Orphan Source

A box of letters was recently discovered in a ghost town within the arid and chilly mountainous region of northern Colombia. These letters have likely gone unread for at least three decades. They are just a small part of a larger trove of records, correspondence, and personal journals concerning the events in a place where copper miners and their families once lived. The population peaked at about a thousand people in 1930, but as the ore veins dried up, families left for the modernizing cities on the coast. In 1974, the country’s Revolutionary Armed Forces spread into the region, bringing their criminal operations and anarchic violence too close for comfort and signaling the end of a community. State records indicate that only a few dozen people remained in the town by 1985, and most of them seem to have been scavengers picking at the bones of the mines for any remaining metals. Working alone with crude tools, there came a point where more of the locals were dying or disappearing instead of leaving.
However, there was one holdout of organized civilization that continued to exist until the very end: a small orphanage run out of an 18th century Catholic mission by Sister Liliana. She is young, born in 1960 according to her papers. The most important of the discovered letters detail what transpired in the last two months of 1986, revealing what almost became a forgotten story, covered up and nearly lost to time. In its wake are many questions, terrifying possibilities, and further possible incidents that have, as of now, gone undiscovered. Instead of saying too much on the outset, I’ve translated the most relevant letters sent between Sister Liliana and a state worker named Hernando Gomez, who at the time was assigned to perform monthly welfare checks on the orphanage. He worked in the closest major city, over sixty miles away. Also mixed among the letters were responses from Sister Marta, an older friend and former mentor from Liliana’s convent. Letters sent to Sister Marta, who passed away several years ago, have yet to be found and may be lost. The mountain town did not have any phone service, meaning that nearly all communication went through what must have been a slow mail service.
Presented in chronological order, I believe it best to begin with a request to the State from Sister Liliana, postmarked November 3rd, 1986.
“Mr. Gomez,
This is the third time I’ve asked to be transferred to a proper orphanage in [a nearby city]. I have been patient and dutifully continued my caretaking of the children this past year, but the situation is worsening here, and I am at my wit’s end. The groundskeeper recently quit, leaving me with only two volunteer helpers that are far from dependable, and with colder weather on the way I have even more reason to be concerned about the condition of a place that will no longer even be properly maintained. Please, no more red tape. Talk to whomever you need to and send us a bus as soon as possible. On your next visit, I hope to hear some good news for a change. I know that the partisan militia has reached deeper into the mountains and I’ve heard stories of the road blocks and bandit-like activity, but surely someone in the government isn’t too afraid to send escorted transportation for the sake of these children. Or give us a helicopter if the roads sound too treacherous. If you and the mail can still come up here on occasion, surely you can bring me something larger that will seat eleven of us.
And while I hesitate to complain about my important position, I feel that I should mention the tedium which has set in among the children. They’ve become quite the group of troublemakers. At the very least, please bring them more books to read, whatever you can find or might have on hand. The books we do have are in tatters, and we lost another one several days ago when Daniela ripped out its last remaining pages and burned them using a stolen matchbook. If she had done it to find some heat in this drafty old building, I might understand. But I’m certain she only did it to entertain her rebellious friends.
I wish you well and take care.”
A letter arrives from Sister Marta a few days later, before Mr. Gomez has had a chance to read this appeal. It’s obvious that Liliana had recently asked for advice, or help, from her mentor. It reads:
“My dearest Liliana,
I’ve always said that in times of trouble, God is either testing our worth, teaching us an important life lesson, or both. Reflect on the fact that those children, whether abandoned or having lost their families, rely on you no matter how they may treat you on a daily basis. One day, they will grow up and look back at your caretaking with gratitude. And I have faith that they’ll become better people than these so-called ‘freedom fighters’ attempting to overthrow this country. Be wary of them. I’ve heard from several of the other Sisters that their attacks on civilians have included missionaries and even the local clergy. I fear that this world has gone mad. As you know, I’ve recently lost family of my own back in Romania. People cry out for freedom and think it gives them permission to harm the innocent, or anyone with different points of view.
There is always a bed here waiting for you. But those children and your work come first. Try not to fault Mr. Gomez. His department, like many government agencies, are either underfunded or suffer from corruption. You’ve made him out to sound like one of the good men who truly sympathizes with your plight, yet whose hands are tied and can’t help in all the ways you wish he could. I doubt that the disciplinary incident that occurred several months ago is relevant to his inaction. Rest assured that I am still seeking out a bus and a driver for you, but it appears that there are few people in this city who are as capable and strong as you. Those misguided rebels have them scared.
Until then, stay strong. Your tribulations will last only as long as you are meant to endure them, and will prepare you all the better for future struggles.”
Hernando’s response to Liliana, written using a typewriter and the thinnest stationery his department could provide, arrived shortly thereafter. It is kept as pristine as all of the lonely Sister’s other letters, despite what must have been a contentious relationship between the two.
“Ms. Romero,
As always, I assure you that your voice has not gone unheard in these crowded offices. I do what I can for you, and hundreds of other needy citizens and public workers on each one of the six days of the week I come in and work for twelve hours. No, I’m not looking for pity or making excuses, but I felt it fair to remind you how busy and understaffed we are at this department. You haven’t been forgotten, and I’m coming up to you only a few days from now to check on the orphanage. If I can’t bring a large vehicle to you by then, we will at least have a chance to talk face to face about your options.
I wouldn’t expect a helicopter to come and get all of you anytime soon. The government has its hands tied up in other matters even more than usual, thanks to a gang of violent kids pretending to be freedom fighters.
Your children, on the other hand, I can empathize with. It was never a town, if you can even call it one, made with them in mind. Exhausted rugged copper miners who had nowhere else to go after a long work day than a bar with a brothel upstairs will inevitably result in unwanted little ones that grow up into troubled adolescents. I don’t wish to infer that we should give up on them. I’m sure that you could find a way out on your own and leave them behind, but you haven’t done that yet, and I don’t think you could live with yourself if you did.
