The Window Tapper (Brazil – Corpo-Seco)

In the sun-drenched landscapes of Brazil, there is a darkness that even the brightest noon cannot pierce. It belongs to the Corpo-Seco, the "Dry Body"—a creature so malevolent that upon his death, both God and the Devil refused him entry to their realms. Even the earth, repulsed by his cruelty, spat his corpse back out to roam the dusty roads as a withered, undead husk.

Mateus, a young man living in a remote farmhouse in Minas Gerais, grew up hearing the warnings. "Keep the shutters bolted," his grandfather would wheeze. "If you hear a sound like dry branches scraping against the glass, do not look. The Dry Body is searching for the blood he no longer possesses."

One sweltering February night, the air grew unnaturally still. The usual symphony of cicadas and frogs cut out abruptly, replaced by a silence so thick it felt heavy. Mateus sat in his kitchen, the light of a single kerosene lamp casting long, dancing shadows against the walls.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound was faint, rhythmic, and originated from the high window near the pantry. Mateus froze. He told himself it was a loose shutter or a bird. But then the sound moved.

Scritch. Scritch. Tap.

It was now at the main window, directly behind his chair. Against his better judgment, Mateus turned. Through the thin gap in the wooden shutters, he saw something that defied nature. A finger—long, skeletal, and covered in skin that looked like blackened, parched leather—was drumming against the pane. The skin was so tight over the bone that it looked ready to split.

Mateus scrambled backward, knocking over his chair. The tapping stopped. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of his own frantic breathing. Then, a voice like the rustling of dead leaves drifted through the cracks.

"Open... I am so... thirsty."

Mateus grabbed a heavy iron poker from the hearth. "Get away from here! You aren't welcome!"

A low, rattling hiss echoed from the other side. Suddenly, the shutters groaned under a tremendous force. The wood began to splinter as the creature’s grip tightened. A face pressed against the glass. It was a nightmare of dehydration: sunken, lidless eyes that glowed with a faint, predatory amber light, and a mouth pulled back into a permanent, lipless grin. The Corpo-Seco didn't have hair; its scalp was just cracked, gray earth.

The glass shattered.

A hand, cold as a tombstone and rough as sandpaper, shot through the broken pane and gripped Mateus’s shoulder. The strength was impossible. Mateus felt the creature’s long, blackened nails sink into his flesh. It wasn't just physical pain; he felt a terrifying sensation of emptiness, as if the creature was literally siphoning the moisture and life from his veins.

"The earth... won't take me," the creature rasped, pulling itself halfway through the window. "So I... will take... you."

With a desperate cry, Mateus swung the iron poker, catching the creature in its hollow chest. It felt like hitting a dried-out log. The impact bought him a second of freedom. He sprinted for the back door, bursting out into the moonlit yard and running toward the village church, never daring to look back.

The next morning, the villagers found Mateus’s house standing silent. The window was shattered, and the kitchen floor was covered in a fine, gray dust that smelled of ancient graves. Mateus was found miles away, his hair turned gray and his skin permanently withered, as if he had aged fifty years in a single night. To this day, he never sits near a window after dark. He knows the Dry Body is still out there, rejected by the afterlife, waiting for the next window to tap on, driven by a thirst that eternity can never quench.