Demon saga

La Llorona. The Weeping Woman

The river breathed its secrets as it ran through the tiny village, its surface somber and seemingly bottomless in the wan light of the moon. The villagers had repeated the story for generations—one of weeping, of remorse, of a specter woman that paced the shore after dark, lamenting the deaths of her dead children.

Few ventured near the river at night, but for young Miguel, the threats were mere bedtime stories designed to frighten children. He was fifteen, obstinate, and keen to demonstrate his courage. Under the cover of darkness, while his family slept, he slipped out of his humble abode and headed toward the water's edge.

The darkness was still except for the rustle of leaves from time to time. The village had long disappeared behind him, its gentle light receding into the distance. Miguel knelt by the river, cupping a handful of cool water, allowing it to drop from his fingers.

And then, he heard it.

A faint sob drifted through the air, a delicate thing yet heavy with unbearable grief.

Miguel spun about, his heart racing. There was nothing, only the seemingly infinite shadows cast among the trees. But then, she appeared.

A woman appeared beside the water, her long, white, flowing gown hovering above the earth. Her black hair flowed down her back, and her face was buried as she wept, her tears echoing out across the darkness.

Miguel's throat closed. He remembered the story. He knew what this indicated.

"Señora?" he breathed uncertainly.

The woman's wails ceased. She slowly raised her head to gaze at him. Her eyes were empty, dark well of sorrow and loss. Her lips trembled as she replied:

"Mis hijos. do you see my children?"

Miguel reeled backward, his breath held in his throat. The legends were true.

She stepped towards him, her shaking hands outstretched. "They were here. they were just here. Have you seen them?"

Miguel needed to run, to scream, but his body would not obey.

The woman emitted a shrill wail, one that filled the night with intolerable grief. "Where are my children?"

The trees howled and the current swelled in the river, their water rising unusually high. Miguel at last had his voice, and he retreated backward. He turned and took off, running down the dirt path with feet pounding as he sprinted into the safety of the village.

The weeping faded behind him with each passing step.

Miguel never mentioned that night, but he never questioned the tales again. And to this day, if you stand close enough by the river, you can still hear her—a mother lost in time, eternally searching for the children she drowned in a fit of madness.

La Llorona. The Weeping Woman.