The Bent Kite

I am twenty-nine now, living in a cramped studio above a laundromat in Tucson. But when this happened, I was fourteen, and my family had just moved to a dusty patch of New Mexico, where my aunt and uncle rented a crumbling adobe house on the edge of their land. The main house, a two-story Victorian with peeling paint and a sagging porch, sat abandoned at the end of a long dirt drive, surrounded by miles of cholla and mesquite. My aunt and uncle lived in a smaller, squat building near the main house, with a flat roof and a single casement window that looked out onto the desert.

I was often left to watch my twin cousins, Rosa and Marco, eight years old and full of restless energy. This particular evening, the sun was a sizzling orange disc sinking behind the mountains, and the air had that dry, electric smell before a storm. My aunt had left a casserole in the oven, and I was in the tiny kitchen, scrubbing a pot while the TV blared from the front room. The kids were glued to some cartoon, their laughter echoing off the bare walls. It was quiet otherwise – just the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional buzz of a fly.

I was drying dishes when I heard it – a thin, reedy sound, like a child humming off-key. It seemed to come from the direction of the main house, but that place had been locked for years. My uncle stored old furniture there, but no one went inside. I dismissed it as the wind through the eaves, but then I heard a distinct “thump”, as if something heavy had fallen. Rosa looked up from the TV. “What was that?” she asked, her eyes wide. I told her it was just a coyote and went back to my chores, but I had a knot in my stomach.

An hour later, I was wiping down the counter when I glanced out the kitchen window. The main house stood black against the deepening purple sky. And there, in the second-floor window, a light flickered – not electric, but something dim, like a candle. I froze. The house was empty, locked, and had no power. I told myself it was a reflection from a passing car, but the driveway was empty. The light blinked once, twice, then disappeared.

I decided to check on the kids. They were still on the floor, but Marco was staring at the window. “There’s a boy outside,” he said, his voice flat. I looked out, and there was a figure standing at the edge of the yard, too still, bathed in the last gray light. It was a boy, maybe ten, wearing overalls and a straw hat. He was holding a kite – a simple diamond kite, but the frame was bent, the paper torn. He didn’t move, just stared at the house. My blood went cold. I yanked the curtains shut. “Don’t look out,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

I called my aunt’s cell, but it went to voicemail. I tried my uncle’s, same thing. The landline was dead – I hadn’t noticed before. The house felt smaller, the walls closing in. The TV flickered and went static. The kids huddled together on the couch. I armed myself with a kitchen knife and peeked through the blinds. The boy was gone, but now the front door of the main house was ajar, swinging slowly on its hinges.

I knew I should stay put, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the boy was coming closer. I locked the doors, but the locks were flimsy, and the windows were old. I gathered the kids into the back bedroom, the one with no windows, and told them to be quiet. The humming started again, this time right outside the door. It was a lullaby I didn’t recognize – something off, minor key, the notes wrong. The doorknob rattled. I held my breath.

Then, silence. I waited for what felt like an hour, but the clock said only five minutes. I cracked the door open. The living room was empty, but there were wet footprints on the tile, leading from the front door to the kitchen. The footprints were small, child-sized, but the tread was too deep, like they were made of mud. And they were fresh – glistening. I followed them to the kitchen window. Outside, under the single flickering porch light, the boy stood, now closer, his head tilted, his mouth moving silently. He was holding the kite, and the string was taut, pointing straight up at the sky, except the sky was empty – no moon, no stars, just a black void.

Something in me snapped. I grabbed the kids and ran for the car. The engine turned over, but as I reversed, I saw the boy in the rearview mirror, running after us, his legs moving too fast, his arms stiff. He didn’t look human – his eyes were too large, too black, and his smile stretched too wide. The car lurched, and I floored it down the dirt road, clouds of dust rising behind us. I didn’t look back until I reached the highway, and even then, I saw him standing at the edge of the road, the kite now in both hands, gently waving it back and forth.

We drove to a gas station miles away and called the police. When they searched the property, they found nothing – no boy, no footprints, no open door. The main house was locked, the dust undisturbed. But my aunt and uncle returned that night to an eerie silence. They noticed the kitchen window had a crack in it, and on the glass, traced in the dust, was a small handprint – too small for any adult, with only four fingers.

I never babysat again. My family moved three months later, but I still dream of that boy and his bent kite. Sometimes, in the desert, I’ll see a flicker at the edge of my vision, a shape against the sun. And every time, I feel the string tighten around my heart, pulling me back to that place.