Hello, I’m Spooky Boo, your host of Spooky Boo’s Creepypasta and True Scary Stories. Today I have for you 3 stories about Mexican urban legends.
Now let’s begin…
Story Number One
Mexican Elbow Runners
On the outskirts of a small village near Mexico, there lies an abandoned overgrown cane farm. In these parts, there exists an old dirt road that stretches off into the distance as far as your eyes will let you see. The road acts like an old scar, revealing the harsh dry soil below the cane, which grew right up to the roads edges, but never over. Many famous legends came from this area about the seasonal cane cutters who would mysteriously disappear while walking down this road, with a strange set of ‘prints’ nearby, being the only evidence discovered. The road was once used by the farmer who occupied these parts, until one night he hurriedly packed up and left, and as the story goes, it’s not hard to see why…
It was late one evening, I’m told around dusk, and he was driving his tractor back home from work. He had been hoping to make it home by nightfall driving along the aforementioned pot holed track with caution as the crop on either side of him rustled in the wind. You could still see down the rows of cane, as they had once been planted with spacing between them, until it became too dense and dark to see any further. The old man suddenly pressed hard on his breaks, hearing the gravel crunch under the large tyres. He could’ve sworn he saw what resembled the face a baby down by the entrance to one of the rows of cane.
“Couldn’t be!” as he peered out the side of his tractor to look behind at whatever it was he had seen. He could hear crying. He exited his tractor and proceeded to make his way over to where the sound was coming from. Down by the entrance to the row of cane, the long overgrown crop shadowed what appeared to be an infant in a potato sack, wriggling around. The noise lured him closer, although as he approached, it no longer sounded like a cry, but more like an animal sounding a call. At first he had been scared purely for the safety of the infant abandoned out here, but now as it grew darker he was increasingly frightened by this whole situation. It didn’t make sense. He would quickly scoop up the baby and report straight back to the police station, he reassured himself, as he inched closer. Suddenly, a black shadow flashed across the row of cane he stood adjacent to as the crop moved violently and rustled in unison with what he saw. He grew concerned…
“Wild animals,” he muttered unconvincingly as a fear crept over him like a swarm of insects over his skin. Fueled by a state of panic, he swept down to rescue the child form the sack. To his horror, his efforts revealed a severed head with a tape recorder next to it. Hundreds of cockroaches poured from the neck of the once living child they were feeding upon. The child’s lifeless blackened eyes stared into his as the tape recorder let out a high pitch haunting scream. The man dropped the head, stumbled backwards to the ground and froze in terror.
Staring down into the cane he could hear the formidable sound of these ‘things’ scurrying towards him. Darkness had fallen now, but the moonlight above revealed something that made his stomach sink. There were these sets of human-like feet visible above the cane approaching the farmer at such a speed – faster than a human could move; their feet were brown, with overgrown nails clawing downwards. Below the cane it was too dark to see what exactly was coming at him, only these sets of white eyes staring at him menacingly from a position close to the ground.
The story ends here. The current whereabouts of the farmer is unknown. It is said he escaped on foot, and decided to pack up and leave the town after such a frightening incident. The local police that investigated the incident, labelled the disappearance as a runaway case; that of his own accord, since most his personal belongings were taken with him and there were no signs of a struggle. But perhaps this was easier for the police, rather than investigate further into it. Perhaps for good reason they stayed away… No one knows for sure, except the missing farmer.
It is said by the few locals, who overheard the talk, that what they did find however was unsettling. There were tracks of circular like prints discovered near the abandoned tractor that led off into the cane fields. Although the police were baffled, upon investigation of these prints it was determined that they were from something that would have moved purely on its elbows…
This is only a story. If you don’t choose to believe it, then next time you are down by the cane and hear a cry, you could do the moral thing and try to save whatever you think it is. But if you have your suspicions, I know for sure the farmer would beg of you to run… run fast.
Story Number Two
La Bruja by Killahawke1
“Goddammit! Not again!” screamed Ricky after opening the much-anticipated email.
“Pinche pendejo!” he said even louder.
“Hijo de tu puta madre!” He picked up his expensive mouse and threw it against the wall.
