My parents argued loudly while the guide drove in silence but more aggressively than usual. He made sharp turns and honked repeatedly. I covered my ears tightly, trying to think of anything else. The image of the woman and the child under the cross was the first thing that came to my mind.It was the last thing I needed at that moment, but I remember feeling that maybe she had something to do with everything that was happening. I had heard stories about apparitions and possessions before, always mocking them all for how stupid they sounded and how inept the people who fell for them were.I had tried not to be one of them with all my might, but things had gotten so damn weird. Should I have obeyed the priest when he warned me about the consequences? Should I have prayed at every opportunity I had? Why was I even considering the possibility that all these things were real, if they had always been so illogical and senseless?Now I didn’t know what was real or not; I only knew that something was wrong. No matter what it was, I always managed to destroy my own happiness. And now not only mine was in danger.
The sky had turned gray when we stopped in a small, faded neighborhood with enough space for a few tourists who weren’t there.The commotion of the trip had exhausted the guide, who, saying only the name of the attraction we would see, indicated that we follow him. We got out of the car with only my mother and me, leaving our things behind, as we knew it would be a quick stop.Before I walked, I saw my father sitting with crossed arms, staring ahead without moving a muscle. I didn’t want to imagine how he was feeling. The guide had sat at the edge of an empty lot, and his pants were covered in dust.Behind him, the trunk of a palm tree emerged from the ground and buried itself again, forming an arch no more than a meter long. At the side, another trunk rose and covered a couple of meters before burying itself again.This same pattern repeated, in different lengths and heights, throughout the entire lot, and different palm heads protruded from the ground. They were like coiled snakes trying to stay afloat so as not to drown.
“The seven-headed palm tree,” we heard the guide say.
“I only count six,” I replied.
“And it’d better stay that way. Many believe that the day the seventh grows, we’ll end up disappearing, like it happened in ‘98 and 2007. They say it’s enchanted, by a witch, the most famous one in the area: Julia Hernández Pecho Vda. de Díaz. Doña Lucha, as we call her around here.According to historians, she’s the only one of many who did exist and gained fame for being good, one who heals and helps. But undoubtedly, this is what she’s remembered for the most. Her apocalyptic prophecy of the seventh head. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m not playing with my luck anymore; you can find some surprises…“I caught the hint but didn’t say anything. I knew I would never pick up tourists directly from the street again, and I wouldn’t blame him for it.”Head or not, in the end, we always end up badly,” said the guide.After letting the guide rest a bit in his comfortable corner, I strolled around the giant palm tree and looked for the point where it had been beheaded so many times. I found it, small and isolated among several trunk pieces. The thousands of cuts on its dark, sun-paled skin were still visible.I thought about the witch in the dune and came up with the idea that maybe she was Doña Lucha. I thought about how she could have earned the admiration of an entire community and led them to worship and despise her to this day.So many people seduced by her message of help, so many stories and altars; it wasn’t hard to believe that such a level of power could become a danger, the kind that only human minds are capable of conceiving. A lie is enough to destroy the world.Thousands of deceived people, blinded in moments of pain and weakness, reduced to the most vulnerable, defenseless state. It wouldn’t be difficult; it would be as easy as blinking, seizing everyone with one hand while distracting them with laughter with the other.It was the perfect secret. Although these words echoed only in my head, suddenly I felt that someone had heard them. Behind me, something had been lurking all this time, its presence becoming more dominant with each passing second.I slowly turned my head and spotted the black car parked in the distance. Inside, amidst the darkness of the vehicle, eyes were watching me. I felt my body instantly freeze, and a cold wind caressed me, chilling my bones. The entire day was consumed by that gaze that had been observing me all that time.They were bright eyes, filled with hatred and mockery at the same time, I don’t know, and they were saying, “I’ve got you,” without blinking once. I knew to whom they belonged, but I recognized nothing alive in them.Then, slowly, the head they were in buried itself back into the darkness, and soon I could see the silhouette of my father resting in the passenger seat.I felt as if a spell broke when I gained the strength to turn towards my mother, who was chatting with the guide behind the undulating logs. I felt like I couldn’t walk, and a sudden dizziness drained all my energy. I approached her as quickly as I could and told her that I really needed those pills.
