The rain fell mercilessly on the small town of San Miguel. For years, the community had lived under the shadow of a legend that lurked in their minds: the story of the man without a face. It was said that he appeared on stormy nights, seeking those who had made a pact with darkness.
Clara, a young journalist who had just arrived, was determined to unravel the mystery. She had heard the stories in the town tavern, where the elders whispered tales over drinks. “The man without a face steals the soul of those who do not believe in the light,” one would say, while another recounted how a girl who had not heeded the warnings disappeared into the night, leaving everything in darkness.
Driven by curiosity and the desire to write an article that would impress her editor, Clara began to investigate. She delved into the local library, where she found a dusty diary belonging to a man who had disappeared decades ago. Its pages were filled with unsettling notes about visions, shadows in the dark, and a faceless figure that haunted him in his dreams.
As she read, a chill ran down her spine. It was as if the words of the diary came to life. In her mind, the image of the man without a face took shape with each word, a void that seemed to swallow the light. Clara decided to visit the place where the figure was said to have been seen last, an old forest surrounding the town, where the darkness was impenetrable.
That night, armed with a flashlight and her recorder, she ventured into the forest. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy and charged with palpable tension. As she walked, she began to hear whispers among the trees. “Clara… Clara…” The voice was familiar, like a distant echo, and she felt it calling her. She stopped, trying to identify where it was coming from.
As she moved forward, she felt trapped in a nightmare. The shadows stretched and twisted, and every time she shone the flashlight, it seemed that something moved just out of reach. A sense of despair overtook her, but curiosity was stronger. It was then that she saw a figure at the end of the path: a tall man in a black coat, standing under a tree. His face was in the shadows, but Clara felt a shiver run down her spine.
“Are you the man without a face?” she asked, her voice trembling. The man did not respond, but a deep silence settled in. Drawn in, Clara approached, feeling something inside her urging her to continue. As she got closer, the figure stepped forward, and for a moment, the flashlight illuminated his face.
But there was no face. Only a void, a space where the eyes and mouth should be. Clara froze. The legend was real. At that moment, the man raised his hand, and darkness seemed to envelop her. Clara felt an indescribable terror; her whole being fought to escape, but she could not move.
Terrified, she remembered the warnings of the elders in the tavern. The light… she had to find the light. With superhuman effort, she backed away, running toward the direction of the exit. The whisper grew louder, filling her mind with a deafening echo. “Clara… Clara…”
Finally, she reached the edge of the forest and stepped into the moonlight. Breathless, she turned around, but the man had vanished. The feeling of being watched did not fade, and her heart raced as she looked into the darkness. She had escaped, but she knew that fear had followed her.
That night, Clara could not sleep. Every creak in the house, every moving shadow kept her on edge. But the worst came at dawn. When she checked her recorder, the recordings were filled with whispers and unintelligible screams, but at the end, a clear voice was heard: “You have made a pact. Now you are part of the legend.”
Clara felt panic wash over her, but at the same time, a spark of curiosity pierced through. In her mind, the legend of the man without a face had left a deep mark. She had not escaped; she had been chosen. As the sun hid behind the clouds, the whisper of the legend echoed in her mind, promising that she would not be the last. Darkness would always seek new faces to devour.