A Santa Compaña #4

In the cold night, they leave their dwellings, coming into this world to atone for their sins. Yet... past the ninth hour, in the distance, a multitude of lights wanders aimlessly. I follow the procession, holding a wax taper; I am one of them— a terror to the village. I strike up a friendship with ghosts and apparitions, drowning the faint of heart in sheer terror. Windows are shut tight. Doors are bolted fast. Commend your soul to the Saint! To the Santa Compaña! They are the souls in torment, emerging from the church with a cross and a bier, roaming the countryside. Through the keyhole, they draw out those who sleep, so that they might join them in their grim, mournful march. Woe to the one who is mistaken for the dead! For they are handed a candle, and they shall never return to their bed