The River Gate Keeper

My grandfather and I were inseparable. He was a gruff man, with a voice like gravel and hands that smelled of oil and peppermint, but to me, he was a giant who knew every secret of the world. He managed the old Citrus Processing Plant outside of Yuma, Arizona, a sprawling complex of steel and concrete that squatted near the Colorado River, not far from the border crossing. He’d take me everywhere with him, much to my father’s chagrin. ‘It’s no place for a boy, Pop,’ my father would say, but my grandfather would just grunt and ruffle my hair.

One dawn, I must have been five, he decided to show me his world before the sun even thought about rising. He shook me awake while the sky was still a bruised purple, whispering, ‘Come on, mijo, let’s see the real work.’ I remember the thrill, the sense of sneaking past my father’s rules. We drove in his rumbling pickup, the headlights carving a path through the desert darkness, until we reached the plant’s gates. The chain-link fence loomed, and beyond it, the massive silos stood like silent giants.

He stopped the truck, leaving the engine idling, and stepped out to unlock the padlock. ‘Stay down, stay quiet, and lock the doors after I get out,’ he said, his voice low and serious. I obeyed, my heart pounding as I slid down in the seat and pushed the lock buttons down. I peeked over the dashboard as he fiddled with the keys. That’s when I saw them: three figures emerging from the shadows under the bridge that crossed the river, their steps slow and deliberate on the hard-packed dirt.

My grandfather straightened up, his body tensing. ‘Can I help you?’ he called out, his voice steady but carrying an edge. The tallest one stepped forward, and even in the dim light, I could see something wrong. He was impossibly thin, dressed in a white suit that seemed to glow faintly, with gold chains draped around his nonexistent neck. His face—there was no face. Just a smooth, black void where features should be, and yet, when he stopped in front of my grandfather, I saw a smile appear, a crescent of impossibly white teeth floating in that emptiness. Two smaller figures flanked him, their faces also blank, but they stayed silent, their heads tilted slightly like curious animals.

The tall one spoke, his voice smooth and dry, like wind over sand. ‘A smoke, friend?’ He held out a long, pale hand. My grandfather, who never backed down from anyone, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, his fingers trembling just a little. He offered one. The faceless man took it, placed it where his mouth should be, and it lit itself with a soft orange glow. He took a drag, and the smoke curled upwards, twisting into shapes that made my stomach lurch.

Then he spoke again, his teeth glinting. ‘God smokes too.’ He exhaled a cloud of smoke that formed a halo before dissipating. My grandfather stepped back, his face pale in the headlights. The man—or whatever he was—turned his head, the black void where his eyes should be seeming to focus on me. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. He raised his hand, and one of the small figures scampered toward my window, pressing a featureless face against the glass. I screamed, and my grandfather lunged forward, shouting, but it was too late.

The figure tapped on the glass, a sound like a single knuckle on a coffin lid. The tall one laughed, a sound that crackled like static. ‘Your boy is brave,’ he said. ‘Braver than you, old man.’ He took another drag, and then, as quickly as they came, they turned and walked back toward the bridge, their figures dissolving into the pre-dawn gloom. My grandfather scrambled into the truck, his hands shaking as he grabbed me, holding me tight. ‘Don’t you ever tell your father about this,’ he whispered, his voice cracked.

I never did. We went home, and my grandfather became a different man—quieter, more watchful. He took me to the plant only once more, but the gate was always left unlocked, and he always checked the bridge first. Years later, when I was grown, I went back to that plant, but the gates were rusted, the building half-collapsed. No one remembered the old manager, not even a name. The only thing I found was a single gold chain, half-buried in the dust, with a tiny, almost imperceptible tooth-shaped mark on it. I left it there. I didn’t want to disturb what slept beneath the river.

Sometimes, when I drive near that old bridge at dusk, I think I see a white-suited figure standing under the shadows, and I hear the dry rustle of his voice in the wind: ‘God smokes too.’ I always hit the gas, and I never look back. But I know, deep in my bones, that the gate was never really locked. It was just waiting.