“Besa mi culo, puto!” He slammed his fists down, shattering the tricked out, top of the line gaming keyboard.
Ricky continued to stare at the message, the words mocking him from his computer screen. The message was topped with a large header and white font that stood in contrast to the black background. Right there, the two hated words that said, “Story Deletion.”
Ricky is all too familiar with these words; in fact, he should be able to recite the entire message from memory by now.
STORY DELETION. Your story has been deleted because it doesn’t meet the quality standards. If you feel that it did meet the standards, please state your case on Deletion Appeal. Make sure you follow the instructions to the letter there or your appeal will be automatically denied.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RE-UPLOAD YOUR STORY. If you upload it again, you’ll receive an ONE DAY ban from editing, as per the rules.
Ricky loves scary stories. He comes from a culture rich in the history of the supernatural and macabre. The only thing he loves more than scary stories is writing scary stories. Sadly, there is one problem. How do I put this? Well, the truth of the matter is, our friend Ricky here is, for lack of better words, a shitty writer. There is zero talent in this poor boy’s head, and the same can be said about his imagination too. His characters have no substance. His grammar is atrocious. His plot developments are nonexistent, and his word choices are, might I say, infantile. In fact, I would go as far as to say I’ve seen pigeons shit out more interesting narratives than this kid. (Sigh) But I digress.
What is truly sad about this whole ordeal is that Ricky truly believes his stories are good. No! He thinks they are great! The dark and sinister entities that inhabit the worlds he creates are far superior to anything seen in a movie or found on the internet, or so he believes. His dark tales are capable of tapping into the primordial pools of terror buried deep within our subconscious minds. That’s what he expects his readers to find from every one of his works. Whereas you and I would see it for what it is: a juvenile, uninspired, boring “piece of shit.”
Some have even gone as far as to say that his stories are so bad, looking at the words for too long will give you pink eye. One boy claimed, after being forced to listen from beginning to end, Ricky’s story gave him an ear infection. Whether any of that is true or not, it is a well-known fact that once you finish reading a story authored by Ricky, you are actually more stupid than you were before you started reading. Brain cells literally drop dead in the middle of whatever brain cells do in their brain cell lives. And believe me. It’s not just a few, but a lot of them!
Alas, Ricky will not hear it. He doesn’t like rejection, and he already has it in his head that they are not even reading his stories. He is convinced they don’t even bother to give him the time of day and automatically delete them. The tantrum builds, and his cheeks turn red as he screams out loud, “Why would they not listen to me? They never give me a chance.”
He knows this to be true. Especially in consideration of how they treat him and what they say about his stories. He angrily reads the comments.
“Bad grammar and punctuation”—But I’m new to this site, can’t you just tell me what to fix or fix it yourself?
“Misspelled words”—It’s the way my character speaks.
“Poorly written and awkward sentences”— English isn’t my first language, so give me a chance.
“The story is not creepy”—What do you mean it’s not creepy? There a fucking witch in the story! How’s that not scary?
You see, Ricky is a spoiled kid, from a well to do family. Never has he had to go without. Never has his demands not been met. Never has his ungrateful heart ever been denied a single demand. There was nothing he could not have in his pampered life. However, with such a luxurious lifestyle, he has also never had to dream or aspire for greater things. Despite its value, all the objects of his desire were carelessly tossed to the side or forgotten when interest was lost. They meant nothing to him. Eventually, Ricky turned that frustration outwards, upon those who were weaker and less capable of standing up for themselves. For every insult, every slight, and every time he did not get what he wanted, he inflicted that rage back upon the innocent bystanders ten times over. He terrorized all the children within his sight. Well, tonight that will all change. That is why I have been sent. That is my charge from mi La Dama. Tonight, I will reveal to him the stories of his people and enlighten him about where he comes from. I bring knowledge under cover of night and carry revelation on the tip of my tongue. With his last breath, he will learn this final lesson, “Thou shall not suffer the cries of a spoiled child!”
So, when the boy lays his head upon his pillow and closes his eyes to sleep, he will be unaware of the small leather pouch tucked every so carefully beneath him. It will call out to her. It will summon her, and she will come. She will drink, even though her thirst for revenge can never be quenched. She will feed her hate, though its hunger can never be satisfied.
