Mexican Ghost Tales of the Southwest

by Alfred Ávila

  THE WATER CURSE

  THE WATER CURSE

  There was an old lady in the barrio who was the local folk healer. She was known for her cures and prophecies. She was very respected by the folk in the community.

  One day, while she was walking home along the potholed dirt road, she spotted two young boys throwing stones at a fence with a knothole in one of the boards. They were missing the hole and the stones were making a popping noise as they bounced off the fence. The dog behind the fence was barking furiously at the young hoodlums.

  The old lady stopped and called them over. “Hey, boys! Come here, both of you!” They stopped throwing their stones and sheepishly walked over to her in a lazy uncaring manner. “What do you want, lady?”

  The old lady stared at them with a serious expression on her face that scared them a little. They felt very uncomfortable and a slight tremor shook their bodies.

  “What are your names, boys?” she asked.

  “My name is Chava,” one boy spoke up, “and this is Chino, my cousin.”

  She snapped at them. “You shouldn’t be throwing rocks at that fence and bothering the dog! I’m going to talk to your parents about this!”

  Then she walked over to Chino and pointed her walking stick at him. “And you, why do you stare at me? I know you, Chinito! I remember the day you were born. You have the curse of the water on you! Stay away from the river! Your mother was cursed by the Witch of the Waters before you were born. So be careful. Avoid the river and always be on guard. You carry that curse! Beware, Chinito! Beware! You are still young and do not understand these things,” she said.

  Chino and Chava laughed at her. They slowly turned around and ran away laughing. They could hear her voice saying, “Bad boys!”

  The boys ran down the road toward the river. Beside the road they grabbed the branches of the pepper trees, pulled on them, and released them. The branches snapped away with a fast swinging motion, crashing upward into the other branches so that leaves and berries fell on their heads. The boys ran to a place where a sandbar dammed the swirling waters of the San Gabriel River, forming a large pond. A green mantle of watercress covered the serene waters of the pond. The large cottonwood trees on the riverbank cast dark shadows over the water while killdeer birds flew over the river screeching “ti-el-deo! ti-el-deo!”

  From the bank, the two boys tried to skip stones across the pond into the river, but the watercress would catch the stones. Then, the stones were swallowed by the pond.

  Bored with their game, Chava suggested to Chino that they go catch crawfish in the watercress, and after rolling up their pant legs, they entered the water and eased their way slowly among the watercress. At their approach, the small minnows that swam in the shallow waters of the pond—knee-deep in most places—swam away.

  Chino and Chava were having a great time. They would each capture a crawfish and wade out of the water to the top of the riverbank. There they would release them to see which one would move faster toward the water. They had fun watching and laughing as the crawfish moved, stopped, quickly crawled again toward the water’s edge, and then darted into the watercress, tailfirst! The boys continued their game for some time. Then they tired and headed out of the water.

  Something suddenly grabbed Chino by the leg, and the startled boy tried to shake it lose. He struggled and struggled with no success, managing only to fall into the pond.

  “Help me, Chava!” Chino cried out to his cousin, so scared that he started to cry. “Something has grabbed my leg and won’t let me go!”

  Excited and scared, Chava leaped into the pond, and took hold of Chino’s arms. But hard as Chava pulled, he could not break Chino loose from whatever was dragging him away.

  “Help! Help!” Chava called out in vain for someone to come help him rescue Chino. In response, the killdeer birds filled the air with excited cries as if sensing the desperate struggle that was taking place, the daily struggle between life and death that is part of life.

  Chino continued twisting and kicking with his one free leg as he tried to free himself. In the meantime, Chava kept pulling and screaming for help. But Chava was, after all, just a small boy, and he was weakening. Finally, he lost his grip and broke away from Chino.

  Now Chino flailed, his arms grabbing handfuls of watercress and his screams piercing the air. The force was slowly dragging him to where the water was deeper, to the deepest part of the pond. Chava, with water up to his chest, could no longer reach out to his cousin. All he could do was stand there helplessly and watch.

