Rain hammered the corrugated metal roof of Miguel's small house, loud enough to almost drown out the radio. He was sitting at his kitchen table, a half-empty plate of plátanos maduros in front of him.
The news anchor's voice crackled through the static, talking about unusually heavy storms across the island. Miguel didn't pay much attention. Storms were normal here.
He got up to switch the station, wanting some music. His hand reached for the dial, but he paused, noticing something odd.
A flicker at the edge of his vision, like a shadow moving where there shouldn't be one. He turned his head quickly, but nothing was there. Probably just tired, he thought.
He'd been working long hours at the small colmado down the road.
Outside, the wind howled, shaking the palm trees. The radio suddenly cut out, replaced by a loud buzzing static.
Miguel frowned, fiddling with the antenna, but the buzzing only grew louder. Annoyed, he turned the radio off completely. Silence fell in the small house, except for the drumming rain.
That's when he heard it. A whisper, soft and thin, like someone talking right next to his ear, but no one was there.
He spun around, heart starting to beat faster. The kitchen was empty. He told himself it was just the wind, playing tricks. The wind could sound like anything if you listened hard enough.
He went to the window, peering out into the darkness. Rain lashed down, blurring everything. The streetlights were hazy blobs of light in the distance.
Nothing looked out of the ordinary, just a typical stormy night in his neighborhood. Still, a prickle of unease ran down his spine. He couldn't shake the feeling he wasn't alone.
He went back to the table, pushing the plate away. His appetite was gone. He glanced around the small kitchen again, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. The whispering was gone, but the feeling lingered, a cold knot in his stomach.
Suddenly, a floorboard in the living room creaked. Miguel froze. He lived alone. He held his breath, listening intently. Another creak, louder this time, followed by a soft scraping sound. Like something dragging across the wooden floor.
His hand reached for the machete he kept under the table, the cool metal comforting against his sweaty palm. He stood slowly, muscles tense, machete held ready. He moved towards the doorway to the living room, each step deliberate and quiet.
Peeking into the living room, he saw nothing. Darkness filled the space, shadows dancing in the corners, cast by the weak light filtering from the kitchen. He took a tentative step inside, then another. The scraping sound came again, closer now, from the far side of the room.
He moved slowly, machete raised, eyes scanning the darkness. He could see the outline of his old armchair, the small bookshelf against the wall, everything looked normal, yet… wrong. He felt watched, intensely watched.
Then, he saw it. A faint shimmer in the air, near the corner of the room. Like heat rising off asphalt on a hot day, but cold. The shimmer grew, solidifying, taking shape. A figure started to form, hazy at first, then becoming more defined.
Miguel took a step back, heart pounding in his chest. The figure was human-shaped, but translucent, like smoke. He could see through it, see the wall behind it. It was tall and thin, its features blurry, but he could sense it was looking at him.
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through him. This wasn't a trick of the light, not the wind, not his imagination. This was something else. Something…dead.
The figure drifted closer, floating rather than walking. Its movements were slow, deliberate, unnervingly silent. Miguel gripped the machete tighter, his knuckles white. He wanted to yell, to scream, but his throat was too tight, fear choking off his voice.
"Hello?" he managed to croak out, his voice trembling. The figure stopped, its head tilting slightly, as if considering his words. Then, it spoke. Its voice was a whisper, like dry leaves rustling in the wind, yet somehow loud enough to fill the room.
"Full," it said, just that one word, but it sent a shiver of dread through Miguel. "It is full."
"Full? What's full?" Miguel asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He kept the machete pointed at the figure, although he knew, deep down, that a machete wouldn't do anything against this…thing.
The figure drifted closer again. "No more room," it whispered, its voice closer now, right in front of him. "They sent us back."
Miguel didn't understand. "Sent you back? Who sent you back? Where?"
The figure reached out a translucent hand, its fingers long and skeletal, and touched Miguel's arm.
A wave of icy coldness washed over him, making him gasp. He recoiled, stumbling back, dropping the machete with a clatter on the wooden floor. The coldness stayed with him, seeping into his bones.
"Hell," the figure whispered, its voice even closer now, right in his ear. "Hell is full."
Miguel stared at it, his mind racing, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, what he was hearing. Hell? Ghosts? This couldn't be real. It had to be a nightmare. He wished he could wake up.
More sounds started coming from outside, not just the rain and wind. A low moan, carried on the wind, followed by other sounds, shuffling, scraping, like hundreds of people moving in the darkness.
He ran to the window again, his heart pounding, peering out into the storm. Through the rain, he could see them.
Figures, like the one in his living room, moving in the street. They were everywhere, drifting, floating, silent. The streetlights seemed dimmer now, the darkness thicker, filled with these…things.
He backed away from the window, fear overwhelming him. This was real. The ghost in his living room, the whispers, the sounds outside, it was all real. Hell was full, and they were back.
