The Crying Ditch

In the arid outskirts of Las Cruces, New Mexico, where the desert meets the scrubland and the irrigation ditches run like veins through the hard earth, lived the Ortega family. They had moved from Juárez two generations ago, and while they had shed their accents, they had kept their stories. The grandmother, Abuela Rosa, was the keeper of the old tales, her voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. She spoke of the santos, the duendes, and most often, of the weeping woman who haunted the arroyos and the irrigation canals. Her daughter, Elena, now a mother of two, remembered those stories with a chill that never quite left her bones.

Their house was a modest adobe structure on the edge of town, backed against a wide, slow-moving canal that carried the Rio Grande’s water to the pecan orchards. They had three dogs, chihuahua mixes with sharp barks and fiercer hearts, who ruled the dusty yard. On a particularly cold winter night, when the sagebrush crunched underfoot and the wind howled through the cholla cacti, the family gathered in the living room. Elena’s father, Martín, was in the middle of telling a story about a lost gold mine in the Organ Mountains, a tale he swore was true, when the dogs erupted in a frenzy.

The barking was frantic, almost desperate, a sound they had never heard before. The dogs were scratching at the front door, their fur raised, their eyes wild. Martín and Elena exchanged a glance. ‘Something’s out there,’ Martín said, his voice low. He grabbed a flashlight from the hook by the door, and Elena followed, her heart thudding. Abuela Rosa remained by the fireplace, her rosary beads clicking between her fingers, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

They stepped out into the front yard, the cold air biting at their cheeks. The dogs had run to the chain-link fence that separated their property from the canal, their snouts pressed against the mesh, growling and whimpering. The moon was a thin sliver, and the canal water moved inky and slow. But above the gurgle of the water, they heard it: a high, thin wail, like a woman weeping. It seemed to come from the direction of the canal, but when they shone the flashlight, the beam picked out only reeds and mud. The wail grew louder, more tremulous, as if the woman were in pain.

Elena felt a primal fear grip her. ‘It’s La Llorona,’ she whispered. Martín tightened his grip on the flashlight. ‘Nonsense,’ he said, but his voice shook. ‘It’s probably a coyote or a stray cat.’ But the sound was too human, too mournful. The dogs began to howl in unison, a mournful chorus that seemed to answer the wail. Suddenly, there was a loud splash in the canal, as if something heavy had fallen in. The dogs bolted, hiding under the porch, their tails between their legs.

Martín and Elena walked toward the canal, their footsteps crunching on the gravel. The water was still, the surface unbroken except for the moon’s pale reflection. But as they leaned over the embankment, they saw a pale hand, bone-white, reaching out of the water, grasping at the muddy edge. A woman’s face emerged, slick with water, her hair a tangle of dark strands, her eyes black and empty. She opened her mouth to wail again, and Elena saw that her teeth were like needles, and her breath smelled of decay.

Abuela Rosa had followed them, her shawl wrapped tightly around her. She pushed past Martín and Elena, her voice sharp and commanding. ‘In the name of God, leave this place, wanderer of the night! Go back to your dark waters!’ The apparition paused, its head tilting as if listening. A low growl came from the dogs, but they stayed hidden. ‘She’s not here for us,’ Abuela Rosa said, her eyes fixed on the creature. ‘She’s looking for her children. Some say she drowned them in these very canals, others say they were lost to the desert. She wanders, forever seeking, forever weeping.’

The creature’s wail turned into a chilling laugh, echoing off the reeds. Then, slowly, it sank back into the water, disappearing without a ripple. The night was silent again, save for the distant hum of the pump house. The dogs emerged, sniffing the air, their fear subdued. Elena felt a cold that had nothing to do with the winter air. Her mother’s stories were true, and she had heard the crying ditch that night.

From that night on, the Ortega family never spoke of La Llorona aloud, but they always listened. And every year, on the night of the first freeze, they would hear the weeping from the canal, a reminder that the past never truly dies, and that the water in the desert can carry more than just thirst.