  Suddenly, Chino’s body was jerked viciously downward. His screams were silenced as he was pulled violently into the water. The watercress and water swirled angrily over the spot where he disappeared. Bubbles of air came bursting onto the surface. Then there was only silence. The ripples died out as the last bubbles burst on the surface of the water. The watercress was broken all the way to the spot where Chino had disappeared.

  Chava stood there in the watercress with tears streaming down his cheeks. His body shuddered as his sobbing came bursting out from his chest. He moved out of the water, pushing the watercress from him as he made his way to the bank. He walked up onto the riverbank, sat down sobbing, and stared through his tearful eyes at the hole in the watercress, the spot in the pond where Chino was last seen. Then he picked himself up and headed home.

  Later, the men from the barrio came with torches to search the pond. They tore down the sandbank to empty the water of the pond into the river. But they could not find Chino’s body. Inexplicably, no trace of the boy was ever found.

  Only the old witch understood what had taken place in that watercress-covered pond by the San Gabriel River. These ignorant people, the old woman thought. They don’t realize that along with their ancestors, they are to blame for what happened to the little boy. These mestizos accepted the god of the Spaniards, she said to herself, neglecting the gods of their ancestral Indian fathers, neglecting to offer them the sacrifices they demanded and received in the old days. For centuries, the gods who had looked after the people waited in vain for a sacrifice while the sons and daughters of the old Indians burned candles and sweet incense to their new god, prayed to him in a strange tongue and sang foreign melodies.

  The forgotten gods decided to exact their revenge. They sent the Mother of the Earth and the Waters—Coatlicue—the goddess from which all things were born, to demand the forgotten tribute of sacrifice from the mestizos. She came with a vengeance to grab the sacrificial victim herself.

  The gods had waited centuries for a sacrifice and would not wait any longer. They would now return and start the sacrificial rituals again. Their victims chosen would be born with the water curse on their souls. The witch knew what had happened, but she would not tell the people.

  Now, in the summer when the watercress is in bloom, the people from the barrio, seeing the white gleaming mantle of flowers that covers what is left of the pond, call it Chino’s Shroud.

  THE BAT

  THE BAT

  It was a ghostly vaporous image floating in the night air. Suddenly, it transformed itself into a bat and flew through the window of the adobe house. It circled the room, then landed on a small altar hanging on the wall. From the family altar, wisps of smoke rose from candles that burned slowly for foreign saints and the long-remembered ancestors of the living.

  The bat looked down at a sleeping young boy, who was awakened by the high-pitched screeching of the bat. The boy sat up upon his mat and stared at the bat. He was frightened and was still trying to wake up completely. The bat cast a huge shadow over him.

  The bat slowly began to speak. “I was once a great Aztec warrior who was killed in the midst of a great battle against the despised Spaniards. Many of us perished in skirmishes against that hated, greedy foe. They only sought gold and the enslavement of our people. Even some of our Indian enemies joined them. They killed our beloved priests, burned our sacred codices, and destroyed our sacred temples. Nothing was spared by this evil,
degenerate foe.”

  “We the warriors who perished in battle are now forced to wander aimlessly in the darkness of the night. Our spirits can find no peace or rest, for there are neither temples to offer us sacrifices nor priests to ask our gods for favors. Only the sacrifice of a Spaniard or a mestizo with that cursed Spanish blood can help us. By wishing him sick until he dies, he then becomes our slave guide that will lead us to the other world.

  “I have come and chosen you for my slave guide. I will come every night and watch your sickness grow until you perish. You will become my slave guide, and my spirit will finally rest with the gods for eternity.”

  The bat quit speaking and stood there on the shelf looking down at the boy. The child was tired and lay back on his mat, falling into a deep sleep. With twilight approaching, the bat flew out the window and disappeared.

  The next day, the mother sat down by her son and found him perspiring heavily and comatose. He had a terrible fever. She wet a rag with cold water from the well and wiped his face and upper body. She was fearful and prayed to her foreign Spanish saints and gods for assistance, but none was forthcoming. Her prayers went unanswered. The boy grew sicker and weaker despite her attempts to cure him.

