4 True Horror Stories From Mexico

An hour before we were all crying, we were having such a good night.

I was 12 years old, living with my parents and little sister in a small house outside the town limits.

This was Mexico.

Dad had built most of it himself, buying materials whenever he had extra money.

Some of the walls were brick, others were gray block, and there were places where you could see outside through the gaps in the mortar.

During the day, little spots of sunlight came through onto the floor.

Some of them were from poor techniques, others were just worn from the weather itself.

We stuffed rags into the holes near our beds so that the rats and the insects might finally leave us alone.

My Aunt Rosa and Uncle Miguel hadn't visited in months now.

It arrived after dinner, carrying sweet bread and a bottle of soda, and everybody stayed outside visiting.

My sister fell asleep across two chairs pushed together.

Whenever I thought Mom was about to send me to bed, I'd ask my uncle another question and prolong the inevitable.

Eventually, the mosquitoes would drive us inside.

Dad carried my sister, and I helped bring in the chairs.

Uncle Miguel was the last one through the door.

He stood there looking toward the road until Aunt Rosa told him to close it and keep the bugs out.

Our front door was this really thick wood, salvaged from somewhere my dad had worked.

A square wooden bar dropped onto the brackets on the inside.

Miguel put that down too, although we hadn't finished carrying everything inside.

It was a true security door.

Mom put water on for coffee, and I sat beside my aunt picking sugar off a piece of bread and noticed that she wasn't listening to anybody.

She kept looking around the dingy walls of the house.

There was this gap beside the cupboard, about level with my face when I stood up.

Something was moving behind it.

I thought it was a moth, at least until it slid over, covering up the opening.

An hour before we were all crying, we were having such a good night.

I was 12 years old, living with my parents and little sister in a small house outside the town limits.

This was Mexico.

Dad had built most of it himself, buying materials whenever he had extra money.

Some of the walls were brick, others were gray block, and there were places where you could see outside through the gaps in the mortar.

During the day, little spots of sunlight came through onto the floor.

Some of them were from poor techniques, others were just worn from the weather itself.

We stuffed rags into the holes near our beds so that the rats and the insects might finally leave us alone.

My Aunt Rosa and Uncle Miguel hadn't visited in months now.

It arrived after dinner, carrying sweet bread and a bottle of soda, and everybody stayed outside visiting.

My sister fell asleep across two chairs pushed together.

Whenever I thought Mom was about to send me to bed, I'd ask my uncle another question and prolong the inevitable.

Eventually, the mosquitoes would drive us inside.

Dad carried my sister, and I helped bring in the chairs.

Uncle Miguel was the last one through the door.

He stood there looking toward the road until Aunt Rosa told him to close it and keep the bugs out.

Our front door was this really thick wood, salvaged from somewhere my dad had worked.

A square wooden bar dropped onto the brackets on the inside.

Miguel put that down too, although we hadn't finished carrying everything inside.

It was a true security door.

Mom put water on for coffee, and I sat beside my aunt picking sugar off a piece of bread and noticed that she wasn't listening to anybody.

She kept looking around the dingy walls of the house.

There was this gap beside the cupboard, about level with my face when I stood up.

Something was moving behind it.

I thought it was a moth, at least until it slid over, covering up the opening.