“We’re leaving now; it’s starting to get dark,” said the guide.
“What did you find out there?” my mother asked.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I replied.
Rushing back, I noticed how it wasn’t just me freezing; the guide and my mother walked huddled against the cold, trying to warm themselves with their arms. Once inside, I didn’t have the strength to look at my father. I tried to focus my gaze on my legs, lowering my head firmly to make sure I didn’t catch anything else.Without having to see them, I knew my mother was beside me, and the guide was driving in front of me, but something strange was happening in the passenger seat. I knew the smells and sounds of my father, and, at that moment, whatever was up there wasn’t him. An intruder had sneaked into the car; I could feel it.But I dared not look. I knew that if I lifted my gaze, I would reveal one of the two, and the slightest possibility that it was the other terrified me in a maddening way. I extended my hand and searched for my mother’s.I needed to feel something familiar, something that would transport me to good memories and erase the silhouette of the witch that kept haunting me. I found her fingers and held them tightly. Her hand felt cold and fragile, so much so that I would have broken it if I squeezed a little harder.It surprised me that she didn’t say anything; she wasn’t someone who showed affection so easily. But I remained like that for the rest of the journey, without any unnecessary questions.The entire day had already turned dark, and thousands of lights adorned the streets we passed. The murmur of people outside encouraged me to look out the window, as if all my fears had dissipated when we left behind the loneliness of the previous roads. I turned to look at my mother, and I found her asleep in her seat.I, too, was starting to feel the effects of such an exhausting journey and eagerly awaited the chance to return to the hotel to sleep and not wake up anymore. The car moved so slowly that I could see people walking past us on foot.We turned right at a corner and entered a kind of tourist park bathed in lights and garlands hanging from various trees in its green gardens. A wooden bridge on one side allowed groups of tourists and local visitors to pass, and then they scattered along stone paths and grassy areas, taking photos and trying snacks.But what caught our attention the most were the statues. At various points, you could find representations of people and other anthropomorphic beings from different mythologies, some elevated high on a tree, others resting on the ground.
“This is the Witches’ Park,” I heard the guide say. “All those statues you see are of witches, of all sizes and colors. At first, they only dedicated one to Doña Lucha, that golden one you see way back there, but over time, as the fervor for witchcraft grew, they kept adding more and more until it filled everything.Many come here out of mere curiosity or to sell their witchcraft items, but others see it as a magical place, where one can come to communicate with dark beings thanks to the energy that covers the place.They say the birds flying over the area are the spirits of ancient witches who escaped the Inquisition several years ago along with Doña Lucha, and occasionally, they perch on her statue as a sign of gratitude and respect. Either way, it has become the center of Cachiche and will be our last stop.”
From the window, I gazed around as the guide spoke to us, notably sleepy.
You can get off now; I’ll wait for you here. There are souvenir shops at the back if you’re interested and a pharmacy for the young man,” the guide said and unlocked our doors.
When I saw my father again, I felt that my fears had been stupid. He was just sleeping with his arms crossed and his head hanging, as he always did. I let go of my mother’s hand before she woke up and got out of the car amid a noise of voices, music, and car horns.I didn’t want to ask the guide if people were celebrating something special or if this was the usual atmosphere of the area, so I thought of asking someone from the crowd. I had crossed the street first, waiting for my parents, and after a few minutes, I saw my mother coming from behind the car holding my father and helping him to get to the park.I couldn’t see him like that, so weak. I thought maybe it wasn’t just tiredness, and he needed medical attention. When we met, I tried to cheer up my father, give him energy, but he just patted me on the head and walked on with my mother.Initially, I accompanied them to see some statues and take photos of other stone figurines we found on the bridge, but I ended up separating from them after seeing them enter one of the paths, getting lost in a wall of tourists. I knew they wouldn’t mind much.I wanted to clear my mind by talking to someone who wasn’t already in a group, so I headed to the souvenir and witchcraft paraphernalia section, and I found a booth run by a lady offering meticulously crafted necklaces and talismans with beautiful colored stones.I asked her if they were celebrating something that day, and she replied that every day there was a reason to celebrate.