To understand the events soon to come to pass, we must look to the past. Know this, the more days that go by, the more things stay the same. Long ago, the people of Mexico suffered from the deeds of corrupt men and endured the cruelty of the true rulers of the land— the cartels. While savagery and brutality swept across the plains and darkened the skies like a cloud of locusts, a small village near the city of Catemaco Mexico prospered. It remained a tranquil, safe haven, untouched by the evils of men.
In those days, the villages were weak and vulnerable. They could not defend themselves against the powerful and corrupt men, infected with the sickness of greed. Government and town officials lined their pockets with the sweat and blood of the poor. No justice or protection ever came for the people. Farmer’s crops were plundered and destroyed. Workers were kept in constant poverty. Their sons would be taken against their will by the Banditos, to replenish their numbers. Alas, it was the daughters of Mexico who suffered the most. Many mothers and fathers could only mourn before a single lit candle, for there was not a body to bury for the funeral. They would live their lives never knowing what became of their beloved child. Too many shallow graves sprinkled the countryside with the bones from unnamed girls.
Among this violence, all but one village suffered. Those of questionable character and darkness in their hearts would not dare enter the borders of this town, for its people was under the protection of a powerful Curandera. Her name was known from afar, and her magic was strong. The evil men knew this to be true and they would not risk her wrath upon them. This ate away at their egos, and soon they began to conspire among themselves. In secret and darkened rooms, they plotted how to be rid of this meddlesome woman.
Early one morning, the Curandera awoke to the sound of a child’s cry. It was not a cry of terror, but a cry of pain. She ran out of her small house to see a boy sitting on the dirt path that ran alongside her home. Next to him was an old bike. Hitched to the rear wheel was a weathered cart, carrying a large wooden box. He sat crying on the ground, clutching both his arm and leg. Even from a distance, she could see the two painful welts upon the boy’s skin. The Curandera knew precisely what had happened, and took a glass jar of salve from off her shelf. She went out to the boy and warmly said,
“¿Que Pasa, Mijo?” (What’s the matter, little boy?) No answer came from the boy. A little irritated, she asked,
“¿Te pica algo?” (Did something sting you?) “¿Fue una hormiga o una avispa?” (Was it an ant or a wasp?)
Again, the boy said nothing. The Curandera was becoming annoyed. She looked carefully at the boy who sat silently before her. From the clothes he wore, she knew he was a rich man’s son; most likely the child of an elected official or a member of the town’s elite. She gently applied the medicine to the two painful stings. The skin was hot and bright red, surrounding a lump the size of a large grape. When she finished, the boy simply turned and jumped on his bike and peddled away without a word.
This angered the Curandera, and she made a mental note. In the very near future, someone will need to teach this boy some manners and the importance of respecting his elders. Shortly thereafter, the Curandera went about her day to day business and forgot about the rude little boy.
That night, after the Curandera had laid her head down to sleep, she awoke to a loud bang. Her door had been broken down by several large men. They bound her hands and gagged her mouth to prevent any chance she might utter a hex upon them. They took her wand, made out of the sacred Huatulco wood and snapped it in two. They removed her “saco de curación” (medicine bag) from around her neck, leaving the poor woman completely defenseless now.
The men dragged the woman before the town’s clergy, who were the most corrupt of them all. Denied any opportunity to defend herself, the Curandera was accused of witchcraft and blamed for this year’s drought and the poor harvest. They said she was in league with the Devil and proclaimed her to be a bruja. They sentenced her to death. The onlookers cheered upon hearing the verdict. She looked across the crowd and mourned at what she saw. The faces she had known for so long. Those faces who came to her when they were sick or needed healing were gone. In their place were hateful and dark eyes, filled with the blood lust of an angry mob.
She stood on a platform next to a short, thin coffin that stood upright. The crowd shouted and jeered as they grew impatient. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself amongst the shouts of swears and insults. The Curandera began to pray. She prayed to the Holy Mother for deliverance. She begged and pleaded to Her for protection. She pleaded with all her might. She begged the Holy Mother with desperation, proclaiming her good deeds done and a righteous life she lived. Only silence greeted the Curandera.
