The Iron Lung of Santa Clara

The last time my mother and I saw Aunt Remedios was at my cousin’s quinceañera in the spring. She sat in the back of the hall, a shrunken figure in a faded floral dress, her hands folded over a worn leather purse. She smiled at us, but there was a thinness to her lips, a trembling in her fingers that spoke of years of unspoken grievances. We waved, she nodded, and that was that. She died two days ago in the county hospital, her stomach ravaged by an ulcer that had bled for weeks before anyone found her. But the woman who died in that sterile room was not the woman I saw the day before yesterday.

Aunt Remedios was my grandfather’s sister, born in a small village in the Zacatecas mountains. She married young, bore ten children, and raised nine of them on a plot of land that barely yielded enough corn for a year. The tenth, a girl named Luz, was taken by a distant cousin who promised to raise her in the city, but we suspected the exchange was for money. The nine remaining children grew up under her harsh rule, a woman hardened by poverty and loss, who worked from dawn to dusk and demanded the same from her offspring. One by one, they left as soon as they could, some to the States, some to other cities, some to the grave. They rarely visited, and when they did, they spoke to her as if she were a stranger. She lived alone in that crumbling adobe house, her only companion a stray dog she fed scraps to.

My mother tried to keep in touch, sending money when she could, calling on holidays. But Aunt Remedios grew bitter, her voice cracked with accusations that her children had abandoned her, that the family had forgotten her. She refused to leave the house, saying the land held her, that her bones were sown into the soil. My mother worried, but there was little we could do from across the border.

The day before yesterday, my mother received a call from a neighbor that Aunt Remedios had been taken to the hospital, unconscious, and that she was asking for my mother. We drove the two hours to the county hospital, our minds heavy with dread. When we arrived, the nurse led us to a room in the ICU, where machines beeped and hissed. The bed was occupied by a woman who looked like a dried husk, her skin gray, her eyes sunken. But the moment we stepped in, that husk turned its head, and its eyes snapped open. A smile spread across her face, but it was wrong—too wide, too taut, showing teeth that were too white.

‘Ay, Herminia,’ she said, her voice thin but clear, ‘you came.’ My mother approached cautiously, her fear barely contained. I hung back, my skin crawling. This was not my aunt. My aunt spoke in a croak, complained, and cursed. This woman spoke with a sweetness that chilled me. She reached out a hand, and my mother took it. ‘I have something to tell you,’ she said. ‘I saw your mother last night.’ My grandmother died ten years ago. My mother froze. ‘She was in my room, all in white, and she told me to take you with her. But I refused. I know why I’m still here. I have unfinished business.’

I stared at her, and in that moment, I saw something in her eyes—a flicker of black, like a shadow passed through. She turned to me. ‘And you, little one, you have the sight. You saw it, didn’t you?’ I shook my head, but I had. When we walked in, for a split second, I saw a dark shape hovering behind her, something with long fingers and a hungry mouth. I blinked it away, but it was there. My mother squeezed her hand. ‘Remedios, you’re feverish. Rest.’ But she shook her head. ‘No, no. I need to tell you. I know why they left. It wasn’t because I was cruel. It was because I had to protect them. There’s something in the hills, something that comes at night, and I kept it away. But now I’m too weak. And it’s coming for you.’ She laughed, a dry, rattling sound. ‘You’ll be next.’

My mother pulled away, startled. ‘What are you talking about?’ The woman on the bed sat up, sinuously, as if her bones were made of rubber. ‘The thing I sold my youngest for. That cousin took her, but he took her to feed it. I made a deal, you see. I gave it my daughter, and in return, it would leave my other children alone. But it’s hungry again. And you’re blood, Herminia. You’ll do.’ Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the pillow, her breath ragged. The monitors began to beep wildly, and nurses rushed in. We were pushed aside, and in the chaos, I saw the shadow again, but it wasn’t behind her anymore. It was at the door, watching us, and it had my mother’s face.

We left the hospital that night, shaken. Aunt Remedios died a few hours later, peacefully, according to the hospital. But we knew better. Two days later, my mother began to wake at 3 AM, hearing a scratching at the window. She swore she saw a woman in white standing in the yard, and when she looked closer, it was her own reflection, but older, with a gaping wound in her belly. She called me yesterday, her voice trembling. ‘I saw her again, mija. She told me the debt is due. She’s coming for me unless I give her another blood.’ I told her it was stress, a nightmare. But as I write this, I hear a knock at my door. It’s gentle, polite, like Aunt Remedios’s knock used to be. And I’m afraid to open it, because I know it’s not her. It’s the thing that’s been waiting, patient, in the soil of that old house, and it’s come to collect.