  Finally, she decided to call María Luisa, the town’s healer, or curandera. María Luisa would know what to do. The child was very sick and lay dying, growing weaker and weaker by the day. The curandera told the mother that something evil had put a curse on her son. She placed ancient Indian charms beside the boy and lit an oil lamp to keep the unknown de mon from taking the child’s life. A battle was beginning between light and darkness, good and evil. The healer was not aware that she was pitted against a great force, and that force was Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec god of death, and his cohort the bat who sought release from its sufferings.

  Night was arriving. The light of the burning candles sent flickering shadows against the walls of the adobe room. The young boy was lying on the mat, and the healer sat on the floor beside him. In an instant of a flickering shadow, a bat flew into the room with a high piercing shriek, landing on the small altar. It stared at the boy with black, shiny eyes, finally settling its gaze on the woman who sat quietly staring at the beast. Her Indian eyes flashed in the candlelight.

  “WHO … ARE … YOU?” the bat asked the curandera slowly, as if forcing the words out.

  “My name is María Luisa,” answered the healer as she glared at the small beast, “I know that you are on an evil quest, but I, too, am on a quest to do battle with you for this child’s life!”

  The bat sized her up with its dark beady eyes. “You don’t have the power to match wits with me, peasant woman! You shall not stop me in my sacred quest! I have the blessing of Mictlantecuhtli, the King of the Abyss. You are a foolish woman for attempting to thwart my wishes, and you will pay dearly for this interference.” The animal’s eyes were filled with much hatred, as it flapped its membrane wings defiantly.

  “You have the power of the night,” said the curandera, “but the day belongs to me, foolish creature! You must hide yourself from the sun, lest you become blind and burst into flames in the glow of its rays. Then you will turn into the dust of the ancient ones and lose your chance for eternal life in the abode of our old gods.”

  The bat knew the power of the curandera and could sense her commitment to the boy’s soul. Said the bat, “I am the master of the dark, and you have interfered with my quest, María Luisa. I shall leave you tonight, but tomorrow I will return determined to overcome your defenses. The boy belongs to me! And his soul shall be mine! Beware, María Luisa!” The bat spread its wings and darted out the window.

  The curandera knew that the following night would be a difficult one and a challenge, too. She sat there thinking about how to fight the bat. The bat is a small creature, but as an adversary it is a giant. Its knowledge of evil is infinite.

  “The bat will be difficult to deal with. It has the blessing of Mictlantecuhtli,” she said to herself. She chanted an incantation to the gods of her ancestors, the powerful Indian gods of the past. She lit incense. The sweet-smelling smoke rose with pulsating swirls and covered the small adobe room. The curandera’s voice rose to a high pitch, beseeching the gods to help her save the young boy’s body and soul from the evil powers. Slowly she sank to the floor from her standing position and watched the smoke rise from the incense-burning can on the dirt floor. Her eyes glowed strangely. She knew what she had to do.

  At twilight, she was once again in the boy’s room. She got a small pot and applied some sticky gum to the edges of the altar mantle. Then she waited for the dreaded little bat to arrive.

  Soon after darkness had settled, a flapping of wings and a screech were heard as the bat flew in through the window and perched on the altar.

  It checked the young boy. The child lay with eyes closed, breathing laboriously. “A good sign. The boy is weakening and dying. He will soon be mine,” the beast said to himself. Next, it shifted its black bulbous eyes to María Luisa, the curandera. It looked hard at her and said, “Well, María Luisa, it looks like your precious ward will not last much longer!”

  María Luisa didn’t seem to be bothered by the bat’s remark.

  “Mr. Bat, tell me about the wonders of your ancient Aztec empire. You have a vast knowledge of the past. I would enjoy learning from you.”

  The bat eyed her suspiciously, but since she seemed to be sincere, it began to tell her of the sacrificial rituals, the battles for captives, and the glory of the empire. Whenever it stopped talking, she would egg it on to tell her more. They both lost track of time. Suddenly, the small ugly bat stopped talking.