I’ll end this letter with a word of advice, coming from a father of three. To cool their tempers, promise them rewards for good behavior instead of punishing them for misdeeds. Candy, old abandoned toys that might still be up there, whatever you can find. Do NOT escalate things. Despite what most people say, physical punishment of any kind doesn’t work and only breeds resentment and mistrust. And don’t ever burn any of their hands on the stovetop again. If I ever see that a second time, I really will have to report you for it. I know it was ‘just a mistake made during a fit of anger and it will never happen again,’ but whenever I see such things happen with other caretakers, I can’t help but remind them to do better in the future. Should an incident repeat, it looks bad for me, too.
I will see you soon. Be well.”
For some reason, an unsent letter to Sister Marta was found under Hernando’s in the stack. Liliana wanted to let off some steam to her mentor and mentioned that she “couldn’t believe he was still bringing up the burning incident.” But then she started rambling and treating the letter more like a diary, and likely realizing its uselessness, decided to keep the rest of her emotions inside and stopped writing halfway. Though I wonder why she kept it.
Around a week later and following the visit from Hernando, Liliana sent another message to him, and received one from Sister Marta.
Both are concerning, for different reasons.
“Mr. Gomez,
You saw firsthand how bad things are getting here on your recent visit. Even the food shipments are no longer reliable and the scarcity is driving up prices to the point where I’m feeding the children only the bare essentials, and no one wants to donate anything better to us. It can’t be that hard to get some decades-old bus up the mountains to get us out. I’m starting to think it’s more hopeless than just that. Is there no more room in the other orphanages, anywhere in the country? I understand people not wanting to adopt and put more pressure on their families in this political climate, but all I’m asking for now is somewhere to stay. Maybe ten children don’t mean much to the rest of Colombia, but there is a crisis building regardless of the number.
I apologize if I’m even more forward than usual in this letter, and I can already see that my handwriting is messy from my anger and worry.
Last night, I experienced terror. At some point early in the morning, I was awoken by the sound of truck engines. They were loud and shook the air, causing the children to stir. By some small miracle I managed to keep them all in their beds as I investigated. I’m uncertain if it was from fear or divine guidance, but I didn’t use a lantern on my way to one of the few windows in the mission that hadn’t been boarded up, instead navigating by moonlight. Had I done so, the glow may have given myself away, and it’s possible I would not have survived the ordeal that was brought into our small town. Thank God I also leave no lights on throughout the building at night. To the people that invaded us, our orphanage may as well have been an abandoned husk, unoccupied for years.
It was those rebels, Mr. Gomez. I’ve asked others, but no one seems to know of their business here, or at least, is too afraid to tell me. They arrived in four of their trucks, and out poured a dozen or so men, all heavily armed, yelling and barking orders outside of the tavern, the only establishment still open at that hour. I watched by the window, too afraid to move, as they went inside and came back out minutes later, dragging an older man named Ernesto across the dirt. I’ve seldom spoken with him and know little of his past, and couldn’t begin to guess as to why they wanted him specifically.
The rebels dragged the poor man to one of their trucks and tossed him inside the cabin. Several of the brutes fired their automatic weapons into the night air as a display of their perceived power or as a warning, just before their trucks took off, the tires tearing apart our simple muddy streets. The men were in such a hurry that some of their ‘belongings’ slid out of their vehicles during their exit, and littered the street. I’m not sure what most of it is. It all looks like stolen equipment from somewhere, but I haven’t gotten close enough to identify any of it, and everyone’s been told not to come near the material. I suppose the others worry that the thieves will come back to reclaim it, so when dawn broke it was all locked up in one of our two jail cells. They think if someone gets their hands on the equipment and tries to sell it, we might all be in danger ‘when’ those men return. So we’re holding the loot for criminals instead. I’m honestly losing faith in the people I once called neighbors.
I don’t know the purpose of this letter. Nothing will be done about any of this, and if anything, our latest incident will only make your people more hesitant to move us off of these foothills. But if the entire town disappears one day, you’ll know what group of people was behind it.”
And from Sister Marta, a short and simple response to a letter that may have been similar to the previous one left unsent.
“Liliana,
It is common for people to judge us for a wrong we have committed in the past. Others sometimes simplify a complicated life down to one mistake and believe it says everything about our character. But being upset with Mr. Gomez because he brought up something that happened with a stovetop and hands left unwashed for dinner will not help matters. All you can do is continue to pursue good deeds in your life and show him that you have changed for the better since then. Given time, he will no longer feel the need to judge you for it.
Even so, I must insist that you continue to work on your weakness with your anger. Remember that you are passionate with pleasing others and showing compassion and empathy, but perhaps you expect too much reciprocity. In your position, a simple thank you for your work should be sufficient. Do not look for anything greater from your young charges. What do you wish them to offer you at their age? You have too great a need to be respected and shown gratitude, when you should be able to feel fulfillment on your own, through your actions. Do not forget all that I taught you. Better days will come.”
Having gone to a Catholic school myself, I’m well aware that many who serve the faith can have short fuses and pent-up, unfulfilled desires. Liliana was probably at a time in her life when she felt like she was wasting time in a place that was equally unforgiving, dull, and now dangerous. She felt trapped.
It’s understandable. I am not important to this story, but I also grew up in that town and was Liliana’s age in 1986, though I left with my family earlier on when it was starting to collapse. I was asked to help the investigation on what ultimately happened to the place, and I was the one that found Liliana’s stash of letters and helped “decode” them (as her handwriting is not easily legible).
Mr. Gomez sent a response that isn’t really worth copying over, in which he basically reminds Liliana of his limitations as a government employee and tries to reassure her once again that she hasn’t been forgotten, this time adding that the presence of revolutionaries wouldn’t deter any efforts to get her and the orphans out. It all comes down to logistical issues, he explains.
