It’s quiet. It’s very quiet. The entire city sleeps, while the lights in the narrowest of streets keep it alive. In one of the oldest neighborhoods of Sucre there is a sudden but extremely loud cry. The cry of a baby, loud and sorrowful. Desperate. A gray-haired woman is awakened by this cry. It comes from the street. All the people living in her street don’t have small children. In fact, all the children to have even born in that street, were stillborn babies. Only old couples have settled in this somber place. She puts on a sweater and slips her cold feet into a pair of slippers. The cry gets louder and louder in her head. The woman steps outside her house and begins to look for this child, walking and trying to open her tired eyes as wide as possible. On the very corner of her street, underneath one of the few lamps, lies a baby blanket and something is moving. Slowly she approaches, hesitant she carefully lifts the blanket. There’s nothing there. She can’t hear the crying anymore. But then, she hears this evil laughter, when she turns around a black shadow passes through her body and she collapses on the ground, lifeless.
Scared? I hope so. I grew up hearing all kinds of scary stories about the many old streets that give character to the city of Sucre. When walking by those poorly lighted streets, all I can do is remember, and try to capture the mystery and many secrets kept in the shadows of my hometown.