La Lechuza

Anita Delia stood at the door looking out through the rectangular shaped window. Beads of rain ricocheted like tiny ping pong balls falling flat. It had been almost two months since she had taken to her house. Her reclusive ways encompass her similar to a babe in swaddling clothes. The rain that had begun so gently, now took a turn. The wind rattled the door, shaking Anita from her thoughts. A flash of lightning and she was back where it all began.

“Attention all passengers. Due to increased storms in the forecast, flight 1972 has been delayed. There is no approximate wait time. We are at a standstill until we get the all clear. We apologize for this inconvenience and thank you for your patience. We thank you for flying with Aire Estelar. Atención a todos los pasajeros…”

“Ugh”, Anita said under her breath. She turned up her airpods so as to drown out the remainder of the announcement. She knew this had been a bad idea. She had been working on a piece for her upcoming podcast “Pan Dulce y Cafecita en la mañana”. It was a show she created out of her three loves. Sweet bread, coffee and her favorite time of day, the morning! It was a show mostly about food, but Anita was in the process of incorporating some puppets into her show as well. Anita wanted her show to appeal to people of all ages and ethnicities. This trip to Coahuila was one in the first of many to learn more about her heritage and the foods found in that part of the Northeastern part of Mexico. Her grandfather on her mother’s side had been from Michoacan so she had decided to make that the last stop on her foodie journey.

Anita sat back in her chair, eyes half closed listening to the soothing sounds of Louis Armstrong. One of her grandfather's favorite musicians. Thoughts of her grandfather filtered in and out of her mind. He had passed away some time ago. Oh, how she missed him. Just then she was jostled back into reality when an older gentleman nudged her elbow.  He said something to her in Spanish, but she didn’t understand what he was saying. She was ashamed to admit it but for all the dark brown hair, skin and eyes she had, she was not bilingual. Spanish was always on her list to learn but she hadn’t quite gotten there yet. She knew bits and pieces, food and some niceties but not enough to have a full conversation. Rather than get the old man’s hopes up she politely said “No hablo espanol ''. The man smiled at her and in broken English he asked, “may I sit here”? He pointed to the seat directly next to Anita. Anita looked around at what seemed to be a sea of empty seats, but she did not have the heart to tell him no, besides, he favored her grandfather somewhat. Maybe it was the eyes. They were hazel just like her grandpa’s. “Yes! Of course you may”, she said. The man smiled at her as he took his seat. His rumpled jacket sounded like two coins rubbing together. “My name is Ricardo,” he said. I am going home to Cuahillo. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there.” Ricardo looked towards the wall of windows as he spoke. For a moment he seemed to go somewhere. He snapped out of it. “What about you? Why are you going to Cuahillo”? 

I started to tell Ricardo all about my podcast, my heritage, my love for food and travel then I noticed him noticing an elderly woman that had somehow made her way to the chairs right across from us. She was dressed all in white from head to toe and had a stern look on her face. Her hair was tied up neatly in a gray bun resembling a ball of yarn. Her face wore the tracks of years gone by. For a moment I thought I saw him flinch. The old woman stared in our direction. Her eyes black as night.  Ricardo turned his attention back to me as I rambled on about my podcast. He seemed genuinely intrigued. ''Will you tell stories on this podcast?’ he asked. “That’s the plan.” I said to him, I….” Ricardo cut me off. “I have a story to tell you, “He said. “Would you like to hear it?” The tone of his voice had changed, and his breathing seemed a bit labored now. His eyes pleaded with mine to let him tell his story. “Of course,”, I said. “I’d love to hear it.” With a deep sigh, Ricardo began:

“I was a little boy when it first happened. I had heard tales of it all my life, but I had never seen one or met anyone who had.” I noticed Ricardo’s eyes darted quickly to the old woman and back again. “Some say it is just a legend or foolishness. A story made up to scare children to be home before dark, but I know better.” It was here that Ricardo paused for effect or maybe he couldn’t breathe. It was hard to tell. One thing was for certain, I was sucked in. Ricardo continued: “My father told me not to be out after the sun went down. He told me if I was, I ran the risk of being carried away by La Lechuza.” At this Ricardo lowered his voice. “What 's a La Lechuza?” I asked. “A witch! Una bruja! The face of a woman on the body of a giant owl that soars through the night snatching up little children, grown women and men! Anyone. La Lechuza cries like a baby to lure out her prey.” I gulped. Ricardo continued: “One night when I was about 10 years old, I was out playing with my friends. Time got away from me as it sometimes happens when you are young without care in the world. Eventually it was time to go. As I was walking with my friends down one of the dirt roads near my home it seemed as though the trees were surrounding us. We came to a fork in the road. My friends went one way and I went the other. The sun was sinking fast. Not much daylight was left before the moon swallowed it up. Soon after we parted ways, I heard a baby cry. It startled me because there were no houses where I was. No people. No place for a baby. I heard another cry and I started to run. I ran so hard and so fast I thought my feet would burst into flames. I prayed. Out of the darkness I heard a blood curdling scream. I prayed. First one, then another, then silence. I knew then that my friends were gone. I prayed. The next morning confirmed it. All that was left of them were their bloodied clothes scattered across the dirt road. La Lechuza. Their mothers never got over it and neither did I. I never stopped praying either.”

