The Van’s Previous Owner

My name is Marisol. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had this unshakable feeling that I’m never truly alone. It started when I was about nine, living in a cramped apartment in Ciudad Juárez. I’d hear my mother’s voice calling my name from the kitchen, but when I’d run in, she’d be sitting at the table reading, and she’d look up, startled, and say she hadn’t called me. ‘You’re hearing things, mija,’ she’d say, but I knew what I heard. I’d also hear the clatter of dishes in the middle of the night, but nothing would be out of place. And sometimes, when I woke up, I’d see a tall, thin silhouette standing in the doorway of my room – not my father, too tall for that – and it would just watch me before it dissolved into the shadows. It scared me so badly I’d hide under my covers until morning.

We moved several times over the years, first to El Paso, then to Albuquerque, and finally to a small town in New Mexico, but whatever was with me always found me. It didn’t matter where I slept; I’d still hear the whispers, still see the figure in my peripheral vision, still wake up with a cold spot next to me, as if something had been lying there. By the time I was sixteen, it got worse. My bedroom door would creak open on its own in the dead of night. I’d hear furious banging on our front door, but when my dad would fling it open, the porch would be empty, and the streetlight would cast long, lonely shadows. I’d wake up gasping, feeling a breath on my neck, and sometimes I’d find thin, red scratches on my arms, as if something had dragged its nails across my skin. My TV would flicker on and off by itself, even when it was unplugged.

I tried to tell my parents, but they’d exchange worried glances and say I was just stressed, that it was my imagination. So I learned to live with it, to ignore the cold spots in the room, the murmurs at the edge of my hearing, the feeling of being watched that never quite went away. I guess I got used to it.

Last year, my parents surprised me with a used van – a silver Chrysler Town & Country. They’d bought it from a local mechanic, a guy named Rafael, who’d fixed it up after it was abandoned at his shop. ‘It’s a miracle deal,’ Dad said, beaming. ‘Rafael practically gave it to us.’ The van was clean, smelled faintly of pine air freshener, and had a strange decal on the back window: a faded, weeping willow tree, with a single swing hanging from its branches.

The very first time I rode in it, I felt a chill, like the air conditioning was on high even though it wasn’t. I brushed it off, but as we drove through the desert, I saw a smear on the window – a handprint, as if someone had pressed their palm against the glass from inside. I wiped it, but it reappeared a minute later, closer to my seat. I was too freaked to say anything.

A week later, I was driving alone at night, coming back from a friend’s house. The radio flickered, playing a song I didn’t recognize, but the voice was disturbingly familiar. Then, in the rearview mirror, I saw him – the same tall, thin figure, but now it was wearing an old, worn-out cowboy hat. It was sitting in the back seat, its face obscured by shadow, but I could tell it was grinning. I slammed on the brakes, my heart hammering, but when I turned around, the seat was empty. I drove home in a cold sweat, mumbling prayers I hadn’t said in years.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I heard the van’s engine start up outside. No one else was awake. I tiptoed to the window. The van’s headlights were on, illuminating the empty driveway, and the driver’s door was open. I saw a figure – the same cowboy – standing beside it, and he pointed a long, bony finger at me. Then he vanished, and the engine cut off.

The next morning, I told my dad. He thought I’d imagined it, but he agreed to take the van to Rafael for a check-up. Rafael looked nervous when dad brought it in. He fiddled with his wrench and said, ‘You know, this van was abandoned in the desert about a year ago. The owner disappeared. They never found him. They searched for weeks.’

My blood went cold. I asked, ‘What was his name?’

Rafael wiped his hands on a rag, his eyes avoiding mine. ‘His name was Jesse. Jesse Harper. He was a local – used to wear this old cowboy hat. He disappeared somewhere around the old mines. They found his van near the arroyo, but no sign of him.’

I felt a sudden presence next to me, and I turned to see a man standing in the corner of the garage – tall, thin, wearing a faded cowboy hat, his face pale and gaunt. He tilted his head, and his lips moved, but I couldn’t hear a word. I knew it was Jesse.

Since then, Jesse has been with me everywhere. But now he’s not just a fleeting presence. He sits in the passenger seat of the van as I drive, his ghostly eyes fixed on me in the rearview mirror. He whispers my name when I’m alone, and sometimes he reaches out a cold hand and touches my shoulder, leaving a chill that doesn’t fade. He’s never hurt me, but he’s always there, waiting. And I’m beginning to realize that he’s not haunting the van – he’s haunting me. I think he wants something, but I don’t know what. I’m afraid to find out.