All The Pretty Dead Girls. John Manning

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      “Father, I would like to speak to the girls.” Ginny requested, seated in a hard chair in his hot office inside the little church.

      The tall handsome priest shook his head. “Impossible. The archbishop has refused permission for them to speak to reporters.”

      She tried again to explain she wasn’t a reporter. She was a scholar. But her arguments fell on deaf ears. She understood the only information she’d get would come through this intermediary, this upper-middle-class priest from Mexico City.

      “So let me understand,” she said. “The Holy Mother has forbidden the girls to tell anyone what they’ve been told, isn’t that correct?”

      Father Ortiz gave her a warm smile. “The Holy Mother has forbidden them to tell anyone other than their priest, Señora.”

      “So, you know what the Virgin has said?” She leaned forward. “Are you sworn to secrecy, too?”

      He leaned back in his chair. “I cannot tell you the Mother’s message, no. That is for my archbishop’s ears only. I go to Mexico City to meet with him next week.” He smiled at her. He was young, maybe not even Ginny’s own age just yet, with strong white teeth and thick black hair. “The Holy Mother talks to the girls, who are allowed to talk to me, and I can speak to the archbishop, who can only speak to His Holiness the Pope in Rome.”

      “So I came all this way to try to understand this phenomenon…”

      Ginny wasn’t averse to flirting with him, even if he was a priest. She smiled, looking up from under her long lashes.

      He seemed to know what she was doing, and he smiled despite himself.

      “Señora, I cannot tell you the Holy Mother’s message, but I can tell you this, because I like you.” He gestured for her to lean closer to his desk. “You might want to make yourself right with God.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      He gave her a smile. A sad smile, she thought. A smile that was both sad and rapturous at the same time. But he would say nothing more.

      That afternoon, Ginny joined the pilgrims and walked out to the field a few miles outside of the little village, over dirt paths beaten down by the footsteps of others before. The sun was high and hot, and her shirt was soaked through with sweat before they reached the hillside. It was a nondescript place, buzzing with flies and dusty. She wiped sweat from her forehead. Close to a hundred people gathered on the hillside; a woman in a black veil offered Ginny a drink from a bottle of water.

      The pilgrims stood in silence as three young girls, not quite teenagers, appeared on the opposite hill. The crowd buzzed with excitement for a moment, then all fell quiet again. Ginny watched the girls climb to the top of the opposite hill, then sink to their knees and turn their faces up to the bright blue sky, their arms outstretched. She watched as their eyes grew wider, and their faces began to glow as they smiled in joy. Not a muscle did they move for almost ten solid minutes. Then the glow faded from their faces and they rose, dusting off their knees. There was a murmur of excitement in the crowd as the girls climbed down their own hill.

      That was it. The girls were hustled away by a flock of black-robed nuns.

      Ginny stayed in Los Zapatos for a few days more, buying water and food from other pilgrims, sleeping next to the battered Volkswagen she’d rented, writing down notes and her impressions in the spiral notebook she’d brought along. Father Ortiz was no more forthcoming during any of their subsequent meetings, though he reiterated each time his plea to make herself “right with God.” Though Ortiz was stubborn, Ginny found herself liking the handsome young priest more and more.

      On her third day there, a long black limousine appeared on an unpaved road that led into the village from the south, stirring up whirlwinds of dust. The limo stopped in front of the little church, its back doors opened from within, and all at once Father Ortiz and the three girls scurried from the front doors of the church. The four of them slipped inside the limo, the nuns depositing battered boxes of clothes and books into the trunk. Then the limo doors closed and the vehicle began its slow drive out of Los Zapatos toward Mexico City. The nuns made the sign of the cross as they watched it drive away.

      Ginny knew the girls never returned to Los Zapatos. Indeed, the Church never put its stamp of approval on the sightings. No one was really sure whatever happened to the three young girls who claimed to have seen the Virgin. Not even their parents ever knew. It was presumed they were hidden away somewhere. After all, Rome had centuries of practice in keeping its secrets.

      Now, holding the printouts in her hand, Ginny became aware that she was trembling just a little bit.

      You might want to make yourself right with God.

      She looked up at the ceiling. The room Sue was sleeping in was almost directly overhead.

      Her story is so fantastic, Ginny thought. I don’t want to believe it

      But she also knew it could be true.

      The police officer’s story…and the words of the girl, Bernadette deSalis…they all came together now in some kind of horrible, terrifying logic.

      She was trembling even more now.

      And it’s no coincidence that Father Ortiz has shown up again after all these years…

      Ginny stood and moved over to her desk, clicking open a file on her computer. It was the opening chapter to her new book. Ginny scrolled down to the last few paragraphs.

      There is no question that the Bible has been rewritten and revised and edited numerous times throughout the history of the Christian religion. These revisions have always had a purpose: whether it be to shut out women from the church; extend its political power; or to make the ritualized dogma more palatable to the newly converted.

      The Book of Revelation has often been used, throughout history, to promulgate the dogma of the church, as well as to stigmatize political enemies. Political leaders from Charlemagne to Phillip II of France to King John of England, to Adolf Hitler and Stalin in modern times, have been called “the Antichrist.” But the coming of the Antichrist and Armageddon, while often viewed by the faithful as a horror, are ultimately the end game of all Christian theology—when the faithful are carried off to Heaven for their just reward. So, why do most Christians fear the Rapture?

      There has long been a rumor that several chapters of the Book of Revelation were removed and hidden away by the early Church. These chapters were not written in the mysterious language of prophecy, and very clearly explain who and what the Antichrist will be. They outline in stark specificity the exact conditions of the world that will lead to the rise of this leader. These are what have been termed the “lost revelations.”

      It is believed by some that if these prophecies were ever made public, they would shake the very foundations, not only of the Church, but of Western civilization itself. Some scholars believe these expunged chapters of Revelation are locked away in the most secure vault in the Vatican and, like other prophecies, can be accessed by only the Pope himself when he succeeds to the throne of St. Peter. It is even said sometimes that St. Peter himself decreed that these dangerous prophecies regarding the end times be suppressed.

      Ginny Marshall closed the document. Now it wasn’t just her hands that were shaking. Her heart was pounding, and the electricity in the house was beginning to flicker on and off.

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