Chapter 8: Superstition and Schemes

On the way home, Rachel and I talked about many things—mostly about the Madonna.

We walked side by side down cracked sidewalks, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows ahead of us. Rachel clung to my arm, her voice barely above a whisper.

In our small town, the Madonna enjoys a stellar reputation, and many locals swear by her miracles.

She told stories of neighbors cured of illness, of lost pets returned, of crops saved from drought. It was the stuff of Sunday sermons and front-page features in the local paper.

But Daniel always disliked the Madonna, and Rachel, influenced by him, didn’t believe much either.

They were skeptics in a town full of believers—a quiet act of rebellion in a place where conformity was king.

Later, Daniel suddenly fell ill. The hospital couldn’t find the cause, and Rachel could only watch her beloved grow weaker by the day.

She described those days in painful detail—the endless tests, the worried looks from doctors, the late-night phone calls with family who didn’t have answers.

At that point, people from the Madonna’s church approached her, claiming Daniel’s fate was due to his disrespect for the Madonna.

They came with gentle smiles and urgent warnings, promising salvation if only she’d submit. It was hard to say no when hope was all she had left.

Desperate and persuaded, Rachel finally decided to take a chance.

She swallowed her doubts and followed their instructions, praying for a miracle. Guilt gnawed at her, but love pushed her forward.

"So do you know what actually caused my illness?" I asked.

I watched her closely, searching for any sign of hesitation. She hesitated, then shook her head.

"I don’t know the details," Rachel replied after a moment’s thought. "All I know is you got sick after the 'sending wreaths' ritual."

She bit her lip, glancing away as if expecting me to be angry. I just nodded, encouraging her to go on.

"Sending wreaths?" The phrase caught my attention—it sounded festive, but the truth was less pleasant.

I’d never heard it used outside of funerals. The words tasted strange, like a joke that didn’t land.

Rachel explained: In our town, when someone dies by hanging, there’s this old ritual—they burn the rope, carry the ashes down to the water, and pray the bad luck doesn’t stick.

Her explanation was matter-of-fact, her tone oddly detached. I could tell she’d repeated the story a dozen times, maybe more.

Our small town still keeps this tradition.

Some customs die hard—especially in places where history clings to every street corner.

Legend has it that those who die by hanging are filled with resentment and will try to find a substitute, harming others nearby.

She recited the superstition as if reading from a textbook. It was equal parts folklore and warning.

So, whenever someone is found hanged, the evil aura must be sent to the sea and burned away.

It was the kind of ritual that made the front page of the local paper—a spectacle, half-remembered, but deeply feared.

The local church usually handles this, and the evil aura is represented by the rope that strangled the deceased.

The rope, wrapped in black cloth and carried in solemn procession, became the symbol of everything that needed to be cleansed.

In our town, the Madonna’s church is in charge.

They took the lead, organizing the ritual with the precision of a well-oiled machine. The town followed, obedient and afraid.

Three months ago, late at night, after purifying the evil aura, the church prepared to escort the rope to the sea.

It was a hush-hush affair, the sort of thing you only heard about if you were in the right circles. The streets emptied out long before midnight, families locking doors and saying extra prayers.

The streets were silent, all doors and windows tightly shut, some families even taping up crosses for protection.

It was almost superstitious—the kind of thing you’d see in an old horror movie. Nobody wanted to take chances.

Before the 'sending wreaths' procession, the organizers would notify residents along the route so they could stay out of sight and avoid the negative energy.

Rachel described the flyers slipped under doors, the text alerts, the whispered warnings from neighbors. Everyone knew the rules.

If you ran into the procession, you might be tainted by the evil aura—sometimes even risking your life.

Kids were told to stay away, dogs were locked inside, and even the most stubborn old-timers followed the protocol.

That night, the funeral started smoothly, but halfway through, the procession suddenly changed route.

Nobody knew why. Panic spread quickly, rumors flying faster than the wind. People peeked through curtains, holding their breath.

Some innocent passersby were caught by the evil aura, and Daniel was one of them.

It was bad luck, plain and simple. Wrong place, wrong time—a tragedy that could happen to anyone.

Later, the Madonna’s church explained that the deceased’s resentment was too strong and tried to escape, so they had to change route to capture the vengeful spirit.

The explanation sounded rehearsed, but most people accepted it without question. Fear is a powerful motivator.

They performed rituals to remove the evil aura from everyone affected, but Daniel refused—he’d always disliked the Madonna.

His stubbornness became legend—a cautionary tale for anyone tempted to defy the church.

As a result, everyone else was fine, but Daniel fell gravely ill.

It was the perfect storm: suspicion, coincidence, and just enough truth to keep people in line.

This only made people believe even more that the Madonna was all-powerful, and those who showed disrespect would be punished.

The church’s influence grew, and dissent became even riskier. Rachel squeezed my hand, her eyes pleading for understanding.