The Ones Who Come Out at Night

In the summer of ’91, I was an eight-year-old spending my vacation in rural Mexico—where

my dad warned me never to be out alone at night. Magic. Darkness.

Graveyards. You get the idea. One night, the power went out. No lights.

Just moonlight and bugs that sounded way too loud. Then—footsteps. Close.

Too close. And there were a lot of them. I bolted inside, slammed the door,

grabbed the only “weapon” I could find… a fireplace poker. My room had no lock.

Just a window glowing with moonlight. I was backing toward my bed when I saw her—

A woman in a headscarf, face pressed to the glass… just staring at me. Not blinking.