La Llorona: an excerpt

At home, I learned later, it was a maelstrom of quiet chaos. When I disappeared, they didn’t know where to look. The white adobe house by the river became a prison for my mom and brother. They wept and grieved and tried to look for me wherever they could. But the means weren’t there for a large-scale search, and they suffered silently because of my stepdad, who wouldn’t allow them to search further. Every time my mom would want to search for me, he would say, “He’s not here. You won’t find him. It’s time to let him go.” His dreams of me not being around had come true. He didn’t care that I was gone. That my mom and brother cried every day meant nothing to him. 

My brother ached inside and suffered because he thought it was his fault that I was gone. “I told him to hurry – he didn’t listen. I just don’t know where he went,” he would say to my mom as they cried together silently. I try to imagine, now, what I would do if one of my kids was missing. I would go to the ends of the earth to find them. I would turn every rock upside down until I couldn’t go any further. But in 1973 there were no means for someone from rural Mexico, with an angry, abusive husband, to turn to. What could she do?

When fear is present, I believe evil will manifest itself in ways that we don’t always want to see. Sometimes, it can give you hope that everything will be alright – if you believe. My brother tells a tale of a night at the white house, several weeks or months after I disappeared. All was quiet save for the sheep bleating softly outside the window, and my brother lay quietly sleeping as the minutes ticked into the dark night. My mom and stepdad were asleep as well, and snored in to the heaviness of the night. 

Out of his dreams Chucho was awakened by a voice, crying urgently to come and help him. Shivers went up his spine as he lay in a deathly quiet pose, listening with ears even more intent. Am I dreaming, he thought, but no – there it is again! He got up quietly and crept to the wooden door that was poorly constructed – which let in moonlight and wisps of cold air that permeated the room. He put one eye to the cracks in the puerta and waited. “Help me! Help me, Chucho!” a voice carried from down the embankment near the river. He froze as he recognized the voice – it was Tono! He had come back and couldn’t find his way to the house! 

He ran over to his mom and shook her awake as she said, “Que paso, hijo? What’s going on?” Chucho couldn’t hold still as he whispered, “Tono is here! He’s outside crying for help and can’t find his way to the house! Let’s go get him!” The look that passed over his mom’s face was one of hesitant hope, and she got up to look out the door. At this time his dad awoke and grumbled for everyone to get back in bed. “No, pa, Tono is here! He’s outside crying for us!” my brother said, trying to make his dad understand. My stepdad got up as well and padded over to the door. 

He opened it and stepped outside into the blackest night he had seen – the moon was slowly being covered by clouds as he walked several paces out and listened. Soon, a piercing yet low groan drifted up from the river along with the same cry for help Chucho had heard. My stepdad looked back at my mom and brother standing in the doorway and turned to walk to the edge of the embankment. 

His eyes, adjusting to the sparse light the moon was giving off, peered over the edge to see where the noise was coming from. “Tono, estas aqui? Are you here?” he said gruffly, yet soft enough not to carry through the night air. 

He could see a figure down by the water, walking slowly, almost floating. Are my eyes playing tricks on me, he thought, as he squinted to see who the figure might be. The moon, suddenly bright as the clouds parted, shone beams on the edge of the water and he froze, stock still, and took in the sight that was before him. 

Shrouded in white, he could plainly see that it was a woman walking listlessly by the water. Her dress drug on the ground behind her as the words emanated from her lips in a voice that was not her own – in a voice that belonged to a six-year old boy that was lost, “Help me! Help me I can’t find my way home!” My stepdad could see her starting to turn her head around and he turned quickly and ran back to the house where they were waiting. 

“Get inside right now!” he cried, as their faces turned to confusion. “Who is it? Where’s Tono?” my mom and brother cried in unison. “Shhh, don’t make a noise,” he whispered as they sat inside, terror etched on their faces. They could hear a shuffling come from outside as she made her way closer and closer to the small adobe home, and when she reached as close as she could come, a small voice cried in Tono’s voice yet again, “Why won’t you help me? I want to come in! I’ve been gone so long.” 

My brother recalls being paralyzed by fear and confusion, not knowing why they couldn’t open the door. My dad held his finger to his lips and told us, “Don’t look out the cracks of the door. You can't see her face. If you do, she will take you.” 

That’s when they knew, my mom and brother, what my dad had seen – and what was hovering around our casita. La Llorona, the most feared specter in Mexico, was using the voice of my brother, who was lost, to trick us into coming outside. It’s said she is beautiful, ethereal even from behind but that if you see her face you will perish, because her face is a haggard mess of ugliness. She will take you with her and end her prison sentence, which is to walk the earth eternally as punishment for drowning her children in a river. 

My mom wept internally, and Chucho covered his ears and head as she began wailing outside the heavy cement walls. It wouldn’t be the last time she visited while I was lost. Evil exists and uses our fears to torment us. My dad saw her, had taken in her form with his own eyes, but it didn’t change him. If only it had.