You Shouldn't Have Touched That

Chapter 1

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard this story in my family, but it never fails to send chills down my spine. It was told to my mother when she was a child, and although some details may have changed over the years, the essence remains the same: this really happened. It happened to my older brother, Samuel, over 50 years ago, when he was just a thirteen-year-old boy. We lived on a ranch in southern Texas, near the Rio Grande, in a place where dirt roads stretched for miles with nothing but dry fields, twisted trees, and the occasional old, abandoned shack. Back then, life on the ranch was tough. There weren’t phones everywhere, and the only way to communicate between ranches and nearby towns was by sending someone with a message or a package. It always had to be someone trustworthy, and in our case, my brother Samuel was perfect for the job. Samuel was agile, fast, and fearless. Since he was ten years old, our boss would send him on errands, paying him with a few coins or a good plate of hot food. But that day, the errand was different. —I need you to take this package to the McAllister ranch before sunset, —the foreman said as he handed him a small wooden box tied with a string—. It’s important. Don’t lose it. The McAllister ranch was about a two-hour walk away, crossing a desolate area where there was nothing but shrubs, old cornfields, and some dry creeks. A long, dusty, and lonely trail. Before Samuel left, our mother pulled him aside and gave him her canteen filled with water. —Don’t talk to anyone on the way. If you see anything strange, keep moving forward and don’t look back. Samuel rolled his eyes and slung the canteen over his shoulder. —I know, Mom. —No, Samuel. Listen to me. A few days ago, a man disappeared in that area. He went out on horseback and never came back. They didn’t find his body or the animal. They say something got him. My brother let out a laugh. —He probably fell into a creek or something. Our mother didn’t smile. —Just be careful. And don’t leave the path. Samuel didn’t take it seriously, but he obeyed. The sun was at its highest when he set out. My brother’s boots sank into the dust of the trail as he walked, with the canteen bumping against his hip and the package tucked securely under his arm. The landscape was the same as always: dry trees on the sides of the road, fields of withered corn, and the occasional broken scarecrow hanging from old posts. Samuel walked calmly, enjoying the warm breeze, when he saw something ahead on the trail. At first, he thought it was just another scarecrow, but as he got closer, he realized it wasn’t a dummy. It was a person. They were completely still, standing right in the middle of the path. They wore old, cream-colored burlap clothes, like the ones worn by the local farmers. But what really unsettled Samuel was their head: it was completely covered by a white veil, like a shroud that fell to their chest. The figure’s body didn’t move; it didn’t seem to breathe. Samuel felt a chill run down his spine. —Hello? —he said softly, though part of him hoped for no response. Nothing. The stranger remained silent, as if they hadn’t even heard him. He quickened his pace to go around them, but when he was just a few meters away, he felt a pressure in his chest, a primal instinct screaming at him not to get any closer. Something about that person, about their rigid posture, about the way the veil completely hid their face, made his nerves stand on end. Samuel crossed to the other side of the trail and passed as quickly as he could, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. But as he walked, the air grew heavier, hotter. When he was far enough away, he couldn’t help but look back. The figure was still there, in the same spot. But now their head was slightly tilted in his direction. As if they were watching him through the veil. Samuel felt a chill and walked away even faster. After several minutes, the trail opened up to an abandoned cornfield, where he always saw crows lurking. But this time, they weren’t crows. They were vultures. The large black birds circled above the field, fluttering over something Samuel couldn’t quite see. Like any mischievous kid, he took advantage of the solitude to pick up a few ears of corn from the ground. There was no one around. He had never seen an owner tending to that field. But just as he was putting the ears of corn into his bag, a sound made him freeze. It was a whistle. Loud. Sharp. Like an owl’s… but too human. Samuel felt his pulse in his throat. Someone was watching him. He looked around in every direction, but there was no one. No one except the scarecrow. It was an old, tattered dummy, with dirty burlap clothes and a broken straw hat. But what caught Samuel’s attention the most was that it had no face. Or, rather, its face was hidden. Covered with a hat and a white veil… Exactly like the figure on the trail. Samuel swallowed hard. Something inside him told him he shouldn’t stay there. But when he turned to leave, the whistle sounded again, this time much closer. And then, a hoarse voice whispered something. —Help me. Samuel felt his heart stop. He slowly turned toward the scarecrow, his body completely tense. Nothing moved. There was no one around. Just the dummy on its post, with its hat tilted, as if it were watching him through the veil. Samuel swallowed. “It’s my imagination,” he thought. Still, his trembling fingers searched the ground for a thick branch. When he found it, he picked it up and used the end of the wood to push the scarecrow’s chest. Nothing. He exhaled in relief. But when he turned to leave, the voice came again, this time clearer. —Help me… Samuel felt the blood drain from his face. He turned back to the scarecrow. And in that instant, something fell from the hat. A dried, rotten pig’s head, with its eyes open and covered in flies. The jaw creaked open, and in a barely audible whisper, the dead mouth murmured again. —Help me… Samuel ran without looking back. He didn’t stop until he reached the McAllister ranch gate. When he looked up, he felt a knot in his stomach. His canteen and the package weren’t with him. He had left them… by the scarecrow.