But there was something about that night when they abducted Ernesto that changed everything in the dying town, and began a chain of events that greatly hastened its demise. Likely seeing that her letters had achieved nothing so far, Liliana seemed to hesitate before penning her next one to Mr. Gomez, which reached his desk two weeks after his visit. Her descriptions of the occurrences that followed are quite detailed… and disturbing.
This is the first troubling letter in Gomez’s files, and it’s a wonder that they weren’t passed onto someone higher up in government and classified sooner. He must’ve been unable to see the full picture of what was transpiring.
It reads like a disaster report, and has a tone of desperation right at the start when Liliana addresses him by his first name.
“Hernando,
A curse has come upon this town. Things were already so bad here that I hesitated to write simply to relay more of our troubles, which I’m sure you’ve heard more than enough about, but I can’t ignore what’s happening. Two weeks have passed since your visit, and everything has gotten much worse.
It started a few days after those misguided revolutionaries terrorized us. One after the next and within the span of 24 hours, all of the children caught a vicious stomach bug. They couldn’t hold down anything, not even warm broth. I thought maybe their room had gotten too cold one night and given them all a nasty chill, yet they hadn’t even complained about the lack of warmth like they usually do prior to their illness.
Whatever had afflicted them passed quickly, lasting no more than 48 hours. Although a few of the children showed sporadic symptoms for several days afterwards. One night they would be fine, and the next, they’d be expelling acrid fluids before feeling all right again within hours. I’m sorry for using such a visual description, but the smell of sick lingers here in the air, to the point where you may get a whiff of it from this paper, so I thought it best to explain.
Ill children I can manage, despite the accompanying sights, sounds, and smells. I’m good at caretaking. If you recall me telling you, I was practicing to become a nurse until I lost my parents and finances, and found myself owing a life debt to the convent for helping me get back on my feet. And perhaps it’s terrible of me to say, but at least sick kids settle down for a time.
I wouldn’t be writing this letter if it stopped at a simple spread of a bug. A few days after they had recovered, the town’s elderly owner of the general store became sick as well. Seriously so, from what I’ve heard. We lack a proper doctor here, forcing him to drive to [the nearest city] for care. He is known to be a bit of a grouch, especially when it comes to children, so I was disappointed but not surprised when the orphans seemed to take some delight in the news. How cruel they can be sometimes. Though, admittedly, when I was young, I also perceived certain adults as enemies, and was pleased by their occasional misfortune. Kids can be like that, what with their narrow view of the world. It’s sinful, but forgivable and teachable, I believe.
However, it’s what they did next that stretches the limits of forgiveness! God help me, these children snuck out one night and broke into the store, taking food and whatever else their grabby little hands could pilfer. Normally the owner is sleeping in his home directly above his shop, and he sleeps so lightly that he frequently wakes up and yells out his windows if there’s the slightest commotion on the street. And the instant he’s out of town, my children become brazen enough to steal from him! A sick man, who provides for this community!
I couldn’t believe it when I found out. It was obvious that they were up to no good the next day, as they were acting like they had just gotten away with a scheme. Luis, the youngest, gave it all away when he came to dinner with chocolate smeared around his mouth. He falls apart when caught in a lie, and it didn’t take me long to find their stolen stash of sweets, snacks, and everyday objects they must’ve considered ‘close enough’ to being toys, since the store doesn’t sell actual toys. I was livid to say the least. But I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even punish them at first. Doing so has never really worked. I just made them return everything that wasn’t edible or that they hadn’t opened yet.
There was always one form of discipline that I’ve kept in my arsenal for just the right moment, and I thought about trying it after our visit to the store. I believed that if I put the children in a jail cell for an hour or so, they might have the chance to see a possible path that their lives were taking.
But I wasn’t given the option. When we went to the police station, I found our only two officers helplessly watching a group of men, roughneck former miners who think they run this town, as they carried off the stolen equipment that we had secured in a jail cell. They glared at me on their way out as if they were annoyed by my presence, all while the children watched.
“Don’t judge us, Sister,” one of them said. “They aren’t coming back for any of this. They’ve forgotten all about it by now.”
It’s so easy to reason away our behavior. I didn’t ask what they were doing with any of those machines and tools. Going to another town to sell it, I suppose, for more money to waste on alcohol. And here I was, trying to teach these children a lesson on thievery. They must have only learned that if you’re loud and threatening enough, you can take whatever you want.
Though I did get a good look at the material for the first time. I recognized most of it from my time at nursing school; it was all medical equipment. The revolutionaries must have broken into a hospital, whether it had been closed for years, or… was still open and operating. This would not come as a surprise. Those violent men act as shamelessly as my young wards. I hope you can look into this if you get a moment. I feel so powerless. The people here have given up, and I’m not sure how much longer the civility of this place will last.
Just before I was about to drop off this letter this morning, more illnesses were reported. The mail truck will be arriving shortly, so forgive the hastiness of this addition. Two men were found passed out in a gutter at dawn, apparently in a sort of stupor and feeling unwell. To put it bluntly, they’re known as the town drunks, but it sounds like they were found in a worse state than usual. They show at Mass, no doubt to try and find weekly absolution, yet otherwise often cause trouble and have spent many nights in jail. They seem to loathe my children in particular and speak poorly of them, even in God’s house on Sundays, and directly to their faces! The one place I bring them once a week to instill some structure in their lives, and they get called street rats, or worse! I won’t weep for these men, and would call it divine punishment if it weren’t for one of my aides finding herself stricken by this spreading plague as well.
When she woke up yesterday morning, she felt feverish and complained of a burning sensation. Once it was clear that she was too weak to help me, I sent her home for some bed rest. She is elderly and short-tempered, and the children have never really cared for her. But what am I supposed to do now? The only person I have left assisting me is the woman who cooks the meals.
I’m at my wit’s end. Please, get us off of this barren hill!”
In response, Mr. Gomez replied with a short letter that must have frustrated her even more, yet also offered some degree of hope.
