Chapter 72: The Sad Story Of “La Llorona”

Camilo took a deep breath before he began.”Alright,” he said quietly. “The story starts with a love between a Spaniard and a mestiza.”

Francisco and Catalina exchanged uneasy glances — already noticing the unsettling similarities.

Camilo continued, his voice low but steady.”They say it was a beautiful love story. The Spaniard made many promises of marriage, and the girl fell deeply for him. He was rich, of high standing, so of course his family opposed the relationship. Yet he defied them, or so it seemed, and convinced her to move with him to a house by the river — far from the city, far from anyone who might stand against their love.”

Francisco and Catalina frowned. The parallels were impossible to ignore. They too had spoken, once, of leaving the city behind — should everything fall apart.

Camilo went on, unaware of their silent exchange.”Though they lived outside the city, the Spaniard still worked for his family. He spent most of his days in town, leaving his wife alone in the wilderness. For a few months, they were happy — he came and went, but she didn’t mind… until she became pregnant.”

Camilo sighed, his tone darkening.”At first, they rejoiced. When he learned of the child, the Spaniard stayed home for a while. She was happy but afraid, waiting for the baby to be born. When she asked again about marriage, he found excuses — always something. Her insecurities grew, but love made her patient. Then she became pregnant again. This time, something changed. He turned cold. He spent more time in the city — in Popayán, to be exact.”

Francisco raised a hand. “Wait a moment — Popayán? You mean this Popayán, the capital of Cauca? Where we are right now?”

Camilo nodded gravely. “That’s right. This tale belongs to this land.”

A chill rippled through the group.The night air seemed to grow heavier — and then, as if summoned by their silence, a distant cry echoed through the darkness.

“My babies… where are my babies?”

The voice was close — too close.One terrified servant, trembling, grabbed his musket and fired into the black.

The gunshot shattered the night.Smoke hung thick in the cold air. Francisco said nothing at first — he, too, had felt the dread. It was hard to blame the men, staring into the endless dark. But finally, he spoke to the camp leader.

“Tell them I understand their fear,” he said quietly. “But if it truly is a witch out there, a bullet will do nothing. Calm their nerves — and make sure they don’t waste powder. We don’t want to anger her further… or summon something worse.”

The leader nodded, passed on the message, and gestured for Camilo to continue.

Camilo swallowed and resumed.”In the years that followed, every time the woman begged for marriage, the man grew colder. One day, he stopped visiting entirely. Desperate to know why, she went to the city — only to hear that her lover was marrying another woman, a criolla, daughter of a wealthy Spaniard. Heartbroken and consumed by rage, she returned home.”

Camilo’s voice dropped to a near whisper.”She took her two children — one seven, the other five — and drowned them in the river.”

A horrified silence spread across the fire. The only sound was the soft hiss of burning wood.

“Afterward,” Camilo continued, “it’s said she awoke from her fury, realizing the horror of what she’d done. She screamed for her children, weeping by the river. When the Spaniard heard, he came back — furious. He drowned her too, ignoring her pleas for mercy. But even after her death, the villagers claimed to hear her voice… a woman crying for her lost children. Men known for cruelty or betrayal began to vanish. Children disappeared near the river. Each time her wail was heard, someone was gone by morning.”

The camp fell silent again. Francisco frowned.”So… was she a witch, or something else?”

Camilo shook his head. “No one truly knows. The townsfolk believe she was a soul denied Heaven for her sin, yet barred from Hell by her repentance. So she wanders still — along the rivers and lakes of Cauca — forever searching for the children God took to Heaven, leaving their mother behind.”

The fire crackled softly.Francisco and Catalina looked at one another — their eyes heavy with a mix of fear, guilt, and sorrow. Francisco felt the sting of guilt for not yet marrying her; Catalina, though she loved him deeply, couldn’t help but feel a flicker of insecurity — a dread that their love might share the same fate as the one in the story.

Francisco whispered, almost tenderly, “Don’t worry. I’ve no intention of becoming that man.”

“I know,” Catalina murmured. “It’s just… a sad story.”

They sat in silence after that, the whole camp quiet beneath a sky thick with mist and moonlight.At last, the cries faded, and the night grew calm again. The stars reappeared, glittering above them like distant candles.

Everyone exhaled in relief — until a servant pointed, pale with terror.”The house… the house!”

They followed his trembling hand.Where the hill and the house had stood the night before — there was nothing. No hill. No house. Just empty land and silence.

“That’s impossible,” Francisco muttered, staring in disbelief. He wasn’t a particularly devout man, but seeing a house vanish in the night left him shaken to the core.

The others murmured in confusion until Carlos spoke.”Check on the servant who panicked last night.”

They found Mario bound with rope, a cloth tied around his mouth. His eyes were dazed and confused. One of the men untied him.

Mario blinked at the circle of faces. “What happened? Why am I tied up?”

The leader asked carefully, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Mario frowned, rubbing his wrists. “We were taking the torches closer to the fireplace, like the young master ordered… and then—” He stopped, struggling to recall. “I can’t remember anything else.”

Seeing his genuine confusion, the leader ordered the ropes removed but kept the musket from him.”Until a priest examines you, you won’t be armed,” he said. “And you two—keep an eye on him. If there’s truly a demon inside him, shoot without hesitation.”

Mario paled. “A demon? What are you talking about?”

His companions whispered the events of the night into his ear. As the words sank in, his skin turned cold as stone. He could only nod and follow orders.

They broke camp quickly at dawn and marched toward where the house had stood. But there was nothing — no trace of a hill, a door, or even a footprint in the mud. Whispers spread among the servants.

“Maybe a witch tricked our eyes,” one murmured.”My grandmother said they sell their souls to demons to gain such power.”Another nodded. “Yes, mine said the same. Perhaps she wanted us to come and trade our souls for gold.”

The whispers trailed them along the road like a shadow.By nightfall, they reached Mompox — yet none could escape the weight of the tale they carried. In generations to come, their children would speak of it still: the night their forebears met the weeping spirit of the river — La Llorona.

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