At some point during the story my mouth must’ve dropped open because there I was mouth agape as Ricardo finished his story. “Then what happened?” I asked. Ricardo shifted uneasily in his seat and stole a glance at the old woman. She seemed to be in some type of trance. She just sat there staring straight ahead. The old woman was facing our direction, but she wasn’t looking at us. It was more as if she were looking through us. Her behavior unnerved me. 

“What happened next,” Ricardo said, “is that life went on.” “Did anything like that happen again?’ I asked. “Not to me”, “ he said, but to others I know.  One thing I do believe is that La Lechuza wanted three little boys that night. After I heard the screams of my friends I kept running. As I got closer to my house I felt the whooshing of feathers pass above me. I didn’t look up. I just ran. I ran all the way to my house and had my Tio Carlos not opened the door to investigate the screams, I would’ve ran right through it or been snatched away. I lived in fear for a good while. Scared to be out too close to sundown or too far away from my home. 

When I became a teenager, I sometimes felt as though I was being watched by someone or something. I once caught a glimpse of yellow eyes on top of a light post across from my bedroom window. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing and then I saw it spread its massive wings. I called for my Tio and my big brother. They both ran outside to scare it off. My brother threw rocks at it, but my Tio used his gun. Neither the bullets nor the rocks did anything. Eventually it flew away. Several times throughout my life I have seen the yellow eyes in the night, and I think of her. La Lechuza. She is waiting for me.

I looked Ricardo up and down. He was easily a man of 70 give or take. His hands were gnarled, his frame was small, and most of his hair was gone. Surprisingly he had very few wrinkles except for the indelible line that comes from years of furrowing your brow. The gentle laugh lines around his mouth and eyes were indicative of a life well lived. His eyes were brown with flecks of gold. There was kindness in his eyes but there was something else. Fear.

Ricardo took another look at the old woman who had not moved the entire time we had been sitting there. The rain had stopped and the woman at the counter just made an announcement that flight 1972 to Piedra Negras, Coahuila would be boarding soon. 

“Well, I guess it’s time to go,” Ricardo said. “Thank you for letting an old man pass the time with you.” “No, thank you.” I said. “Thank you for sharing your story with me.” Ricardo smiled and walked towards the boarding gate. I went to use the restroom before I got on the plane. An uneasiness had settled into the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t sure why. I hadn’t eaten anything.

While washing my hands the feeling was growing. “What’s wrong with me?” I thought. I splashed some water on my face, grabbed my carry on and started for the gate. I got as close as the chairs I had been sitting in when I could go no further. Something did not feel right, and I could not get on the plane. I stood there frozen in time watching everyone board. Ricardo was one of the last to get on. He turned to look at me, smiled and waved. It was a sad smile. 

The boarding gate door closed and I was alone. I felt a chill run through my body. I stood there looking out the window as the plane prepared for takeoff. Something white caught my eye next to the chair where the old woman had been sitting. I took a closer look and realized it was a pile of clothes. Her clothes. The old woman’s clothes. I felt dizzy. Something about the clothes stood out. Feathers. There were long white feathers in the pile of clothes. I turned to the window and as I watched flight 1972 taxi down the runway, I saw what looked like a large bird swoop out from the sky and follow the plane into the night. La Lechuza. I fainted.

Now, here I am two months later a veritable prisoner in my own home. I have not been able to shake the feeling I had when I was at the airport whenever I saw what I saw. As I stare out my window at the rain I am reminded of that night. A flash of lightning, yellow eyes, I scream and close the blinds.

And with that the writer closed his notebook and set down his pen.  “That’s enough for one night,“ he said. “Time for bed”. His fingers fumble for the light switch. CLICK.

A baby cries somewhere out in the distance.