  “What are you up to, old hag?” the bat said. But the healer remained silent.

  The sick young boy shifted positions on the mat. In his delirium, he started to speak in a soft voice: “Bat … bat, why do you come here? What do you want? My soul? What do you want, little rat? What do you want from me? My soul is not yours. It isn’t for you! The abyss is waiting for you. There is nothing here! Leave, evil thing. Go without me!” Then the boy returned to his deep sleep.

  The bat looked down at the boy. “Bad boy! You’re going to die!”

  The curandera stared at the bat. The bat became uneasy and said, “The morning is coming! I have to be leaving you, but the boy will die soon and become my guide into the spirit world. Then I will find eternal rest! You have lost the battle. You have lost!”

  “Don’t go, little mouse!” said María Luisa with a smile on her face. “You still have time.”

  The bat sensed something was wrong. Its instincts told it to beware. It flapped its wings nervously, but its feet would not move. The glue had hardened, and the animal could not break free and move its small clawed feet. They were stuck to the altar mantle.

  “You cursed woman!” the beast shrieked, “You tricked me! You tricked me!”

  “Yes,” said María Luisa, “I tricked you, and you are trapped! The dawn is arriving, and you shall perish in the rays of the sunlight. You shall cause no more harm in this town.”

  The bat screeched and screeched, flapping furiously to free itself. But it was only succeeding in tiring itself out. It stopped and glared at the curandera. “My master will be very mad. You’d better release me!”

  The folk healer sat on the floor relaxed, watching the struggling bat. Dawn was breaking and the darkness was slowly beginning to fade. The evil bat was nervous and struggling hard to free itself. But the glue held it fast.

  The beast shrieked at the healer, “What do you want from me?!”

  “I don’t want anything from you, bat! I want to see your master, Mictlantecuhtli, King of the Abyss!” she said.

  With those words, the earthen floor cracked open and smoke poured out of the earth. Mictlantecuhtli, the Lord of the Dead, appeared in the hole, but only up to his waist.

  “Why do you bother my messenger of evil? What do you want, you dried-up old chili-pepper hag?” he said with a sneer.

  María Luisa gr
abbed her walking stick and struck him on the head.

  “Don’t hit me!” he screamed.

  “Well, behave yourself,” she said, “or I’ll hit you again! You must promise me that you’ll never harm this boy again or anyone else in this town!”

  “All right, all right,” said the evil one, “I promise to leave this rotten town alone.”

  The curandera looked sternly at him and said, “You have made a bargain with me. Woe to you if you break it!” The sun was beginning to shine over the surrounding hills and valleys. “Go now and take your little evil bat with you!”

  Mictlantecuhtli looked at the woman with her walking stick in her hand pointed toward him. He didn’t dare risk another blow, so he quickly grabbed the bat off the altar mantle. It let out a loud painful screech as it was pulled off. With one swift movement, they both sank into the hole in the earth. Then the hole closed back up.

  María Luisa became famous in the valley for her craftiness in overcoming Mictlantecuhtli and the bat. The boy got well, and some say that he grew up to become the famous revolutionary leader, Francisco Villa, better known to all as Pancho Villa.

  THE JAPANESE WOMAN

  THE JAPANESE WOMAN

  There is a story dating back to the days when the Spanish sailed the vast expanses of the Pacific. It is the story of a funerary urn taken by a Manila trade galleon from Japan to the Philippine Islands, and from there to the west coast of New Spain, as Mexico was known at the time.

  The urn was beautiful. It was decorated with white and gold cherry blossoms, and it still held the ashes of an unknown Japanese person.

  There is no record of the urn’s history before it was brought to Mexico. It might have been offered to a Spanish sailor by some uncaring beggar, or maybe it was stolen from a Buddhist temple and sold as a souvenir. What is known is that the sailor took it on board the galleon, and that on his return to his home port of Acapulco, he fell short of cash and sold it to a shopkeeper. Later, the shopkeeper asked a friend of his, an old seagoing sailor, what he thought of the jar.