The crowd suddenly grew quiet, and the Curandera opened her eyes. She saw the crowd separate in the middle and make a path for a little boy. The familiar child rode an old bike and pulling a cart with a box. He dismounted the bike and walked around to the rear, opened the box that sat upon the cart and carefully removed a large burlap sack. He held the bag at arm’s length and quickly brought it and its contents to the clergyman. As the man of God took hold of the sack, the boy looked up at the woman, smiled and disappeared in the sea of bodies within the mob.
Still bound, she was marched relentlessly to the edge of town. All the way, she was beaten and humiliated by the people who followed along. She was brought before a freshly dug grave and shoved hard into the open coffin. She stared up at the men mocking her from above. Just as they were about to seal the coffin shut, the clergyman held up his large hand with the burlap sack. He flung the bag into the coffin, and the men quickly nailed the lid closed. The men picked up the coffin containing the Curandera and dropped it into the dark hole. The sound of dirt covering the coffin was loud and thunderous.
The Curandera laid terrified in the pitch dark. Just before the light had been extinguished, she saw what had been tossed in here with her. At her feet, laid the largest wasp nest she had ever seen. Soon she felt hundreds of thin legs begin crawling over her body. They angrily explored this dark prison as they searched for the one who dared to disturb them. Time slowed as the Curandera waited for the first sting to strike her. Once again, she prayed to the Blessed Mother for protection and still there was only silence.
Pain from the first sting exploded over her right cheek. The sharp stinger was stabbed into her flesh. It tore through the skin and went as deep as it could. The wasp contracted its abdomen slightly, pumping its venom into its victim. It pulled out its sharp tip and again jabbed the stinger back into her flesh, for the wasp can use their stingers over again. Even if they have exhausted their venom, they will not stop piercing your skin.
She screamed in pain as she was stung again and again. They stung her eyes and crawled into her open mouth and stung her tongue. The insects crawled down her throat and into her ears. Venom filled her veins, and her skin turned red as it swelled and burned. The wasp’s poison saturated her blood causing it to thicken and burn. The swelling cut off her breathing and she began to convulse. This angered the little beasts and they stabbed her more relentlessly. Blood trickled from every puncture. Not a single spot on her body was spared from the wasp’s sting.
The pain continued to grow. Never did it lessen. She was about to call out to the Virgin Mother, then she stopped herself. Betrayal and abandonment hit her deeply causing more agony than any wasp could bestow. Anger and hate consumed the woman. She knew what she had to do. She would call out to another deity. This deity would come. She would call out for Santa Meurte.
(Santa Muerte, I call unto thee! I offer myself to thee! I deny the Holy Mother! I deny the Father! I deny the Son! I deny the Holy Spirit! Take me and I will do thy bidding!)
The Curandera laid motionless in the darkness, wheezing and gasping for air. Her stings upon her skin were stretched until it tore from the swelling. The swarm of insects continued to poke and jab with their long stingers. The buzzing of their wings was deafening, then suddenly all was silent. The scraping of long fingernails traveled down the side of the coffin. The Curandera tried to open her eyes, but her face was too bloated. It mattered not. She had not sight as the wasp’s stingers had penetrated her eyelids and filled her eyes with venom. The scraping stopped and the Curandera heard the low and ancient voice of a woman speak, “¿Que te pica, mi hija ?” (What’s the matter, my daughter?)
The crowd had not yet dispersed when the ground began to shake. The men had lingered and were congratulating themselves and laughing when the ground opened up. Black thorns emerged from the soil where the Curandera laid, and the dirt blackened with decay. All was still for a moment until a deep and inhuman moan was heard from the sky. It called to its new disciple beneath the ground. The villager cowered when the low voice boomed from the cracks that spread out from the spot of the woman’s unholy grave.
(I curse you!)
(I curse your children!)
(They will taste the venom that now flows in my veins)
(When I hear a child cry, I will come)
(I will come for your children)
(They will feel my sting! I will nest within a home made from their skin.)
(I will use their bones for stirring my brew!)
