You never really know how creepy a farm can be unless it’s nighttime. 

Every noise—a cricket chirping, a creak in the wood of your house—is amplified in your ears. 

Every brush of the wind through the crops sounds like footsteps on the grass. Every indistinct car that drives by sounds like it’s about to turn onto the gravel driveway. 

In the summer before my junior year, I was bedridden after surgery for my appendicitis. The cabin fever I developed from being trapped on the farm everyday made me hate it even more than I already did. 

On one of the many nights my dad and tío went out to drop off our harvested corn to local tiendas, I was left alone. As the sun went down, I sat on the rocking chair on the back porch reading. When I felt the first gust of wind of the evening brush against my face, I decided to head inside and heat up some pozole. I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom, devouring spoonfuls of hominy and pollo, when I looked out my window and saw a flash of light amidst the corn stalks. 

It was well after sundown, and all of the workers had left by then. I worried that one of them had left a lighter or a lantern out there, and that maybe it could catch fire. I put my bowl in the sink, grabbed a flashlight from our utilities drawer, and headed out back. I surveyed the corn from eye level, but couldn’t catch a glimpse of any light. 

I headed out into a narrow path which divided two oceans of stalks. I moved the flashlight back and forth across the field, its small beam being the only source of light aside from the waning moon. Nearing the edge of the field, I prepared to turn back when I heard a distinct rustling on my left. I whipped my flashlight around to meet its source. “Hello?”, I called out. Silence. 

I split apart the stalks of corn and began walking towards where the sound had been. A few feet in, my flashlight gave out. As I tried to futilely smack its side to get it working, I heard the rustling again, only a few feet in front of me. “Hello…?”, I said, much less confidently. 

That’s when I saw a shadow, only two yards away from me, slowly pushing the stalks of corn out of its way. I slowly backed up towards the path, fear beginning to rise throughout my body. I tripped on a lump of dirt behind me, and as the figure got closer, I held up the flashlight to my face, trying to protect myself. 

The figure then revealed itself: it was a woman with a young boy standing tightly at her side. The moonlight illuminated her dirty face and worker’s clothes. The child, with big, sad brown eyes, was sucking his thumb. I slowly picked myself up, noticing that I was much larger than her petite frame. “Hola,” I uttered. No response. “¿Trabajas para mi papá?”, I asked. She shook her head.  

“I came from México, across border,” she said. She must have travelled a long way, I thought; the nearest border crossing point was almost 300 miles from our town. “Are you injured?,” I asked. She shook her head again. “¿Tienen hambre?,” I asked, looking from her to what I assumed was her son. “Sí, we haven’t eaten in days except what we packed,” she replied. “I have some sopa in my house down there, would you like some?,” I asked. “Yes, please,” she picked up her son and lantern, and I guided them down the field. I opened the back door, which she entered hesitantly. I know it seems unusual to let a stranger who was walking on your property into your house without much question, but I couldn’t help but empathize with her; most of my dad’s workers had come here illegally as well, and I’ve heard stories about how difficult the trek can be. 

As I heated them a pot of soup on the stove, she introduced herself as María and her son as Heriberto. They had come all the way from a small town in Sonora. From what I gathered, her husband had passed away from illness and she had no family to support her. She decided to move to the US to start a new life. I told her the story of how my parents and tío had moved here, and how it’d taken them a while to actually have any success. 

María was feeding her son a spoonful of pozole when I heard the crunch of the wheels of my dad’s truck on the dirt road leading up to the house. She must have heard it too, as she perked up. “Quédese aquí,” I told her as I walked out the front door. 

My tío was unloading a box of unsold corn from the back of the truck when my dad was getting out of the passenger seat. “Is everything okay, Yari?”, he asked. “Yes, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that, uh, I found a lady and her son in the field and they looked really cold and tired and I let them in and gave them something to eat,” I spat out. I could immediately tell something was wrong as my father’s face dropped. I could see in my peripheral vision that my tío had stopped what he was doing and was looking directly at my dad. 

I tried to correct whatever I’d said to upset him, blurting out, “They came over the border, three hundred miles away. I couldn’t just have left them out there.” He practically pushed past me to run inside the house and my tío followed. “Wait! I’m sorry,” I yelled, running after them. “Stay out there, Yari!,” my dad responded. Not following his orders, I ran inside the house behind them. I saw that María and Heriberto were no longer at the table, the half eaten bowl of pozole the only sign that anyone had been sitting there. 

“I swear they were just here-“, my tío quickly shushed me, and the house fell silent. “Juan,” my dad whispered. “Ve a buscar las pistolas.” I was about to yell at him not to when I heard creaking coming from upstairs. All three of us froze and looked up. My heart was beating out of my chest, and my palms were sweating like I’d just done 50 pull-ups. 

As soon as I heard rapid, loud footsteps descending down the stairs, my father screamed, “Run, Yari!”. My flight response kicked in, and I sprinted out the back door into the field. My still healing stomach ached as my sneakers pounded the dirt. I heard the pops of one gun firing behind me, then two. Once I reached a safe distance from the house, I slowed down to look back. Through the sliding glass door, I saw my dad and tío shooting at something, my view of it being blocked by the wall in the dining room. 