Chapter 2

Samuel felt his blood run cold. He stood at the gate of the McAllister ranch, his mouth dry and his heart pounding in his ears. He didn’t have the package. He didn’t have his canteen. He had left them by the scarecrow. He knew he couldn’t return home without completing his task. The boss would beat him for being irresponsible, and his mother… his mother would look at him with disappointment. But beyond the fear of consequences, what truly terrified him was something else. He would have to go back to that field. Where the scarecrow was waiting for him. Where whatever was inside it was waiting for him. The sun was already beginning to set when Samuel took a deep breath and headed back down the trail, this time with cautious steps. When he reached the cornfield, he noticed something strange. Everything was completely silent. No wind rustled through the dry leaves, no vultures cawed. It was a dead silence. Samuel walked into the field, following the line of the trampled path he had left earlier. When he reached the clearing where the scarecrow had been, he felt a chill run up his neck. The dummy was no longer on its post. The stake was still there, with some rags hanging from it. But the scarecrow had disappeared. Samuel swallowed hard and forced himself to keep going. He had barely taken two steps when he saw his canteen. It was hanging from one of the dry branches of a nearby tree, swaying gently as if someone had left it there on purpose. Samuel approached with goosebumps, every muscle in his body tense, ready to run if anything happened. With trembling fingers, he grabbed the canteen and took it down. At that moment, something fell from the tree and hit the ground with a dull thud. It was the scarecrow’s straw hat. Samuel felt a knot in his stomach. He looked around. And then, he saw the package. It was on the ground, right at the entrance of an old, rotting shack that he hadn’t noticed before. Samuel felt a chill. The shack looked like it had been abandoned for years, with mold-covered walls and a door barely hanging on its rusted hinges. But what really unsettled him was a detail that made his skin crawl. Right in front of the door, there were footprints in the dust. They didn’t look like boot or shoe prints. They were barefoot prints. Prints from someone large. And they led inside the shack. Samuel swallowed. He didn’t want to approach. He didn’t want to go in. But the package was right there. If he left it, he would be a failure. His mother had taught him that a man keeps his word, no matter how scared he is. So, with his fists clenched, he forced himself to move forward. He climbed the three rotting wooden steps, which creaked under his weight. The door was slightly ajar. With a trembling hand, Samuel pushed it open. The smell hit him like a punch. A thick, heavy stench of rotting meat and rancid blood. Samuel held his breath and took a step inside. The light from the sunset barely illuminated the interior. He could only see the table in the center of the room… and what was on it. Pig heads. Dozens of them, piled on top of each other. Some were fresh, with dried blood dripping from their open snouts, while others were dried and rotten, with flies buzzing around them. Samuel felt his stomach churn. The floor was sticky, covered in dried blood. He didn’t want to look anymore. He grabbed the package from the table, intending to run out immediately. But then, he heard something behind him. The sound of footsteps on the dirt outside the shack. And then, a sharp knock on the door. Samuel felt his entire body tense. He could barely breathe. Something was outside. And it was waiting for him to come out. He turned slowly, his pulse pounding in his ears. And there, standing in the doorway, he saw someone. A tall man, wearing bloodstained white burlap clothes. But his face was covered with a pig’s head. The dead eyes of the animal stared blankly, the skin hardened and dry. The snout was open in a grotesque grin. Samuel felt his legs go weak. The pig man held a machete in his right hand. And without moving, without speaking, he just breathed heavily behind the rotten mask. Samuel couldn’t move. Every part of his body screamed at him to run, to flee immediately, but his brain wouldn’t react. Until the pig man tilted his head slightly. As if he were really looking at him. Then, with a low growl, he took a step forward. And Samuel ran. He jumped over the table, trampling the pig remains, and bolted toward the back of the shack. The back door was wide open, as if it had been waiting for him. Samuel sprinted into the cornfield, the tall plants whipping his face and legs. Behind him, he heard the heavy footsteps of the pig man chasing him. The sound of the machete slicing through the plants, cutting them down with ease. Samuel could barely see where he was going. The moonlight filtered through the dry leaves, casting long, twisted shadows. He ran and ran, but the cornfield seemed endless. He kept going in circles. Every time he turned, he ended up back in front of the shack. As if something was guiding him there. Until, in a moment of carelessness, he tripped over something and fell face-first into the dirt. He looked back… And saw it. The scarecrow. Lying on the ground, its arms outstretched… as if trying to grab him. Samuel screamed and kicked it with all his strength. But then, he felt something else. The air turned icy. And right beside him, just a few meters away, was him. The pig man. Standing in the darkness, his head tilted, the machete dripping with blood from the plants he had cut. Samuel was breathless. The pig man raised his hand… and pointed at him. Samuel jumped to his feet and ran with all his might. But as he fled, he heard his voice for the first time. It was a low, raspy voice, like a muffled whisper behind the pig’s snout. —I see you…

