The Sack Man
The stories varied in detail. Some claimed he was a vengeful spirit of an old beggar wronged by the living, others that he was a flesh-and-blood man who prowled the streets for reasons no one dared to imagine. Parents told it to keep their children close, teenagers passed it around in half-joking whispers, and younger kids imagined the Sack Man as a cartoonish monster. But behind the laughter was always a faint unease.
Twelve-year-old Davi didn’t believe in it. Not really. Monsters belonged in bedtime stories, and kidnappers were the kind of thing you saw on the news—tragic, but distant. He had heard the stories at school, rolled his eyes when older kids tried to scare him, and told himself he was too smart to believe in fairy tales. But that was before the night he missed the last train home.
It had been raining earlier, leaving the streets slick and reflective. The lights of São Paulo shimmered in the puddles, distorted and wavering. Davi had been so sure he would make it to Luz Station in time, but the train doors had closed with a mechanical hiss just as he reached the platform. He watched the cars disappear into the tunnel, the red taillights shrinking into the dark.
By then, the station had emptied. The chatter of passengers was gone, replaced by a cavernous stillness that pressed in from all sides. The great arches of the station, usually bathed in golden light, were now swallowed by shadow. Even the constant hum of the city seemed distant here, muffled by the high walls and heavy air.
Davi felt the unease almost immediately. There was something unnerving about the vast, empty space. He told himself it was just the hour. Midnight could make any place feel strange. Still, he tightened his backpack straps and started toward the exit. That was when he heard it. A slow, dragging sound.
It echoed off the tiled floor and stone pillars—steady, rhythmic, like burlap scraping against concrete. It came from somewhere deeper in the station, hidden beyond the pillars. At first, Davi thought it might be a maintenance worker dragging equipment. But the sound was too deliberate, too slow, as if whoever—or whatever—made it was in no hurry at all.
He turned his head toward the far end of the platform, where the shadows seemed to thicken unnaturally. A figure emerged from the gloom. He was tall, gaunt, with his shoulders hunched beneath a tattered coat that looked older than the station itself. His face was hidden under the brim of a wide, weather-stained hat. Over one shoulder, he carried a massive sack, the fabric stained and discolored in dark, irregular patches.
The sack shifted. Slowly. As if something inside was alive. A chill swept over Davi’s skin. His mouth went dry. The man’s steps were unhurried, yet each one seemed to eat up the distance between them. That dragging sound, burlap against tile, matched his pace exactly. Davi’s pulse hammered in his ears. He turned and bolted.
The station’s doors gave way to the wet streets, and his sneakers slapped against the pavement. The night air was cool, but his body burned with the effort of running. He cut through the maze-like streets near Campos Elíseos, the old buildings looming overhead, their windows like dark, watching eyes. But the sound followed.
No matter how many turns he took, the dragging remained—sometimes faint, sometimes nearer, but never gone. The rhythm of it had seeped into his mind: step, drag… step, drag…
Rain-slick alleys twisted in unfamiliar patterns. He thought about screaming for help, but the streets were empty. Most people in this part of the city knew better than to open their doors after midnight.
His lungs ached. He rounded another corner and spotted a warehouse, its rusted metal door hanging slightly ajar. Without thinking, he slipped inside, pulling himself into the shadows.
The interior was cold and smelled of mold and rust. Shafts of moonlight slipped through holes in the roof, illuminating piles of rubble, broken crates, and the skeletons of long-abandoned machinery. Dust motes hung in the air like faint ghosts. Somewhere in the darkness, movement stirred. Before Davi could back away, a rough hand clamped over his mouth. It was small and wiry, its grip surprisingly strong. He was pulled down behind a collapsed stack of wooden pallets, into the shelter of shadow.
The owner of the hand was a woman, her hair tangled, her clothes layered and frayed. Her face was lined with the marks of years spent in the streets. She didn’t speak, only stared at him with eyes that had seen too much. Her expression carried something unshakable—fear, but also grim certainty.
Outside, the sound grew louder. Step. Drag. Step. Drag. It entered the warehouse, the noise echoing in the hollow space. The sack bumped against the doorframe with a dull thud before the figure slipped inside.
In the half-light, Davi saw the shape again. A tall, bent, with that stained sack slung over one shoulder. The air felt thicker, harder to breathe. The man moved slowly, methodically, as though he could sense life hidden among the rubble. The sack shifted again, and this time Davi was certain he heard something—a muffled, wet sound, like a sob choked back into silence.
He pressed himself deeper into the shadows, his heart pounding so hard he feared it might give him away. The woman beside him didn’t move, didn’t blink, her breathing controlled and silent.
For what felt like hours, the man prowled the warehouse. The dragging sound circled the space, pausing here and there as if sniffing the air. Davi’s muscles ached from holding still. The smell of damp fabric and something metallic began to seep into his awareness.
And then, quiet. The figure turned toward the door. The sound of the sack resumed, but this time it grew softer, fading into the night. The warehouse was once again filled only with the sound of dripping water and distant traffic. The woman’s hand loosened from his mouth. She didn’t speak, didn’t try to explain. Her expression was enough.
They stayed hidden for a long time, long after the dragging sound was gone. When Davi finally left the warehouse, the streets were empty. He didn’t run this time only walked. The city feeling larger and colder than it had hours before. When he finally reached home, he said nothing. Not to his parents, not to his friends. Some things couldn’t be explained without sounding like lies.
But in the weeks and months that followed, Davi noticed something. Every so often, a story would appear in the local news—another missing child. The official explanation was always the same: they had run away, gotten lost, maybe joined someone in another part of the city. But the faces of the parents told a different story, one of helplessness and quiet grief.
And sometimes, when Davi passed through Luz Station late in the evening, he felt it again—that faint shift in the air, the sense of being watched from just beyond the edge of the light. Passengers spoke in low voices about shadows that lingered too long, about the scrape of burlap somewhere down the platform when no one was there.
A few even swore they had seen him—the tall man in the tattered coat, face hidden, sack slung over his shoulder. And in the seconds before he vanished into the dark, they claimed to hear it: the muffled, hopeless sound of crying from deep inside the bag.
THE SACK MAN
The Sack Man or better known, Homem do Saco, is a well-known figure in Brazilian folklore, particularly in urban legends and cautionary tales told to children. In São Paulo, as in other parts of Brazil, the Sack Man is often depicted as a sinister figure who kidnaps misbehaving children, stuffing them into a large sack and taking them away never to be seen again.
