And as for her… Everything I do, every prayer, every word, it’s all because of her.
This is something that happened to me a few years ago when I visited the city of Ica, Peru.
At that time, things weren’t going so great for me.
College didn’t welcome me with open arms like they always promise to do with new students, and I was still recovering from the trauma of the day my family’s car flipped over on the road, which, apart from leaving us scars all over our bodies, gave me an irrational fear of speed. So, yeah, I was desperate to find some peace and get out of the poor routine I had so innocently succumbed to.
So, I didn’t have any complaints or objections when my parents invited me on a short trip they had planned to enjoy their mid-year vacation, even though it would be the first trip we’d have since the accident.
I had only taken small car trips up until then, and that was already causing me tremors and chills in my back, along with a paranoia that generated grotesque images in my mind. It was the only one of my wounds that hadn’t completely healed.
On the other hand, the relationship I had with my parents wasn’t the best, and the situation of the accident hadn’t improved it, as one would expect. Instead, it seemed like we had all distanced ourselves more, as if we were blaming ourselves for something we couldn’t explain.
Anyway, I knew I would have to prepare myself mentally if I wanted it to work, but it would all be worth it in the end. Or so I thought.
The destination was the department of Ica, a hot and desert area located south of Lima, my hometown, which I hadn’t bothered to investigate too much before or at the time the preparations were made.
Maybe I was looking for a little surprise or something like that; everything had become painfully predictable. But, although I had lost interest in traveling for a while, some of my natural curiosity to know something outside of the gray sky and the burning stench of the highways had awakened in me.
So, I also had time to pack some things to make the trip more interesting like a sketchbook, a camera, and the typical broken headphones. I felt like I was preparing for something that would last much longer than a few days. I don’t think there was even time for goodbyes. It was just another shopping trip.
I don’t remember at what point I stopped entertaining myself watching the trees and mountains run by from the window of our van, nor what I was thinking when I saw the Welcome to Ica sign, but the trip felt strangely short.
It could have been that our radio was out of service on that occasion, but I never forget those first hours of fun and music that precede the arrival. I remember waking up with my spirits low, my throat begging me for a drop of water, in the midst of deafening silence.
But everything was preferable to having to endure another attack of fear and ruin the fun. I hadn’t told my parents about my new fear, out of shame that they would call me childish, and to this day I’ve kept it pretty well.
We arrived at two or three in the morning, perhaps, when the only things alive are the insects and the moon. A cold wind greeted us as we got out, and we savored the dark landscape that the clouds painted in the distance, as we had done on other occasions with so much excitement.
I had imagined the first stop in a better way, but I wasn’t there to complain about anything; I had chosen to be there, and besides, it seemed that this was more our fault for venturing into an almost deserted area.
We walked for a long time through the streets, under the dark facades that seemed to watch us with their windows, looking for a hotel that would receive us or point us to the next one that would reject us, but it was useless.
I tried to distract myself behind my parents by following a crack in the ground that didn’t seem to end. I had heard about the 2007 earthquake, like any other Peruvian, but it was something very different to walk on the sidewalks where someone had probably died.
But I didn’t want to think about death too much, so I just followed the crack until we stopped and I looked up. The van, again. The plan now was to look further for more options and, perhaps, arrive early at Huacachina, the oasis around which our trip and the entire city seemed to revolve.
The cold had entered the van in the few seconds we had left it open and had finished assimilating us to the city. I was glad that my father was driving so slowly, as if he were dragging the car in secret, revealing himself at times as he passed under the light of a post.
We arrived at a street that seemed to never end, and I thought of all the things that appear at night and that we can’t see, hidden deep down there. There wasn’t much talk in the following minutes as we waited for the first sand dunes of the desert to begin to appear over the graffiti wall that separated us.
I was sure the view would be more attractive from the other side of the back seat, which faced the city, but a laziness that often attacked me had me glued to the window. At the first dune, spirits improved, and at the third, we felt at home.
I thought that maybe I would dare to climb into one of those tubular cars the next day and end up caressing my reflection in the spring water from a boat. Stupid ideas, but the dunes were a good sign. I focused on one, thinking of following it until it disappeared from view. It was tall and almost just a perfectly defined silhouette.
