La Llorona

There is a bridge that crosses the marisma and becomes a road running past a large empty field filled with gravel, sand, dust, and the occasional stubborn bush or shrub. This field is sandwiched by the marisma on one side and a busy thoroughfare on the other. The houses that look across the thoroughfare have an uninhibited view of the field and the marisma on the other side.

SIDE NOTE: Once, a member of the ward was walking with us across this field and he freaked us out by telling us that there was quicksand in that field. It seemed legit to me, since we knew that the field actually used to be part of the marisma and there could be pockets of moisture welling up below. It turned out he was just trying to scare us; it worked. We were terrified. 

The Robles family, a part-member family that we loved dearly, lived in one of those houses overlooking the vacant field and marisma. My companion and I were teaching the entire family the discussions and they were progressing enthusiastically. We tried to schedule our appointments with them last so that we could end our days on a high note.

On one of our evening visits we were teaching the second discussion. We arrived at the principle of the Holy Ghost (Espiritu Santo). The family listened respectfully, but we could tell that something was wrong. They all seemed uncomfortable, and the warm cheery feeling in the room abruptly left. We pushed through the principle and asked them questions to see if they understood and find out how they felt about the Holy Ghost, to which they politely murmured the acceptable answers but the discomfort of the room became almost palpable. Finally, I confronted them directly about the elephant in the room. I looked them directly in the eye and said, “Brother and Sister Robles, we have noticed that you seem uncomfortable with this principle. Is there something specific about the Holy Ghost that bothers you?“

Brother Robles stared at his feet. Sister Robles looked steadily at us but said nothing.Their teenage daughter who was usually silent, leaned in and asked solemnly, “Elder, do you believe in Ghosts besides the Holy Ghost?”

My companion and I looked at each other and replied something like “Maybe. Depends. Tell us more about what you believe about Ghosts.” That's when things got really creepy.

The daughter (whose name I cannot remember) leaned in closer and told us the story of La Llorona (The Weeping Woman) in hushed tones and with great conviction. We were sitting around their living room on lawn chairs, our feet resting on the dirt floor, dimly lit by a single bare light bulb. I can’t tell the story the way she did, but I will do my best to summarize it:

Long ago, there was a young woman so beautiful all the young men who saw her competed for her affection. She would have none of them, saying that she would only marry the most handsome man in the land. One day a stunningly handsome young man rode into town. He was so manly, he would only ride wild untamed horses. He was so handsome all the women young and old would swoon to see him pass by.  He was the wealthy son of a rich Ranchero. The young woman caught his eye and they were soon wed. As time wore on, she bare him beautiful children that he loved dearly. However, as she aged, his attentions turned to younger women. One day she took the children for a walk along the river. Her husband rode by driving a team of horses, with an enamored young woman on his arm. He stopped and spoke lovingly to each of the children but did not even look at his wife. Then he rode off. In a fit of rage, the young mother flung her children one by one into the deep waters of the river and they were dragged by the swift current to their deaths. Regretting what she had done, the woman returned every day to the river and wailed, crying out for her children, “¡Ay, mis hijos! ¡Mis hijos!” The woman was dubbed, “La Llorona.” Her apparition has been sighted stalking the banks of bodies of water by night all throughout Latin America, wearing a long, flowing, brilliantly shining white dress and wailing forlornly for her murdered children.

SIDE NOTE: Hispanic mothers have been telling their children this story for years to scare them into obedience. In certain versions of the story La Llorona snatches misbehaving children and drags them to the bottom of a river with her where she spends eternity. 

The daughter finished the story and leaned back in her chair, and Brother Robles looked at us and said, “Hermanos, nosotros hemos visto a La Llorona muchas veces (Bretheren, we’ve seen La Llorona many times).”

Then they took us to the back patio where we looked out across the now vacant thoroughfare and the large empty field. We could vaguely make out the dark form of the marisma at the opposite end of the field. Pointing at the marisma, Brother Robles told us how at least once each week, they saw a glowing apparition accompanied by eerie wailing late at night. Every time it appeared to travel along the bank of the marisma before suddenly being extinguished.

Thoroughly creeped out, my companion and I gave many logical alternatives for the sightings: Light from passing traffic reflecting off the waters of the marisma. Gases venting off the rancid water. The wind. Over-active imaginations. It was after dark and close to the time of our curfew, so we finished up our discussion quickly, left with a prayer and started the walk back to our apartment.

As we crossed the field, we could faintly hear the wind softly moaning. The moans seemed to take shape into actual words, unintelligible at first but then seeming to say “hiiiiijooooosss.” Knowing I was being paranoid, but wanting visual confirmation that I was imagining things, I looked over my right shoulder towards the marisma. It may have been my imagination, but I can still see in my mind’s eye a glowing white form moving slowly away from the bridge along the marisma.

SIDE NOTE:I am certain that I was so spooked by the story and the chilling way it was told, and from being in that part of town after dark, that my imagination was running wild.