“Sister Liliana,
I’ve arranged for a doctor to visit you, the children, and the other locals in town. He’ll be bringing a variety of medicines to hopefully control what seems to be an outbreak. You may ask how I managed this yet can’t pull off sending a bus to you. Well, it’s simple. The doctor is an old friend and isn’t scared by anything, so he didn’t hesitate to agree to come to you. I’m confident he’ll be of help.
Your information about the medical equipment is helpful. The police are investigating a possible incident in [the nearest city to the town]. They are also looking into Ernesto, and I believe they’re actively searching for him.
I do have one piece of good news. Someone much higher up than I am finally took notice of your predicament, and assured me that he’s working on a proposal that should reach President Vargas’ desk. It sounds too good to be true, but if the government feels like there’s something to publicly gain by moving heaven and Earth to bring all of you into civilization, they may just go through with some grand plan. So don’t give up yet. I’ll be in contact as soon as I hear something. Take care.”
A letter from Sister Marta was delivered at the same time.
“Dear Liliana,
Remember that I am always praying for you during challenging times. I am certain that these illnesses will be overcome through both modern medicine and our faith. It may seem that God has forsaken you, but I know that isn’t the case. It is natural to reach out and try to grasp at any easy solution when we struggle, and I understand the reasons behind your wishes.
That said, I don’t think it will be possible to convince a priest to come up there and consecrate the grounds. This is already an irregular request, and it wouldn’t be done to rid an area of ‘evil spirits.’ You should already know this. There are worldly reasons for disease and misfortune, too.
I hope that this care package helps you and the children. Please write back as soon as your situation changes in either direction.”
The contents of the care package which came with the letter are lost to time. What we do know is that Mr. Gomez’s final personal meeting with Liliana in the middle of December did not go well. She sends him a letter immediately afterwards, and her words are nearly indecipherable angry scribbles. She had to say some things that she didn’t during the visit, needing the chance to properly defend herself.
“Hernando,
I’ve taken a day to gather my thoughts before writing you again, but admittedly I’m not very clearheaded. I will try to keep this from devolving into rambling incoherence, but I’m struggling to find the right words to explain how ridiculous all of this is, and I feel like I had too many accusations lobbed at me to count. To begin with, of course I wasn’t going to mention the burns on the children’s hands in my previous letter. You’d have come up here with your mind already made up about me. But I made no attempt to hide the burns from you during your inspection. My own hand to God, I haven’t hurt any of my wards since the first time I made that terrible mistake. Our cook fully attested as such, and furthermore, I wouldn’t waste precious stove fuel to punish the children like that again, especially not when it did far more harm than good last time.
And while your doctor was kind enough to refill our first aid kit and essential medicines, as someone with medical knowledge myself, I have to disagree with his assessment. He believes we’ve been afflicted by a common disease and recovery will come with proper bed rest, despite my insistence that I’ve never heard of such symptoms manifesting.
Aside from a loss of appetite and fatigue, the burns on their palms and other areas of their bodies don’t seem to be healing, despite first appearing weeks ago. The damaged skin is the worst on their hands, with coin-sized bright red marks appearing in various spots. I’d be tempted to compare it to a form of stigmata, if I subscribed to the belief of such a supernatural occurrence.
Included is a copy of the medical notes the doctor made for each child. I’ve asked so much of you already, but please look into these symptoms so that perhaps I can get a second opinion. I’m not faulting the doctor and his diagnoses. The children may simply be sick with something he’s never seen before. I have no one else to turn to, Mr. Gomez. I’m sure that you can see my desperation in my penmanship.”
The attached medical papers are unaccounted for, either having been misplaced long ago, or locked away in some other classified government file.
Records indicate that Mr. Gomez sent his next letter through priority mail, which may have gotten it to Liliana a few days earlier than usual. As if it was important to save even just a few seconds, he skips any written formalities this time and gets right into his instructions.
“Liliana, you gave me enough information to get me started on a theory about what’s going on up there. But I’m not certain of anything yet and I don’t want to make the situation worse with bad advice. I’ll send a follow-up letter very soon and renew the urgency concerning your situation with my superiors.
Until then, follow these directions carefully. Tell me, are there any new, unfamiliar objects that you’ve seen recently? Anything that could have possibly come from the stolen equipment that was left behind? If you haven’t seen something strange and unfamiliar to you, then perhaps the children have mentioned it in passing when they think you aren’t listening. If they got their hands on a new, let’s call it a toy, they might not have told you about it.
I have to emphasize. Think about ANY object you’ve seen or heard about recently, no matter how plain or small it may be. If you find such an out of place thing, or get the kids to tell you where they hid it, do NOT touch it if it’s metallic or inside any sort of container with a leaf-like trefoil symbol on it. Don’t use your hands, and treat it like a poison. Wear gloves and use a tool or kitchen utensil to move it outside and bury it into an unmarked hole in the ground that you will be able to locate again, but that the children won’t find. You might find something that is, in fact, perfectly safe. But at this point, it’s time to treat anything suspicious as dangerous. Also be careful around anything this object might’ve touched. Treat it like a poison that contaminates everything near it. Be safe.”
There is also news from Sister Marta that likely arrived at the same time. It’s the last one we found from her in Liliana’s box of letters.
“Dearest Liliana,
I am writing you from [a hospital]. But do not concern yourself over my health, not when you are going through so many challenges. I have felt unwell for the past few days and decided to take precautions, thinking it best to have my condition monitored in a place where I can rest. I am feeling confident that I will recover soon. I don’t wish to worry you. I’ve just always found it best to share medical events with close friends and family in case the worst outcome should happen. Not that I expect such an outcome.
