NOVELA FANTASTICA #4

 Novela Fantástica #4

The Man in the Hat

Ernesto’s job was at a 24-hour 7-Eleven off the interstate, the kind of place where truckers stopped for bad coffee and teenagers bought beer with fake IDs. He worked the graveyard shift, 11 PM to 7 AM, because nobody else wanted it. The pay was decent, and the manager, a grizzled ex-Marine named Rick, didn’t ask too many questions.  

The first few nights were quiet—just the hum of fluorescent lights, the occasional chime of the door, and the low static of the security monitor. Then, on the fourth night, the power flickered.  

The convenience store’s AC unit rattled like a dying animal as Ernesto wiped down the roller grill, the smell of congealed nacho cheese clinging to his polyester uniform. At 3:17 AM, the flickering neon Bud Light sign cast jagged shadows across Aisle 3 where the man first appeared—a silhouette so dense it absorbed the light around it.  

"¿Qué chingados...?" Ernesto’s mop handle clattered to the floor. The security monitor showed nothing but empty aisles. When he called his manager, Rick just grunted: “Kid, either you’re high or you need glasses."

An hour later, the power flickered again.

Ernesto looked up from the register. The store was empty except for him. The drink coolers buzzed back to life, casting an eerie blue glow over the linoleum. And then he saw it.  

At the end of Aisle 3, near the motor oil and air fresheners, stood a figure.  

Tall. Motionless. A silhouette blacker than the shadows around it, wearing what looked like an old-fashioned wide-brimmed hat. No face. No features. Just… presence.  

Ernesto’s breath caught. He blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, the figure was gone.  

He told himself it was fatigue. A trick of the light. But deep down, he knew—that thing had been real.  

Then next night, the bell above the door jingled as the last customer left, a trucker in a grease-stained cap who bought a pack of Marlboros and a lukewarm hot dog. Ernesto locked the door behind him, flipping the sign from Open to Closed, though the 7-Eleven never truly closed—just paused for a breath between shifts.  

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the aisles of chips, candy bars, and energy drinks. The security monitor flickered, showing grainy black-and-white footage of empty aisles. Ernesto wiped down the counter, the smell of stale coffee and industrial cleaner thick in the air.  

Then—the lights dimmed.  

Not a full blackout, just a dip, like the building had sighed. The hum of the drink coolers stuttered.  

Ernesto’s hand stilled on the counter.  

At the far end of Aisle 3, near the motor oil and air fresheners, stood the man.  

Tall. Too tall. A silhouette blacker than the shadows around it, as if someone had cut a man-shaped hole in the world. The brim of his hat obscured his face—if he even had one.  

Ernesto’s breath caught. His fingers curled around the edge of the counter.  

The figure didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there, watching.  

Then the lights surged back to full brightness.  

The man was gone.  

Ernesto exhaled sharply. His heart hammered against his ribs. He told himself it was fatigue. A trick of the light. Maybe the trucker had doubled back, lingered in the shadows.  

But the security monitor showed nothing. Just empty aisles.  

Three nights later, it happened again.  

This time, Ernesto was restocking the beer cooler. The glass door fogged with condensation as he slid six-packs onto the shelves. His reflection stared back at him—dark circles under his eyes, his jaw tight with exhaustion.  

Then, in the glass, another figure appeared behind him.  

Ernesto spun around.  

The man in the hat stood at the end of the aisle, motionless.  

Closer this time. Close enough to see the way the darkness around him seemed to ripple, like heat off asphalt in summer.  

Ernesto’s throat went dry. He took a step back, his shoulder bumping against the cooler. The glass rattled.  

The man didn’t move.  

Then the freezer alarm blared—a piercing shriek that made Ernesto flinch. When he looked back, the figure was gone.  

By the end of the week, Ernesto was a wreck. He jumped at every flicker of light, every creak of the store’s aging infrastructure. He started leaving the radio on, loud, just to fill the silence.  

On his last night, he saw the man in the hat three times.  

First, reflected in the microwave door as Ernesto heated up a sad, shrink-wrapped burrito.  

