THE MAN IN THE WARDROBE

Grandmother died. It was a Sunday morning yet could have been midnight; pouring rain blinded all three steps ahead. Momma hold my hand strongly while she walked, absentminded, gone. Drowning by the shadows around her. It was cold, I still recall: my bones hurt of carrying the sodden thick tweed coat. Little few mourners, slow, sorrowful, silent, elder and almost dead barely all. My brother Paco and I were tired, sleepless night holding her cold hand while she seemed already late. Honestly, I own counted memories of her, rarely went to visit her to the ranch. Besides she shown herself unpleased if we played with the chickens, everything smelled like barn and when she cooked Mole the headless turkey used to chase us pouring blood to dead. She yelled if we jumped in the bed “I warn you, the skinless man will come to lick your face!” or “He will take you and no bone will be left!” to keep us away from her belongings.

But Momma loved her or that’s what she says. Grandfather died when he rode a Plow ox while he was drunk, who would have said; a stupid beast ridding an animal. The ireful ox dragged him through the cropping field until he was faceless. Momma was fifteen. After that grandmother took all her savings to send Momma away to Leon City to study a service career. Years later Momma met Papa, she was the secretary of some Bank manager and he was his accountant. Grandmother never liked Papa, she used to say that those blondies from Guadalajara are useless. That they are no real men and all those things that old people say because in the country side there’s no piped water and they barely have electricity. They are left alone with their wraiths, they are to bonded with them to let them go.

When they finally bury her, everyone had to walk back down the hill in a muddy path. Paco fell twice, Momma didn’t even look at him. He ended up foully red, with that red mud in the ground. We got back home, Momma was speechless but she helped Paco get changed and started to cook a stew for our meal. We ate beef stew with red rice, to warm up. Kept raining outside, seemed as if Momma was the sky and poured all her sadness over us, the house, the ranch and the chickens. Desperately wanted to leave, I never enjoyed been there. Finally night fell, Momma made us sleep on Grandmother’s bed, bed where she had died; just because it was the big one. She covered us and sang a song that was sang to her, one of those old children songs, creepier than anything. Without a glance, as if we were not there. The unstoppable rainstorm, a donkey’s frenetic howl could be heard with each thunder. A ray lighted up the entire room, I saw the old wardrobe in front of me, with it’s moth-eaten doors firmly closed and the tiny set-in mirror covered in dust. It gave me chills, there’s something odd about mirrors in the night; as they can reflect things that one doesn’t wish to see.

Yowl of wind stroked by rain, water leak sound and her image inside my head did not allowed me to close my eyes. In the middle of this scandal of silences a cold blast invaded my soul. The preposterous squeak of the wardrobe door, lingered and predatorial. Motionless shock, detained fright, contemned and static. Breathing hoarding behind my throat, vulnerable and unable to close my eyes; desperately wishing to disappear. The rampant beating of my heart pushed me to my deepest insides. There’s when I him. Inchmeal emerging, crawling, made of mist, of smoke. Empty silence flooded all, I was drowning. Tried to hold every little move, I felt if I blinked the clangor produced would din as a mine’s explosion.

Was inevitable, he turned his translucent face to slowly stab my gaze with his. His reflecting eyes were of dog soon to bite, his mouth a deformed grin about to smile. I could not move, I could not respond, the loudest screams I never got to yell died bounded inside me. Then he wagged, clanged his foggy claws to the bed, noticing me, easy prey.  Estranged I realize his face vividly familiar, his misshapen factions and movements, as known to me as my hands and feet. As accustomed to him as I was to Paco, sleeping profoundly by my side. My breathing raged a storm with every move the man gave. My right foot bulged at the edge of the bed, he stood, look at it and with his vulture claws tickled me slenderly.

Hastily I sat on the bed and so hastily he was gone. With head foremost I felt it, a reptile lick wet my face, him, him breathing at my ear and holding a horselaugh. Tears burbled uncontrollable, made me blind. Heard the logy squeak of the wardrobe door and turn rapidly to watch. He was standing there, calmed and quiet. With jesting smile made me sweat, he took a ghostly finger to his malformed smirk, pleased looked straight at me and made me shush. Entered a foot, then the other, so on until only his twisted head was aimed at me. The door closed during an eternity that lasted but an instant.

A thunder stroke and ray light made me leap up, I kept weeping unable to stop. Paco woke up, turned the lap on, looked at me, hugged me and hold me strongly. “What happened? What’s wrong” I could not say a thing, I could feel his stinky reptile tongue licking my salty tears.

No matter the time, no matter the years, by night I can still see his eyes in the dark looking at me. Sweaty goosebumps come down my spine to think over and over again that He was so familiar, so known as my hands, my feet, as Paco sleeping by my side, as moonlight in the darkness of night.