The story
In the wide, dry plains of the Meta, where the horizon blends with the shell of the sky, military life passes between the noise of engines and the crunch of grass underfoot. Carlos Méndez, formerly a taxi driver from Medellín and now a reserve veteran, remembered one of those days that left a mark on his flesh and his sanity.
It was a warm February morning when the platoon received the order to patrol an area of grasslands bordering the Guayurí river. Lieutenant Ramírez, his gaze hardened by years of command, checked the list of men and equipment. Among the names appeared that of Julián, a young man from Acacías, known for the cleanliness of his rifle and the precision with which he organized his gear: his rifle sling always aligned, his bayonet gleaming, his cartridges arranged as if they were beads on a rosary.
Julián did not march with the rest. When the group lined up, he remained behind, adjusting the straps of his backpack, as if waiting for a signal that never came. The lieutenant, baffled, ordered them to move out without him. The soldiers crossed the plain, the dust they kicked up forming trails that vanished into the distance.
Upon reaching the checkpoint, a clearing surrounded by reeds, the silence grew heavy. There, beneath the shade of a twisted tree, stood Julián. His figure was upright, his rifle leaned against the trunk, as if he had been waiting for them the whole time. There were no footprints to reveal his passage, nor the echo of his boots. Only the breeze moving the leaves and the distant sound of the river.
The most veteran soldier in the group, Corporal Herrera, let out a sigh that turned into a shudder. “How…? Where were you?” he asked, his voice trapped between disbelief and fear. Julián did not answer; his eyes, black as soot, settled on the lieutenant, who felt the air grow thick around him.
The episode repeated itself the following day. Another route, another surveillance point, the same appearance. Each time, Julián showed up at the exact spot before the platoon crossed, without ever being seen approaching. The murmurs grew, and with them the fear. The men began to hear snapping sounds in the night, shadows that vanished when they turned their heads.
Faced with the growing unease, Lieutenant Ramírez asked the company commander to pull Julián from the platoon. “We can’t keep going with a ghost among us,” he argued, while the tension could be felt in every word. The commander, a man of logic and discipline, frowned and asked in a low voice: “How can this soldier be at the location without knowing the route? What paths does he walk that we don't see?”
No one knew how to answer. Some remembered old stories their grandparents used to tell on afternoon sugarcane breaks: brujos, sorcerers who mastered the plains, spirits that guarded the roads and appeared to protect or punish. Others, more skeptical, attributed the strange presence to a prank by some superior or an illusion caused by the heat.
Carlos, years later, still felt the tremor of that first encounter. In his drives as a taxi driver, as he crossed the city and listened to the roar of engines, the memory of the plains and Julián’s motionless figure would slip into his thoughts. As time went on, he understood that the fear wasn't just because of the inexplicable, but because of the certainty that something beyond reason inhabited those lands.
In the end, the story remained recorded in the officers' logs, and in the memory of the soldiers who, under the scorching sun, saw a man appear without ever being seen arriving. For Carlos, the conclusion was clear: on the plains, where the wind whispers through the tall grass, witchcraft is no myth; it is a shadow that slips between reality and fear.