Then, standing outside the bathroom while Ernesto washed his hands, the figure’s shadow stretching under the door.  

Finally, at 4:17 AM, when the store was dead silent, Ernesto looked up from his phone—and there the man was, standing right behind the counter.  

No breath. No sound. Just the faint smell of damp earth, like a freshly dug grave.  

Ernesto bolted. He didn’t clock out. Didn’t grab his jacket. Just ran, the bell above the door jingling madly as he burst into the parking lot.  

He never went back.  

———-

He quit 7-Eleven a week later, blaming "family issues." His next job was at a Dunkin’ Donuts on the edge of Denver, another overnight gig. The manager, a tired woman named Josalinda, didn’t care if he showed up as long as the donuts were glazed by sunrise.  She didn’t ask for references. She took one look at Ernesto’s tired eyes and said, “You start tonight.”  

The first shift started easy. Mixing batter, frying donuts, glazing them in the dead hours before dawn. The kitchen was warm, the smell of sugar and grease a comfort.  

Then, at 2 AM, the dining room lights flickered.  

Ernesto peered through the service window. The dining room was empty—just a sea of empty tables and chairs.  

But something was off.  

One of the chairs was pulled out. As if someone had been sitting there.  

Then he saw it.  

At the far booth, the man in the hat sat with his back to the counter. His silhouette was impossibly still.  

Ernesto’s hands shook as he grabbed a knife from the counter.  

“Hey!” he shouted, voice cracking. “We’re closed!”  

The figure didn’t move.  

Then the fryer beeped—the oil was ready.  

When Ernesto looked back, the booth was empty.  

But the chair was still pulled out.  

The next few nights were fine. Then, the following week during his seventh shift, the dining room lights dimmed on their own.  

Ernesto froze, icing bag in hand. The kitchen door creaked open.  

There, in the threshold, stood the man in the hat.  

Closer this time. Close enough to see the way the darkness around him seemed to ripple, like heat off asphalt.  

Ernesto dropped the bag. Frosting splattered his shoes. When he looked up, the figure was gone.  

Marisol didn’t care about shadows—only that the Boston Creams were filled by 4 AM. But when Ernesto saw the hat’s brim reflected in the industrial mixer’s stainless steel, he dropped a tray of raspberry sprinkles. The figure stood between the flour sacks, one gloved hand resting on a 50lb bag as if weighing it.  

“You seeing this shit?" Ernesto hissed at Javier, the assistant baker.  

“Seeing what?"

The moment Javier turned away, the smell of wet soil filled the room.  

He lasted two more nights before walking out mid-shift, leaving the donuts half-finished.  

————-

After Dunkin’, Ernesto tried warehouse work—loading trucks for a shipping company. The shipping warehouse was massive, with rows of pallets stacked to the ceiling. Ernesto’s job was simple: load boxes onto trucks from 10 PM to 6 AM.  The pay was better, but the shifts were long and lonely. The warehouse was cavernous, filled with towering shelves and flickering industrial lights.  

On his first night, he heard footsteps behind him when no one else was there.  

On his second, he saw the man in the hat standing between two pallets of boxes, watching.  

On the third night, Ernesto was alone in the back aisle when the motion-activated lights shut off.  

He fumbled for his phone, turning on the flashlight.  

The beam landed on the man in the hat—now just three feet away.  

Ernesto stumbled back, dropping his phone. The light spun, casting wild shadows.  

When he grabbed it and pointed it again, the figure was gone.  

But the smell of damp earth lingered.  

Ernesto couldn’t take it anymore. He quit without notice, ignoring his supervisor’s angry shouts.  

—————

His next job was cleaning an Elementary school after hours. The school was old, with long hallways and flickering overhead lights.  

He lasted one night.  

At 1 AM, while mopping the cafeteria, he saw the man in the hat reflected in the glass of the fire exit door. Standing behind him.  

Ernesto ran, leaving the mop spinning in its bucket.  

—————

Weeks passed and Ernesto didn’t work another day. He didn’t make another dime, neither. Rent was due and he was getting desperate. He quickly made an appointment with a psychologist.

