The storm raged on. The car moved slowly due to the swampy terrain. The man sweated under his gray overcoat despite the low temperature. Fear gnawed at his insides. Just the thought of being stranded in that desolate place made his heart race wildly.

There had been many stories about the old rural cemetery. These stories pounded in his mind, even though he had once dismissed them as mere tales told by old men to scare children. But now, the memory of those ghostly apparitions wandering in the vastness of the night made his skin crawl, forcing him to repeat aloud over and over that it was all just fantasy.

The powerful headlights of another vehicle stopped in the middle of the road blinded him momentarily. He halted his old Chevrolet. A minute later, the figure of a person waving their arms above their head appeared in front of his car. He grew even more uneasy, unable to understand what was happening. The person approached him, wearing a black raincoat and thick rubber boots that disappeared beneath it. The man, about seventy years old and of large build, gestured for the frightened driver to roll down the window. After a few seconds of hesitation, the driver complied.

—"Good evening!" shouted the old man from outside, trying to make his voice heard over the relentless thunder.

—"Good evening! What’s going on?"

—"You can’t go any further, friend. The storm destroyed the bridge to Monte Comán!" replied the old man.

—"There’s no way to cross?"

—"Impossible, friend! You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to cross by raft. In any case, I suggest you follow us in your car. You can spend the night at my house."

The man in the Chevrolet cursed his luck a thousand times. He weighed his options: trying to return to San Rafael was impossible due to the lack of fuel, and even if he had enough, it would be risky because of the flooded terrain. Staying in the car all night, in the middle of nowhere, would expose his darkest fears against his convictions. The old man didn’t inspire confidence, though nothing that night did, but he thought the offer was the best option.

He nodded in agreement. The old man returned to his truck, started it, and the man in the Chevrolet turned around to follow. They drove for about half an hour until the lead vehicle took one of the many side roads branching off the main road connecting San Rafael (Mendoza) to the town of Monte Comán. They traveled another four kilometers until they reached a place where an old, gloomy wooden house stood.

The house creaked from its foundations, battered by the wind. Its wooden construction dated back to the early 20th century, and its somber appearance fit perfectly with the desolate surroundings. Ancient, dry trees surrounded the place, their twisted and brittle branches enveloping the old structure.

The old man got out of the truck and helped an elderly woman out. He accompanied her to the entrance of the house and then returned, signaling for the man in the Chevrolet to get out. The man hesitated for a few minutes before stepping out. Something inside him told him that not everything was as it seemed.

Once inside the house and settled in the spacious dining room with a fire burning in the hearth, they formally introduced themselves:

—"My name is Enrique González, and this is my wife, María Juana de González," said the old man.

—"Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. González. My name is Rogelio Estrada, and I truly don’t know how to thank you for this," said Rogelio, more out of obligation than conviction.

—"Oh, it’s nothing, friend! On the contrary, we’re not used to having guests, and when we have the opportunity to be helpful, we offer what little we have. But tell me, Mr. Estrada: what do you do for a living?"

—"I’m just an employee at a law firm. I live in the city, and I was heading to Monte Comán to advise a client."

—"I see. You picked quite a night to travel."

—"Yes. The thing is, I wanted to finish this matter before the weekend. I’m celebrating my wedding anniversary and wanted to spend it with my family."

—"Dinner is ready," interrupted the woman.

—"Please, friend, come this way," exclaimed the old man.

Later...

—"...as I was saying, friend. We were on our way to a gathering when the storm caught us. We’re very religious, you see, and once a month, all the inhabitants of this area meet at a different house to praise the Lord who provides us with what we need to survive."

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The evening passed with various comments illuminated by the dim light of a candelabra. Once it was over, the old man González guided the guest through a damp hallway to one of the unoccupied rooms.

—"Well, here it is, friend. It’s not what you dreamed of, but it’s better than spending the night outside," said the old man with a smile distorted by the shadows cast by the candlelight.

—"It’s fine, Mr. González. This actually seems quite comfortable."

—"Well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me."

—"Don’t worry. Thank you again, and good night."

—"Good night, friend."

The room was spacious, with wooden floors and walls like the rest of the house. A bed and a half occupied the center, with a nightstand to its right. Two old wicker chairs sat at opposite ends, and a ruined wardrobe stood directly across from the bed. The faint light from the room’s candelabra cast strange, sinister, and threatening shadows on the walls.

Rogelio lay down without taking off his clothes. Although the evening had gone normally, a certain distrust was evident on his face. He blew out the candles and was submerged in a sea of macabre thoughts. The lightning flashes occasionally illuminated the room. His eyelids grew heavy. Rogelio made a tremendous effort to keep them open, and when they closed, he woke up startled by the thunder. But exhaustion overcame his fear, and he fell into a deep sleep. In that restless dream, he thought he saw, in the intermittent light of the lightning, the figures of the elderly couple at the foot of the bed. Was it a dream, or was it real?

