Legend LXXIII – The Uncanny Voodoo Priest

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It is said that on nights when the fog hangs like breathless veils among the gravestones, a man rises from the depths of the forgotten earth—a priest who has never belonged to any religion, yet is feared by all. He is known only as the Voodoo Priest, a wanderer between worlds, whose masked face glows with colors no sun has ever seen. No one knows if a human being lives beneath that mask, or something else, something older, that takes the form of a man. He always appears barefoot, as if he wants to feel the heartbeat of the earth, and his long cloak brushes in the wind like a black wing. Golden rings, bracelets, and talismans rattle softly, but the sound is not metallic—more like the whisper of bones. In his hand he holds an axe, its blade not simply stained with blood, but pierced by a burning rune that moves like an animal trapped in steel. The elders say his realm begins where the breath of the living ends. The graveyard he walks belongs to no one anymore: the families who once mourned these dead have long since vanished, and only weathered names, overgrown with moss, stand between the iron fences. Yet every grave holds a voice, and the priest hears them all. Sometimes the lantern flame near him flickers, as if bowing. Many years ago, it is said, he himself was a guardian of this place—a man filled with rage who lost his faith when everything he loved was taken from him. He sought power in places where no light dwelt, and the powers there answered. They gave him a new face and a heart that no longer beat to the rhythm of the living. From then on, he served no god, but the silence between blows, that darkness in which souls wander when they lose their way. But legend also says: The voodoo priest does not kill out of hatred. He judges. Those who disturb the peace of the dead, desecrate graves, or mock the sleep of the fallen find themselves one night facing this silent judge. Then he raises his axe, and the shadows tremble. It is said that his victims vanish without a trace—the ground opens to swallow them, or the fog takes them as tribute. One evening, however, it is said that a figure appeared who was different from the thieves and desecrators. A boy, young enough to still believe, old enough to know grief. He was searching for his mother's grave, which he had not seen for years. When he saw the lantern and the tall priest with the masked face, he wanted to flee—but the priest stepped aside, as if he himself were only a shadow making way. The boy later recounted that the priest had spoken, but the words sounded as if they came from everywhere and nowhere. "Whoever comes with love," the voice whispered, "need not fear my wrath."