Ernesto sat in the psychologist’s office, fingers tapping against his knee. The room smelled faintly of lavender, an attempt at calm that did little to ease the tension in his chest. Dr. Vasquez waited, pen poised over her notepad, her gaze steady but not unkind.  

“I need to work,” Ernesto began, voice rough. “But he won’t let me.”  

“Who won’t?” Dr. Vasquez asked.  

Ernesto swallowed. “The man in the hat.”  

The first time he saw him, he was seventeen, mopping floors after closing at a diner. The lights flickered, and when they steadied, there he was—a shadow darker than the rest, standing at the end of the hallway. No face, just the outline of a wide-brimmed hat and a stillness that made Ernesto’s breath hitch. He dropped the mop and ran.  

After that, the man appeared whenever Ernesto was alone in the dark. Stockroom jobs, janitorial shifts, even a security gig—all ended the same. He’d turn a corner, the lights would dim, and that silhouette would be there, watching. No footsteps, no sound. Just presence.  

“Have you ever spoken to him?” Dr. Vasquez asked.  

Ernesto shook his head. “He doesn’t speak. He just… waits.”  

“Waits for what?”  

“I don’t know.”  

His latest job offer was cleaning offices at night. Good pay, but solitude was part of the deal. Ernesto needed the money—his sister’s rent was due, and his mother’s medicine wasn’t cheap. But the thought of empty halls and flickering lights made his pulse race.  

Dr. Vasquez leaned forward. “What if he’s not there to hurt you?”  

Ernesto scoffed. “Then why does he follow me?”  

“Maybe he’s trying to tell you something.”  

The idea lodged in Ernesto’s mind. What if the man wasn’t a threat, but a warning? A shadow cast by something deeper—fear of failure, of being unseen, of vanishing into the dark like his father had years ago.  

Now, sitting across from Dr. Vasquez, Ernesto rubbed his hands together.  

“Every time I’m alone at night, he’s there,” he said. “I can’t keep running. But I can’t keep a job either.”  

Dr. Vasquez studied him. “Have you ever tried speaking to him?”  

Ernesto laughed bitterly. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, ghost, can you let me mop in peace?’”  

“Maybe he’s not a ghost,” she said. “Maybe he’s something else.”  

Ernesto exhaled. “Like what?”  

“Like a part of you.. You intend on speaking to him?” she asked.  

Ernesto laughed bitterly. “What’s there to say?”  

“Maybe he’s trying to tell you something.”  

“Like what? ‘Stop working night shifts’?”  

Dr. Vasquez leaned forward. “Or maybe he’s not here to scare you. Maybe he’s here because you’re afraid.”  

Ernesto clenched his fists. “That doesn’t help me keep a job.”  

Dr. Vasquez stared at him intently, tapping the butt of her pen on the page.

“I bought a flashlight," Ernesto blurted. “Industrial grade. And I’m leaving every light on."

Dr. Vasquez adjusted her glasses. “You’re preparing for battle."

“Damn right."

“What if he’s not the enemy?"

Ernesto’s phone buzzed—a reminder: FIRST NIGHT TONIGHT. The man in the hat appeared in the office window behind Dr. Vasquez, shaking his head slowly.  

“Then what is he?" Ernesto whispered.  

The doctor leaned forward. “Let’s find out."

—————-

He left the session unsettled but determined. That night, he took the job.  

The new cleaning job was at a corporate office downtown. Empty at night. Quiet.  

The parking lot was vast and poorly lit, a sea of cracked asphalt dotted with flickering lampposts that buzzed like dying insects. Ernesto’s beat-up Honda Civic was the only car in the employee section, its dented hood reflecting the pale yellow glow of the security lights. He killed the engine and sat there for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles ached.  

“You need this job.”

The words looped in his head like a mantra. His sister’s rent was due. His mother’s medication wasn’t getting any cheaper. And after six failed jobs—each one ending with him sprinting out the door like a madman—this was his last chance.  

He exhaled sharply and checked his phone.  

10:47 PM.

Just get inside. Do the work. Go home.