(I will quench my thirst with their tears!)
(I will dance to a melody made from a symphony of their screams!)
She let out one final wail of demonic rage until only the sound of wasp wings could be heard.
Three days later, the traitorous boy helped by the Curandera, disappeared without a trace. It was fate that brought the two together. He had been tasked with finding a wasp nest. It was by chance that two of the insects escaped and stung the boy near the Curandera’s home. She had shown him mercy and he had repaid her with rudeness and betrayal. An empty bed was all they found, except for the small pouch hidden underneath his pillow. Within, they found it held only a piece of a paper wasp’s nest, ash, and a lock of hair cut from the boy’s head.
She still keeps a part of him on her at all times; even to this very day.
As time went by, more and more of the children disappeared. Eventually, like the righteous Curandera, the little village died a slow and painful death. The people in that area still speak of the dark Bruja. It is told that when the days shorten and the nights grow cold, the children must be especially good and obedient. For if a child is spoiled and shows no respect, the Bruja will find you. They say she is dressed all in black and wears a cloak made of wasps. She can fly long distances and climb up walls. She will tap on your window and tempt the child to let her in. Her nails will click and tap on the window pane until the child hears her voice from out of the darkness.
So that is the story of La Bruja. She is the one I serve. She is my Lady and I serve her well. I find those children who are spoiled and rotten. I find the ones most deserving of the fate my Lady brings. And who am I? Well, let’s just say that I am someone who is “familiar” with matters such as these, but that is a story for another time. However, I will tell you this, I am neither angel or demon, but I do perform God’s will. I bring balance. That is my mandate from the heavenly Father. The Bruja has no mercy. She holds dark and powerful magic fueled by an inexhaustible source of hatred and rage. I direct that rage to those deserving of it. Such hatred and wickedness cannot be allowed to roam free and go unchecked. I ensure the innocent are protected, and the wicked are punished. So listen to my words, little boy or little girl. Do what you are told. Honor your mother and father. Be on your best behavior. You don’t want to end up like Ricky here, now do you? Take heed, for if you do not, there will come a night when you will hear tapping at your window. As the buzzing of a thousand wings fill your ears, you will hear the low voice of a woman asking,
“¿Que te pica, mi hijo?” (What’s the matter, my child?)
**Stay tuned for story number 3
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Story Number Three
La Llorona Weeps in California by Spooky Boo Rhodes
Carlos Martinez heard the stories for years yet he refused to listen. He was clearly a minority in Sandcastle and wanted to fit in with the others so he hid is family and their superstitions from all of his friends. His parents waited for years to get into the United States, and after learning English and teaching it to their family they were allowed to bring whatever they could to go manage the grape vineyard staff. Henrico Martinez, Carlos’s father, was already working in the vineyard when his wife and children were staying in Mexico awaiting their chance to move away from the nightmares of Alicia Martinez.
Carlos remembered the days of his mother’s tears and recurring nightmares of La Llorona. She would sit in their one-bedroom apartment in Mexico City and cry out in the middle of the night for her children. Even when they came running in to comfort her, she still moaned in pain and unable to wake up.
“Mamma, it will all be okay,” Carlos said in perfect English. Their father told them if they wanted to be with him in the United States then they must learn the language and getting accepted would be easier. Carlos heard his father telling his mother one night that if perhaps he was able to land a job at the winery where he worked then the family could move and the horrifying nightmares might disappear.
That was 10 years ago. Carlos, now 26 years old, still hears his mother cry in her sleep every night. They did everything right so they could move. Carlos and his mother saved $25,000 US dollars between his online business and her two jobs washing dishes and doing laundry. Their father sent home a hefty $1000 per month for them to live on and saved another $2000 while only eating small meals and living extremely frugal. He thought for sure this would end the nightmares.
“Mamma, I’m here.” Carlos sat next to his mother’s bed. While managing the vineyards in the next city over Henrico was gone during the week and left the house to his son while he traveled from Los Angeles to San Francisco several times per week. Carlos didn’t mind at all because he knew that one day the little coffee shop he bought at a young 19 years old would keep him at work during the day and at home to protect his family at night. That is all they needed.