He didn't know what to do. Run? Hide? Fight? Fight ghosts? It sounded insane. He looked around the small living room, his eyes darting from corner to corner, searching for…something. Anything.
The figure was still there, watching him, its translucent eyes…if it even had eyes…fixed on him. It drifted closer again, its cold presence filling the room, suffocating him.
"What do you want?" Miguel asked, his voice trembling again. "Why are you here?"
"We are hungry," the figure whispered. "We are cold. We need…life."
Miguel didn't understand. "Life? What do you mean, life?"
The figure reached out again, its cold hand brushing his face. He flinched, but didn't move away this time. He was frozen, paralyzed by fear. He felt a draining sensation, a strange weakness spreading through him, as if something was being taken from him.
"You have life," the figure whispered. "We need it."
Outside, the moaning grew louder, closer. More figures appeared at his window, faces pressed against the glass, pale and indistinct, but undeniably there. He could see dozens of them, maybe hundreds, surrounding his house.
He was trapped. Surrounded. By ghosts. Ghosts who were hungry for life.
Panic flared in his chest. He had to get out. He had to escape. But where could he go? Where could he hide from ghosts?
He looked at the figure in front of him, its cold presence pressing down on him. He knew, somehow, that this was just the beginning.
This one ghost in his house was nothing compared to what was outside, what was coming.
He backed away slowly, towards the kitchen door. He had to get out of the house, find somewhere safe. Maybe the colmado, maybe other people were there. Maybe together, they could do something. Anything.
He reached the kitchen door, his hand shaking as he fumbled with the latch. He glanced back at the figure in the living room. It was still there, watching him, a silent, cold presence. He turned and bolted out the door, into the rain and the darkness.
He ran through the muddy yard, towards the street. The wind and rain lashed at him, but he barely noticed. He could hear the moaning all around him, the shuffling, scraping sounds getting closer. He risked a glance behind him.
They were coming. Dozens of figures, emerging from the darkness, drifting towards him. They moved faster now, no longer slow and drifting, but with a purpose, a hunger.
He ran faster, slipping in the mud, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He reached the street, splashing through puddles, heading towards the lights of the colmado in the distance. Maybe there were people there. Maybe they could help him.
He could see the colmado now, lights spilling out into the street. He ran towards it, hope flickering in his chest. He could make it. He just had to make it there.
He burst through the door of the colmado, gasping for breath, his clothes soaked, his body trembling. The colmado was dimly lit, shelves stocked with goods, but empty. No one was there.
"Hello?" he yelled, his voice echoing in the empty space. "Is anyone here?"
Silence answered him, except for the sound of the storm outside. The colmado was deserted. He was alone.
He looked around, despair washing over him. The colmado was usually bustling with people at this time of night, even in a storm. Where was everyone?
Then he saw it. A figure standing behind the counter, translucent, cold. Another ghost. And another, standing near the door, blocking the entrance. They were here too.
He was trapped again. No escape. He was surrounded, inside and outside. The ghosts were everywhere.
He sank to his knees, exhaustion and despair overwhelming him. What was the point of running? What was the point of fighting? He was just one man, against…whatever this was. An army of ghosts, hungry for life, back from a hell that was too full to contain them.
He closed his eyes, waiting for them to come, waiting for the cold touch, waiting for whatever they wanted to take from him. He waited for the end.
A soft whisper reached his ears, close, right beside him. "We need life," it said again. "Yours."
He opened his eyes slowly. The ghost was right in front of him, its translucent face inches from his. He could see the emptiness in its form, the lack of warmth, the cold hunger.
He knew then. There was no escape. They weren't going to just take his life; they wanted something more. Something personal. Something uniquely his.
The ghost reached out, its cold hand touching his forehead. This time, the cold was different, deeper, more profound. He felt his memories being pulled from him, his thoughts, his emotions, everything that made him…him. His childhood in the Dominican Republic, the smell of his mother's cooking, the laughter of his friends, the warmth of the sun on his skin – all of it was being drawn out, taken by the ghost.
He tried to resist, to hold onto his memories, to fight back, but it was no use. He was powerless against them. He felt himself fading, becoming empty, hollow. His life, his essence, was being consumed.
The last thing he saw, before his consciousness faded completely, was the ghost smiling. Not a warm, human smile, but a cold, predatory smile. A smile of satisfaction. A smile of hunger fulfilled.
And then, there was nothing. Just cold, empty darkness. Miguel was gone, not just dead, but erased. His memories, his experiences, his very self, stolen and consumed by the ghosts.
He became just another empty space in a world overrun by the damned, a world where even Hell couldn't hold them anymore. The storm raged on outside, uncaring, indifferent to the fate of one young man lost in the overwhelming tide of the returning dead.
The ghosts, now a little warmer, a little fuller, moved on, seeking more life to consume in the endless night.