La Llorona Hunting

So you want to take a walk on the wild side, huh?
My dad and I, we're kind of junkies for this sort of thing. Now, don't get me all wrong or misled here — you want to actually see and touch the supernatural, right? You're not those kinds of people who just "talk" about it and then chicken out. You see a horror film, you think of plans on how to observe it and beat it. Or even use it to your advantage. You're the kind of person who would enjoy seeking a hunt.
Unfortunately, I can't tell you how many times my father and I went out to find nothing. It happens, you know. Can't ask the supernatural to appear on a whim.
Everyone in San Antonio area knows the story of La Llorona and any child could tell you that La Llorona walks the banks of a river, crying and seeking out the children she drowned before she can enter Heaven. I'm pretty sure, after hearing all the stories, she's not a particularly vengeful spirit.
If you don't know La Llorona, you need to research her story for yourself. You personally need to make a decision. I am not going to type out her backstory for you because it takes away your choice on whether or not you want to pursue the hunt. So stop right here if you're a Yankee from the North or need a refresher on the spooky tale. You'll only fool yourself into thinking you're ready when you're really just unprepared.
La Llorona hunting goes like this: drive along the banks of the Guadalupe River or San Antonio River with your car headlights off. Keep mindful of other motorists and go slowly. Listen closely for the sounds of weeping or a woman calling out for her babies in Spanish. Once you hear the cries, stop the car and turn it completely off.
Hopefully, you might see her walking along the riverbed, crying and calling out. Just watch. Don't interrupt her or anything. And don't try to interrupt her search.
It's a fun game that my dad took me along for. I started this hunting when I was just four years old and I was sitting in my dad's truck as we were driving back from San Antonio. We used to hunt together until I was about six.
I mentioned that most of the time, when we went hunting, nothing was actually found.
Except the very last time.
I was six years old and it was my birthday. My dad forgot about getting me presents or even a cake, so he drove to San Antonio after getting off work, telling me that I could pick out anything I wanted. I was upset, of course, because as a kid, we all want our birthdays to be special. The idea that our parents forgot about it or didn't care enough hurts us.
It was already late and the stores were all closed. I was sitting in my seat, crying for the millionth time, and my dad tried to appease me by buying a chocolate shake from Whataburger. Of course, I was crying so hard that the shake just dropped out of my hand and my dad instinctively yelled about the product staining the floor.
He pulls over to a car wash and starts scrubbing and vacuuming the floor, having enough of my tantrums and telling me to grow up about having a crappy birthday. I just turned on my shoulder and told him that I wanted to go home and I didn't want to be out here anymore.
My dad gets angry and stressed, slams the door shut, and tells me that if I don't stop mourning over spilled milk, he'll find La Llorona and give me to her.
He has sort of a bad temper and doesn't really think his jokes are as offensive as they seem.
Summer nights in July are hot and unbearable so when he hits the first bank of the San Antonio river outside of San Antonio, he shuts off the lights and stares at me. He finally tells me that he's sorry he forgot my birthday and that he had to work so late. He loves me and he's grateful that for another year, he gets his daughter.
I wipe away the snot and tears from my face and say, "I forgive you, Daddy. I love you."
He hugs me from across the seat and tells me that I can stop crying now and he'll take me back home.
"Mm... Daddy, I'm not crying anymore," I respond.
There's a moment of silence before my dad quietly says, "Don't look outside."
And as a six year old kid, of course you're going to try to look.
I try to twist my head around and all I see is a brief glimpse of a hand pressing against the passenger side window, saying "Mi hija" over and over again, followed by a some sort of Catholic prayer in Spanish. My dad reacts rather poorly and hastily, pulling his pistol and shooting at the window twice. The window glass falls down and it's then that my dad has realized he's rendered his child vulnerable.
All I'm doing is screaming and wailing, not knowing what the hell is going on.
The car isn't turning on.
My dad is shouting.
I'm crawling over the seat, forgetting my dad has a ready weapon in his lap.
The gun discharges.
There's a sharp, short shock on my leg.
And behind me, I can hear noises as if someone is trying to crawl through the passenger window with their whole body.
From stress of the body, I throw up and my mac and cheese dinner is all over the dashboard of my father's truck.
I can feel a warm hand around my ankle, almost gripping it.
And then, there's a warm light that floods the windshield. Bright, white lights that encompass and burn my eyes, making them sting.
High beams. Another car was traveling towards San Antonio and had high beams on, passing us by without stopping. My dad holds me close and kisses me, telling me that he loves me. The car turns on suddenly and he guns the gas, holding me in his lap all the way back home. I must have passed out because I don't remember the drive.
It isn't until morning that I see the damage. The window is broken completely and glass is all over the passenger seat. Dried vomit is now stuck to his dashboard and it smells like sour milk and rotten garbage. The bullet only grazed me on the shallowest surface of skin, leaving a very unique burn mark.
There's no other evidence of another person in the car. After spending a day in shock and grief, my dad cleans his car and sells the first chance he gets. He immediately resolves to work on his temper and took therapy twice a week for six years. And no matter how bratty or obstinate I get, he never once tells me he'll give me away or kick me out.
I should mention that the tears or weeping of children bring out La Llorona faster. I don't want to because I know some of you will intentionally drag your little ones out there, like my dad did, to lure her just to quench your thirst.
Just remember — someone out there is always going to want your precious angels. And I doubt very seriously, they'll give them back.
Category:Ghosts
Category:Ritual