The Caja de Música of Cerro Negro

The bus groaned as it climbed the winding mountain road, the engine straining against the steep incline. Outside, the landscape shifted from bustling city streets to dense, humid jungle, then to sparse, rocky terrain as we ascended into the Andes. My friend Elena, a nurse I’d met during our internship at the hospital in Medellín, had invited me to her hometown for the long weekend. She’d been quiet since we left, her usual chatter replaced by a nervous humming that set my teeth on edge.

‘The village is small,’ she said finally, as the bus rounded a final curve and a cluster of houses came into view, huddled on a plateau beneath a towering peak. ‘Cerro Negro. The Black Hill. They say it’s a place where the earth remembers.’

I laughed, but her face remained serious. The village was a relic, with adobe houses and cobblestone streets, a small plaza dominated by an ancient church. The air was thin and cool, and there was a smell of damp earth and old stone. Elena led me to her grandmother’s house at the edge of the village, a two-story structure with a tiled roof and a garden overgrown with weeds. Her grandmother, a tiny woman with eyes like black beads, greeted me with a stern nod. She spoke to Elena in rapid Spanish, glancing at me.

‘Elena says you are interested in the old things,’ the grandmother said to me, her voice cracking. ‘Be careful. The old things are not always interested in you.’

That night, after a dinner of thick soup and flatbread, Elena and I sat on the porch, listening to the chorus of insects. I asked her about her grandmother’s words. Elena sighed. ‘There is something I didn’t tell you. My great-grandfather was a man who loved the mountain too much. He would go up to the peak, sometimes for days. He said he was listening to the mountain, that it spoke to him. One day, he didn’t come back. They found his jacket at the base of a cliff, but no body. After that, strange things happened in this house. My grandmother believes he still haunts the mountain, and that sometimes, he calls to the living.’

I shivered, but my curiosity spiked. Elena looked at me, her eyes pleading. ‘I know you want to explore. But promise me, we will not go to the peak.’ I agreed, but I didn’t truly mean it.

The next day, while Elena was helping her grandmother, I wandered the village. At the edge of the plaza, I found an old man selling trinkets from a wooden cart. He had a gnarled face and missing teeth. He saw me looking at a collection of old keys, and he said, ‘You are a visitor. Searching for something?’ I shrugged. He leaned closer, his breath smelling of tobacco. ‘The mountain has many secrets. Some are best left buried. But there is a melody, a song that comes from the earth. If you hear it, you must not follow. It’s the devil’s music, that lures you to your death.’

I laughed, but he grabbed my arm with surprising strength. ‘Do not mock. My brother heard it. He walked into the forest and never came out. They found his body in a ravine, his mouth open as if he was still singing.’ He released me and turned away. I bought a small bell from his cart, thinking it would be a souvenir, and hurried back to the house.

That evening, the wind picked up, and a strange sound wafted through the air. At first, I thought it was the wind whistling through the cracks of the house. But as I listened, it became a melody—a haunting, lilting tune, like a music box playing a lullaby. Elena froze. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. I nodded, my heart pounding. ‘It’s coming from the mountain,’ she said. ‘My great-grandfather’s music box. They never found it. But my grandmother says he plays it when he wants company.’

I felt a cold dread, but also a pull. The melody was strangely beautiful, and it seemed to be calling me. I looked at Elena. ‘We have to go.’ she said, shaking her head. ‘No. It’s a trap.’ But I was already standing, walking toward the door. She grabbed my arm. ‘Please, don’t. Don’t make me go alone.’

We argued, but in the end, she agreed to go with me, but only because she didn’t want me to go alone. We grabbed flashlights and a lantern, and we set out into the night. The path was steep and overgrown, but the melody grew louder with each step. It seemed to come from everywhere, echoing off the rocks, the trees, the very earth. The air grew colder, and our breath became visible.

As we climbed, we found strange things: a child’s shoe, a cracked mirror, a rusted machete. The melody was now so clear that I could hum along. We reached a clearing near the peak, where a massive banyan tree stood, its roots like tentacles grasping the ground. In the center of the clearing, there was an old leather satchel, half-buried. I knelt and opened it. Inside, a music box, its carved wooden case covered in intricate symbols. I wound it, and the melody played in perfect harmony with the ethereal sound that had led us there.

A shiver ran down my spine. Elena stood behind me, her face pale. ‘We should go,’ she said. But I couldn’t move. The music box seemed to have a grip on my soul. Then, from the shadows beneath the tree, a figure emerged. It was a man, or what used to be a man, his skin gray and withered, his eyes hollow pits. He was holding a similar music box, and he was winding it. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Then, he raised his hand, and I felt an invisible force dragging me toward him.

I screamed, but no sound came out. Elena grabbed my arm, pulling me back. The figure tilted its head, and a smile spread across its face. Then, it vanished, leaving only a whisper that said, ‘Now you know the price.’ At that moment, the music box in my hand shattered, and the melody stopped. The silence was deafening.

We ran back to the village, not stopping until we were safe in the house. We told no one. Elena’s grandmother simply looked at us and said, ‘You went. You are lucky to be alive.’

I left the next morning, and I never returned to Cerro Negro. But even now, years later, I can still hear that melody in my head, a faint, haunting tune. And sometimes, when I am alone in a quiet room, I hear it playing from somewhere deep within my mind, growing louder. I don’t sleep much anymore. I’m afraid that one night, the melody will lead me back to that mountain, and this time, I will follow it to the end.