The Cinder Block Wall

At eighteen, I was assigned to a three-month national service stint, and my posting was to a sprawling former mining colony turned training ground in the high desert. Our barracks were repurposed industrial sheds, each housing a dozen of us in bunk beds, with a communal bathhouse just across a gravel path. The bathhouse’s concrete entrance faced ours, a gap of maybe eight feet, and its cinder block walls were stained with decades of mineral residue.

The first two weeks were a blur of drills and heat exhaustion. I chose the top bunk near the back, where a small, clouded window looked out onto the bathhouse’s side. I fell into a routine: lights out at ten, I’d be asleep by ten-fifteen, while the others whispered or played cards until midnight. I was a heavy sleeper, so the nightly shuffles to the bathroom never woke me.

It was the third week, a Tuesday I think, when I snapped awake. The shed was silent, the usual snoring absent. The air was cold, biting, even though the desert nights were warm. I lay still, listening. A faint, rhythmic scraping came from outside, like a broom dragging over gravel, but slower. It stopped, then started again, closer. I turned my head toward the window. The glass was dark, but I could make out a shape—a silhouette of a person, or something, standing just outside, its head tilted, as if looking in.

I assumed it was a late patrol or a prank by the other guys. But the shape didn’t move, and the scraping began again, now accompanied by a low, guttural hum. I tried to call out, but my voice caught. The shape pressed against the glass, and I saw long, thin fingers splayed, leaving wet streaks. Then it was gone.

I blinked. The window was clear, nothing there. I figured I’d had a nightmare, and forced my eyes shut. But the next morning, I noticed a strange thing: the gravel by the bathhouse entrance had been raked into a neat spiral pattern, as if someone had taken a stick and drawn it meticulously. No one admitted to it, and I dismissed it.

Over the next three nights, the same thing happened. I’d wake at the exact same time—the digital clock read 3:33—and the scraping would be there, followed by the silhouette, and then the wet streaks on the glass. On the fourth night, I decided to confront it. I slid down from my bunk, my heart hammering, and crept to the door. I opened it slowly, the rusty hinge groaning. The scraping stopped. The gravel was empty, but the air smelled of rust and old pennies. I walked to the bathhouse entrance, my bare feet cold on the stones. The spiral pattern was still there, but now it was wet, as if freshly drawn. I followed the spiral inward, and at its center, I saw a small, dark object glinting. I stooped to pick it up: a dog tag, but with an unrecognizable symbol instead of a name.

I pocketed it and went back to bed. The next morning, I showed it to my instructor, a grizzled veteran named Sergeant Reyes. He turned pale, his jaw tightening. He took it without a word and told me to stay away from the bathhouse at night. But he wouldn’t explain.

That night, I didn’t wake at 3:33. Instead, I woke to the sound of something heavy being dragged across the roof of our shed, followed by a crash. I heard shouts from outside, and I ran out. The bathhouse was on fire. Flames licked up its cinder block walls, and through the doorway, I saw a figure inside, standing calmly, its head turned toward me. It was the silhouette from my window, but now it was wreathed in smoke, and its eyes were two glowing pits of amber. The fire crew arrived, but by then, the figure was gone, leaving only a charred outline on the floor, the exact shape of a person, and in the center, a spiral pattern burnt into the concrete.

I later learned that the bathhouse had been built over a collapsed mine shaft, and there had been a history of missing persons in the area, never found. Sergeant Reyes was discharged soon after, and I was transferred to a different site. I never spoke of it again. But to this day, I can’t walk past a cinder block wall without feeling a scrape against my neck, and in my dreams, I see the spiral, and the dog tag, which I still keep, hidden in a box, its symbol now scratched and worn, as if something is trying to erase it.

I am not sure what happened that summer, but I know the wet streaks were not water, and the humming was not wind. The desert took something from me, and it left that tag as a receipt. I’ve tried to throw it away, but it always returns, appearing in my pocket or on my nightstand. I think it’s waiting for me to go back, to finish the spiral, to join the figure in the flames. And sometimes, late at night, I hear the scraping begin again, right outside my window, no matter where I live.