I’ve little else to do at this hospital other than write letters, although I’m sure that it will take longer to send or receive them while I’m here. But never mind any delays in our correspondence. I’ve always enjoyed catching up on your retellings of what those little troublemakers of yours have been doing. When you first arrived at the mission, you had stars in your eyes and saw a light and purpose in your life. Your descriptions of the vista view from the town inspired me to come see it for myself, and I regret I was never able to make the trip. The adults there may have lost their way, but I believe that deep down, most of them appreciate what you’ve done in giving their forgotten youth guidance and a matriarchal voice in life. They may simply be too worried and involved with their own wants to remember to convey that appreciation.
You are always loved, by your charges and those of us back home at the convent. The long days at your post will not last forever, and at some point you and those children will be free to leave a dying community and explore the world. You can always begin the next part of your journey by taking a well-earned rest here, with the other Sisters, and tell them some of your many stories. I very much look forward to seeing you again. If I don’t get the chance to send another letter in time, I hope you have a lovely Christmas.
Thank you for sending me a scarf for the colder weather coming our way. It must’ve taken you a while to knit. I’m sure doing so kept you happily busy.”
Liliana’s next response to Hernando was received a week later, and with the truth it brings, an alarming series of events comes to light. Her handwriting in this one is in stark contrast to her previous letter. The strokes are slow and deliberate, but also faint, like she suddenly lacked the strength to press her pen fully to the paper. Or maybe she was just feeling unhappy, regretful, or resigned. Her spirit seems to have been broken at some point.
“Mr. Gomez,
As hard as I looked, I was unable to find the object you described. Yet I don’t think I want to. Even so, I believe I’ve all but confirmed its existence.
The children confessed.
Minutes after I received your last letter, I began to feverishly search for a strange metal as you advised. I looked at all of the orphans’ usual hiding places throughout the mission. I checked their sheets, overturned their beds, scoured the cabinets and dressers. I explored the grounds for any places they may have buried something, and felt around in the old dead trees where they’ve stashed away things they didn’t want me to find before.
After a couple of hours or so with the sick children watching me all the while, it occurred to them that I was trying to find something they once had in their possession, which they never should’ve had. I don’t understand what this object is, where it came from, or what it does, but it sounds like a profane idol of some sort, an ungodly relic. I would have avoided such an object entirely the moment I understood that it could spread a poison through the air itself. But the children… I can’t understand what’s gotten into them. How could they not imagine the danger, to themselves and their caretakers, and instead only see its sinister potential? It pains me to say it, but they carry vengeance in their hearts, even at such an age. God, forgive me for not teaching them better. Though they didn’t know the totality of what they did, their actions are still reprehensible.
They found your object in the street a day after the revolutionaries gave us a visit, the tire tracks still fresh. They were enthralled by what I would call its ‘odd properties.’ Daniela liked it the most and kept it to herself at first. That may explain why she seems to be the sickest of the children. Instead of telling me and bringing me what they found, they kept it hidden away in one of their ‘secret places.’ I haven’t the strength anymore to look for it, and I believed them when they told me that they got rid of it already anyway. If only they had shared all of this much sooner, when we still had time.
They named it their ‘Evil Sparkling Thing’. They called it evil, and yet they still treated it like a fascinating little toy. I’m out of words to describe the ways in which they think. It was a small metal circular ‘stone,’ about the size of a bottlecap but much heavier. Who knew such a tiny thing could cause so much pain? I had never heard of such a poison. Is it something science created? I grew up in the countryside, in an ascetic household. I was later isolated from a cruel world in the convent. I purposely kept myself ignorant of the darkness around us out of fear, to try and avoid the stress from worrying over things I couldn’t change. That darkness caught up with me anyway.
As they described it, their Sparking Thing gave off a peculiar luster, and it made enough of its own heat to warm their cold hands on a chilly night. They treated it like some magical charm instead of an abomination. Even when it started making them sick, they became more interested in how they could use it against others instead of worrying about their own health. To everyone who had slighted them in the past, they saw a chance for some puerile payback.
One after the next, they listed their victims. Some of the children cried as they revealed their guilt. There were different ringleaders for each of their targets, and peer pressure kept everyone reined in.
First was the elderly store owner. They wanted him out of the way so they could steal from him. During one of our visits, they slipped their poison into the pocket of his coat, which hangs by the door until he puts it on later, either when it gets cold in the shop or he leaves at the end of the day. They retrieved it several days later on another visit. The children couldn’t imagine that he would get sick enough to need to go to the hospital, they tell me. And yet, the news only encouraged them to inflict further harm.
The object was later snuck between the town drunks during Sunday Mass, where it remained without the pair knowing for all of two hours. Now that I look back on that day, I can recall them both limping out afterwards. It must have burned their legs through the fabric of their clothing, likely too high up for amputation to be an option should it come to that. Will such an operation be the only way to save their lives at some point? I don’t know enough about these burns. The children’s still have yet to heal, and their red spots seem to grow more painful each day. These injuries and illnesses are slow and insidious. I pray they also aren’t irreparable. Surely these ailments can’t last the rest of our lives.
When they poisoned the elderly woman who helps me despite not at all being liked by the children, they did so by leaving their Sparkling Thing inside her personal food cupboard overnight. All it took to make her gravely ill was a piece of metal kept by her boxed provisions, and somehow it turned them toxic and yet didn’t change the taste enough for her to notice. How is this possible?
And it gets worse still. The children sickened two other people in town that I hadn’t heard about. In fact, they did so over a month ago, shortly after they first realized what they had done to the store owner and saw that the power they possessed could bring down even healthy adults.
Lord, give me strength.
Daniela still had a father. He was a layabout, and addicted to gambling to the point where he threw away what little money he made at card games instead of trying to make a better life for himself and his daughter. She’s the only one among the children that wasn’t truly an orphan—she just had nowhere else to go. Over the years, the others would often treat her differently because she still had a parent, even one uninterested in her. She must have felt like an outsider at times, different, separated. So she decided to change that.
One night, she snuck into her estranged father’s home and placed the object in his pillow. The man already slept for twelve hours a day from what I’ve heard, and she didn’t retrieve the evil little thing until three days had passed.
