I had heard his name many times, even before I learned to speak with the dead.
The elders in town used to say that during the Revolution, a cruel and bloodthirsty general passed through here with his men, destroying everything in his path. And when he finally fell dead, no one dared bury him with the others.
"He doesn't deserve rest," they'd say. "Let his soul rot in the earth like his body."
But he didn't rot.
⸻
That night, the wind blew from the north and the sky burned red.
The dead didn't speak.
They didn't groan.
They didn't cry.
They just stayed quiet in their graves, staring toward the cemetery gates.
"What are you waiting for?" I asked them, feeling a strange cold—heavier, older than anything I had ever felt before.
No one answered.
But I already knew who was coming.
I saw him appear, riding his black horse, wearing a gray uniform barely clinging to his bones.
His hat was tilted, his boots caked with mud and dried blood, and hanging from his back, an old rusted rifle.
His spurs rang with every step, a metallic sound that made the ground tremble beneath my feet.
The horse struck the gate, and the cemetery doors flew open.
He entered.
And every candle went out.
⸻
When he stopped in front of me, I knew he was unlike the others.
He wasn't trapped.
He didn't need my prayers or my words.
He had come to collect.
And I was the debt.
"Nahual…" he growled, his voice rough like stones grinding. "A hundred years have passed. And still no one gives me what I'm owed."
His skull tilted toward me.
His eyes glowed with a dull red light, like embers beneath ash.
"Give me your tongue," he ordered. "Give me your blood. Give me your face."
I stepped back, but the horse snorted and the ground split open behind me, cutting off my escape.
Tree roots rose like claws and wrapped around my legs.
The general dismounted and approached, step by step.
His breath smelled of gunpowder and rotting flesh.
"The dead have told me your name, nahual," he whispered. "You have spoken for them all… but never for me."
"There's nothing to say about you," I answered, mustering all the strength in my voice. "You brought only death and hatred to this land."
"And I still do," he laughed, a dry cackle that made the tombstones crack. "Now, I want what belongs to me."
⸻
From his belt, he drew a jagged machete and raised it over my head.
Its edge gleamed—not with metal, but with a dark fire, as if it were forged from pure malice.
The roots gripped tighter.
The gravestones began to tremble.
And the dead knelt, one by one, like soldiers before their general.
"You are my sacrifice," he declared. "With your skin, I'll cover my bones. With your eyes, I'll see the war again. With your tongue, I'll command the dead to march."
⸻
Then he cut me.
First, my cheek—with one swift motion.
My blood spilled to the ground, and the roots drank it with a moan.
Then he tore out my tongue with his bony fingers.
The pain was so unbearable I thought my mind would shatter.
But I stayed conscious, watching him roll it up and hang it on his belt, beside the others.
Dozens of dried, twisted tongues, like war medals.
Finally, he grabbed the back of my neck, drove the machete into my chest, and began peeling the skin from my face with terrifying precision.
I screamed, but I had no voice.
When he finished, he held it up and placed it over his own skull.
The skin of my face clung to his bone like it had always belonged there.
And for the first time in a century, the general smiled.
⸻
He mounted his horse again, upright, wearing my face, my blood dripping down his neck, my tongue hanging from his belt, and his spurs ringing with triumph.
The dead formed a line around him.
All of them.
Women, children, fallen soldiers.
One by one, they marched behind him as his laughter echoed through the night.
Before crossing the cemetery gates, he turned and looked at me one last time.
I was on the ground—faceless, tongueless, nothing left.
"Stay here," he said. "Keep my place until I return."
And he left, taking all the dead with him in a parade of bones and dust.
An army.
His army.
⸻
Now I'm alone in the cemetery.
Alone and mute.
The graves are empty.
The candles are out.
The air smells of gunpowder and dried blood.
I… I am no longer Citlali.
I can't speak to the dead anymore.
Now, I only guard their silence.
And I wait.
I wait for the general to return.
And when he does… I know he'll bring war with him.
And this time, no one will be left alive to light the candles.