In the town you grew up in, surrounded by the ‘what was’ and ‘who they were’, playground and stomping grounds, the ghosts hidden in deep brush. Overgrown weeds siding fence lines that housed town secrets and myths about ghost cows. The times spent screaming at the life of La Llarona. Afraid of dried up riverbeds that held skeletons of guilt-stricken mothers. The one who wanted another chance to make a better decision. The choice here is not really yours—a spoken tradition that makes up your mind for you. She doesn’t get to redeem herself because your grandmother wants you to, ‘sientate, silencio’ and don’t wander over by the Rio Grande. They all wanted to keep you from the false danger of a dried up river.

Horrors find feast in new places. Seven year olds spread tales faster than storytellers and the word is fear. Capitalized in unlit restrooms at afterschool programs. Spinning dizzied circles, eyes closed, pulse quickened. Always look at the floor first. Small shadows of footsteps dance in the sliver of light coming from under the door. Calling Bloody Mary one, whispering (Bloody Mary) two, mouthing (Bloody Mary) three. Eyes up, in the mirror. Tiny Screams. Four girls leaning against the door to keep you in.