Oct 10, 2026 · 1 hr 29 min · 16 segments
5 UNSETTLING STORIES from TOWNS and RANCHES in MEXICO That Will Make You Look Twice on the Road Back brings together tales filled with mystery, tension, and that silent fear you only feel far from the…
My name is Evaristo, and the man who went with me is named Eleazar.
We do not investigate paranormal matters.
We do not work for any media outlet, and we have no special fascination with the history of the place beyond the simple curiosity that eventually led us there.
At the time, I was living temporarily in León while I dealt with some family matters, and Eleazar, who was born in that area, suggested we go see the ruins of an old hacienda.
He knew I had enjoyed photographing abandoned buildings and deteriorating colonial architecture for years.
It is a hobby I have pursued for quite some time without any serious artistic ambitions.
The idea was to visit at night so I could try out some new low-light lenses, and to be completely honest, also because during the day, at that time of year in the Bajío, the heat makes walking through the brush almost impossible.
We left Silao around eleven forty-five PM in Eleazar's pickup, a nineteen ninety-eight Ford Ranger with a suspension that made a lot of noise.
We took the road toward Romita.
There was hardly any traffic.
We passed only two freight trucks and the occasional car.
The sky was clear, though the moon provided very little light, so we depended entirely on the pickup's headlights and the flashlights we had brought.
Eleazar knew a side entrance, a dirt track that branched off the main road and that, according to him, local farmers used to move machinery between the sorghum and corn fields surrounding the hacienda's main buildings.
We parked the pickup about five hundred meters from the main building to avoid drawing attention.
Although the place was abandoned, it was still private property, and we did not want trouble with the municipal police or a watchman, if there was one.
We got our equipment out.
I had my camera, a lightweight tripod, and a powerful LED flashlight.
Eleazar had a headlamp and a backpack with water and spare batteries.
The air was dry.
It carried that familiar smell of loose earth and vegetation scorched by the sun, mixed with the sweet scent of the nearby crops.
The temperature was probably around eighteen degrees Celsius, much more pleasant than it had been during the day.
We walked silently along the edge of a dry irrigation canal.
The ground was uneven, strewn with stones and fragments of old brick that crunched beneath our boots.
As we approached the silhouette of the hacienda, I began to appreciate the true size of the building.
It was not small.
My name is Evaristo, and the man who went with me is named Eleazar.
We do not investigate paranormal matters.
We do not work for any media outlet, and we have no special fascination with the history of the place beyond the simple curiosity that eventually led us there.
At the time, I was living temporarily in León while I dealt with some family matters, and Eleazar, who was born in that area, suggested we go see the ruins of an old hacienda.
He knew I had enjoyed photographing abandoned buildings and deteriorating colonial architecture for years.
It is a hobby I have pursued for quite some time without any serious artistic ambitions.
The idea was to visit at night so I could try out some new low-light lenses, and to be completely honest, also because during the day, at that time of year in the Bajío, the heat makes walking through the brush almost impossible.
We left Silao around eleven forty-five PM in Eleazar's pickup, a nineteen ninety-eight Ford Ranger with a suspension that made a lot of noise.
We took the road toward Romita.
There was hardly any traffic.
We passed only two freight trucks and the occasional car.
The sky was clear, though the moon provided very little light, so we depended entirely on the pickup's headlights and the flashlights we had brought.
Eleazar knew a side entrance, a dirt track that branched off the main road and that, according to him, local farmers used to move machinery between the sorghum and corn fields surrounding the hacienda's main buildings.
We parked the pickup about five hundred meters from the main building to avoid drawing attention.
Although the place was abandoned, it was still private property, and we did not want trouble with the municipal police or a watchman, if there was one.
We got our equipment out.
I had my camera, a lightweight tripod, and a powerful LED flashlight.
Eleazar had a headlamp and a backpack with water and spare batteries.
The air was dry.
It carried that familiar smell of loose earth and vegetation scorched by the sun, mixed with the sweet scent of the nearby crops.
The temperature was probably around eighteen degrees Celsius, much more pleasant than it had been during the day.
We walked silently along the edge of a dry irrigation canal.
The ground was uneven, strewn with stones and fragments of old brick that crunched beneath our boots.
As we approached the silhouette of the hacienda, I began to appreciate the true size of the building.
It was not small.
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