act of seeking the repose of departed souls such an unforgivable sin that those who do so must be deprived of their most cherished possession?

No matter! Both he and I are risking our lives in this hazardous undertaking, which even the hostile climate seems to seek to discourage. And yet, both of us are determined.

I give him a vague nod that he doesn”t even perceive, so tense is he in his collar, his gaze fixed on a redeeming horizon, before slipping down the stairs, making sure to leave the door ajar.

I”ve barely descended a few steps when a terrible musty smell catches in my throat, accompanied by unfamiliar ferrous odor. Has the body begun to decompose? How could this be? I moved as soon as the news of his death reached me!

Given the magical channels used to contact me, I deduce that the deceased was a particularly important person, or at least one with sufficiently extensive connections for my Brotherhood”s hierarchy to dispatch me as a matter of urgency.

It”s not unusual for Sin Eaters tobe mobilized by dreams. What is unusual, however, is for the request to be accompanied by such eagerness. In any case, last night”s dream led me straight here. It”s a good thing I was only a few hours away, and that my motorcycle posts the speed limits!

I slip and catch myself in extremis on a prominent stone in the wall. I could have grabbed the rope rail, but the protocol is clear: I mustn”t touch anything, leave no trace of my passage. I don”t know why; that’s just the way it is. And ever since I took up the profession, I”ve endeavored to adhere strictly to the rules, even if I have my doubts about their effectiveness.

The faint glow that filtered in from outside is now a distant memory, and I”m so immersed in darkness that I can barely see my feet. I redouble my caution, refusing to sprawl downstairs because I”ve missed a step or slipped on one.

Groping my way along, step after step, I realize how uneven, worn, and smooth they are, a testimony to centuries of intensive use that suddenly arouses my curiosity. Who could have gone down there? What were these isolated places hiding? Was there food storage or a crypt? Or, worse still, was it once the headquarters of a sect?

I”m rambling, which obviously won”t help me.

I approach the bottom of the stairs with relief, betrayed by the faint glow of dancing torches. You have to admit, they”ve got theatricality down pat! Did the owners ever think of installing electricity? The terracotta floor oozes, as do the damp walls that reflect the flickering flames.

The body is there, laid out in the center of the room, barely concealed by an immaculate sheet upon which shadows dance. Why on earth do these torches give the impression of being in a draft, when this room has no openings except the one I used to come downstairs?

Although impatient to get it over with, I linger a few moments to stare at him. He”s a young-looking man, despite the mask he wears, frozen in eternity. His features are harmonious, and it would be no exaggeration to describe him as ravishing. I feel no more injustice in working with someone who has been struck down in the prime of life than with an octogenarian. Rather, it”s the idea of officiating over the dead that still makes me uneasy, especially as I don”t believe a word of this Biblethat never leaves my side. But I promised. And by force of circumstance and without really having chosen it, I swore an oath to the Brotherhood. I must honor my word, and the only way to do so is to follow protocol and respect every detail, no matter how repugnant.

I reach into my rucksack and pull out the pouch belonging to Eltz, my predecessor. I open the ebony box it contains and arrange the components with almost surgical precision, right next to the body. There”s no need to refer to the manual; I”m used to doing this by now.

I place the bread on the torso of the deceased man, just above the small leather purse intended to remunerate my intervention, and sprinkle it with a pinch of salt. I remove Eltz”s notebook from the box, place it on the floor, and open it to the page marked by a modest wooden crucifix. According to eyewitness accounts, each of these crosses used by my colleagues contains an authentic fragment of Christ”s cross, giving them a divine aura that ensures the effectiveness of our task.

I place it delicately on the dead man”s forehead, once again covered in his shimmering shroud, and begin my incantation in a timid whisper that nevertheless ricochets between the stone walls.

“Stop...”

A strange lament spreads through the empty room. I freeze for a moment, glancing around. I can”t make out anything but those damn torches, whose wild flickering is seriously beginning to tire me.

I resume in a slightly louder voice.

“Please... stop...”

