Cebolla and the other missionary children, who were camping in the barn of an Otomí family living atop one of the peaks of the Sierra de Hidalgo, had left their sleeping bags and watched Brother Fofo set off down the hill, disappearing into a small forest of conifers before reemerging on the other side, climbing uphill again and skirting a small lagoon nestled between the mountains. He had taken a borrowed machete—without asking—and was well aware that, in the Sierra, if he were caught, it might mean nothing or it might cost him a hand. One didn't need to travel to the Middle East to be horrified by such practices. Just forty-five minutes by road from the nation's capital and an eight-hour hike up the mountain, one could witness such horrors firsthand.

As Fofo neared, he was horrified to hear a girl's screams, followed by another's cry for help. His mind immediately turned to the worst possibility involving Mateo, the troublemaker of his camp. Even though Fofo had explicitly told him to drop his suspicions about that neighboring house, the boy had disobeyed—likely with good intentions—to investigate what was happening there. According to Mateo, he had seen a terrifying man carrying a girl over his shoulder, tied up and blindfolded, as he entered that rundown shack in one of the poorest regions of Mexico.

<<Fofo?>>

<<What is it, Maty?>>

<<I saw a tall, really pale, ugly man with a wicked look. He carried a girl over his shoulder, all tied up and blindfolded. What if he's the Bag Man?>>

<<Maty, maybe you imagined it.>>

<<No, I swear!>>

<<I believe you think you saw it, but...>>

<<Why does no one ever believe me!>>

The problem with these kids was that they were all restless, attention-starved children who would do anything to feel useful or to be noticed. These were the children Fofo rescued from their miserable circumstances, introducing them to the productive life of missionaries. A horrifying scream echoed through the peaks, under the rain—the desperate, pain-filled cry of a girl being hurt.

The Brother and the boy stared at each other, dumbfounded.

Fofo asked his hosts about that neighboring house. As he had expected, they refused to give any information—after all, they wouldn't want their neighbors talking about them with outsiders. He let it be, reminding himself that he couldn't change the world, but he could change one or two lives along the way. That was his mission.

He reflected, as he smoked a joint after putting the children to bed in the barn, watching the rain fall and, unwillingly, glancing toward the house on the neighboring hill. He was here on a mission, not as a protector, and his mission was clear—at least to him. It wasn't to evangelize the people of the Sierra, nor to teach the children Spanish or math, nor—like some other priests and Brothers—to seduce or violate kids. No, his mission was to invite the most troubled, lost children to find purpose—a reason to be good. What did it matter what they learned in the Sierra or to whom they prayed? The real fight was for those whose souls were already on the brink, like Mateo, who could, just maybe, instead of becoming the juvenile delinquent he seemed destined to be, turn into an excellent Brother Lasallian, a rescuer like Fofo himself. And, of course, Fofo would teach him how.

<<Words move, but example drags.>> He reminded himself.

He peeked into the barn and saw what he feared—Mateo's sleeping bag was empty.

There was no doubt in his mind—he was in the house on the neighboring hill.

He instructed Cebolla to look after the others and set off toward Mateo, hoping to reach him before the locals did.

As Fofo neared, he was horrified to hear the girl's cries again, followed by another's desperate plea for help. His heart clenched at the thought of Mateo's fate, but he relaxed slightly when he spotted him—back against the wall, rocking in terror, muttering incoherently in pure fear.

Fofo crouched down and approached him.

"What's happening?"

The boy was in shock, only responding with unintelligible murmurs—something about girls, maybe.

Fofo stood up and peered through the window, and what he saw froze him in place—a skeletal, cadaverous-looking man, half-shaven and bruised, violating a girl who appeared to be drugged.

"My God..." he whispered.

That tiny sound was enough for the man to jolt, yank himself out, and—without the slightest effort, with inhuman strength—hurl the battered little girl against the window where Fofo was watching. The impact sent a piercing, gut-wrenching scream through the night.

Fofo fell back, wanting to say something but unable to.

The man stormed out the door, half-naked, carrying another girl—a different one—over his shoulder. He let out a spectral roar that paralyzed them with fear, then, snorting like a predator ready to attack, bolted downhill into the Sierra.

Mateo shrieked—a high-pitched, terrified wail, like a little girl's.

Fofo forced himself up, gripping the machete tightly, and took off after the abductor who was stealing away the battered girl.

"Ask for help and stay with the other girl!"

Mateo stayed behind, crying, but somehow found the strength, energy, and courage from who knows where. He stepped into the house just as a swarm of flies and a wave of cockroaches evacuated the place. He helped the girl get settled and stayed with her until the police arrived.

The specter, embodied in the kidnapper—perhaps a terminally ill patient who had resigned himself to surrendering his body to the worms—ran, knowing he was being pursued by three different groups of people who, without pause or rest, descended from other peaks and mountain villages to hunt him down.

The communal alert had been activated. Gunshots rang out, but he did not stop. Not because he was unafraid of bullets—he knew that if he died without possessing a fragile body, one with a weak spirit that wouldn't resist his invasion, he would truly die. Because yes, demons, like spirits, can also die, and forever. Just as new souls are created, old spirits lacking faith or purpose disappear, giving way to new possibilities. A confused spirit that does not continue its journey, that does not transmute beyond its physical plane, if destroyed, will no longer exist—except as the simplest and yet most powerful of existences: pure energy. Similarly, a soul that does not believe in life after death, a consciousness that only acknowledges its present existence and nothing more, ceases to be. When its flesh perishes, its spirit and mind will perish too, becoming nothing but energy—because the universe belongs to creators, not to those who merely exist. So, if this secular, serial killer loses his life in this stolen body, he will not find it again in another—unless he transfers his being, his self-awareness, before the last heartbeat, to a body he can inhabit without resistance. He has chosen a plane that was never meant for him, a hell that is not his own.

