The Persistent Companion

My great-grandmother, Rosa, was a curandera in the high deserts of New Mexico. She could read the patterns in dropped coffee grounds and speak to the spirits of the dead. My father, Tomás, inherited her second sight—he’d see flickers of the other side, hear phantom footsteps in empty rooms—but he never learned the words to command them. He just knew they were there.

I grew up in a dusty house on the edge of the mesa, where the wind sang through the screen door and the coyotes yipped at dusk. I was a quiet child, more comfortable with old books and strange sensations than with other kids. I remember the day I first saw the man in the top hat. I was six, sitting at the kitchen table, and he was standing in the corner, watching me. He was tall and gaunt, his black suit pressed and clean, and his face was a pale mask of patience. I didn’t scream; I just stared back, and I saw a flicker of… acknowledgment? Then he was gone.

As I grew, my world became layered. I saw a woman in a long dress standing by the well, her lips moving silently even though the water was dry. I saw a boy with hollow eyes sitting on the porch swing, his hands translucent in the afternoon light. And the man in the top hat—he was always there, a constant observer. He never spoke, never moved, but he watched me with an intensity that felt like a secret being kept.

My father noticed my fixation on the corner of my room, the way I’d sometimes pause and tilt my head as if listening to something he couldn’t hear. ‘You have the gift,’ he said one night, his voice low and rough, ‘but it’s not a gift; it’s a burden. I see things too, but I can’t control them. My grandmother could. She’d use herbs and chants to make them obey, but she never taught me. She said I wasn’t ready. And I guess I never was.’

He paused, looking at me with a mixture of fear and hope. ‘You’re like her. I can see it. But be careful, mija. The dead don’t just watch; they want things.’

I didn’t know what to make of that. I felt a pull toward the things my father feared. I started keeping a small crystal ball I’d found in a thrift store, holding it in my palms during quiet evenings. It felt warm, humming with a faint energy. The man in the top hat seemed to grow more distinct when I held it, his image sharper, his gaze more piercing. It was as if he was waiting for me to ask him the right question.

Then came the dreams. They were vivid, leaving me breathless. In one, I was standing on the edge of a vast canyon, and a voice whispered in the wind, ‘They are coming, and you must not be here.’ In another, I saw my father walking through the house, but his eyes were black as obsidian, and he was reciting words in a language I’d never heard. I’d wake with my heart pounding, the taste of copper in my mouth.

I started avoiding the house. I’d take long walks across the mesa, and the man would walk beside me, his footsteps silent on the dirt. I tried to speak to him. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ But he’d just tilt his head, as if amused, and then vanish into the shimmering heat.

It was during one of these walks that I stumbled upon an old trapdoor hidden under a juniper. It was covered in dust and rust, but it opened to a set of wooden stairs descending into darkness. My heart raced, and I felt a pull, an undeniable urge to go down. I descended, the air growing cooler and musty. At the bottom was a small, earthen room. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars of dried herbs, animal bones, and old, leather-bound books. In the center, on a small table, sat a crystal ball—much larger than mine, clouded with age.

I felt drawn to it. I sat on the dirt floor and placed my hands on the cool glass. Everything went white. When my vision cleared, I saw images flickering like a silent film: Rosa standing in this very room, her hands moving over the same crystal, her lips forming words I could almost hear. And then, the man in the top hat appeared beside her, but he was more than a specter—he was solid, and he was speaking. ‘You promised me,’ he said, his voice a low rumble, ‘a body to inhabit when the time is right.’

Rosa’s face was stern. ‘Not yet. She is not ready.’

The image shattered. I pulled my hands back as if burned. A chill ran down my spine. The man was there, standing at the entrance of the room, his tall frame blocking the light from the trapdoor. His eyes were no longer passive; they were hungry. ‘You found it,’ he said, his voice like gravel. ‘Now you know.’

I stumbled backward, terror gripping me. ‘Know what?’ I stammered.

‘That I am not a watcher. I am a guide. And you are my vessel.’ He took a step forward, and the air grew thick. I tried to stand, but my legs were weak. I clawed at the dirt, feeling a deep vibration beneath me. The crystal on the table began to glow with an unnatural red light.

Suddenly, my father’s voice echoed from above. ‘¡Mija! ¿Dónde estás?’ He had found the open trapdoor. I cried out for help, and I heard his footsteps on the stairs. The man twisted his head, his neck cracking with an unnatural sound, and then he smiled. ‘No matter. He cannot stop what has already begun.’

My father burst into the room, his face pale with fear. He looked at the man, then at me, and his eyes widened. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Not you.’

He began to murmur something—a prayer, maybe, or a chant—and pulled a silver cross from his pocket. The man hissed, recoiling as if burned. ‘You think that can banish me? I’ve been bound to this family for generations. I will walk again.’

My father stepped between us, his hand shaking but his voice firm. ‘You will not take her.’ He turned to me, desperation in his eyes. ‘Run, mija. Run and don’t look back.’

I wanted to obey, but my body refused to move. The man laughed, a hollow sound. ‘She cannot run. She has always been mine.’

Then I remembered Rosa’s words in the vision: ‘She is not ready.’ I focused, pushing against the fear, and reached for the crystal ball on the table. Its surface was warm, pulsing with a heartbeat. I lifted it, and the man’s gaze snapped to it, his arrogance replaced with a flicker of uncertainty.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

I didn’t know. But I felt a surge of power, a connection to Rosa, to the earth, to the very air. I raised the crystal and brought it down on the edge of the table. It cracked with a sharp sound, and the glow intensified, filling the room with blinding light. The man screamed—a sound of pain and fury—and then he was gone, leaving only silence and the smell of ozone.

My father rushed to me, holding me tight. ‘What did you do?’ he asked, his voice trembling.

I looked at the shattered crystal in my hands, feeling a strange sense of peace. ‘I broke the bargain,’ I said. ‘Maybe.’

We climbed out of the pit and stood in the fading light of the desert. The mesa was quiet, the man nowhere to be seen. But as I looked down at my hands, I saw a faint, dark stain on my palm, shaped like a handprint. It was cold to the touch. And in the corner of my eye, I swore I saw a tall figure watching from the shadows, just out of sight.

I don’t know if I freed myself or if I merely changed the shape of my curse. All I know is that the crystal is broken, but the watcher remains. He waits for the day when I, too, will make a bargain—or break another. And I pray that day never comes.