The story
The tallow candle flickered over the wooden chest, throwing trembling flashes into the dimness of the bedroom. Rosalba and her twelve‑year‑old daughter Mariana tried to beat the boredom of that December dawn by playing a card game. In that *finca* (a small country farm), where electric light was a distant luxury and the paths vanished at sunset, the night’s murmur usually served as a family blanket. Yet after two in the morning, an uncanny cold began to seep through the cracks in the wooden boards, abruptly silencing the usual chorus of crickets.
The forest fell completely silent, sinking into a suffocating stillness that seemed to devour the air. From the hollow where the *caño* (a small creek) ran, a disconcerting sound started to rise: a heavy, rhythmic splash, like swamp boots weighed down with mud and stagnant water trudging laboriously through the grass. *Chaf, chaf.* Each step sounded dragged, marking a deliberate, sinister beat. Rosalba dropped the cards on the table and squeezed her daughter’s icy hand, seeing in the girl’s eyes the purest bewilderment.
The invisible visitor climbed the rotted steps of the *zaguán* (the entrance hallway). No breath was heard, only the agonized creak of wood under a massive weight and the constant sloshing of water over the dry floor. The steps advanced without faltering and stopped right in front of the bedroom door. Rosalba immediately covered the girl’s mouth to stifle any whimper. At that moment, the full moon projected through the wall cracks the sharp shadow of what waited outside: the silhouette of a bulky body, terrifyingly incomplete. Across the broad shoulders there was no neck or head, just a straight, empty cut outlined against the night’s brightness.
Eternal seconds stretched as time seemed to freeze in the room. Then, with glacial slowness, the presence moved toward the kitchen area. A brutal crash shattered the silence: metal pots fell, smashing onto the floor, clay jars shattered, and a violent mess of utensils toppled with inexplicable fury. Clinging to her daughter amid the bed’s tremors, Rosalba prayed silently, hoping the creature would not try to force its way in.
After the kitchen chaos, the shadow walked to the exterior *kiosco* (a small outdoor kiosk). Suddenly, a synchronized metallic screech rang through the night: the *hamaca de cabuya* (a hammock woven from cabuya fibers) began to sway. A ringing squeal, the fabric’s back‑and‑forth, over and over. For about an hour the entity remained there, rocking with a disturbing calm while the whole house creaked under the weight of its presence.
Only when the pre‑dawn chill announced four o’clock and the first rooster cries tore through the distance did the rocking stop. The water‑logged boots struck the ground again, trudging heavily toward the main road until they dissolved into the fog. At sunrise, mother and daughter stepped onto the hallway and found the hammock still hanging in a slight sway, a fresh mud trail in front of the door, and the certainty that the solitude of the countryside is never truly empty.