“Doña Luchita never rested when she helped others, and I will never rest from celebrating her,” she said.
“How are you so sure she did?” I replied.
Immediately, she unfolded the green cloth covering her head and neck and pointed to a necklace with a picture of a little girl. “Here’s all the proof. She saved her, my little Emily,” she said, with an expression that turned serious in a second.
“Bless her,” I replied, mostly out of respect.
“Do you plan to buy something?” she asked while covering herself again with the cloth.
It was difficult to choose from so many little statues and jewelry. I knew I had to return to my parents soon, so I felt like I was in a hurry. Then, I saw it. Hanging in the middle of a row of necklaces, I saw the same moth that I had found at breakfast.Polished with surprising precision in silver, I held it in my hand and explored the patterns on its wings. “It’s identical,” I thought. I would have to check my camera, but I had left it in the car.Since I didn’t have money with me, I asked the seller if she could wait for a moment until I got the money to pay her and if she could reserve the necklace in the meantime. She didn’t seem to have any problem, and she told me that these jewels always choose their next owner.Hearing something like that made me feel so good that I had returned the smile to my face. Excited, I let go of the necklace, and out of nowhere, I heard a scream. Everyone turned instantly, and a sepulchral silence fell.Thousands of heads began to search among the crowd for the origin of the sound, but it had been so fleeting that no one could find it. Silently, expectantly, they awaited a second signal. Then, it happened again. This time it was louder, almost like a scream.Movement returned to the park, and a symphony of distressed voices flooded the atmosphere. I remember that at the second scream, I recognized my father’s voice as clear as day. I started walking, hurrying, pushing through the chaos of suffocating bodies.Somehow, I managed to break free from the crowd and reach the center of the park in a few seconds. Then, I heard a third scream and knew which path I would have to turn down. I was practically running between two rows of ominous statues emerging from the trees until I found a terrible scene.On the ground, painfully curled up, covering his face with both hands in desperation, my father groaned and mumbled at the foot of a statue, pushing away my mother, who sobbed trying to console him, launching her arms in violent attacks.A perfect circle of people had gathered around us and watched from a distance without saying a word.
“It’s her,” I heard my father say among so many unintelligible sounds. “It’s her. It’s her.”
Paralyzed, the only thing I could move at that moment were my eyes. I saw my father’s, first, filled with unimaginable terror, and I followed them until I reached the statue. He was right; it was her. She wore the same torn black robe that ended in points, and a wooden cross was at her side, with the same fabric tied in its center.But I couldn’t find the child anywhere. It was an incomplete image. I needed that small white dot that gave it meaning. Then, I looked at my father again and found the worst of coincidences. His clothes were all white. His shirt, his pants, his hat, they had all been white throughout the trip, and I only noticed it now.Seeing this was what finally broke me that day, and I burst into tears without thinking that everyone was watching us.
Eventually, the crowd began to disperse, and the three of us waited for the guide’s call sitting on a bench well into the night. My father had calmed down and was sleeping peacefully leaning on my mother’s shoulder, who was also asleep.That brought back more memories of our hospital days, those intervals of tranquility between us, and I felt a peace that I hadn’t expected to obtain that night. Finally, I received the guide’s call asking us to return, as the day’s itinerary had ended and we had exceeded its time limit.We got up as best as we could and returned to the car as a group, still consoling each other. The guide didn’t seem very concerned about our condition and only asked if we wanted to continue the tour the next day.
“We’ll see,” my mother replied.