Again? Have I gone mad? Leading this strange life of mine, it wouldn”t be surprising. Without paying any further attention, I concentrate once again on my prayer, which I intone in a more pronounced manner, determined to get to the end of it as quickly as possible.

“Leave me my sins...”

Could it be a sick joke? An idle kid who, if not intimidated by my status, is mocking me and the poor soul I”ve come to save? By what miracle?

“I summon you to show yourself!” I articulate, unsure of myself. “It”s risky to interrupt a Sin Eater,you know!”

“I need to know...”

“What do you want to know?” I ask, still unable to identify the source of the voice.

“What happened to me,” the voice whispers to me, now more tangible and hoarse, though still bodiless.

“What do you mean?”

You”re out of your mind, girl. As if it”s possible to talk to a dead person!

“Believe me, it”s me talking to you,” the entity indicates, as if reading my questions in my thoughts without my having to formulate them.

That”s all I need. It”s bad enough that my life is a never-ending mess, but if someone interferes in it, I”m not done yet!

“Are you saying that this body, lying here in front of me,” I begin, pointing to the inert remains, “is yours?”

“Absolutely!” confirms the ghost, materializing in a vaporous form above the body.

My work doesn”t fit into the “normal” category. It calls on ancestral knowledge and ceremony derived from supernatural practices. After my initiation, my most deeply-rooted beliefs collapsed, and the boundary between what is real and what isn’t became blurred to the point of virtually disappearing, even if I sometimes persist in wondering about possible technological remedies that would explain the inconceivable. Who am I to deny what my ears hear and my eyes believe they can discern? I don”t pretend to know everything about the afterlife,so I might as well find out more about this apparition, which seems strangely relevant to me.

“But why wouldn”t you want me to rid you of your sins? It makes no sense. My only ambition is to offer you eternal rest!”

“What would I do with eternal rest, when I don”t know what happened to me?”

Why does this dead man insist on remaining, when he could be enjoying infinite serenity?

“Is it that important?”

“Please,” he begs even more earnestly. “It”s my soul at stake. Shouldn”t I be the sole decision-maker?”

“Some have haunted the living,” I retort. “I can”t take the chance that you”ll show up somewhere. I”ll be blamed.”

“I promise to remain invisible. Give me the opportunity to understand. I can”t fade away without it.”

I think, trying to refuse him. He’s putting me in an unprecedented position. Under no circumstances am I to deviate from my ritual. The instructions are formal on this point. But what he requires of me is a transgression whose consequences could prove catastrophic for all the souls I”m supposed to save. And yet, how can I blame him? I would have made the same request in his place... if I had materialized after my death, of course.

What should I do? Stay here and force a soul to rest in peace, even though it has no desire to do so, or settle this matter as quickly as possible so that I can continue my work in accordance with the prescriptions of the Brotherhood? I”m aware of the consequences for both of us. Neither of these alternatives offers me a suitable way out. I”m stuck, but anything would be preferable to staying in this nauseating crypt for another hour!

I let out a sigh that betrays his victory, knowing full well that I”m about to make a terrible mistake.

“Will you be discreet?”

“I promise.”

“No chains, no night-time howling?”

He stifles a laugh, which makes me frown. A wispy cloud with a sense of humor. I would never have bet on it. It would almost lighten this mission, which seems rather hopeless now.

“Neither, I give you my word. Is that really what ghosts do?”

Excellent question! This is the first time I”ve come across one, despite my significant experience as a Sin Eater. In fact, I was skeptical until today. I guess folklore is more ingrained in my mind than I thought.

“No idea.”

I grab the small leather purse and slip its contents into a pocket of my bag. I”m not very comfortable with the idea of taking these six coins that I don”t deserve, but abandoning them on the spot would be tantamount to admitting that I haven’t done my job as well as I should have. Not only would I be severely punished, but the spirit would be immediately neutralized; no one would have gained anything from this risky venture.

I put my artifacts back in Eltz”s bag and rush up the stairs, determined to get away before I change my mind—as if running away from this unlikely scene would make it any less real.

Before heading off into the darkness, however, I have one final word of caution.

“Behave yourself, understand?”