La Lorona

It was a humid, sticky night when Isabella and her little brother Marco wandered down the trail that led to the river. Their family had just moved to the small Mexican town, and though Isabella was only twelve, she was already tired of babysitting Marco. But when he begged to see the river under the moonlight, she finally agreed—if only to escape the cramped silence of their new home.

The river was black and still, like a ribbon of ink under the moonlight. Crickets chirped in the bushes, and the wind rustled through the reeds, whispering soft secrets. Marco tugged on her arm and pointed toward the water, where a strange mist had started to drift across the surface.

"Do you see her?" Marco asked, his voice a nervous whisper.

"See who?" Isabella replied, her gaze shifting to where he pointed. She strained her eyes, peering through the mist. At first, there was nothing. But then, just as the wind died, she saw it—a figure, pale and shadowy, gliding along the edge of the river.

The woman wore a long, white dress that shimmered in the moonlight, her head bowed, and her dark hair flowing over her shoulders like a river of its own. She moved slowly, her bare feet seeming to float just above the ground.

Isabella felt a cold chill settle over her. "It’s just someone from town," she whispered, mostly to reassure herself. "Probably fishing."

But the figure didn’t hold a fishing pole. Instead, her hands dangled at her sides, and her fingers seemed long, too long. And as she moved, she whispered—a sound that wove through the trees and reeds, soft yet sharp, like the hissing of snakes.

Marco stepped forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. Isabella grabbed his arm. "Don’t," she hissed, feeling the hairs on her arms rise.

"Why is she crying?" Marco asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

Isabella hadn’t noticed it before, but now she could hear it too—a soft sobbing, muffled, as if trapped underwater. The woman’s shoulders heaved, and her sobs turned into a gut-wrenching wail that echoed across the river, so loud that it made Isabella’s ears ache.

"Mis hijos… donde estan mis hijos?" she wailed, her voice cracking with a sorrow so deep that Isabella felt it burrow into her bones.

Isabella’s heart pounded as the woman lifted her head. Beneath the mess of tangled hair, her eyes were hollow, black as the river itself. Her mouth, stretched in a twisted scream, was smeared with a darkness that looked like dried blood.

Isabella froze, unable to move as the woman’s gaze locked on hers. She felt Marco shaking beside her, but neither of them could tear their eyes away as the woman started toward them, her movements jerky, unnatural, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

"Run!" Isabella whispered, finally finding her voice. She grabbed Marco’s hand, yanking him back up the trail, but the woman’s voice followed them, crying and wailing in broken sobs.

They ran, hearts pounding, breath hitching, until they reached the edge of town. But as they turned back, hoping the woman had vanished, Isabella felt her blood turn to ice.

There, at the edge of the trail, stood the woman, her black eyes fixed on them, her mouth open in a soundless scream.

That night, Isabella and Marco didn’t sleep. They kept their lights on, every shadow a threat, every creak a reminder of that woman by the river. And though they never saw her again, her cries echoed in their dreams—a haunting lullaby of grief, reminding them that La Llorona was still searching, and that one day, she might return to claim them too.