The Evil Eye of Sint-Truiden

In Sint-Truiden there lived a girl whose life suddenly became shrouded in darkness. Not by illness, not by hunger — but by something far more indefinable. Her aunt, a woman with whom the family had always had strained relations, visited them one day. And in that moment, when she looked at the girl, it happened.

The gaze of the aunt — sharp, green, full of a malice accumulated over years — fell upon the girl like a stone into still water. The girl felt it immediately. Not physically, but much deeper: in her soul. It was as if something cold and poisonous nested in her very being, sucking away her energy, extinguishing her light.

Days passed, and the girl wasted away. She became silent, pale, listless. Her parents, not understanding what was happening, called the village doctor. The doctor examined her thoroughly. No fever, no inflammation, no symptoms he could identify. ‘She is not sick,’ he said finally, ‘at least not in the bodily sense.’

But the truth lay in that gaze. In the memory of that moment when the aunt had looked directly at her. Everyone in Sint-Truiden knew old stories about the evil eye — the gaze that curses, that poisons, that can suck the soul from the body. And now the girl had become its victim.

Desperate, the parents sought to cure their child. Doctors came, medicines were tried, herbs were brewed. But nothing worked. The girl wasted further away, until she could barely rise from her bed.

Then, in their deepest despair, the parents thought of something they had almost forgotten: the Monnebruurs. Not merely an abbey, but a place where the monks were known for their mystical knowledge, their ability to see and resolve things that others could not perceive. It was said that the monks of Sint-Truiden did not merely pray, but understood — understood what you yourself cannot understand.

The parents carried their child to the abbey, beseeching help. The monks received them with quiet wisdom. They laid the girl down, spoke prayers, uttered words in a language as old as their order. They sprinkled the child with water from sacred springs. And slowly, as days passed, the girl began to improve.

But then the monks said something that deeply shocked the parents: ‘Now you return home. But you must do what we tell you. Only then can the girl be fully healed.’

The monks gave the parents their instructions. First: you must place a requiem — a funeral mass — beneath the threshold of your door. Not merely placed, but as a prayer, as an invocation. This would drive away the malevolence seeking to creep through the door.

Second: you must cover the child’s eye for nine weeks with a cloth. Not because the child must be blind — but because the evil eye only works when it can be seen. When the face is covered, the curse cannot gain ground. For nine weeks, the cloth would remain, a shield against the world.

And then the monks spoke what was most important: ‘Now the witch cannot harm your child. It is protected. Not by medicines, not by herbs, but by faith, by the power of the sacraments, by the strength of what is good. The curse cannot overcome this defence.’

The parents carried out everything. They placed the funeral mass beneath the threshold. They carefully bound a linen cloth around their daughter’s head, gently enough that she could breathe, eat, live — but not see. For nine weeks. Every day the mother prayed, hoped, waited.

But what no one had foreseen — what the monks perhaps knew but had not said — was that the parents themselves would not know who the witch was. In a village like Sint-Truiden, where everyone knows everyone, the evil eye could come from anyone. The neighbour? The merchant woman? The aunt herself?

The doctor in the village — a cautious man — hit upon an idea to help the parents. He said: ‘Listen to what I tell you. The monks told you that the witch cannot harm your child anymore. That is true. But you can discover the witch.’

The man prepared for the parents a wreath — woven from branches and herbs, with magical significance. ‘Burn this wreath,’ he said, ‘and the witch will instantly stand beside you. She cannot help herself — she will come, drawn by the fire and the smoke.’

The father prepared himself. He readied a pitchfork — a fork with sharp tines — to strike the witch when she should appear. His wife dressed in strong clothes and girded herself. They were ready for a confrontation that would be fought in full.

But then — in the moment before the wreath was to be lit — the mother spoke. She was afraid. ‘What if disasters happen?’ she said. ‘What if the magic rebounds? What if she takes revenge?’

In her fear — a mother’s fear stronger than her resolve — she snatched away the wreath. Before the father could protest, she ran to a nearby cesspit — a deep pit where all the village’s filth was cast — and threw the wreath into it.

The moment passed. The witch would not come. But something else happened instead — something much subtler, much wiser. Without the confrontation, without the revenge, without the blood-curdling moment, the girl simply began to heal. Week after week, as the cloth remained around her eye, she felt her life return. The curse, without nourishment from fear and drama, began to fade.

When the nine weeks had passed and the mother gently removed the cloth, the girl’s eye shone bright. She was free. Not because the witch was punished, not because there had been grand drama — but because she had followed the path of protection, patience, and faith. The Monnebruurs had been right: the truth lay not in the burning wreath, but in faith, which was more healing than revenge.