His mother shuddered in her sleep. The tears poured from the corners of her eyes as she cried out ‘no no no! La Llorona! Leave my babies alone!”
“Mamma, wake up. It’s almost time to get up and go to work.” Carlos pleaded with her while shaking her arm. I must open the shop for the morning commuters. You need to help me bake the bread and muffins.
Alica’s eyes fluttered open as she took a deep breath then stared at her son for a moment. “I’m sorry baby, the nightmares never stop.”
“I thought moving here would stop them, Mamma? But we have been here for ten years and you still cry out in your sleep. How can I help you?”
“I don’t know, Carlos. La Llorona is here. She speaks to me in my sleep and wants me to do horrible things to people–to children.” she sniffed back the tears.
Carlos grabbed his mother’s hand and squeezed tightly. “Momma, La Llorona is not real. You are having nightmares of an urban legend from back in Mexico.”
“No, Carlos. I’ve seen her when I drive to the store. I’ve seen her at the lake from the roadway. She stares at me as I drive by and cries. Then in my dreams I see what she has done to her babies–to my babies! She threatened our family for leaving Mexico!”
“Momma, your baby is right here. You have no other children.”
“You’re wrong, Carlos.” she stopped talking and the tears flowed heavily now. Through the sobs, she continued, “I had two babies before you. I was married before I met your father.”
Carlos stared blankly at his mother. All of these years and he didn’t know her secret past. He released her hand and squeezed his fist in anger. Lies. All of it had been lies! “What do you mean, Mamma? Does Papa know?”
“Yes, he knows. It is why we had to leave, Carlos. I was married to a very bad man who used my children to punish me for wanting to leave him and his evil ways. I didn’t believe he would do it. I couldn’t live that life any longer. He killed people in his business. A drug king. When I left him, he hunted me down and he killed my babies. He drowned them in the river near our house. Every night since then I can hear them crying out to me as she keeps them down.”
He hugged his mother with both arms and hid his face in her long black hair. He didn’t want her to see his weakness of crying, he had to be strong for her. When his tears stopped, Carlos leaned back and squeezed her hands. “It wasn’t your fault, Mamma. The evil man is gone and we worked hard to come here and get away from him. He can’t find you.”
“She found me, son. La Llorona found me. She lives at the lake. I’ve seen the old woman with my own eyes. But we must continue, right? Go warm up the car, I will be out in a few minutes.”
As Carlos went out the start the car his thoughts went back to the lake and when his friend drowned. All of his friends were there and only a few would swim out to the damn raft because of the rumors of the lake witch. He swore that when his friend drowned he could see the shape of a woman near them under the water, but it all happened so fast he wasn’t sure. He would have jumped in had he known how to swim but growing up he had nowhere to learn. Now he knew why his mother refused to live near any water for it tormented her dreams every night.
2
Alicia ran the brush through her long, thick hair and dabbed the tissue to her checks to erase the tears. Another day at the coffee house will make everything ok again. Carlos will forget the conversation and they would be fine, or would they? He now knew about the evils that lurked in her mind every day and the past she tried to escape from. Looking at the tangle of Halloween lights Carlos brought in from the garage to hang on the outside of the house, she contemplated for a moment what it would be like to just end it and let her family move on.
“No, I don’t want that. Get that horrible thought from your head, Alicia!” she mumbled softly.
“Ah but you do, momma!” a woman in a long white dress appeared before her. Her long white hair was flowing around her face and shoulders, but there was no wind. Her dress was wet and clung to her body. As she stepped closer, she grabbed the string of orange and purple lights from the table and smiled.
“No, La Llorona, I do not. Leave me. Get out of my head!”
As the woman moved closer Alicia noticed her feet and dress weren’t even touching the ground. Her beautiful face slowly began to decay before Alicia’s eyes. Her skin fell to the floor in grey, leathery pieces as she stretched her arms out to her.
Alicia closed her eyes and rocked back and forth. “You’re not real!” she repeated, feeling something tighten around her neck. When she opened her eyes La Llorona’s face was right in front of hers. The stench of death reeked from the witch’s mouth as she opened it to speak. The witch lifted her bony hand to her lips and blew something into Alicia’s face and suddenly the mother’s mind went numb.
