A Supernatural Experience in the Cold, Dark Woods

Winter. The time when the air is crisp, the sky is blue, and your breath billows out like steam from a kettle. It’s also the time when everyone suddenly feels like sharing ghost stories. It’s odd, isn't it? You’d think these tales would fit better in the sticky heat of summer when the nights are long, dark, and endless, but no. Instead, it’s when the frost has set in, when you can’t feel your fingers, that people feel the need to remind you of the specters that apparently roam the hills. You can practically hear them whispering through the icy wind.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never much cared for ghost stories. They’re like Brussels sprouts. People insist you’ll enjoy them because they’ve added a bit of butter or some outlandish garnish, but in the end, they’re still Brussels sprouts. Tasteless, unpleasant, and you’re always left wondering why you bothered. But, as it turns out, the people in this particular story had no such luxury. Their ghostly encounter didn’t come with the option of politely declining and asking for something else. No, this one just showed up, all dressed in white, and absolutely refused to be ignored.

The story goes back years, of course, as all good ghost stories should. Because if it happened last week, it’s not a ghost story, is it? It’s just news. So, as the tale was passed down from father to son, there we are, transported to a December morning sometime in the distant past. No one knows exactly when because, in a ghost story, specifics are about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

Enter Santiago, our hero, or perhaps victim, depending on how you view these things. Santiago was up at the ungodly hour of 5:00 a.m., splitting firewood. Now, that alone should make you suspicious. Who in their right mind is up at 5:00 in the morning in the freezing cold, hacking away at logs like a deranged lumberjack? But then again, maybe that's what life was like back then. No central heating, no Netflix to binge-watch, so what else are you going to do except chop wood?

So there he was, minding his own business, when the dogs started. Now, if you know anything about dogs, you'll know that when they start barking, especially that low, eerie howl that raises the hairs on the back of your neck, something’s amiss. They don’t do it for fun. Cats, maybe, but dogs, no. Santiago looked up from his work, his hands gripping the axe, and what did he see? A woman. But not just any woman. Oh no, that would be too easy. This one was draped in white, her silky hair floating in the wind like something out of a shampoo advert.

At first, he must’ve thought she was just some poor soul who’d lost her way, perhaps coming from one of the nearby bars, as people often do after a night of, well, let’s call it merrymaking. But the dogs knew better. They were barking themselves into a frenzy, their hackles raised, a sure sign that something was off. And if there’s one thing you learn in life, it’s to trust a dog when it tells you something’s wrong.

The woman in white, meanwhile, kept coming closer, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the fact that there were cactus plants and a barbed-wire fence in her path. You’d think a sane person would see the obstacles and maybe reconsider their route, but not this one. No, she glided right through them as if they weren’t there at all. No scratches, no tears in her pristine dress. Just waltzed through like a ghost—oh wait, that’s right. She was a ghost.

Now, at this point, most of us would have legged it back home, thrown ourselves under the covers, and not emerged until at least April. But not Santiago. No, he was made of sterner stuff. He stood his ground, clutching his machete, not because he planned to use it, of course, but because in moments like this, holding onto something sharp gives you the illusion of control.

The dogs, however, were not so brave. They cowered at his feet, looking up at him as if to say, "Mate, we’re in trouble here." And sure enough, as the figure came closer, Santiago’s blood ran cold. He could see her now, the mist swirling around her, her face half-hidden by her dark, curly hair. And still, she came, silent as the frost on the ground.

Santiago watched as she approached the barbed wire, the final barrier between him and whatever the hell she was. Surely, she wouldn’t get past that. Surely, the laws of physics would apply at some point. But no. She vanished. Just like that. Poof. Gone into the mist, as if she’d never been there at all.

The dogs stopped howling. They stood up, as if someone had just flicked a switch, their terror suddenly replaced by calm. But Santiago? He was done. His legs refused to move, his arms heavy with the weight of the axe he no longer had the strength to lift. He did the only sensible thing left to do—he packed up, went home, and buried himself under his blankets. And who can blame him? I’d have done the same, and probably added a large whisky to the mix.

He told his mother, of course, because that’s what you do when you’ve just seen a ghost. And what was her response? Did she comfort him? Did she suggest they call an exorcist or maybe move to a new village? No. She told him to go see Doña Petra, the local expert in curing people of fright. Apparently, this sort of thing happened all the time in those hills, and if you saw the woman again, all you had to do was pray and hope for the best.

And that, my friends, is the moral of this particular tale: if you ever find yourself chopping wood at dawn and a mysterious woman in white comes gliding through the mist, don’t bother trying to rationalize it. Don’t question the dogs’ reaction. Just pray. Pray and hope she vanishes before she gets too close, because when it comes to ghosts, logic is about as useful as a chocolate fireguard.

In-text Citation: (Medina Zapata , 2021, pp. 9-10)