First, I saw the cross. It seemed to be made of wood, from the tips that came out of its head, and to have something wrapped around it, like an old rag tied around its arms. My hands instinctively brushed against my camera; it was one of “those” images.
Then, I saw the woman. I knew she was one for some reason, despite the black cloak that covered her completely. Quiet, at the foot of the cross, I didn’t know if she was looking at me or at the sky.
Then, I saw the child. Motionless, feeling my camera with the sweat of my hands, I outlined his tiny outline with my gaze. His white tunic made him a point of light among so much darkness, whose greatest point of contrast was in the contact of his hand with that of the woman.
I didn’t think about this vision more than I felt it, and when, moving away from it, I saw how the two figures began to walk, sliding down the slope of the dune with an unreal ease, it was then that I truly felt it.
I heard a sigh, more of confusion than fear, coming from the driver’s seat. I turned instantly and found my mother turning her head, confused, and my father stretching his neck to the left as he drove, looking among the dunes with bulging eyes.
“Did you see that?” my father said.
“Yes,” I replied with the little breath I had left.
“There, on the hill. Did you see it?” he responded.
“Yes, I saw a woman and a child. What could they be doing outside at this hour?” I asked, raising my voice.
“It’s good that you saw it. I thought I was going crazy,” he replied.
“Your father told me too late to see,” my mother said.
It’s comforting to know that it wasn’t just you. Slowing down, we tried to liven up the atmosphere as best we could, making jokes about what we had seen or looking for reasonable explanations, but it was clear that none of the three of us thought that going back, either to clarify our doubts or out of simple curiosity, would be an option.
I didn’t stop looking throughout the slow journey to the secluded hotel area, hoping that something would happen, and when I was starting to gain some of that reckless courage that comes to us in extreme situations, we had already arrived.
The next day, I woke up in a city hotel, not because of a paranormal event, but because of the terror that exclusive hotel prices caused us. It wasn’t a perfect morning, but I woke up with a smile on my face. It had been days since I had had such a peaceful night, free of images of broken glass and bloodied asphalt.
For the first time in days, I had had a pleasant, peaceful dream that woke me up calmly, but I hadn’t been able to remember what I had seen in it.
Despite the doubts and fears of the previous night, I tried to receive the dune experience with joy that morning, thinking that it had been the most interesting thing that had happened to me throughout the trip.
I did a small but enlightening investigation on my cell phone, taking advantage of the comfortable silence of 5 a.m., and discovered a part of the local culture that I did not expect to find: witches. The place was covered with them, especially the town of Cachiche.
Stories were told, some more believable than others, about these beings in every article, and it was evident that they were an essential part of the culture. I had always been interested in mysteries of this kind, but I had never experienced them so closely, and with each link I clicked on, I felt more like I was inside a movie.
I saw different visual interpretations, from cartoons to local renditions that mixed styles with originality, and then I saw her. One of the photos was identical to her. The black tunic, the cross, and everything. I searched non-stop for similar images and kept finding coincidences.
I know that stranger things have been seen in Peru: llamas with faces, mining goblins, cannibal entities, etc., but this did not dampen my fascination. Besides, I could someday share the experience, as I am doing right now.
Since I had no interest in ruining my stay with irrational fears, after getting ready to learn more about the area, I mentioned our peculiar encounter to my parents during breakfast, hoping to convey some of my morning mood.
At first, both of them didn’t seem so interested in starting a conversation about it. I could read the discomfort on their faces from miles away, but after a few minutes of data I had read the night before, I saw both of them nodding to each other, as if agreeing on something, and my dad started talking.
“I just wanted to talk to you about that, son. I don’t want you to draw any conclusions or anything, but yesterday I had a very strange dream. The lady who was on the dune yesterday…, I think I saw her.
I saw her with her black tunic, dark as the night, floating as she seemed to have done yesterday, descending so quickly, and underneath it was all torn, with several points. She approached me while I was walking in the sand and said something to me that I no longer remember.
Then she left and left me there, alone. I already told your mother about this. As I say, I don’t want you to think anything bad, but I think we should say a prayer since we are here together.”