After she told me what she’d done, I alerted the local authorities, and he was found in his bed with severe burns, and skin and hair peeling off of his head this morning. But that isn’t what killed him. He had choked to death on his own blood. Maybe there was nothing to be done for him, but he had shut himself up in his home for all that time and must have died only recently. I apologize for painting such a vivid and grotesque picture, but it’s all I have left. My pleas and concerns have gone unheard, and now I find myself surrounded by rot and death.
When I told Daniela of her father’s passing, she didn’t seem at all affected. She appeared cold, without emotion, only telling me that she was ‘sorry if anyone misses him.’ I asked her then and there if she or any of the others had ever tried to poison me.
She replied with an emphatic no. They would never do that. I was the closest person they had to a mother. I was strict but kind and patient.
And there was yet one more life in this town that they had come to not feel so warmly about. One of their own.
Little Luis.
To the others, he was always like an annoying little brother. But still one of them, to a point. They blamed him for me finding out about their snack stash, which eventually led to the discovery of what they were doing to the people who live here. He had also wanted to tell me everything. He’d gotten scared about the sudden vengeful nature among his peers, the illnesses, the loss of hope among them which they had traded for the tempting sinfulness that was already a pestilence among this community. And for wanting to turn to me for help, which at one point the children had never hesitated to do, they poisoned him. With tears in their eyes, the kids he once considered friends admitted everything. Except for Daniela. She seems to have no remorse, and maybe she never had any. I think she’s come to hate this world.
To punish Luis for just thinking about ‘betraying’ them, the children pinned him to the floor and forced him to swallow their poison. That’s how small the deadly thing is. I can’t begin to imagine what it did to him while it was in his stomach, for several hours. Before it made him so sick that he threw it back up.
It makes sense now why he suddenly became so weak. He’s bleeding from his mouth and nose, losing hair. Can’t keep anything down, bedridden. I’m unsure how long he’ll last, or how much he’ll suffer. The other children now see for themselves what they’ve done to others, and to someone close to them.
Some of the orphans had a crisis of conscience after that, and at the risk of furthering Daniela’s wrath, they finally disposed of their Sparkling Thing by tossing it off the mountainside and into one of the ravines around us. She’ll never find her precious idol again, and I lost my chance to ever lay my eyes on it. From my perspective, it’s as if it never existed, and like my wards were all struck down by a mysterious, unknowable malady.
But I believe all of it. Everyone save for Daniela and Luis, too weak to speak to me at this point, poured their souls out and begged me for forgiveness. But it’s not me who can provide it. If they want mercy for their terrible behavior, they’ll need to look deep into their hearts and seek it from the Almighty.
And yet, I still love them. I have to, unconditionally, because no one else in this world will. The system failed them, and I also failed them.
Mr. Gomez, I don’t know if I’ll be able to write another letter. The condition in which I find myself a week or two from now may be a perilous one. Please do a favor for me and check in with Sister Marta at [the hospital]. She is a dear friend and mentor who pulled me out of a dark time. I fear that I may have sickened her with a handmade gift.
Take care of those close to you, and be thankful for their good health. The next time you come up here, you may happen upon a graveyard instead of a town. But know that I don’t blame you. May you offer help to others in my place.
Liliana.”
Without commentary, Hernando’s response.
“Liliana, all is not lost.
Depending on everyone’s dosage of radiation, the symptoms may soon pass. With the object no longer nearby, you can focus on your health and recovery. Do whatever you can to keep your strength up. Help is coming.
I have learned so much about radiation and its effects this last week. Had a major accident not occurred earlier this year with one of the Soviet Union’s power plants, I wouldn’t have even considered the cause of your illnesses.
But radioactive material isn’t as exotic or cutting edge as you may think. We’ve known about it for a long time, and its use in x-ray photography and cancer therapy has no doubt saved many lives. There are treatments available, and I’ve been in contact with an old friend who now lives in the United States and knows all about this field.
Also, we were able to track down Ernesto. He had been in the custody of the revolutionaries for several weeks and eventually freed, although they left him in a rough shape. Since then, he’s been hiding in a small village far from you, just as he had tried to do previously in [your town]. We had a little talk and got him to open up about what must have happened.
Ernesto was a once a doctor at the hospital in [the city closest to you], but even with his income, his side activities caused him to build up a large debt. He embezzled hospital funds, and at times, even sold off equipment that he claimed was broken. He fled when his crimes were discovered, but the damage was done and the hospital had lost a great deal of money. Its assets and most of its employees were repositioned to a state run facility elsewhere nearby, but the old building was not entirely emptied by the time the revolutionaries moved into the area. They raided the abandoned building and likely sold the majority of their findings for scrap. But one piece of hardware stood out to them—a radiological therapy device. They must have opened it up to find precious metals inside, not knowing the danger contained within.
The object your children found was undoubtedly the radioactive heart of that device. I’m unclear on how the revolutionaries located Ernesto, but they may have found his information in an employee file on site. They brought him to one of their safe houses and tried to get him to cure their people who were sickened by handling the material. Along with making demands, learning what it was they had stolen—and how much it might be worth, their concept of radiology foreign or poorly understood.
Once they realized that they had lost the device’s source at some point and didn’t even have it in their possession to show to Ernesto, they threatened his estranged family and sent him looking for it, thinking he’d be able to find it easily with a ‘detector’ he didn’t actually have. It sounds like he talked his way to freedom, as he ended up running far away instead. He either didn’t take the threats seriously, or thought his captors would all be dead soon anyway. Or he was just a coward. He refused to answer us either way, though he does send ‘his condolences’ for the situation he inadvertently brought upon you. I’m confident he’ll have time to think everything over in prison.
But you still have hope. I finally have the good news you were waiting to hear. The government is fast-tracking a so-called ‘rescue operation’ and is planning to get you and the children a bus ride off of that mountain by Christmas Eve or Day.
