The story
The night on the road that winds toward Puerto Colombia takes on a thick, almost tangible quality. Joaquín proved this for himself one random early morning, as his old sedan chewed up the miles to the rhythm of static on the radio. The atmosphere was heavy with that coastal humidity that clings to the skin, turning the drive into an exercise in pure patience and silence. Yet the monotony of the dark asphalt was about to be broken.
As he drove past the imposing facade of an old apartment building, curiosity or an inexplicable impulse tempted him to pull over. It was close to midnight, an hour when the ordinary world seems to shut down. He hadn’t even managed to turn off the ignition when the flickering dashboard lights illuminated a tiny figure darting at full speed across the road. Joaquín slammed on the brakes, hearing the screech of the tires echo in the pitch black. Right before his eyes, a little boy dressed in clothing from another era — trousers held up by suspenders and an old-fashioned shirt — vanished just as he reached the curb.
With his heart pounding in his chest, he decided to look for answers. He pushed open the door of the security guard's post, and the guard looked at him strangely. After Joaquín stammered out a description of the little boy, the watchman looked at him seriously and assured him that he had been locked inside there for hours, that nobody had gone in or out, and that no kid lived in that area.
That episode left a shadow of unease in his memory, but it wasn't the only one. Months earlier, while driving through the winding back alleys that border the university and the local cemetery, fear had taken on a different texture. He had the car windows rolled all the way down to air out the stifling heat, letting the night breeze fill the cabin. Suddenly, floating over the rustle of the leaves and the solitude of the graveyard, a collective sound began to grow louder. It was laughter. Multiple, shrill, disjointed laughs that recalled both a festive gathering and the distant echo of a coven.
A chill ran straight down his spine in an instant. These weren't normal human voices; there was a hollow, otherworldly resonance to that sonic gathering that made his blood run cold. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, fleeing from that cursed area where the party seemed to belong to the dead rather than the living. Ever since then, even though he drives late at night through feared stretches like the bride's curve without any trouble, Joaquín knows the highway holds ancient secrets that prefer to stay hidden in the gloom.
