The Kneeling One

In the sweltering summer of 2012, I found myself living in a rusted trailer on my grandmother’s abandoned farm in the high desert of New Mexico. The nearest town was forty miles away, and the land stretched out in a sea of sagebrush and red rock, with no artificial light for miles. The nights were pitch black, save for the moon and stars.

One night, I woke to an urgent need to step outside. My small propane lamp had sputtered out hours before, leaving the trailer in total darkness. I swung my legs off the narrow bed, my feet landing on the cold linoleum. I fumbled for the door, opened it, and stepped onto the cinder block that served as a step.

The moon hung high and bright, nearly full, casting silver light across the desolate landscape. I breathed in the cool desert air, my eyes adjusting to the eerie glow. I turned to my right, and my heart stopped.

There, no more than twenty feet away, stood a figure. It was blacker than the night itself, a void that seemed to swallow the moonlight around it. It was tall—twelve feet, maybe more—with a gaunt, elongated frame. Its shoulders were broad, and what I first thought were wings were actually tattered, cloak-like appendages that draped around its body, ending in taloned tips that brushed the ground. Its head was featureless, a smooth oval that tilted slightly as if listening to the wind.

I couldn’t move. My breath caught in my throat, my legs locked. The figure faced south, its posture still and contemplative, as if communing with the moon. My eyes traced its form, memorizing every impossible detail, when my gaze dropped to the ground.

There was another one.

This second shape was smaller, perhaps eight feet tall, kneeling on one knee before the taller one. Its posture was submissive, head bowed as if in worship or supplication. Its wings—or whatever they were—were folded tightly against its back, and it did not move, not even a tremor.

I was frozen, my bladder forgotten. The two figures remained motionless for what felt like an eternity. The kneeling one began to sway slightly, a rhythmic back-and-forth, like a pendulum. The taller one raised a long, thin arm, its fingers elongated and jointed like a spider’s legs. It pointed to the south, and I followed the direction, but saw only the barren desert.

A low hum filled the air, a vibration that seemed to come from the ground itself. The kneeling one rose, unfolding to its full height, and for the first time, I saw its face—a blank mask, but with a mouth that opened too wide, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. It turned its head toward me, and I knew it was looking at me, even without eyes.

The taller one made a sound—a dry, clicking noise, like stones knocking together. The kneeling one immediately turned back, dropping to both knees, its head touching the ground. The taller one stepped forward, its feet making no sound, and placed a hand on the kneeling one’s head. The kneeling one’s body convulsed, then went still.

The wind picked up, and the temperature dropped. I finally regained control of my legs and stumbled backward into the trailer, slamming the door shut. I pressed my back against the thin metal, my heart racing. I peered through the small window, but the space where the figures had stood was empty.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the dark, clutching a kitchen knife, until dawn broke. When morning came, I went outside. There was no trace of the figures, no footprints, no disturbed soil. But on the cinder block, where I had stood, there was a small, black stone—smooth, polished, and cold to the touch.

I moved out of that desert a week later, but the image of the kneeling one stayed with me. I never learned what they were, or why they had come. But sometimes, on clear nights when the moon is nearly full, I hear that low hum again, and I feel a presence outside my window—tall, dark, and patiently waiting.

And in my dreams, I am the one kneeling.