Ethereal Chronicles

Disdain never touched me as a child. Not even once. Perhaps that was my problem, that I had been wrapped so tightly in a world of love that I began suffocating in its sweetness; the warmth so cloying, the affection so rich it began to spoil me from the inside. So I sadly grew to become a cold, spoiled brat of a son whose every whim was indulged, no matter how callous or absurd.

My father, Carlos, was a masterful hunter, his skill the stuff of quiet admiration. Sometimes he would return with rabbits, their meat gracing our table, or larger game that kept us feasting for weeks. Of all the bounty he brought home, my favourite was the rich, tender meat of freshly caught deer. One evening, unable to resist my cravings, I asked him if he might fetch me some the following day. He responded with a chuckle, tousling my hair with a calloused hand, and promised he would.

The next morning, I woke early, eager to watch him gather his things and set off into the still, shadowy woods. As the day stretched on, my thoughts were consumed by anticipation, my mind wrought with the taste, the scent that I could not quite reach but was so close to doing so. But when the hours dragged until dusk, something had begun to chew at me, and it wasn’t concern for my father’s wellbeing but harsh discomfort from the incessant howling of my own stomach, and the impatience that plagued me.

When he finally returned, battered and exhausted from the hunt, his hands were empty. I, weakened by hunger, rose unsteadily to greet him before he reached the door, but the sight of his failure ignited a rage that filled my nostrils and roared in my ears. Perhaps if I had noticed the look in his eyes my anger might have softened at the terror which enveloped them, but my temper was a dangerous one which blinded me to all but which I planned to do. So, my greedy hands reached for the neglected dagger that hung loosely at his waist. Clasping it in my palms, I raised it high above my head, a scream ripping from my throat as I latched myself onto him and landed unyielding blows against his chest. Perhaps he begged, his voice trembling with desperation, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. So I continued, drunk with fury, striking him until he crumpled to the ground. A wet, gurgling sound escaped his lips as his blood poured beneath him, his organs spilling from his body.

I knelt down in the dirt, reaching into the gore to retrieve his liver, slick and warm from the blood that curdled in my hands. Upon second thought, I reached again, my left hand closing around his heart, still quivering from the final beat. I then cut the meat with the knife that I had used to murder him, a sense of triumph rising in my throat knowing that I would finally be fed, and his failure would never again bother me.

My mother must have thought nothing of it, mistaking my offering as an act of kindness, since I had never helped her prepare meals before. So she obliged without hesitation, setting to work at once. But as she began to cook, she saw that the meat seemed strange in look and smell, tinged with something that did not belong. Frowning, she decided to fetch a few herbs from the front garden, hoping to mask the oddity and improve the taste. She did not expect the body of her dead husband, discarded and bloodied in the middle of the path. I had resolved to move him later, but in my laziness had left him there, his form exposed.

She let out a shriek, her voice raw with grief and terror, before she collapsed to her knees. Her anguish spilled out to the cold earth before she raised her hands to the heavens, unleashing a torrent of curses against me.

The night passed in silence, and I’m not sure she ever came back inside. So I slept undisturbed, untroubled by the weight of my actions. But my peace shattered at an ungodly hour the following morning, when a cacophony of noise harshly awoke me. My grandfather had entered the room, the furious sound of his footsteps shaking the floorboards. In one motion, he tore the sheets from my body and yanked me from the bed by my feet.

I protested and cried all the way to where he dragged me, by some crossroads on a lone path which was unfamiliar to me. At the center stood a weathered, wooden sign, and it was this that he bound me to with rough, unyielding hands, the rope biting into my skin as I struggled against him.

My mother, the witch, had followed suit, bringing with her two leashed dogs, and a bloody sack. The pair of them set themselves some distance away, sitting in quiet, mocking watch as I wailed and begged for release. As the sun climbed high into the sky, my throat parched and my limbs weak with hunger, they drank from their sheepskin bottles and indulged in tender meat before me, each bite a cruel tease that ground on my sanity.

Finally, when I thought I might collapse, my grandfather rose, and began to strike me. The blows were unlike anything I could have ever imagined, each lash cutting deep into me many, many times. With these lashes my skin began to peel away with the same ease and tenderness as the animals that my mother had flayed. The ground beneath me was soaked, drowned in the blood, while my grandfather’s forehead gleamed with sweat in the sun.

When at last he stopped, I was dragged to the ground, my body trembling, and I thought for a fleeting moment that my mother would scoop me up and embrace me. But instead, a sticky, unpleasant substance was poured into my open wounds, sending waves of agony through my body. I tilted my head, my eyes seeking hers for solace, but all I saw was the dogs, their gazes cold and unfeeling as they searched my face for remorse. But that ability had left me long ago.

My mother spoke not a word, her silence suffocating as she approached with the great sack in her hands. With a grim look, she flung the remains of my father onto my back. I cried out with revulsion as the blood seeped through the thin fabric, mingling with my own, but I could not move to stand.

Even when my grandfather called out and the dogs began to shift, I remained frozen. I watched as their innocent expressions twisted into bared teeth and growls that rumbled deep in their throats. Still I could not move from the terror that had possessed me, and I could do nothing but wait for death as they bore down on me, tearing me apart.

Even after death, I was not granted release. I roam to this day, cursed to carry upon my back the bones of my wretched father, bound to an existence that offers neither life or death.

APPEARANCE AND ATTRIBUTES

El Silbón is seen by many as the shadow of a tall, hatted man, his frame stretched thin with the weight of a great sack draped upon his back. To some he is a harbinger of impending death. To others he is nothing more than a torturer, a relentless force of suffering that serves nothing more than to haunt the living.

The strange tune that marks his presence is a deceiving sound that emits closely when there is little chance of danger, and barely audible when lethal. He may whistle aloud, his voice carrying vibrantly through the air, a chilling melody, from which one may still escape. Equally he may whistle in secret, his tune slipping into the ears of a single soul doomed to inescapable death.

In the Summer, he rests beneath a tree, gathering dust in his gnarled hands. But on dark, cold days, when the ground is wet from rain, his spirit wanders, inflicting punishment on innocents and wrongdoers alike.

When met with drunkards, he lowers his head, draining the alcohol from their naval before killing them. But when approaching womanizers, El Silbón tears their flesh to pieces, picking their bones clean before placing them into the sack he carries, filled with the remains of his father.

On certain nights, El Silbón may choose a home to visit, casting his sack upon the ground to count the bones within it. If the soft clunk of his rummaging reaches the ears of those inside, they and their loved ones are spared. But if, in his presence, the night remains silent, the household undisturbed, then one less soul will wake the following morning.