He grabbed his backpack, heavy with a thermos of coffee, a flashlight, and a pocket knife he told himself he wouldn’t need. The car door creaked as he pushed it open, the sound too loud in the empty lot. The air smelled like rain and distant exhaust.  

The corporate office loomed ahead—a sleek, modern building with floor-to-ceiling windows that mirrored the night sky. The entrance was a glass atrium, dark except for the dim glow of an emergency exit sign.  

Ernesto started walking.  

Every shadow seemed to shift as he moved. The lamplights cast long, warped shapes across the pavement, and more than once, he jerked his head toward what he swore was movement. A trash can rattled in the breeze. A plastic bag skittered across the asphalt like something alive.  

His pulse thudded in his ears.  

It’s just wind. Just your brain playing tricks.

But then—  

At the far edge of the lot, near the dumpster enclosure, a figure stood.  

Tall. Still.  

Wearing a wide-brimmed hat.  

Ernesto froze.  

The man didn’t move. Just stood there, half-hidden in shadow.  

No. No, not here. Not tonight.

His breath came too fast. His fingers twitched toward the knife in his pocket.  

Then—  

The figure turned.  

And stepped into the light.  

It wasn’t the man in the hat.  

It was an old guy—maybe late sixties—with long, wispy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore a cable-knit sweater vest over a collared shirt and held a set of keys in one hand.  

“Evening,” the man said, his voice raspy but cheerful.  

Ernesto’s lungs unlocked. He forced himself to exhale.  

“Uh. Hey.”  

The old man squinted at him. “You the new cleaner?”  

“Yeah. Ernesto.”  

“Ah! Right, right. They told me you were starting tonight.” He extended a hand. “Name’s Walter. I’m the property super.”  

Ernesto shook his hand. Walter’s grip was firm, his palms rough with calluses.  

“You, uh… you always work this late?” Ernesto asked, glancing back toward the dumpsters.  

Walter chuckled. “Just bringing the bins to the curb for tomorrow’s pickup. Recycling’s gotta be out by midnight or the city skips us.” He patted one of the large blue bins. “You’ll be dealing with these too, so heads up—blue for recycling, green for garbage. Don’t mix ’em up, or the management gets pissy.”  

Ernesto nodded, still trying to slow his heartbeat.  

Walter tilted his head. “You okay, kid? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  

I have. Six times.

“Just… first-night nerves,” Ernesto muttered.  

Walter clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, don’t worry. Place is empty at night. Quiet. Nice, if you like that sorta thing.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “And between you and me? The microwaves in the break rooms are way better than the ones they got at my last building.”  

Ernesto managed a weak laugh.  

Walter checked his watch. “Alright, I gotta get these bins lined up. You head on in—door code’s 7790. Security cameras are on, so don’t go stealing the fancy coffee pods.” He winked.  

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ernesto said.  

Walter grinned, then turned back to the bins, humming under his breath.  

Ernesto hesitated.  

For a second, he almost asked—Hey, you ever see anything weird here at night? A guy in a hat, maybe?

But Walter was just a guy. A normal, living, sweater-vest-wearing guy.  

So Ernesto kept walking.  

The glass doors slid open with a quiet hiss. The lobby was cool and dim, the only light coming from the elevator buttons and the faint glow of a vending machine down the hall.  

Ernesto punched in the code. The lock clicked.  

He glanced back one last time.  

Walter was still out there, wheeling the bins into place, his ponytail swaying as he moved.  

No hat. No shadows.  

Just a man doing his job.  

Ernesto stepped inside.  

The doors closed behind him.  

As he rode the elevator up to the 7th floor, his nerves settled slightly.  

Maybe this job would be different.  

Maybe the man in the hat wouldn’t follow him here.  

Or maybe—just maybe—Walter’s presence was proof that not every shadow hid something terrible.  

The elevator dinged.  

The doors opened.  

And Ernesto stepped into the dark hallway, ready to work.  The front door of the corporate office of “Gummy Tech Solutions Inc.” standing before him.

Ernesto’s hands shook as he unlocked the front door.  

