The Camino's Seventh Pilgrim (and he wasn't alone)

Thomas thought walking could save him. Lost his wife, needed to grieve, so he set out on the Camino—800km from France to Spain, just him and the sound of his feet on gravel. Three weeks in, walking through the endless red plains of Meseta like it was nothing.

Morning of day 22 (or whatever). He leaves this old albergue early. Six pilgrims stayed there total. As he walks out, Maria—the ancient hostel owner—is outside sweeping, counting on her fingers. "Uno, dos, tres... seis... siete." She says seven. Seven. Thomas is literally the only one who hears this. She looks confused as hell, makes the sign of the cross at nothing. He figures she's just bad at math.

But the Meseta that day? Insanely long. Empty. No other walkers, no shade, nothing. Just him and the red dirt stretching to the horizon. And then.

...pat... pat...

Footsteps. Right behind him. Same rhythm. He stops. They stop. He turns around. Nothing. Dust blowing everywhere. Nothing.

He keeps walking. They start again. Closer this time.

Later that afternoon his shadow gets long as the sun drops. And he FREEZES. Because next to his shadow, walking alongside him, there's another one. Impossibly tall. Thin as a skeleton. Wearing what looks like some crusty medieval pilgrim robe. When he stops, it stops. When he looks around, there's still nobody there. He's walking with a ghost that only the sun can see.

He runs. Full panic sprint to the next town.

When he gets to that albergue, he's practically dead on his feet. Hands over his credential. The young guy at the desk stamps it and looks past Thomas toward the door. "Y usted, señor?" (And you, sir?)

Thomas's heart stops. He turns. Nothing. The desk guy looks at the empty space like he's confused, then scratches his head embarrassed. "Sorry, I thought there were two of you..."

That night. Dorm with 20 bunk beds crammed in. He picks a bottom bunk on purpose. Can't sleep. Just other pilgrims snoring in the pitch dark.

Then he hears it. The mattress above him—the one that should be empty—slowly compressing under weight. Squeaking. Something shifting up there.

...shhhhhhh...

Cold dust starts falling on his face. But it's not dust. It's fine red earth. The kind from Meseta. Pouring down through the mattress onto him. And then, SLOWLY, a long skeletal hand covered in red dirt reaches down out of the darkness toward his face.

He can't even scream.

Next morning Maria's cleaning the dorm. All the pilgrims are gone. On the bottom bunk where Thomas slept, she finds a backpack and hiking boots. No Thomas.

And on the bed itself, like decades worth of dust settled in one night, red earth is just... piled there. Peaceful. Waiting.