The Mudslide Man

In the autumn of 1998, when I was sixteen, my family took a trip to the remote village of San Cipriano in the highlands of Central America. My father had grown up there, and we were visiting his aging mother. The village was a cluster of tin-roofed houses clinging to a steep mountainside, reachable only by a treacherous dirt road that switchbacked through dense, wet forest. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves, and a constant drizzle kept everything slick and dark. I spent most of my days reading on the porch, watching the mist roll in and out of the valley.

One evening, after a day of family gatherings, I decided to return to my grandmother’s house from a cousin’s place located a few kilometers down the mountain. It was past midnight, and the village had no electricity, so the only light came from the moon, which was hidden behind thick clouds. My uncle had lent me his old motorbike, a clunky thing with a sputtering engine. I was navigating the narrow, muddy path, the bike’s headlight weakly illuminating the ruts, when suddenly the engine coughed and died. I tried to kickstart it, but the pedals were frozen. I got off and checked the fuel, the spark plug, but nothing was wrong.

As I stood there wondering what to do, I noticed a figure ahead of me. It was a man, standing perfectly still in the middle of the road, half-shrouded in the darkness. He wore a long, dark coat that seemed to blend with the shadows, and his face was obscured. I called out, asking if he needed help, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he raised one arm and pointed down the mountain, toward the village. Then he turned and walked off the path, disappearing into the underbrush.

Feeling uneasy, I decided to push the bike forward, hoping to reach a house where I could ask for help. But the road was steep and slippery, and the bike was heavy. I struggled for what felt like an hour, the mud sucking at my boots, my breath visible in the cold air. Then I saw the figure again, farther ahead, standing under a large, gnarled tree. This time, he was closer, and I could see that his coat was caked with dried mud, as if he had been buried alive. His face was still hidden under the brim of a wide hat.

I stopped, my heart pounding. ‘Who are you?’ I yelled.

The man slowly tilted his head, and for a moment, the clouds parted, casting a pale light. I saw his face: it was gaunt, with hollow eyes and stretched, grey skin. He didn’t speak, but his mouth opened wide, and a stream of mud poured out, like thick, black sludge. Then he took a step toward me.

I turned and ran, leaving the bike behind. I stumbled down the mountain, slipping and sliding, my clothes soaked. The road twisted, and soon I was lost. I saw a faint light ahead—a hut by the side of the path. I pounded on the door, and an old man opened it, his face weathered. ‘Please, let me in,’ I gasped.

He pulled me inside, bolting the door. ‘You saw him, didn’t you?’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘The Mudslide Man.’

I nodded, still catching my breath. ‘He pointed, and then mud came out of his mouth.’

The old man shook his head. ‘He’s an omen. He appears before a disaster. Last time he came, the whole side of the mountain gave way, burying the village below. You must not go further tonight. Stay here until dawn.’

I slept fitfully on a straw mat, haunted by dreams of mud and bones. At first light, the old man led me back to my grandmother’s place. The road was eerily quiet. When we arrived, I saw my family gathered outside, their faces pale. They told me that during the night, a massive mudslide had swept through the lower part of the village, destroying several homes. My cousin’s house was gone.

I never saw the Mudslide Man again, but every time it rains in San Cipriano, I think of him standing there, his mouth a fountain of earth, pointing the way to salvation or doom.