Chapter 3

Samuel ran with all his strength, feeling his breathing become erratic and his legs burn with effort. Behind him, the sounds of the cornfield being torn apart grew closer. The pig man was catching up. He didn’t understand how, but every time he tried to escape the field, he ended up back in the same place. It was as if the cornfield was trapping him, as if every twisted path pushed him back to where it all began. The shack. The scarecrow. The pig man. The thought of being trapped there forever made him run even faster, though the uneven ground and lack of light made it almost impossible to move without stumbling. The moon barely illuminated the path, and every shadow around him seemed to move, as if something else was lurking in the darkness. But then, in his desperation, he saw an exit. In the distance, beyond the field, he made out the silhouette of a wooden fence. It was the edge of the cornfield. If he could cross it, he would be in open ground, away from the endless aisles of the cornfield. Samuel clenched his teeth and ran toward the fence, forcing his tired legs to move faster. The footsteps behind him also quickened. He could hear the machete hitting the leaves, cutting them violently. The pig man was now just a few meters away. Samuel could feel his presence, his labored breathing, the sound of the rotten pig’s head shaking with every movement. Three meters. Two meters. Samuel jumped toward the fence, grabbing the edge with all his strength. He felt a burning pain in his calf. The machete had grazed his skin, leaving a shallow cut, but deep enough for warm blood to trickle down his leg. He ignored the pain and, with one last effort, climbed the fence and fell heavily on the other side. He rolled in the dry dirt, feeling the dust fill his mouth and nose. He turned immediately, expecting to see the pig man jumping after him. But no. The pig man stood on the other side of the fence, completely still. He barely breathed, his chest rising and falling irregularly, as if he were panting. Samuel couldn’t see his eyes, only the horrible pig’s snout and the rotten skin of the head he wore as a mask. And then, the pig man slowly raised his free arm and pointed his bony finger directly at Samuel. A whisper came from the dead mouth of the animal. —You shouldn’t have touched it. Samuel felt his entire body freeze. Before he could process those words, the pig man took a step back and, without taking his eyes off him, vanished into the shadows of the cornfield. Samuel didn’t wait any longer. He got up as best he could and ran without looking back. He didn’t know how long he ran, but when he finally saw the lights of the McAllister ranch in the distance, he felt like he could breathe again. When he arrived, Mr. McAllister was at the entrance, holding a lantern and frowning. —What the hell happened to you, boy? —he asked, noticing his dirty clothes and the dried blood on his leg. Samuel leaned on his knees, trying to catch his breath. —The package… —he managed to say between gasps—. I don’t have it. McAllister frowned even more. —Did you drop it on the way? Samuel shook his head. He didn’t have the strength to explain what had happened. He didn’t have the strength to tell him about the scarecrow, about the pig man, about the shack full of rotting heads. McAllister sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. —Don’t worry about that now. Come in, boy. Let’s clean that leg. Samuel could barely nod. But when he entered the house, he noticed something that made him shudder from head to toe. On the dining table, wrapped in a dark cloth… Was the package he had left in the shack. Samuel felt his stomach churn. —How…? —A man brought it a few minutes ago, —McAllister said calmly—. I didn’t get a good look at him, but he was tall. Wore white. Didn’t say a word, just left this here and walked away. Samuel felt the air grow heavy around him. He didn’t want to touch the package. He didn’t even want to look at it. But McAllister picked it up without hesitation and carefully opened it. Inside was a dried, rotten pig’s head. McAllister let out a grunt. —Damn bastard. Samuel felt a chill. —Who? McAllister slammed the box shut. —Someone you don’t want to meet, boy. Samuel wanted to press further, but the old rancher just shook his head. —Listen carefully, —he said, his voice more serious than Samuel had ever heard it—. Never go back to that field. Never. Samuel didn’t respond. He didn’t need to be told twice. That night, McAllister let him stay at the ranch to recover. Samuel didn’t sleep a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the silhouette of the pig man standing by the fence. Every time the wind blew against the window, his mind made him think he heard a whisper in the darkness. You shouldn’t have touched it. The next morning, Samuel left for home at the first light of dawn. He never took another errand that led him through that area again. Over the years, he tried to convince his family that maybe it had all been a hallucination caused by exhaustion and fear. But deep down, he knew the truth. Something lived in that field. Something that didn’t want to be seen. Something that didn’t want to be touched. And though he never returned to the cornfield, there was one thing that never stopped haunting him. Because a week later, McAllister sent a group of armed men to burn the shack to the ground. When the workers returned, McAllister greeted them with one question: —Did you find the scarecrow? The men exchanged nervous glances. —No, boss, —one of them replied after swallowing hard—. There was no scarecrow.