But he does not worry; he knows those gunshots are not aimed at him. He understands they do not even know what they are dealing with. The shots are fired into the air, because on his shoulders lies, drugged and unconscious, the shell of a girl who, through some almost inexplicable stroke of fate, carries within her the soul of an older man who should no longer be alive.

And none of his pursuers will risk killing her just to stop him.

The host bears a withered body, but the strength of his intent makes him powerful, his knowledge renders him nearly unstoppable at this point. He races down the mountain at an astonishing speed, never tiring, never needing to catch his breath, to pause, to rest.

Behind him, meters away, three rows of men and women give chase, knowing that this damned creature has kidnapped, raped, and murdered little girls in the very community they call home. They run with machetes and rifles in hand, determined to give him no chance of escape, to prevent the police from taking him, to ensure he will never again have the opportunity to harm another soul.

With agile strides, the entity zigzags down, while the girl groans, and he strikes her in the face to keep her unconscious.

Back at his lair, the women from the surrounding houses await the doctors and the police, trying to comfort a newly rescued girl.

The embodied specter crosses a deep stream and nearly sinks, but as if aided by some fortuitous force, he steps onto a rock, gains the momentum needed to break free, and continues his descent toward the town.

Dawn is breaking, and down below, no one is chasing him.

Understanding the complexity of the situation, the armed villagers halt their pursuit and unleash their arsenal, firing shots to warn their neighbors below that something is happening. The town of Santa Ángela de Navarro wakes up in alarm. Lights flicker on, and the people emerge with rifles, pistols, and machetes as the beast skirts the fence that separates the town from the Sierra. Some locals approach him.

The villagers corner him with their machetes.

He keeps trying to push through, weaving between them, but from the hilltop, voices begin to cry out:

"RAPIST!"

They stop him.

They stop him cold, beating him with wooden clubs.

The man says nothing.

He offers no explanation.

At the first machete strike, he lets the girl fall, and Magos—who is descending with the rest of the pursuers and joins the mob—catches her. She takes Daniela while the mountain folk seize the kidnapper, beginning to beat and slash him, though superficially. They have not yet grasped the full extent of his crimes. The ones who have realized that he is a child rapist have not yet reached the bottom of the hill. And while they do cut into him, none are willing—yet—to strike a fatal blow until they are fully informed.

In the distance, sirens wail as missionaries and some police officers emerge from the Sierra.

Bobadilla and Oaxaca arrive as well, but the locals block their path. Justice will be served here, now, in this very moment, without allowing the judicial system the chance to fail in favor of this monster. They need no trials, no explanations—only confirmation, and the mountain folk are beginning to arrive.

He's guilty—otherwise, why would five different mountain communities be chasing him?

Gunshots are fired into the air to stop the enraged mob, who glare back at them with threatening eyes. The people look up to see what's happening and spot a pair of Lasallian Brothers shouting among the mountain folk, caught in a chaotic uproar that's hard to decipher. The people of Santa Ángela de Navarro interrogate the man who had been fleeing with the girl. He now lies battered, drenched in blood, his cheekbone shattered, one eye bulging grotesquely in a deathly grimace.

"What did you do, you bastard?" a man demands.

But he says nothing.

"Rapist!" a woman cries as she rushes down from the mountains.

"RAPIST!" several people scream.

"Please," Oaxaca says, trying to place himself between the wreck of a man and the enraged Otomí villagers, flashing his badge.

Bobadilla cocks his gun, and three villagers raise their shotguns at him in response.

"Stop!" the missionary Brothers shout.

Everyone turns toward the men of God, who are just arriving. They step in to take the villain into custody, but he is no longer among them.

He has vanished.

Through the unpaved streets, heading toward the highway, he runs, stopping a truck in desperation. Blood gushes from his mouth as he pleads with the driver:

"Help! We need help!" he stammers.

The driver nods, stepping out nervously to assist, unaware of what's happening, only seeing an emergency.

With claw-like fingers, the fugitive digs into the man's eyes and mouth. Then, with a swift, brutal movement, he slams the driver's neck against the jagged metal edge of the vehicle's door. The man collapses, his right foot twitching in a grotesque, dying dance as his nerves refuse to let go of life.

Bullets spark against the truck's frame as he climbs inside, shifts gears, and floors the accelerator, releasing the clutch. The vehicle lurches forward, seemingly about to plow through the crowd, who barely manage to scatter in time. But he doesn't stop—he speeds up the mountain, toward the Sierra.

No one understands his intent until, without slowing down, he aims directly at Magos, who was just regaining her footing after cradling Daniela, waiting desperately for medical help.

The impact sends her flying against a stone wall, her back snapping in two with an inhuman bend, one half of her body slamming against the wall while the other crumples in agony on the ground.

Daniela remains exactly where she was, lying on the dirt.

The beast steps out of the vehicle, strikes Daniela once more—she remains dazed—and shoves her into the car.

A bullet pierces the back of his thigh, and he screams in pain, but he still manages to climb inside. Throwing the truck into reverse, he runs over four men who had been moments away from stopping him. Two of them go down under the tires, one dying instantly.

He spins the vehicle around and speeds off onto the Mexico-Pachuca highway, heading toward Mexico City.

Oaxaca retraces his steps just as Bobadilla catches up with him. Nico tells them he will stay behind to wait for medical help for Magos, unsure if she is dead or alive. Oaxaca and Bobadilla jump into the patrol car and take off at full speed in pursuit of the monster.