He woke up to a loud thud, as if he had fallen out of bed. Everything was dark. Strangely, he could hear the thunder very close, but he saw no lightning. He tried to sit up, but to his great surprise, he couldn’t. He felt compressed, squeezed, as if he were trapped in something very narrow.

—"Oh, forgive me, friend!" said the old man González. "It’s just that, because of this rain and mud, the... coffin slipped."

—"The what?!" Rogelio shouted in panic.

—"I told you not to say anything!" Rogelio heard the muffled voice of the old woman scolding her husband.

Rogelio closed his eyes, trying to wake up from what he thought was a nightmare. He tried to sit up again, to move, but he couldn’t. Now the terror was extreme. He began to scream.

—"Please, friend. Look, I didn’t mean to scare you. In fact, I didn’t want you to find out about anything, but you woke up, and I have no choice but to tell you that what you’re in is a coffin, and..."

—"You’re crazy, crazy! Please, get me out of here! Get me out of here!"

—"Calm down, friend! Don’t make this harder."

The old man’s words were useless. How could anyone feel calm knowing they were trapped in a coffin?

The ghastly image that stood out in the night landscape would have frozen the blood of anyone who witnessed it: an elderly couple making a tremendous effort to carry a coffin, which they occasionally dragged through the mud when their strength failed.

They reached a small clearing in the middle of the forest of dead trees. There, crosses of all sizes added an even more sinister tone. Wooden and marble crosses stood, some pointing to the sky, others leaning, and the oldest ones completely fallen. Several years ago, that old cemetery had ceased to be one, slowly blending into the landscape, consumed by time.

They dragged the heavy coffin to the edge of a deep hole recently dug, with an old wooden cross leaning against the mound of dirt, ignoring the screams, insults, cries, and blows coming from inside the coffin.

—"We’ve arrived, Mr. Estrada. We’ve brought you to your final resting place. Here you can finally rest in peace," said the old man.

—"You’re insane! You’re about to commit murder! Why are you doing this to me? Why?!"

—"Mr. Rogelio, you really don’t understand. You can’t commit murder against someone who’s already dead. Do you understand, Rogelio?" said the old man. "To help you understand better, I’ll open the coffin. Don’t try to escape, because you won’t be able to."

One by one, the half-driven nails were pulled from the wood.

Rogelio thought this was his chance. It didn’t matter if they pointed a gun at him. He’d rather die a thousand times by gunfire or any other way than be buried alive.

The old man González slowly opened the lid, while the woman firmly held the wooden cross in front of the coffin. Immediately, Rogelio tried to escape, but he only managed to sit up, because when he saw the cross, his body became rigid, like a corpse.

No words have yet been invented to describe the horror Rogelio felt at that moment, nor has an artist been born who could capture on canvas the face of terror raised to its maximum expression. His mind struggled to move a muscle, to release the scream trapped inside him, but it was impossible. His bulging eyes read the inscription on the cross held by the old woman:

“ROGELIO ESTRADA, DIED JANUARY 15, 1956. HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN WILL REMEMBER HIM...”

In one last chilling effort, the ethereal figure of Rogelio Estrada managed to release his anguished cry:

—"NOOO! THIS CAN’T BE TRUE!"

—"Mr. Rogelio, don’t you understand yet?" said the old woman with a hint of bitterness in her voice. "Look at yourself, see how you’re changing. You died over thirty years ago. Your grave, along with four others, was desecrated, and your remains were scattered by a group of madmen. The other remains were found some time later, but yours took us years to locate. If we hadn’t done this, Mr. Rogelio, your spirit would continue wandering these roads every stormy night, endlessly repeating that horrible accident on the bridge that took your life. We, anticipating events, stopped you before you reached the bridge, so we could finally bring peace to your tormented soul and free us all from the horror of seeing you."

Meanwhile, the old man González pulled some dirty human bones from a bag he carried, carefully arranging them inside the coffin.

After the horror, the madness, the incomprehension, came calm. The spirit of Rogelio Estrada had understood everything and watched calmly as his mortal remains were placed in the coffin.

Once the old man González finished his task, the ghost settled into the coffin. After it was buried and the wooden cross placed in its spot, the González couple prayed and returned to their house. When they were halfway there, a tremendous lightning bolt split the sky, and a bluish light seemed to rise from the abandoned cemetery toward the very firmament, disappearing in a few seconds. Rogelio had found his way.

THE END