I was trying to imagine the scene that had been described to me, my head still full of several different images of witches from the night before. Suddenly, I felt stupid for the way I had started the conversation when I saw how serious my father was looking at both of us, but I didn’t say anything.
He had given me other details that I can no longer remember, so you’ll have to forgive me. Without warning, my father took us both by the hand and told us to start praying the Lord’s Prayer, that what we had experienced was not a joke and that we had to make an effort to keep everything bad away.
Surprised, I said nothing and went along with it, even though I never liked being part of such rituals.
Although I wanted to pretend to accompany him with the same devotion and honesty, I felt uncomfortable among so many people watching us, and I just stared at my coffee without saying a word, listening to the same words as always, now intoned in a more severe tone than usual.
When it was over, I saw my mother smile at me with a reassuring serenity, but when I turned to look at my father, I saw that he had not finished yet. With his eyes tightly closed and his face contracted in a painful expression, he listened as he whispered requests and mentioned my name and my mother’s name again and again.
He didn’t let go of our hands for more than five minutes. When he opened his eyes, he acted as if nothing had happened and continued his breakfast without looking at us.
When we were leaving and I was taking the last sip of my coffee, I saw a strangely large moth land on the window that was illuminating our table. I observed it for a moment, shouting for them to wait for me outside. I always liked insects of all kinds, so I didn’t hesitate to approach it to take a picture.
It was of a particular and exotic beauty. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember the grayish tone and the hypnotic patterns of its wings. Being motionless, I felt tempted to grab it and keep it to admire at home, but they are always more beautiful free.
I left the hotel with the image engraved in my memory and got into the black tourist car that had been waiting for us for a while.
We drove through several narrow streets in a car that seemed to float on the road with how smoothly it moved. During the journey, I tried not to turn around and look at the window in front of me, and I released my stress by scratching my pants and taking deep breaths through my nose.
The sun was scorching the cracked walls, and one could no longer recognize a house. I was glad to see the city no longer shrouded in shadows, but at times, the view was tragic. The destruction would be a difficult wound to heal.
The guide spoke to us about the history of monuments and churches, with the tone of someone who had said the same script millions of times. He told us that people had tried to continue as best they could, making their best effort to leave behind that fateful day.
Many had found solace in religion, while others had simply left. Even after all these years, he still covered cracks in his walls. Perhaps I would have said some words of comfort to him now, but then I didn’t think of anything; I was more focused on concealing my unease.
When there was silence and we stopped in traffic, I looked up and saw my father, sitting in the passenger seat, looking at the man with pity. The last time I had seen him like this was during the long waits we had to endure when we practically lived inside the hospital.
My mother was looking out the window so I couldn’t see her face. When the guide briefly mentioned the witches in the area, my father didn’t hesitate to mention the experience we had. Mumbling his words, he began to ask if he had heard of any similar cases, perhaps mentioned by other tourists.
The guide looked at us strangely, as if we were stupid or crazy. He just said “No” and turned his attention back to the road. My father tried to bring up the topic again, but only received more silence.
I noticed that he had irritated him (he has always been prone to this type of reaction), and for the rest of the trip, he did not take his eyes off the window.
We got off in a highly crowded central area. Making our way through other tourists, we followed the guide’s steps to the Sanctuary of the Lord of Luren, a sober but beautiful stone construction that, according to the guide, dated back to the 14th century and had emerged from the rubble it had become.
After indicating where we could enter, he sat down to wait for us next to the gates that protected the sanctuary. When we entered the sanctuary, my parents began to whisper and did not notice the imposing image of the Lord of Luren hanging at the end of the sanctuary.
The place was practically empty, except for a colorful spot of people in the background, in a corner of the central nave. I was worried about attracting too much attention, so I moved away to the classic gallery of paintings that tell the story of Jesus.
But I had forgotten that in churches it is impossible not to hear what others are saying. Hidden behind a white column, I saw how my mother tried to lift my father off the ground, scolding him with silent screams that, I assumed, he should not pray in that way on the floor.
My father did not seem to pay attention to her complaints and only sank further into his position, burying his head in the cold tile. Exhausted, my mother retired to one of the seats and began to observe the crucified Christ.
