The Humid Nights of Callejon del Cielo

I spent last summer at my great-aunt’s house in the highlands of Guatemala, a place called Callejon del Cielo. The house was an old colonial relic, with thick adobe walls and a creaking wooden staircase that wound up the center. My room was on the second floor, right beside the top of the stairs, and the first thing my aunt said to me, with a nervous laugh, was, ‘Some say they’ve seen a little girl run down those steps at night.’ I tried to play it cool, but a chill ran down my spine. That first night was uneventful—just the wind rattling the tin roof and the distant howl of a dog. But the second night, the rain came. It hammered the roof with a fierce, rhythmic drumming, and the humidity turned the air thick as soup. I lay on the sweaty sheets, my parents snoring in the bed next to mine, while the open door gave me a direct view of the staircase. I was just drifting off when a light flickered on downstairs. I figured it was my aunt getting a glass of water, but then the light went off, then on again, then off, then on, in a frantic, stuttering rhythm. When it finally clicked off for good, I strained to hear footsteps climbing up, but none came. My heart was pounding. I closed my eyes, trying to force sleep, but fear tugged at my lids, and I peeked again. At the bottom of the stairs, a faint, bluish glow pulsed, growing brighter as it began to ascend. A small form materialized in the light, a girl with tangled hair and eyes that were dark holes, not reflecting the glow but absorbing it. She climbed one step at a time, each movement accompanied by a faint, wet squelch, as if her feet were saturated with water. She paused halfway, tilting her head as if noticing me, and the light flickered like a dying bulb. Then she continued up, her lips moving in a silent, desperate whisper that seemed to say, ‘Don’t you remember?’ I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the sheet over my head, feeling the air grow cold around me. I felt a pressure on the edge of the mattress, the dip of weight, and the whisper became audible, just inches from my ear, repeating, ‘Don’t you remember the well?’ I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, the rain had stopped and morning light was filtering through the window. My aunt asked why I looked so pale. I told her about the girl, and she turned white, muttering, ‘La niña del pozo.’ She explained that a girl had drowned in the courtyard well thirty years ago, and that her spirit never left the house. She said the girl was lonely, always looking for a playmate. I left that day, cutting my visit short. But as I sat in the bus, looking back at the house, I saw the girl in the window, her hand pressed against the glass, her mouth forming the words: ‘I’ll wait for you.’ And now, whenever it rains, I see her in my dreams, standing at the foot of my bed, dripping water onto the floor, asking me to remember the well.