“Come with me,” the witch hissed.
Alicia absently stood and followed the witch up the stairs, led by the string of Halloween lights. When they reached the top of the stairs. they stood, staring over the balcony and into the living room. Alicia didn’t scream or cry, she wanted to obey.
“Tie the rope around the bannister. Make it tight,” the witch whispered in Alicia’s ear.
Alicia did exactly as the old woman said. The lights were tied around the bannister and tightly around her neck yet she didn’t hesitate from listening for more instruction. She wanted instruction, she needed it. This seemed wrong, all wrong, but wasn’t it what she wanted all along?
“Yes, you want this.” the witch said, blowing more powder in her face.
“Yes, I want this,” Alicia stared absently into the living room.
“Now jump!” the witch screamed in her head.
Without hesitation, Alicia rolled over the bannister and flung herself toward the ground stopping only in time to hear the snap of her neck.
3
Carlos did as his mother said–he always did. On the cold, foggy mornings the old car took longer to warm up. He didn’t know why they didn’t just buy a new car as between his business and his father’s job they were sure to be able to afford one, but his parents never wanted to discuss it. His car was still parked at the coffee house from the previous day or he would have just taken it instead. As the car shuttered and rumbled in park, he realized that he forgot to grab his wallet.
“Momma? Where did you put my…MOMMA!” Carlos cried out. His mother hung above his head under the staircase with her legs dangling and feet swaying into his face. “No!”
Dialing 911 and hitting the speaker button, Carlos grabbed his mother’s legs and held her up so the rope would no longer pull on her neck. As the 911 operator spoke, he screamed into the phone. “20210 Conch Shell Avenue. Quickly. My mother, she…she’s hanging from a rope. I can’t get the rope down to help her, please hurry!”
He didn’t know what to do as he held on to her legs hoping he was taking any weight from her body away from the rope around her neck, but deep down inside he knew she was dead already. Her eyes were lifeless and mouth agape. Her arms were limp and her legs were heavy. There was no pulse in her wrist from what he could tell and that is as far as his hands could reach. He didn’t want to let go of her legs. He couldn’t let go.
3
Carlos watched as his friend Reggie came through the front door that was still open from when he ran into the house. He watched several police cars park in front and Reggie ran in then grabbed Alicia’s legs. Another officer went up the stairs and untied the rope. Both friends caught her and gently put Mrs. Martinez on the living room floor.
“I…I was just with her,” Carlos said through sobs. “Reggie, she told me to go out to the car and she did this knowing I would come back in to get her. Why?”
“No one truly ever knows, did she say anything to you?”
“Yeah, she was talking nonsense about an old Mexican urban legend and saying it was out by the lake haunting her. She said I had brothers that were murdered by her ex-husband decades ago. Reggie, I didn’t even know she was married before. She never told anyone.”
“What about your dad, where is he?”
“Why? He’s at work in Los Angeles. He’s not supposed to home until Monday.” Carlos watched the men carry his mother out in a black bag on a stretcher. Suddenly the bag twitched and shook violently. Carlos screamed as the body bag holding his mother lost balance and fell off the gurney.
“Let me see!” he yelled as the paramedics opened the bag to confirm she really was dead.
The red ring around her broken neck the rope had left was more visible than before. Carlos ran his fingers across the redness then threaded his fingers in her hair. “Why momma, why?”
His mother’s face quickly morphed into the face of an old hag. “Your momma’s dead, boy! Sacrificed her soul for yours or I would have killed you next.”
Carlos jerked his hand away screaming, “It’s the white witch!”
“Carlos! What?” Reggie shook him by the arms.
“My momma, she’s…she is…” he looked back at his mother’s face which was now settled at peace. “Nah man, my mind is playing tricks on me.”
“Call your dad and get some sleep. I’ll put a sign out at the coffee shop for you and I”ll be back later. As your friend, Carlos, not as a cop. Are you going to be okay?”
Carlos looked around the house and already felt alone. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. I’ve got some calls to make.”
“It can wait, buddy. Get some rest.”
