The story
The night in Popayán fell under that icy drizzle that usually coats the colonial rooftops and white‑washed facades. In a modest house in the barrio, Lucía was finishing up brushing her hair in front of a worn‑out mirror, eager for the party that promised to chase away the week’s boredom. From the doorway, her mother watched her, rosary clenched between her fingers and an old tremor in her voice. She begged her not to go, saying she felt a strange heaviness in her chest, a bad omen that wouldn’t leave her alone. Lucía let out a defiant laugh, smoothed her skirt, and, without looking back, snapped insolently: “Ay, mamá, don’t bother me; even if I have to dance with the devil himself, I’m out of here.”
The dance hall was packed, thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of aguardiente (a local spirit), and a deafening din that barely let anyone hear their own thoughts. Lucía moved through the crowd with the swagger of someone who thinks she owns the night, turning away anyone who tried to court her. Yet around midnight the atmosphere shifted subtly. The air grew heavy, charged with a suffocating heat that didn’t match the city’s usual chill. From the shadows of a corner emerged a stranger, impeccably dressed and unsettlingly elegant. He wore strict black and had dark eyes that glittered with a hypnotic intensity.
Without saying a word, the newcomer walked straight toward her. The other patrons seemed to blur as he extended a gloved hand. He invited her onto the floor with a smile that chilled her blood, yet Lucía found it irresistible. Before they began to spin under the strobe lights, the gentleman leaned toward her ear and whispered in a velvety but firm tone: “Dance with me until the end, but no matter what, never think about looking at my feet.”
At first, the young woman enjoyed the dance like never before. They floated to the music, though a nauseating smell of burning phosphorus started to seep through their clothes. As the turns grew faster and more violent, Lucía’s curiosity began to gnaw at her from inside. The prohibition burned hotter than the unbearable heat radiating from her partner’s body. Unable to hold back, and defying the pact just as she had defied her mother, she subtly lowered her eyes toward the floor.
Horror froze her heart. Beneath the hem of his elegant trousers there were no polished shoes, but two split, flaming hooves with twisted claws that scorched the wooden floorboards with each step. The man noticed her gaze and his face twisted into a terrifying grimace. He let out a cavernous laugh that abruptly cut the music.
Before Lucía could even scream, a blue flame erupted from nowhere, wrapping her body in a scorching vortex. The crowd fled in panic, shrieking, as the hall filled with thick black smoke. When the authorities and witnesses finally managed to douse the fire at the center of the empty dance floor, they found only a human figure reduced to charred ash, burned from the inside as if a furnace had devoured it. Days later, on Popayán’s cobblestone streets, disturbing black‑and‑white photographs of the scorched body began to circulate hand to hand, silent testimonies of the price paid for dancing with someone you shouldn’t.
