Growing up in eastern New Mexico, I often heard the stories that parents told that where meant to scare little children into obedience. The one that comes to mind is La Llorona, the weeping woman. I never really bought the stories, growing out of my fright as I aged. That was, until I had an encounter with her one night.

I was fourteen. My mother still used the story to scare my younger sisters. Of course, I was a teenager now and way too old to put any stock in the story. So instead of listening to my mother's warning to not be out after dark, I snuck out of the house. My friends wanted me to meet them at an abandoned house to party. I was too young to drive, therefore I walked.

It wasn't too long of a trek from our tiny trailer to the house. I had to walk several blocks, cross a field and circle the lake, and a few hundred feet was the worn old house. The walk started out uneventful. No one bothered me. This was my barrio. My hood. The field was dark, quiet, peaceful.

Then, suddenly, I heard the wails of a burdened woman and the screams of a child. I looked around me, wondering where her cries came from. As I neared the water, I saw the slender figure of a tall woman. She was dressed in a snowy white gown, her long raven hair swaying in the wind. She was wading into the water, carrying something in her arms.

The young boy in her arms shrieked, flailing his arms about wildly. He was young, maybe five years of age. He was obviously scared yet the woman continued to wade deeper into the water, binding his body to hers tightly so that he could not escape.

"Hey!!" I yelled, attempting to get the woman's attention. She ignored my. So I yelled it again. Still, no reply. The boys thrashing increased as did the pitch of the lady's wail. "Stop! Can't you see you're scaring him?"

I ran over to the water's edge, not minding how the water made the denim stick to my skin uncomfortably. I trudged through the murkiness, splashing loudly as I tried to reach the woman. Finally, I grabbed her by the arm. She turned her face to be, still screeching. Her eyes were dark, obsidian orbs. Black lines made trails down her cheeks, the paths of countless tears.

I tried to pull the black haired boy from her arms. She fought to keep her hold on him, continuing into deeper water. "Give him to me!" I said, grabbing for him again. This time she pushed me aside. "Pinche pendeja!" I screamed, shoving her as hard as I could.

I could see rage enter her eyes, but she pushed me down into the water and left me. I watched in horror as she lowered the boy into the water, submerging his face. He whirled his arms and legs around, trying to find purchase upon something, anything to help him; to keep him from drowning.

But the woman was too strong for the young boy. After a few minutes later the struggling ceased. I watched as the woman backed away from the lifeless corpse floated head down in the lake, her cries echoing in my ears. I turned and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. Through the field, onto the concrete of the paved streets. My sneakers slapped against the pavement angrily.

I could hear the woman's incessant wailing behind me, chasing me with a fury I never knew existed. She wanted me. Finally, I could see our trailer park coming into view. I ran up the three steps, banged on the door loudly. I stole a glance behind me, the pale phantom with her raven coloured mane.

Finally, my mother opened the door. I fell into the house, landing face first on the floor. "Lock it!" I yelled. My mother quickly did as I asked.

Helping me off of the floor, she shook her head. We could still hear La Llorona's horrendous sobs, but she couldn't touch me now. "See, I told you not to be out there after dark." I hated to admit it, but she was right. That night, I got the scolding of my life.

The next day, I saw the story of a drowned boy on the front of the paper. As I looked at the picture, I felt warm salty tears spill out of my eyes, down my cheeks. I knew the boy, very well. He was my cousin's son, who I failed to recognize in my fright. He didn't know. His mother had never told him the stories.

Now, I am a mother myself and I tell my children the story of La Llorona, the Mexican woman who married a Spanish man and bore him two sons. The husband became uninterested, and in an attempt to free herself of burdens so he would be with her drowned her young sons in the river by her home. Realizing what she had done, she began to stride along the many rivers and streams, searching any body of water for her children. She continues to wail throughout the nights, searching for children she can drag to a watery grave. Hopefully my experience with the terrible wailing woman will be a warning to all.