Real Ghost Stories Chapter 8 - Christmas Mass, a supernatural fanfic

ooOoo

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

Real Ghost Stories

Chapter 8

Christmas Mass

A/N: I really did mean to get this out as my contribution to the Christmas season but that pesky Real Life stuck its nose in again. So now it's January 12th, I'm sorry. Hope you enjoy it.

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"Have you ever heard of the Mission San Juan Capistrano?" Sam asked Dean as they drove west over the Arizona border into Southern California.

"Yeah, isn't that where all the birds return once a year? The swallows? Dean muttered, not all that interested.

"That's the place. " Sam responded.

They were driving west through the desert, heading for San Diego, California, looking for warm weather and a Christmas beside the ocean. Dean had initially objected to a warm weather Christmas but Sam had pointed out the advantages of a Christmas with palm trees and orange groves and no snow. No snow meant no tire chains on the Impala and no one standing outside freezing their fingers off putting the chains on the car, one of life's most horrible experiences.

Sam went on to talk about homemade tamales, black and white, made especially for the holidays in big steaming pots. The more Sam talked about encheladas and carnitas and chili rellenos, the more Dean began to like the idea of Christmas in California.

So now they were driving through the high desert, not a snow flake in sight, with cheesy Christmas carols on the radio allowed only because Dean was in a good mood. Sam knew his brother and the lure of good food was pulling Dean along the highway faster than the actual car engine.

"We'll be driving right by the San Juan Capistrano Mission and I thought we might like to attend Father Junipero Serra's midnight Mass in honor of Christmas." Sam said.

Dean eyed his brother. "just why are you getting all religious about Christmas? You want to attend a Catholic Mass?"

"Fray Junipero died about 200 years ago." Sam said. "I think his midnight Mass would be a most appropriate way for us to acknowledge Christmas"

….But each year the Padre rises

From his grave the Mass to say,

In the midnight, mid the Ruins,

On the eve of San Carlos's day.

Dean quieted down. "Really? A ghost Mass?'

"You don't think it would be appropriate for the Winchesters to show up?" Sam smiled. "I can't think of anything more appropriate.

Then the sad souls, long years buried,

From their lowly graves arise,

And, as if doom's trump had sounded,

Each assumes his mortal guise:

They drove on through the desert and hooked on to route 10 past Beaumont and through San Bernardino, past Corona, looking to hook up to Route 5 South near Anaheim. The San Bernardino Mountains rose on the left edge of the basin and the air warmed as they dropped down out of the high desert.

And they come from San Juan's Mission,

From St. Francis by the bay,

From the Mission San Diego,

And the Mission San Jose.

The sun was close to setting by the time they hit San Juan Capistrano. Sam pulled into a motel with a Vacancy sign flashing very close to the ruins of the old mission. Sam turned off the car and sat still. "This is the original Mission." He murmured. The ruins were lit with spotlights, throwing up spooky shadows against the broken stones.

With their gaudy painted banners,

And their flambeaux burning bright,

In a long procession come they

Through the darkness and the night;

"It was founded on November 1, 1776 by Fray Junipero Serra and did so well that an ambitious cruciform stone church was built, the only stone Mission in all California. But on the morning of December 8, 1812 during an early Sunday mass a terrible earthquake struck. The worshippers were trapped inside the church when the doors jammed and the stone Nave collapsed on them, killing 40 people."

Singing hymns and swinging censers,

Dead folk's ghosts they onward pass

To the ivy-covered ruins,

To be present at the Mass

"On the general site the oldest building in California, "Father Serra's Church", is still standing and is still used for services. But here, in these ruins, is where he holds his Mass for the lost faithful." Sam stopped talking.

Dean shook his shoulders as if to release a chill. "Are you going to try to stop it? That seems a little presumptuous."

And the grandsire and the grand dame,

And their children march along.

And they know not one another

In that weird, unearthly throng.

"I don't think that I can do anything about this. I'm only here to watch. These are true believers." Sam sighed. "Father Serra spent his entire life in the contemplation of the infinite and pledged his life to the glory of his God. No ghost buster with a brass bowl and some herbs is going to make an impression on him now.

And the youth and gentle maiden,

They who loved in days of yore,

Walk together now as strangers,

For the dead love nevermore.

They checked in to a mostly empty motel. The big tourist day for the Mission was March 19th, when the swallows famously returned . The other big day was All Saints' Day, November 1st, the day after Halloween. That day was celebrated with prayer and services and honored the dead. It was called All Saint's Day and was followed on the 2nd by All Soul's Day. Both Days are Holy Days of Obligation in the Catholic Church and the Mission was a popular destination.

In the church now all are gathered,

And not long have they to wait;

From his grave the Padre rises,

Midnight Mass to celebrate.

That night the Winchesters slipped into the ruins and hid themselves in the back of the dusty church. They picked a spot that sheltered them in shadows but still allowed for a clear line of sight to the ruined alter. They came in just before midnight and stood waiting for the expected throng. The evening desert winds rattled around the ruined towers and it was hard to discern the sound of the wind from the murmuring of an unseen congregation.

First he blesses all assembled,

Soldiers, Indians, acolytes;

Then he bows before the altar,

And begins the mystic rites.

The murmurs raised in volume but Dean saw nothing. There was something, some vibration, a clear reflection like looking through water, standing at the alter but he saw and heard nothing distinctly until his psychic brother lay his hand upon his shoulder.

When the Padre sings the sanctus,

And the host is raised on high,

Then the bells up in the belfry,

Swung by spirits, make reply;

And the drums roll, and the soldiers

In the air a volley fire.

While the salutaris rises

Grandly from the phantom chair.

His sight cleared and he saw a full church, a choir and the celebrant at the altar, raising his hands in supplication. There were flickering torches and nodding heads and subtle movement in the pews. He could still hear the wind rushing through the ruins but mixed in was the sweet sound of bells. A chill ran down his spine and his knees weaken as he realized the number of specters surrounding them. Sam was silent beside him.

"Ite Misa est," is spoken

At the dawning of the day,

And the pageant strangely passes

From the ruins sere and gray;

And Junipero the Padre

Lying down, resumes his sleep,

And the tar-weeds, rank and noisome,

Over his grave luxuriant creep.

They stood together through the entire mass and kept silent. Before them was assembled absolute proof of the world beyond. To the assembled spirits the Mass may be about their god. To the Winchester brothers the Mass was validation of their lives and faith. The living and the dead received a gift from Father Junipero Serra.

And the light upon the altar

And the torches cease to burn,

And the vestments and the banners

Into dust and ashes turn;

And the ghostly congregation

Cross themselves and, one by one,

Into thin air swiftly vanish

And the midnight Mass is done.

As the air cleared and the lights dimmed and the spirit at the alter faded away Dean turned to his brother and said, "Well, Merry, scary Christmas to you, Sam. Next year I plan the party."

Sam just laughed and laid his hand on Dean's arm and lead the way out of the ruins.

ooOoo

The poem is by Richard Edward White and may be the only piece of his work that has survived.

The general description of the location is from "Ghosts of the California Missions and El Camino Real" by Richard Senate

The historical notes are from Wikipedia