The story
That old water park on the west side of Bogotá had a heavy atmosphere, where the constant steam, the muffled echoes from the water slides, and the sharp bite of chlorine mixed with the chill of the sabana, the high Andean plateau. Maritza had been working on the general maintenance crew for several months, walking damp hallways in coveralls that never seemed to fully dry out. It was monotonous work, but that afternoon her routine took an unexpected turn when her supervisor ordered her out to an isolated storage warehouse, located in the furthest corner of the property right against the fence bordering the rides of the neighboring amusement park.
Walking out to that lonely building meant leaving every voice behind and heading into an area overgrown with neglect and shaded by gloomy eucalyptus trees. The warehouse smelled stale, reeking of rusted metal and a mineral dust that scratched the throat. Stepping into the dim light, Maritza looked up at the overhead rafters; her exact instructions were to climb an iron ladder to a loft packed with scrap metal to start cleaning. But apathy and a sudden streak of stubbornness got the better of her. She clicked her tongue, convinced nobody would ever bother to inspect that forgotten corner, and decided not to climb up just to save herself the sweat.
With plenty of time to kill and the comfort of knowing she was safe from prying eyes, she made herself comfortable among some old tarps. The stillness inside the shed was absolute, barely broken by the distant hum of the city. Bored, she rummaged through the pockets of her coveralls until she found a scrap of paper and a book of matches. Without any real thought, she struck a match and lit one corner of the page.
The small flame quickly began to eat through the paper. Guided by a sudden impulse, Maritza raised her arm and started waving the burning paper through the air, tracing slow circles in front of her face. Orange trails of smoke and fire cut through the darkness in a hypnotic dance that held her completely spellbound, until the temperature in the room plunged without warning.
The air turned thick and ice-cold, and cutting right across the path of the flame, a figure stepped out from the shadows. It was a tall, ghostly man, dressed strictly in black from head to toe. He passed just inches from her, so close she thought she felt the breeze of his movement, even though the entity didn't make a single sound—no footsteps on the concrete, not even the rustle of cloth. It was a solid shadow, a patch of living darkness that continued on its way toward the back of the warehouse.
The shock of the encounter completely shattered her. The ember on the paper burned out, but Maritza couldn't drop it or even blink; a paralyzing dread seized her chest, stealing her breath and stripping away every ounce of strength. Terror left her petrified right where she sat, unable to utter a word or move a single muscle. She remained frozen like that for nearly ten minutes, staring blankly into nothing, trapped in silent agony before her body finally began to respond again.