Perhaps it makes no difference to you, but the cynic in me must add that I already know they’re only doing this for a good Christmas story and photo opportunity in a time when the administration needs a win in the public eye. And that they’ll also be bringing everyone straight to the best hospital in the country for immediate treatment. I think that once the information about a radiation accident was verified, they suddenly felt the need to act on and contain the situation before word gets around. I would expect shady government employees to approach you at some point while you’re in care and make you sign a form agreeing to no-cost medical treatment in exchange for never revealing any of what actually happened in [the town].
The important part is that help is on the way. That’s really all that matters. Please do everything you can to keep conditions stable for the next few days. As I write this, your ride out and the proper attention you deserve are less than a week away. I’ve always fought for you, Liliana, even as I feel deep regret for not doing more.
I will see you soon, assuming they let me visit you in the burn ward, which is where I figure they’ll be sending everyone.
God hasn’t abandoned you.
Yours, Hernando Gomez”
This is where the story could’ve ended, had just these letters been discovered. We’d have been left wondering what happened, maybe clinging onto some hope that everyone had made it out and received that care, even if they were left with life-changing injuries.
Sadly, the first letter that we were allowed to read, and Liliana’s final letter, destroyed that hope long before we got to know her.
She replied to Hernando’s update, but that response never reached his desk. It was intercepted by officials, deemed a national security threat, then put into a lead box and filed away in a government vault. It was only recently uncovered and declassified, but the president of Colombia wanted to give a selected team of investigators a chance to uncover the whole story before anything about the incident goes public. It had been buried so thoroughly by the Vargas administration that the knowledge of the events had seemingly disappeared entirely only a few elections later.
We can only take some solace in the fact that if not for Liliana Romero, we may never have found out the full truth of what happened to that small, dying mountain town. The story of its last remaining people was nearly lost forever between the bigger incidents at Chernobyl, and the similar but arguably worse Goiânia accident in Brazil that occurred in 1987, nearly a full year later.
All of Liliana’s letters still have trace radioactive elements across their paper fibers and are now also kept inside lead containers, so we wore gloves while handling them. This one was slightly more toxic, perhaps in part due to the presence of blood droplets on the stationery.
“Hernando,
Things are not well. Over the past few days I’ve become quite weak. For some time, I’ve tried to deny what is happening to me. I can’t any longer.
I have patches of skin that are deep red and won’t heal. Several of my fingernails have broken off. I can no longer hold down food, though I don’t have an appetite to begin with. I can pull off clumps of hair, and I cough up blood. I’ve never been so sick. It feels like my body is losing to a common cold.
Luis passed away this morning. There was nothing left of him at the end. I’d forgotten what his smile looks like. Now he’s wrapped up in a blanket and buried outside. I barely found the strength to dig the grave, but as I understand this invisible poison as you described it, he can likely keep contaminating others if I leave him in the mission. The other children have become so quiet. I hear them crying when they don’t think I’m nearby. They look at me like there’s nothing they can say to make it better, or that I hate them. But I don’t.
I don’t care about Ernesto, or the revolutionaries, or political corruption or any of that. All of them working together turned us into victims. Or refusing to work together. All that matters to me now, and all I can do, is to take care of these young lives until the end. I can’t tell if any of us will survive.
Thank you for at least caring, and trying to get us better lives. You’re an honest soul, and I believe also a victim in this tragedy. No matter what happens to us, please learn to forgive yourself. And, if possible, help Sister Marta in some way. This will hurt her. Yet I’m forever grateful for her guidance in life.
My hand hurts so much. I can’t write everything I wanted to.
Maybe God hasn’t abandoned us. But maybe I did, by coming to a place that he never watched over to begin with.
[And in faded, barely legible handwriting, she concludes with]
The ravines around us look so lovely this time of year.”
In early 2023, I was sought out to join a small task team, being one of the few people in the country known to have at one point lived in the town. With us was a mountaineer familiar with the landscape, who guided us up to a place that was my childhood home, long ago. The roads had worn away and overgrowth covered up any other paths, making the trek a treacherous one. We were also denied use of a helicopter, out of fear that its rotor blades could kick up dormant radioactive dust; due to missing or stolen hospital records, the orphan source and its potential wasn’t known for certain. Which was why the third and final member of our team, other than a provided security officer, was an expert on radioactive material and contamination. He brought along computer and scanning hardware to sample any remaining fallout in the soil.
The fate of my old home had also been an unknown. We only knew that last contact was made shortly before the revolutionaries completely cut off all access to the area. By the time they had been driven out in 1990, the town was found to be abandoned already. Although the lack of bodies suggested that most of its remaining people fled before it was too late… or died elsewhere.
Instead of performing a rescue for the newspapers in late 1986, the government happened upon an event that they covered up and hid away. Some old reports mention a quarantine of the area, but it may have been just barely enforced. Anyone who made it out and knew of the cause of the illnesses may have been threatened or bribed to stay silent, or never found out what was happening to begin with. The letters don’t confirm whether or not Sister Liliana told her neighbors the reason why so many people had gotten terribly sick.
We finally arrived at the town after a three-day hike, and put on respirators just in case the area was still toxic. At first, levels were found to be just slightly above background, as expected. A small sample of material can only contaminate so much for so long. Handling it is the real danger, not airborne particles. Certain spots, like the general store register and one of the pews in the crumbling church, still showed levels approaching that of an x-ray exposure.
All things considered, the ghost town was in remarkably good condition. The store’s windows were broken and it had been emptied out, but that was the extent of the damage outside of decades-old deterioration. We found no vehicles or physical money; further evidence that at least a few escaped.
The old mission was the only location where we kept on our respirators, as it had never been cleaned and still had levels that rivaled some of Pripyat’s “hotspots,” according to our professional. I never asked what he thought the makeup of the orphan source could be, though I recall him remarking that it must have been “particularly dirty.” It sounds as if something used for medicine packed a lot of punch in a small package, or was poorly enriched. A dangerously rudimentary source used to cut equipment costs may also be apt descriptors.
