The story
At three in the morning, when the mist of the finca, a small country farm, mixed with the distant chirping of crickets, Andrés felt a heavy pressure on his chest, as if an invisible hand were leaning on the edge of the bed. Cold sweat covered his forehead and, unable to move, he looked up toward the ceiling. There, outlined by the dim light slipping through the cracks in the window, appeared the silhouette of a hooded figure; its wide-brimmed hat and exaggeratedly pointy nose brought to mind the old legends of witches that grandparents told by the warmth of the wood stove.
Andrés's heart was beating like a cumbia drum, and a feeling of paralysis immobilized him completely. Only the prayer echoing in his mind, a plea his mother had taught him when he was a boy, managed to break the spell. Every word felt like a drop of water falling on a hot stone; at last, his muscles responded again and he was able to sit up, trembling, on the bed.
At dawn, when the first rays of the sun began to paint the guadua bamboo in the yard gold, Andrés recounted what had happened to his companions. Accustomed to the noises of the night and the whispers of the wind through the trees, they replied with a skeptical smile: "It's just the house acting up, nothing to worry about." However, the fear had planted a seed that refused to sprout in that place.
He then decided to leave the boarding school. He went to the office where the manager, Señora Maribel, was reviewing the task list. With a shaky voice, he asked permission to leave. Maribel, without asking questions, handed him a bag with his belongings and, without goodbyes, Andrés took the front door and headed out into the night.
The road leading from the finca to the highway was a packed dirt path, dotted with ditches that had turned into trenches after the last rain. As he moved forward, the crunch of his boots on the gravel seemed to echo like an answer to his fears. Suddenly, a hunched figure emerged from the bushes: an old woman with a wrinkled face and eyes shining like glowing coals.
"Where are you going, boy?" she asked in a raspy, yet kind voice.
Andrés, not knowing whether to trust her or run, replied that he was heading to the highway to find transportation. The woman nodded, pulled a two-thousand-peso bill from her pocket, and handed it to him without saying another word. The paper crinkled between his fingers, and a current of heat ran through his body; it was as if the old woman had deposited, in that gesture, a promise of help.
He continued his march, but the path became more treacherous. The furrows in the earth turned into deep ravines that forced Andrés to jump, risking losing his balance. Each jump echoed like a louder heartbeat in his chest. In the middle of that scene, a question arose without warning: how had the old woman managed to cross that stretch, so beaten up, without even tripping?
The thought ran cold through his veins, but the need to reach the highway was greater. Finally, after several minutes that felt like eternities, he reached the asphalt, where an engine roared in the distance, announcing the arrival of a colectivo, a shared passenger van, that would take him away from the boarding school and, perhaps, away from the memory of the hat's shadow.
Upon boarding the vehicle, Andrés looked out the window at the silhouette of the old woman who, in the distance, was disappearing into the fog. A shudder ran down his spine, but also a strange sense of gratitude. He had left a night of terror behind, but he carried with him the mystery of unexpected help that, like the witch he saw on his bed, would remain etched in the memory of the rural Colombian dawn.