I had seen them argue before about stupid things, but never like this and for such a thing. Something was wrong with my father, of that I was sure. I thought that maybe the dream he had had affected him in an unusual way, but I didn’t think what he was doing was too bad.
I approached my mother, thinking of accompanying her while my father finished his business. I asked her if she wanted to go back to the car while I waited for dad, but she didn’t answer me and remained focused on watching my father. I wanted to ask her something else, and she interrupted me.
“He told me he’s being followed… And he wants to protect us and that’s the only way to do it. What nonsense, he just embarrasses us all by behaving like this.”
I turned to look at him and saw how the ladies on the corner were looking at him and talking among themselves. “They’re making fun of him,” I thought. “He just cares about us, she wouldn’t understand.”
He had always been like that. I thought about how much my father had done for us when we were hospitalized and how little she had contributed. Always sitting in a chair, eating. Her tears had always been smaller.
I decided to get up just to get away from her and her perfume, and I approached a priest I had seen talking to a couple. When they separated, I told him I had wanted to confess several times, but I didn’t think I was ready yet.
“Don’t worry, son, you’ll know when you’re ready. God waits for those who stray from Him,” he said.
“And what if I never find it, Father?”
“Well…, others will find you first.”
“Others? What do you mean?”
“Have you never been told how much you’re worth? What your soul is worth? Thousands die to take possession of it. Thousands who are here, right now, between these walls.”
At that moment, I turned to look at my father and felt that the priest was reading my thoughts.
“Witches?”
“Call them what you want. Demons, entities, witches, in the end they all seek the same thing: to get here,” he said, pointing his finger at his chest.
“Once inside, they eat away at you like larvae until there’s nothing left and then they have fun with their new hollow toy doing whatever they please. That’s why we have to take care of ourselves, son. Come to mass more often and confirm yourself, you won’t regret it. We take care of our own.”
“I don’t know, Father. I guess I’ll have to think about it.”
“Well, I guess not all of us are perfect. It’s up to you whether you want to go with those idiots in the squares who think it’s so much fun to play witchcraft. When all those people die, they’ll see what’s waiting for them,” he said, raising his voice and putting an end to the conversation.
I wanted to say goodbye to the priest before leaving, but he just ignored me. I had already had enough of the oppressive atmosphere inside, so I left the church to get some fresh air and check my phone. Ten missed calls, my brothers had been calling me all morning.
I dialed one of the numbers, but my phone died. I would call them back later with my parents’ phone. I saw the guide calling me with his arm behind the gate and headed towards him. He asked me what I thought of the sanctuary, and I replied if we could go somewhere else, that I had already visited the whole place.
With a smile, he said of course and let me into the car to shield me from the sun. From there, I watched as my parents returned without speaking to each other, hurrying to their seats.
Once inside, my father stopped the guide by grabbing him by the sleeve of his shirt before he started the car and, struggling to contain his anger, spoke to him slowly, almost in whispers to avoid us hearing.
“You told me you hadn’t seen witches,” he said. “Don’t lie to me again, you hear me?”
“Sir, if you don’t let me do my job, we won’t get to the end of the tour. Can you let go of my hand?” replied the guide with a pitiful tremble in his voice.
My father abruptly let go of his sleeve and stuck his head out the window, looking in several directions. I saw how his leg didn’t stop shaking and sweat was falling down his temples. I was so impressed that I realized the car was already moving.
I buried my back in the seat and crossed my arms to console myself. Once again, I remembered the days we spent in the hospital and the screams and cries that never stopped and flooded my head with tormenting questions and nocturnal terrors.
At a red light, I wanted to call my father with my hand to ask him what happened, but my mother stopped me in my tracks and, looking at him with a disturbing look, stroked my head without saying a word for a minute.
“He’s acting strange,” she then whispered in my ear. “Leave him alone. What’s wrong with you?” she asked, hearing my rapid breathing.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I said, moving away to my seat and closing my eyes to pretend I was sleeping.
I remember falling asleep once again, exhausted by the heat, and I had a dream that, although I forgot almost completely, I can swear was the same one I had that night because when my mother woke me up, it had left the same taste in my memory.