Once the town was deemed safe for us to explore, aside from the orphanage, a helicopter carrying a demolition crew was called in. Aircraft designed to fight forest fires doused the old mission to prevent further contaminated dust from being blown away off of the crumbling toxic building, and the structure was gradually demolished over the course of a day. The site was to be covered in concrete, and the rest of the town officially marked as a restricted area, out of an abundance of caution.
It was a strange feeling for me personally to see my former neighborhood locked in time, and remembering my days as a child playing football with forgotten friends in those empty streets. Back when the town still had a heartbeat. I wish that I could reveal its name, as it’s actually quite a beautiful one, but I’m not really supposed to. If you live in Colombia, or ever visit, don’t go looking for it. Unlike tours in Pripyat (whenever they may resume following the terrible war in Ukraine), this land was never properly remediated. There could still be pockets of harmful contaminates lingering about.
I realize that I must mention what we found out concerning the ultimate fate of Liliana and the orphans. Well, we aren’t entirely sure. Although we did locate Luis’ grave, the other children and Liliana herself are unaccounted for. They aren’t believed to have survived, unfortunately. But not discovering what exactly happened to them, in what order, and what their remains could have told us is tragic and offers little in the way of closure.
Still, there was one significant find. While the building was in the process of being torn down, things were paused and my team was called over to investigate a previously hidden room, which was exposed when the floorboards were removed. In a corner of the small cellar was a disguised partitioned space, about four meters wide and six meters across. Whatever the room had been used for in the distant past, more recently the doorway had been boarded up and bricked off, making it look like it had never been there.
At some point, the children must have found the loose bricks at the bottom of the wall and pried them out, along with the old, rotting boards, and made themselves a secret clubhouse of sorts. They had hidden the entrance with some water barrels, although it was so small to begin with that only a child could squeeze through. Inside of the dusty room were about a dozen mostly run-down candles, a tattered rug, several copies of the Bible with its pages covered in crayon drawings (a few of which depict the children getting their revenge on the local adults they didn’t like), and most notably, a single wooden chair, barely able to stand and with its back missing. It looked like the orphans had treated it as an altar, as atop it was a small blue pillow, something toddlers might rest their head upon. After all these years, it still showed the impression of an object it once held—an insidious thing that had irradiated the fabric to the point where the colors had been changed around where it sat.
The settled dust in the room was toxic, and the pillow’s readings were exceptionally high, to the point where direct contact could still prove fatal, given enough time. The secret room where they once kept their “sparkling thing” was a haunting sight. Radiation is sometimes described as an invisible fire, and here, in a hidden chamber under an old mission in the rural foothills of Colombia, a torch was still burning all these years later.
I wonder if some of the children came to worship their discovery like the cursed idol Liliana called it. A small, warm chunk of metal that caused so much damage. We’ll never know for sure, and now their conspiratorial hiding place is under tons of concrete.
Last I heard, the government continues the hunt for the orphan source, which would still be dangerous to anyone that comes near it. I think they’ll track it down eventually. It must have left a trail.
I recently delivered a copy of Liliana’s last letter to Hernando in person. He’s where he’s always been, and only retired a few years back after leading his entire department for a couple of decades. What happened to her and the orphans haunts him, that’s clear, but I think it also inspired him to work harder and have a softer touch with people. He saw firsthand the failures of the system, and together with a more modernized and less corrupt government, has helped create a better state welfare institution.
Finally being able to read Liliana’s last words confirmed the worst fears he’d held in for so long, yet closed a painful chapter of his life; a benefit, in the end. I hope it helps him rest easier in his golden years.
He had also formed a friendship with Sister Marta, and the two exchanged letters for years, well into the age of email. She passed away from cancer in 2017, making it into her eighties. There’s no telling if radiation exposure was what eventually caused it, but she still lived a long life, her only regret being that she too was unable to save a fellow Sister or her wards. He isn’t ready to share any of the letters they sent to one another, but I expect that we’ll get to see them one day. He did reveal that Marta helped him through his feelings of guilt and uselessness following the events.
I don’t know if I’d call it irony, but both Hernando and Sister Marta had cancer in their sixties. He was saved, and she was given another twenty or so years on this Earth through radiotherapy. While radiation can be a scary and seemingly malicious killer, it isn’t evil. It just has to be contained and used carefully, like any other sharpened tool. I’m not frightened of it. When I went up that mountain, I was scared more by the thought of seeing a familiar place falling apart and in disarray, perhaps littered with the desiccated bodies of its last inhabitants. But it wasn’t. Actually, it looked peaceful, at rest. And it’s still up there, slowly sinking into the landscape.
I’m going to take a risk and upload this story to the internet before the government publishes its full incident report. That could take years, and despite improvements from the days of the event itself, I don’t fully trust that they won’t try to make it all disappear again.
One last thing, that I hesitate to even give a mention. In the regions surrounding the foothills that once housed copper miners, there have been new folk tales—really little more than urban legends—that tell of a sickly woman with barely any hair, ragged clothes, and rotting gray skin. She shambles about and only speaks in low moans as she tries to find her equally sick children. All the while, anything she touches is forever tainted by an unseen poison.
I highly doubt that there is an actual survivor roaming around. Radiation that mutates people into monsters yet keeps them alive is a thing of science fiction and late-night movies. Even if it’s a cruel way to remember Liliana and her orphans, you could say that at least she’s being remembered. I don’t know who first passed around the tale, but it goes to show how a once in a lifetime sight like a radiation victim can persist in local lore.
That isn’t the story I wanted to share. But whether she’s immortalized with horror embellishments by the campfire or through real letters from actual people, she perseveres, larger than life.
A Cold Relics Original
Category:Diary/Journal
Category:Places
Category:Science
Category:Longpasta