The story
The dusk fell heavy and damp over the coffee‑covered slopes of Suaza. Between the constant rustle of the *guaduales* (bamboo groves) and the smell of wet earth, the old *casa* of *bahareque*—a traditional mud‑and‑straw construction—seemed frozen in time, isolated from the rest of the world by miles of steep *trocha* (dirt track) and thick forest. In the dining room, dimly lit by an oil lamp, the family gathered around the table to share the evening meal.
Samuel, barely fifteen, was finishing his plate with the innocent calm of someone who still didn’t know the secrets that nestle in the mountains. It was close to half past six when the chirping of crickets stopped dead. A sudden, heavy silence settled in the air, breaking the kitchen’s warmth.
From the high side of the hill, where the murky water of the *quebrada* (stream) rushed down, carving its way between the stones, a tearing sound rose. It wasn’t the wind nor the howl of a mountain beast; it was a long moan, a human‑like complaint loaded with such deep anguish that it prickled the back of the neck. The wail rose in pitch, turning into a muffled scream that bounced off the coffee plants with an unsettling closeness.
Intrigued and convinced that some wounded farmer was calling for help through the brush, Samuel half‑stood from his stool. He opened his mouth and drew a breath, intending to shout into the gloom—a supportive voice to answer the lament.
He didn’t get a word out. In a split second, his grandmother’s spoon clanged against the plate with a sharp thud. The old woman, her face twisted and her skin ghost‑white, fixed him with a fierce, primal stare. With a swift motion, Doña Carmen stretched out her arm and seized his wrist with relentless force.
“Shut up and sit down right now!” the woman hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a trembling thread that allowed no reply.
Around the table, his uncles sat motionless, eyes glued to the wood, breathing held. No one looked toward the window. Outside, the scream scraped the house’s boards, accompanied by a icy wind that made the oil lamp’s flame flicker. The presence seemed to crawl down the slope, dragging the room’s warmth with it.
No one uttered a single word for the rest of the evening. They ate by feel, cleared the dishes in a funeral silence, and bolted doors and shutters long before the usual hour. Samuel went to bed with his chest tight, listening to the creaking beams until fatigue finally won.
The next morning, with the sun just peeking over the coffee fields, the grandmother called Samuel to the hallway. With her hands still cold and her gaze lost in the stream’s current, she revealed the nature of that night’s lament. It wasn’t a living soul that was coming down the water. It was *La Llorona*—the weeping woman, condemned to wander the ravines looking for innocent ears to hear her.
“Those cries are never answered, boy,” the old woman warned in a solemn tone. “If you had answered that scream, that woman would have entered the house and dragged us all down to the river.”
