The Denim-Clad Messenger

I never believed in omens, not until that sweltering August night when the air in our barrio thickened like congealed blood. My name is Rafael, and I grew up in a small coastal town in the Dominican Republic, where the Atlantic gnawed at the shoreline and the sugarcane fields whispered secrets to the wind. My best friend, Miguel, and I had been inseparable since we were kids, closer than brothers. We shared everything: stolen mangoes, secret fishing spots, and the creeping dread that sometimes visited us in the dark.

Miguel’s house sat at the edge of the barrio, a crumbling structure with a tin roof that rattled in the breeze. His grandmother, Doña Carmen, had died there when we were young, and Miguel swore her spirit lingered, shuffling through the halls and occasionally rearranging his shoes. I had my own brushes with the unseen—a cold breath on my neck in an empty room, a whisper that called my name from the alley—but nothing compared to the dream that would haunt me for years.

It started when Miguel called me, his voice shaky and thin. ‘Rafa, I can’t stay here alone tonight. My parents are in Santo Domingo, and I keep hearing things.’ I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my pillow and a thin blanket, and within minutes I was at his door. The moon cast a sickly yellow glow over the rooftops, and the air was still, as if the world held its breath.

We played dominoes, ate fried plantains, and laughed about old times, trying to dispel the unease that clung to the corners of the room. But as the night wore on, the silence grew oppressive. The generator hummed, the refrigerator clicked, and at some point, we fell asleep on the floor, our bodies tangled in the musty sheets.

In my dream, we were older, maybe twenty. The barrio looked the same, but my feet felt heavy, as if pulling through syrup. We walked down the familiar street that connected the main avenue to our homes, a dusty stretch lined with stunted almond trees and graffiti-covered walls. The moon was full, too bright for comfort. And there, lying face down in the middle of the street, was a body.

My dream self felt no fear, only a morbid curiosity. The figure wore a denim jacket, the blue so vivid it seemed to glow under the moonlight. Miguel and I approached. I reached out, my hand trembling. I turned the body over.

It had no face. Just a smooth, blank skin where features should be. But the jacket—that denim jacket—was unmistakable. It was mine. I wore it every day, and in that dream, I was looking at myself, lying there without a face.

I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. Miguel was beside me, still asleep, but his breathing was ragged, as if he too was in the throes of a nightmare. I shook him awake. He told me he dreamed of a body in the street, a denim jacket. We stared at each other, realizing we had shared the same dream.

We tried to laugh it off, but the image burned into our minds. Days passed, and we avoided that street, taking a longer route to the main avenue. But the dream recurred, always the same, always with that faceless figure in my jacket. I started sleeping with the lights on, and I began to avoid looking at the jacket hanging in my closet.

Then, one afternoon, I came home and found the jacket on the kitchen table, folded neatly. My mother swore she hadn’t touched it. A cold dread settled in my stomach. That night, Miguel called me, frantic. ‘Rafa, the jacket. It’s in my house now. I found it in the backyard.’ I ran over, and he held it out to me, his hands shaking. The jacket felt heavier than it should, and when I put it on, it smelled like wet earth and decay.

We decided to burn it. We built a small fire in an empty lot behind the church, and as the denim caught, I felt a wrenching pull, like something was trying to drag me into the flames. The jacket burned, but the ashes formed perfect, unreadable letters on the ground. We scattered them, but the dread remained.

Weeks passed, and the dreams stopped. Miguel and I slowly returned to normal, but a shadow lingered in our eyes. Then, on the night of our twentieth birthday, Miguel was killed in a hit-and-run on that very street. He had been wearing a new denim jacket, one his girlfriend had given him.

I stood at the funeral, numb. The priest mumbled words, but all I could see was that faceless body in my dream. The next night, I dreamed again. This time, I was lying on the ground, face down, and my denim jacket was soaked in blood. I could feel the cold pavement against my cheek, and I heard a voice, my own voice, whispering: ‘Run.’

I haven’t stopped running since. I moved away, changed my name, but every time I close my eyes, I see that faceless figure, and I know it’s waiting for me to take its place. The dream never lies, and the denim is always blue.