Mexicans have the best ghost stories. You couldn’t scare us by saying some scary monster was hiding under our beds. You know why? We didn’t have an “under the bed!” We had a box frame with the mattress on top.
Parents had to get inventive. They were always fond of one ghost story. La Llorona. Everyone has their own version of it. Here’s mine.
She was a beautiful young woman. Tall. Slender. Long black hair. A mother of two children who would always argue and fight with her every single day. They drove her mad, making her yell and scream. Soon, her beauty began to fade. Sadness upon her face. She grew tired of being a mother. One night she couldn’t fall asleep. The wind had an angry howl, capturing just how she felt. Then the clouds moved away, the full moon illuminating her eyes. Slowly she crept. Her white robe sweeping the floor. The children’s door creaked open. She picked them up like you would a sleeping baby. Each child’s chest upon hers, arms wrapped firmly around them.
Hair flailing, the moon guided her to the lake. She stared at the water, as she finally arrived. Letting go of her embrace, the moon began to ripple. The children screamed and cried. Just as the wind. They waved their arms violently. Along with her hair. A cloud passed over the moon, it was dark, then silent. That is when the woman began to weep. Walking into the lake, descending into the darkness. Slowly, until she was no more.
Now she wanders in the night. Looking everywhere for children, death upon her pale face. Her eyes black, an abyss. Tonight, close your eyes and listen. Her wails of sorrow carried by the wind. Listen.