Before the car started, I saw a vulture perched on Doña Lucha’s head. The return to the hotel was quite fast. The guide left us at the same door we had exited in the morning and told us he would wait for us there the next day.After a few protocol farewell lines, he bid us goodbye, and his car disappeared into the darkness of the street. My mother put my father to sleep in his room and joined me in the hotel dining room. She told me that Dad had contracted a severe fever, and we wouldn’t be able to continue the tour.We would return to Lima tomorrow morning and go to the first hospital we found.
“I’m sorry all this happened,” she said. “We’ll fix it soon, you’ll see, and we can go on this or another tour whenever you want.”
I told her not to worry, that I also wanted to go home. At that moment, I didn’t expect more from her, but when we got up, she gave me a hug and told me she loved me. It scared me at first, but I hugged her back, and we stood like that for a few eternal seconds.I thought I might try to love her more from then on, although things haven’t gone quite well for us these days. I guess those things take time. We cleared the table, and before saying goodnight, she handed me a tablet with two pills.
“I had some in my drawer; at least something went well today.”
We shared some laughs, and she went upstairs to her room, leaving me completely alone, listening to the hum of candy machines and the AC. Despite the cold, I felt safe in that place. I took one of the pills without water, sat back down, and took out my camera to review the trip photos.I scrolled through images of my father smiling and my mother covering her face until I reached the photo of the moth. I remembered what I had promised the park lady, and it saddened me to know that I couldn’t pay her anytime soon.I looked again at the curious patterns of its wings and its unusual beauty, just as great as that of butterflies. Dead tired, I stared at it for a few minutes, and then I noticed something strange. Looking at the wings and the color, I felt like I had seen that before, somewhere.I tried to remember, fighting against sleep, and I remembered. The morning dream. That’s what I had dreamed that brought me so much calm. A moth flying, escaping from my hands. It was a funny image, I remember. But that feeling soon turned heavier as I also began to recall everything that had happened that day.I remembered my father lying on the ground, my mother crying uncontrollably, the beggar, the father, and I remembered my father’s dream and wondered how his had been so horrible and mine so beautiful.Then, I thought of the witch in the dune, and a sinister smile flashed in my mind, a grotesque smile that looked at me from my own eyes. “It is her,” I thought. An anger like I had never felt before accumulated, and I felt it grow in my stomach as if it was about to explode.I threw the camera against the table and looked around like a madman. I found the window where I had seen the moth in the morning and reached it in a few steps, making the floor tremble with fury. It was still there. Helpless as in the morning, so beautiful and small. “It’s her,” I thought. “It’s her. It’s her”.Without taking my eyes off her, I reached my arm backward and threw it with all the force I had towards the insect, crushing it in one blow, not giving it time to react. I grabbed it with my hand and enclosed it in a fist with so much pressure that it hurt me.I felt it wriggling inside, trying to escape, but I wasn’t thinking at that moment, and my only goal was to turn it to dust, finally destroy it. I don’t remember how long I stayed like that, but I do remember enjoying every second. When I regained some sense, I opened my hand and saw the mangled corpse of the moth.I entered a bathroom and washed my hands. The last thing I saw disappearing into the sink was a piece of wing where I could still recognize the fragment of a black circle.
I have never felt more tired than on that night. When I reached my room, I felt like I was dropping dead onto my bed, and everything turned dark. I had no dreams that night or any night until today, and thinking about it, I prefer it that way.I have thought several times about what happened that day, analyzing each event in detail not to overlook anything, but much of our stay has been erased from my memory from the moment we left the city. Sometimes, I believe it could all have been a simple dream, but the photographs tell me otherwise.I can’t help but believe that those holes in my memory, of entire hours, hold secrets about myself and my parents that we will never uncover. Anyway, this has been my attempt to compile everything I am completely sure happened.I hope those who read it can understand what happened to us without mockery or insults; believe me when I say I’ve had enough of that. I also hope you can open your minds to possibilities and consider that there are dangers out there that we don’t know well and that are always lurking.I don’t want to force you into anything, I’m just asking you to be careful. Even though I don’t want to believe in her, I haven’t missed a single day at church since the trip, and I can say I found great peace in it. In a world so strange, I hope you find it too.