The story
It was a Sunday afternoon when Camila, Mateo, Lucía, and Andrés arrived at the central square of La Jagua, a small town in Huila that seemed frozen in time. The church, with its white walls and copper bell tower, dominated the view, but what caught their attention the most was a strange brick figure carved in the shape of a bruja, a witch, situated right in front of the portal. The low, pale sun cast long shadows over the cobblestones, and the air carried a quietness that contrasted with the usual hum of the markets.
The group noticed that the streets were deserted; barely one or two people crossed the plaza, and most of the shops were closed. A sense of different energy, as if the town itself were keeping a secret, settled among them. An elderly gray-bearded man selling fruit under a blue umbrella walked over and recommended they visit a house that, according to him, offered the best desserts in the area. "Just six blocks from here, on Old Oak Street," he instructed them, pointing with a wrinkled hand.
Guided by curiosity, the four friends followed the dirt path that wound between whitewashed houses and centuries-old trees. Upon turning the fifth corner, the view opened up onto a huge house with thick walls and red tiles, surrounded by tall ceiba trees that seemed to stand guard over the place. On the facade, acting as sentinels, were life-sized witch sculptures carved from blackened wood; their faces were marked by wrinkles and blank gazes that seemed to watch passersby.
When they knocked on the door, a woman around fifty years old, with graying hair and a serene look, welcomed them with a friendly smile. She introduced herself as Doña Clara, the owner of the establishment, and invited them inside. Within, the place smelled of cinnamon and sugar; guava pastries and freshly made buñuelos, traditional fried dough fritters, shone brightly in a display case. Doña Clara began showing them small miniature witch sculptures, explaining that each one represented a local legend.
As the conversation flowed, the group ventured toward the central patio, an open space covered with lush vegetation where light filtered through the leaves, creating a mosaic of shadows on the floor. In a corner, half-hidden by a jasmine vine, a figure caught Lucía's attention. It was a woman wrapped in a long, fog-colored robe, her hair completely covering her face. The figure was crouched down, her left hand slowly turning stones inside a clay bowl, as if performing a silent ritual.
The woman did not speak, nor did she seem to notice the visitors' presence. Her body moved with hypnotic precision, and the faint clinking of the stones echoed like a whisper in the air. Camila felt a chill run down her spine; Andrés, normally a skeptic, froze as he watched the woman's trance. Doña Clara, realizing the group's eyes were fixed on the figure, hurried over.
"It is not the time to watch, my dears," she said in an urgent voice. "Leave now, for this is not for you."
Without waiting for a reply, the robed woman stood up slowly, as if time itself were pushing her to abandon her ritual. Doña Clara took them by the arm and led them back to the door, while the sun began to sink and the trees' shadows lengthened.
Outside, the group stepped into the open air with their hearts pounding fast and a mix of fascination and fear. They had never seen anything like it in their lives, and the speed with which the scene had changed left them with the feeling of having witnessed a secret kept by the town.
That very night, upon returning home, Mateo received a Facebook message from a young man named Julián, originally from La Jagua. Julián explained that the woman in the trance was known as "the witch of the patio"; according to tradition, she remained there in a state of concentration, learning and passing down ancestral witchcraft knowledge. The story, though strange, ignited the group's intrigue, and they now saw La Jagua in a different light: not just as a silent town, but as the guardian of a presence that, although quiet, spoke in the language of mysteries.
Ever since then, whenever the wind stirs the branches of the ceibas and the scent of cinnamon drifts from the old house, Camila, Mateo, Lucía, and Andrés remember that Sunday and the whisper that, without words, invited them to ask: what else hides behind the apparent solitude of La Jagua?