I picked up my pace and ran until I reached the barn at the end of the cornfield. I pushed open the doors and slammed them shut, blocking them with a bin full of tools. I sat on the dirt floor next to the doorway. It felt like ages before the sound of the shooting ceased and, just as I was about to get up, I heard my dad’s voice call from outside the barn. “Yari! They’re gone! You can come out now!,” he yelled. I breathed a sigh of relief, picked myself up, and removed the bin from in front of the door. 

I pulled one of the doors open and saw a figure standing in front of me, backlit by the moonlight. As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the vertically blinking eyes and sharp rows of smiling teeth occupying what should’ve been my dad’s face. I screamed and stumbled back as the imposter pounced forward. I rolled out of its way quick enough to avoid its grasp, causing it to dive straight into the dirt. I moved as far back from it as I could as it regained its footing. The brain fog from my initial shock cleared, and I remembered the bin of tools. I jumped leftwards as the monster tried to attack me again, violently crashing against the wall of the barn in failing to catch me. I grabbed a rusty pitchfork out of the bin and held it in front of me. 

As the monster and I circled each other like wrestlers, I threateningly jabbed the pitchfork towards it as it hissed, baring its grimy teeth. I must have hit a rock or something, because I fell backwards on my ass and hit the ground with a thud. The monster, taking advantage of my vulnerable position, tried to pounce on me one more time. Just before its claws could reach my face, I thrusted the pitchfork forward and stabbed it through the chest. It let out an ungodly, sickening wail as it fell to the side. I quickly got up and just as violently removed my weapon from its chest. 

Its chest was moving every so slightly up and down, so I took a shovel and drove it into its neck. It let out one final cry before going still, frozen in a position of agony. I grabbed the bloody pitchfork and limped out of the barn, having hurt my ankle from taking that bad fall. I cocked my head from one side to the other every few seconds to see if another beast was lurking in the stalks, my pitchfork raised in a ready stance. 

I made my way up the back steps and through the doorway, stepping over the shattered glass of what had been our back door. My tío was kneeled next to my dad, whose chest was carved with four claw marks, his shirt a bloody rag. He was still breathing, but his eyes had closed. Realizing I was still gripping the pitchfork, I dropped it and fell on my knees next to my tío. Startled by the noise, he turned around. “We need to get him to a hospital,” I said with a surprisingly calm tone. 

I ignored the sharp pain in my ankle and helped my tío carry my dad to the backseat of the truck. When we arrived at the emergency room, we told the staff he’d been attacked by a mountain lion while on a hike. I don’t think they totally believed us, but it was better than trying to explain what had actually happened and being thrown in el manicomio for delusions. 

A week and a half later, my dad was home. He mainly rested quietly in bed, but one afternoon, he called me into his room. I limped in, my ankle still recovering, and sat on the side of the bed. “How are you feeling, mamás?,” he asked me. “I’m..I’m okay. Still a little shaken up,” I replied, pushing my hair behind my ear. 

“Mmm…I’m gonna be honest with you, Yari. I don’t know what those things are. I just…I’ve seen them every few years since we moved here, but I’ve never been attacked like that,” he said. “I’m sorry, Dad. I never should’ve let those pe—things in the house,” I apologized, feeling tears form in my eyes. “No, no, no, no, no, mamás, it’s not your fault at all. Those things, they can make themselves look however they want. They trick you into feeling bad for them and that’s how they lure you in. I—I should’ve told you before,” he continued. 

“I know. One of them attacked me in the barn. I only opened the door because he sounded—and looked—like you,” I told him hesitantly; I had only told my tío about my encounter, as I didn’t want to worry my dad while he was recovering. A concerned look entered his eyes, and he grabbed my hand. He sniffled and trembled, “I think those are the things that took your mom.” A cold wave ran throughout my body. All of my nerves felt like they had ceased to work. I felt such a strong mixture of emotions that I couldn’t even cry. All I could do was stare at my father. 

My mom disappeared when I was four. My dad woke up one Saturday morning and she wasn’t in bed next to him. He figured she was cooking breakfast, so he went downstairs, but everything was silent. There was no sign of forced entry, and both of their cars were in the driveway. He and my tío looked all around the farm before calling the police. They searched for her for months, looking all over the county and putting missing person’s posters practically all over the state. Some suspected she may have run away, but my dad knew she loved him and I too much to abandon us. They never found a trace of her. It almost broke my dad, but he knew he had to take care of me, so he kept moving. 

“We kept hearing this strange wail somewhere in the field that entire night. Juan and I were able to sleep through it, but she kept complaining about how it was making her head hurt. I think maybe she went outside to get a breath of fresh air or investigate the sound, and…”, he trailed off. I didn’t have the slightest clue as to how to respond, so I just laid on his chest and cried. Though I knew I was pressing right on his scars, he ignored the pain and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. 

My dad eventually made a full recovery, and he and my tío were back to work together in no time. To celebrate the end of a long, hot summer, we hosted a huge party for all of his workers. Even though it wasn’t a potluck, people still brought their own dishes—tamales, menudo, sope, caldo de res. Some of the workers were a part of a mariachi band, and they played music for us to dance to. 

At about 2 AM, all of the workers had gone home, and my tío and I were cleaning up. As he swept the dining room, I washed the dishes. I was joking with him about how drunk one of the mariachis had gotten and how his trumpet had sounded like a dying animal by the end. I looked out the window above the sink for a moment between laughs, and that’s when I saw it—a flickering light amidst the stalks.