The corporate office was sleek and modern, all glass and steel. Ernesto’s task was simple: empty trash cans, vacuum carpets, wipe down surfaces.  

At midnight, the motion-activated lights in the hallway shut off.  

Ernesto’s breath hitched.  

The office was silent, the hum of the fluorescents his only company. He clenched the mop, heart pounding. Then—a flicker.  

He worked quickly, trying to ignore the creeping dread. Then—one more time—the lights flickered.  

At the end of the hallway, the man in the hat stood, waiting.  

This time, Ernesto didn’t run.  

He took a step forward.  

“What do you want?”  

The figure didn’t move.  

But for the first time, neither did Ernesto.  

At the end of the hall, the man lingered.  

Ernesto still didn’t run. He took another step forward.  

“What do you want?”  

The shadow didn’t move. 

Maybe the man wasn’t there to haunt him.  

Maybe he was just a part of him that needed to be seen.  

Ernesto’s hands trembled, but he didn’t run.  

“What do you want?” he whispered.  

The figure didn’t move.  

Then, slowly, it raised one hand—and pointed at Ernesto’s chest.  

At his heart.  

And for the first time, Ernesto understood.  

The man in the hat wasn’t a ghost.  

He was a shadow.  

A part of Ernesto that had always been there.  

Waiting to be seen.  

Hector turned away from the man in the hat—and for the first time in years, he wasn’t afraid.  

The shadowy figure had been there, standing at the end of the dimly lit hallway, just like always. The same wide-brimmed hat. The same impossible stillness. But this time, Hector didn’t run. He didn’t even flinch. He just… looked at him. Really looked.  

And then he laughed.  

A real, full-bellied laugh that echoed off the office walls.  

“All this time," Hector muttered, shaking his head. “All this fucking time, and you were never gonna do anything, were you?"

The man in the hat didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But for the first time, Hector didn’t need him to.  

He turned his back on the silhouette—something he’d never dared to do before—and walked away.  

And he felt good.

Lighter. Like he’d finally shrugged off a weight he didn’t even know he’d been carrying.  

The hallway turned left up ahead, leading back to the elevators. Hector whistled as he walked, the sound bouncing cheerfully off the sterile office walls. He could already taste the victory beer he’d buy himself after this shift. Maybe two. Hell, maybe he’d finally call Rosa, tell her he wasn’t crazy after all.  

Then he rounded the corner.  

And froze.  

Walter stood there.  

The old superintendent—sweater vest, ponytail, and all—leaned against the wall, twirling something in his hands.  

“Hey kid," Walter said, smiling. “Forget something?"

Hector blinked. “What are you—"

Then he saw it.  

The thing in Walter’s hands wasn’t keys.  

It was a pair of rusty scissors.  

Hector’s stomach dropped.  

Walter’s smile widened. “Blue bin’s for recycling," he said, stepping forward. “Green bin’s for garbage."

Another step.  

“And you?"

Another.  

“You’re gonna go in the black one."

Hector tried to back up, but the wall was behind him. His mouth opened—to scream, to beg, to ask why—but Walter was already lunging.  

The scissors went in just below the ribcage.  

Hector gasped.  

The pain was hot and immediate, a white-hot spike that punched the air from his lungs. He looked down, disbelieving, at the rusty blades buried in his gut.  

Walter twisted them.  

“That’s for making for making me wait so long," he whispered, breath sour with coffee and rot. “I’ve been waiting and waiting but they just send real unpleasant people to clean these offices. Finally, there is you. So friendly, so nice…”

Hector’s legs gave out. He slid down the wall, blood soaking through his shirt, his vision already tunneling.  

Walter crouched beside him, yanking the scissors free with a wet schlick.

“Funny thing," he mused, wiping the blades on Hector’s pants. “The real super? Retired last year. But hey—look on the bright side."

He leaned in, lips brushing Hector’s ear.  

“Tonight you get to sleep with the worms in the ground…and the secret stays with us…"*  

Hector’s last thought, as the darkness swallowed him, was that the man in the hat had been right all along.  

He should have kept running.  

ATILA