Only five minutes had passed, but I felt like I had watched an entire movie and needed to go out and stretch my legs. I looked around and, by accident, saw the window in front of me from the corner of my eye and noticed how fast the guide was driving.
I couldn’t look away and felt my shoulders numb and started breathing rapidly. My mother wanted to approach me again, but all the tension that had accumulated inside me made me push her hard without wanting to.
She, more worried than angry, asked the guide to stop so she could calm me down. He replied not to worry, that we had already arrived. We parked the car at the entrance of a street covered with street vendors and walked behind the guide to an isolated part.
He told us he would show us “what he was talking about.” My father went ahead of us, trying to avoid any conversation, and my mother walked beside me. “Are you feeling okay? Are you sick?” she asked me. “I’m a little dizzy, that’s all,” I said, pretending to adjust my camera.
“Let’s see if we can find a pharmacy further on and buy you some pills,” she replied and hurried to catch up with the guide, who was calling us on a corner. We entered a street that only motorcycles could pass through, with a broken road. We dodged rows of people and arrived at a room open to the street.
The atmosphere changed completely once we crossed the threshold of the faded blue room. Different smells of incense and smoke filled the place, and although the heat just a few meters away was scorching, I felt the temperature drop in a matter of seconds.
I approached the back of the room and soon realized where I was. A pile of photos and candles indicated that I was standing in front of an altar. “After the earthquake, many people simply vanished. Thousands were buried under tons of rubble and were never heard from again.
But none hurt us more than…” It was a child. A heroic act had immortalized him in the heart of the whole town and, perhaps, in the whole department. The guide knew his name, the lady with the candles did too, and everyone who passed by crossed themselves.
I saw my parents buying candles to leave as an offering and heard someone crying beside me, on their knees. They held a wooden rosary in a trembling hand and whispered small words. For some reason I can’t explain, I approached, despite my embarrassment, with the intention of consoling them.
I had heard cries like this in the hospital and knew what it felt like. When I put my hand on their back, the person, a homeless person, lunged at me and grabbed both of my arms. Their whispers turned into screams, and some tears wet my hands.
I pulled repeatedly, but their grip was too strong. I looked into their pitiful eyes, and their sorrow made me resist less and less.
They say laughter is contagious; the same could be said of tears, as sorrow made my eyes moisten without me realizing it. In the end, my parents noticed the altercation and came to my aid, separating us and sending the man outside.
I noticed that my father was much more aggressive than usual, throwing punches and shouting, as if he had known the man for a long time. He hit him with a punch in the left eye that made him groan in pain.
Then, he didn’t even try to see how he was and gave me only a pat on the shoulder and a fleeting glance. I couldn’t move for a few seconds, thinking about what the man had shouted at me. I didn’t understand a single word, but I understood everything.
My father shouted at the guide to take us to the car immediately, as if these things didn’t happen in our city too. But then, in that precise place and moment, we felt lost and alone. Weak, I felt my father pulling my arm and dragging me towards the car.
Everyone was looking at us, stupefied, as if they had just seen a ghost. The guide apologized to the lady with the candles and jumped into the car.
My parents were arguing 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 child under the cross was the first thing that appeared in my memory.
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 making fun of them for how stupid they sounded and how inept the people who fell for them were.
I tried not to be one of them with all my being, but things had gotten so damn weird. Should I have obeyed the father when he warned me about the consequences? Should I have prayed at every opportunity I had? Why the hell was I even considering the possibility that all these things were real?
They had always been so stupid and senseless. It tortured me not to be in control and to feel how I was being dragged once again by unknown and much more powerful forces, which can only lead you to destruction.
I didn’t understand anything, but one thing was certain: I was doing something wrong, something had to be done, but I didn’t know what. I feared that it was repeating itself. I knew that something was wrong out there on the road, and I didn’t know what it was until it was too late.
The damn seat belts. Tell them to put on the damn seat belts! I shouted in my head as much as I could, trying to reach the inept me on the road, but nothing was going to happen. All I had left was the now, and I wouldn’t ruin it again.
I would tell my mother a lie to go back home, the only place where we would be safe. Something would come to me.