“I have to call papa.” Carlos picked up the phone as Reggie shut the door behind him. Everything was now quiet in the house. Too quiet. With all the police and paramedics gone and without his mother’s voice singing her favorite songs he suddenly felt very vulnerable. He could still smell the coconut shampoo from her hair earlier and almost feel her fingertips against his cheek. He cradled the back of his own hand next to his face when the phone blared in his ear, waking him up from his daydream. He didn’t remember putting the phone down, just the door shutting when everyone left. Within seconds the phone rang again.
“Son, is everything ok? You called and hung up. I thought I heard your mom screaming.”
Stalling and unable to contemplate what his father just said, Carlos took a moment to answer. “This is the first time I’ve called you. Papa, come home.”
“I’m in Los Angeles, son. Tell me what’s wrong. Is everything OK?”
“Papa, Mamma is…she is…” he could barely get out the words as his throat closed up when he tried to speak. He squeezed his eyes tight trying to focus. Visions of his mother’s face hanging in front of him with the very Halloween lights he planned to put up after work flashed in his mind. “She’s dead.”
Only silence came from the other end. The roar of the diesel engine stopped and Carlos could hear his father’s faint breath.
“What?” Henrique’s voice squeaked on the other end. “How?”
“Suicide, Papa. I didn’t want to tell you this way. Just come home. Please?”
“I’ll be home tonight. I’m on my way. Stay strong, son.”
4
Henrico suddenly couldn’t breathe. As he drove into the city limits of Sandcastle, he pulled over to the side of the highway. He wasn’t ready to face his son or his home just yet. His wife of 20 years had died, and why? She had been acting weird over the past few years in Sandcastle, so strange, in fact, that she started taking a prescription to calm her anxiety. He pondered that thought for a moment. She had been taking pills, why didn’t she just take the pills? She wasn’t the type to put on a show, she would have wanted to go quietly.
He leaned against his truck and cradled his head in his hands. As his veins began to throb into one of his intense headaches, he heard a soft cooing from within the trees of the woods. He stared into the darkness and the cooing grew louder over the ocean waves of the Pacific. He stumbled in the rocks as he walked toward the sound.
“Henrico!” the whisper grew louder.
“Alicia?” he walked into the woods, ignoring that he hadn’t turned off his truck. The lights were still shining on the road as he turned around to check and a shadow walked between the truck and the trees.
“Whose there?” he bellowed as he began walking back toward the truck when a woman appeared between him and the road.
“Henrico…” the woman whispered. The wind carried the words as they seemed to wisp around his body. “Come Henrico,” She beckoned with her hands for him to walk faster. The voice was his beloved Alicia, but it couldn’t be. She was dead. As he walked closer, he could see the woman wasn’t the face of his beautiful wife, but that of an old hag with blackened teeth and an evil grin.
Not seeing the lights coming quickly toward him, Henrico walked into the street toward his truck. The horn blaring into the night as the other diesel truck slammed on its brakes, too late to stop. As the truck jackknifed into the parked semi, Henrico’s brains spattered on the windshield and his body tossed like a rag doll on to the street then all was quiet as the shaken truck driver from Portland called in the accident.
5
Carlos waited patiently for his father to return home. He sat in silence in the middle of the living room remembering the shock in his mother’s face as he walked into the room that very morning. Reggie closed the coffee shop for him for the day and all he did was sit in the same chair all day long and stare at the same spot hoping that maybe it was all a nightmare and his mother would come and wake him up from the horrible dream.
As he stared at the balcony and he imagined his mother hanging there by the string of lights her body began to appear before him. He stared in shock as the shape took form and her beautiful face shine. “Your father, Carlos.”
“Mamma?” he stood and touched her feet. A jolt of energy went through his body like electricity as his eyes rolled back into his head and he shook violently. He saw his father staring wide-eyed like a deer into the lights of the oncoming truck. As his head smashed into the windshield and his body flew the woman on the side of the road laughed with vengeance. It was then he recognized the old face. It wasn’t La Llorona at all, but the witch of the lake. He remembered her face when he and his friends partied on the raft that fateful day.
“I will kill you!” he growled before crumbling to the floor.
