December 22nd
I’ve kept this journal mostly to document medical cases, but last night wasn’t medicine, it was survival. Maybe writing it down will help me believe it happened.
The village of Varedo is charming on the surface: nestled in the mountains, unreachable by road half the year, full of polite, quiet people. But something has always felt… preserved, like a place pickled in time. No cell service. No streetlights. The local clock tower is wound by hand.
A week ago, the mayor asked me to take part in something called La Última Guardia, ”The Last Watch.” I thought it was symbolic. A tradition to honor the changing of seasons. They said someone had to stay awake while the town slept. Alone. All night.
They handed me a lantern, an old rifle that looked more ceremonial than functional, and a brass bell. I asked what I’d be watching for.
The mayor just said, “You’ll know it when you see it, but don’t be scared.”
They locked me in the bell tower at dusk. I’m not exaggerating. They slid a beam across the door from the outside. That should’ve been the first sign.
For hours, nothing happened. Just wind and creaking wood. Then… the howling started. Low, guttural. Not distant like a wolf on a ridge but close, and rising.
I peered through the slats in the tower. That’s when I saw it.
A shape, easily eight feet tall, pacing near the well. Covered in mottled fur, shoulders heaving. Its eyes caught my lantern light and shone like silver coins.
I dropped the musket. I rang the bell like a madman. Screamed for help.
Nothing.
I kicked at the door until my foot went numb, then threw the lantern. It shattered against the stone floor and plunged me into darkness.
The creature disappeared. For a while.
Then I saw more—three, maybe four—moving among the houses. But none came toward the tower.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up in a bed. In the inn. Fully clothed. My journal was on the nightstand.
I thought I’d imagined it until I stepped outside.
The villagers were having breakfast. Laughing. Children were playing in the square like it was any other day.
The mayor walked over, handed me coffee, and said, “You made it. Most don’t.”
I asked what those things were. He didn’t flinch.
“Us,” he said. “Well, part of us.”
He told me La Última Guardia isn’t to protect the town. It’s to guard me.
If you survive, it means they trust you.
And if you don’t… well, they try again next year.
I don’t know what I am to them now. A doctor? A caretaker? A safeguard? Maybe just another piece of the ritual.
But there’s something else.
A cut I had on my palm it’s gone. Fully healed overnight. The skin is smoother than it was before.
And my hearing is sharper today. I can hear the children whispering across the square.
They’re saying I passed.