Audio
Shorts
Movies & Games
Blog & StoriesMy name is Elias Vance, and for the past twelve years, I have been haunted by a presence that defies all rational explanation. Unlike the tales you read online, I have encountered both a malevolent stalker and a silent guardian. This is the chronicle of the former, a memory I have kept locked away until now.
In the autumn of my sixteenth year, my family uprooted from the damp, grey streets of Manchester to the sun-bleached hills of southern Spain. My father had secured a job in Málaga, but the house wasn’t ready. So, I was dispatched early to stay with my uncle Ricardo and his wife, Tía Helena, in the hillside village of La Cueva. The name, ironically, meant ‘the cave,’ a premonition of the darkness I would soon encounter.
My cousin, Mateo, was a year younger than me, a boy with a cherubic face and a serpent’s spirit. He resented my presence from the moment I stepped off the dusty bus. He would hide my books, mock my accent, and whisper falsehoods to his friends. His mother, Tía Helena, was blind to his cruelty, treating him as a golden child. The house itself was suffocating—whitewashed walls, terracotta tiles, and the perpetual scent of olive oil and garlic. But it was the silence that weighed on me, broken only by the distant bleating of goats and the wind whistling through the gorge.
It began a week into my stay. I was lying in bed, unable to sleep, staring at the crack in the ceiling that resembled a map of some unknown land. Then, in the corner of my eye, I saw it: a black silhouette, immense and formless, pressing against the wall as if it were a stain in the fabric of reality. It had no discernible features, but I felt its gaze like a cold needle in my spine. I blinked, and it was gone. I dismissed it as a trick of sleep deprivation, but the unease lingered.
The apparition returned the next night, closer. And the next, closer still. It never moved while I watched, but in the periphery of my vision, it flowed along the walls like oil. I began to sleep with the lights on, but that only made it more defined—a patch of absolute blackness that absorbed the light around it. I tried to tell Tía Helena, but she waved her hand dismissively, attributing it to ‘imagination’ or ‘the heat.’ Mateo, however, had a knowing smirk that chilled me more than the shadow itself.
About two weeks in, life grew unbearable. Tía Helena discovered a hundred euros missing from her purse, and despite my protests, she blamed me. She claimed a boy from England, unaccustomed to such wealth, would naturally be tempted. Not even my uncle’s quiet skepticism could sway her. The household turned against me; even the cook, Pilar, would give me cutting looks. I was an island, besieged, with no way to call home because the phone line was always ‘busy’ when I tried.
One sweltering afternoon, I fled the house, walking aimlessly into the terraced olive groves. The sun blazed, and the air was thick with the scent of thyme and dust. I found a shaded spot near an old stone well, sat down, and let the tears come. I felt utterly alone. And then, the temperature plummeted. Goosebumps erupted on my arms despite the heat. I turned, and the shadow was there, not against a wall, but standing in the middle of the path, watching me.
It was taller than a man, a tear in the air itself. But for the first time, I sensed something other than malice—something desperate. It raised what might have been an arm, pointing east, toward the abandoned chapel of San Roque that I had seen from the bus. Then it was gone, leaving me trembling and drenched in sweat.
That evening, I found the courage to sneak out after midnight. The moon was a sliver, casting a faint silver light on the path. I made my way to the chapel, its roof half-collapsed, weeds choking the entrance. Inside, the air was stale and cool. A few candles stand had been knocked over, and dust motes danced in the silence. And then I heard it—a low, rhythmic tapping, like a muffled drumbeat. It came from a cracked statue of the Virgin Mary. Behind it, hidden in a recess, I found a bundle of old letters and a small bag of coins.
The letters were from a woman named Rosalba, written to her lover, a man named Santiago, who had been the caretaker of the chapel. The last letter, dated fifty years ago, spoke of a betrayal: ‘I know you took the gold from the church, and I know you intend to flee without me. May you never rest, and may a shadow follow you beyond the grave.’ The bag contained gold coins, perfectly preserved.
It was then that the tapping stopped, and a cold breath brushed my neck. I turned, and the shadow was there, but it was translucent now, less defined. I realized, with a rush of terror and pity, that this was Santiago’s spirit, cursed by Rosalba, and that it had been following me not to harm me, but to reveal the truth so that the curse could be broken. It wanted someone to know that he had not simply vanished, but had been killed by the villagers when they discovered his theft. The shadow pointed to a loose stone in the wall. I pried it open and found a skeleton, still bound with chains.
I brought the letters and coins to the village authorities, and the mayor, a stoic man named Don Arturo, listened with grave attention. They exhumed the remains and gave them a proper burial in the cemetery, with a small ceremony. The last night I spent at Tía Helena’s, the shadow appeared one final time, but it was not a towering blackness anymore. It was a thin, grey outline, and I could almost see the face of a tired old man. It bowed its head, and then dissolved into the moonlight.
The next day, my parents arrived, and I left the village. I never told them about the shadow, but I know what I saw. The curse had been lifted, and I had acted as an unwitting vessel. Yet, as I sat on the bus, watching La Cueva disappear into the hills, I saw a flicker of darkness in the corner of my vision. It was gone in an instant, but it left me with a chilling thought: there are other shadows, other curses, and they are not all as benign as Santiago’s. Some are pure hunger, and they are patient.
