The Axe of Betrayal

We’ve all heard a ghost story or two, haven’t we? In every town, there’s always that one place you’re told never to go after dark—typically with some hair-raising tale involving a grisly murder, a wandering specter, or maybe even an inexplicable chill that creeps up your spine. In Allende, Coahuila, such a place exists. They call it El Barrio del Hacha—The Axe Neighborhood.

You see, Allende is not some sprawling metropolis with shiny buildings and posh shopping centers. It’s a modest town, where life is slower, the air thicker, and every corner holds memories of stories passed down through generations. This particular story, though, is no mere town gossip; it’s practically folklore. A dark, twisted bit of local history rooted in suspicion, betrayal, and the sharp end of an axe.

The story was told to me by my mother, who, like most locals, had heard it all before. It's about a man named Nacho, or as the town folks affectionately called him, Carne Gorda. Nacho wasn’t some mythological monster—just an average Joe who happened to collect garbage for a living. In the 1950s, people didn’t have fancy bin men in neon vests riding around in shiny trucks. No, you had Nacho, a scruffy, stubborn chap with a thick mustache and a wide-brimmed hat that was, for some reason, eternally filthy.

Now, Nacho wasn’t just known for collecting garbage. He was an entrepreneur of sorts, diversifying his portfolio by selling barbacoa on Sundays. The whole town knew him for his booming shout: “¡Aquí está la barbacoa de carne gorda!” Roughly translating to "Here’s the barbacoa of fatty meat!"—not the most flattering of catchphrases, but people seemed to love it.

But as every story like this begins, things were not as they seemed. Nacho, who seemed harmless with his barbacoa and firewood-selling ways, was about to take a violent turn down a dark path. As the tale goes, Nacho had a wife. And, as with most men in stories involving axes, he also had a nagging suspicion. His wife was betraying him. He sensed it—the awkward silences, the evasive glances—and his suspicions soon led him to scrutinize her every move.

Then there was Salas. Let’s call him the best friend. Every town has a Salas, doesn’t it? The mate who’s always around, always popping in for a cup of coffee or a beer. Too friendly, really. In fact, Salas was so friendly that he and Nacho’s wife were extremely well-acquainted. Nacho, being the ever-watchful husband, began to suspect Salas was more than just a drinking buddy.

One fateful day, Nacho set out to confirm his worst fear. He went out, ostensibly to chop wood, but in reality, he was watching his own house from a distance. Lo and behold, Salas arrived and entered the house. Minutes later, the door shut. The click of the lock was like a dagger to Nacho’s already wounded pride. His blood boiled, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the handle of his axe, and then it all went quiet in his head.

What happens next is the stuff of nightmares.

Nacho stormed into his house, smashing the door open, finding his wife and Salas entangled in the throes of betrayal. What went through Nacho’s mind at that moment, only he knows, but it can’t have been pleasant. Fueled by rage and dishonor, Nacho did the only thing a man in his situation could do—he swung the axe. Not once. Not twice. He swung it repeatedly until Salas was nothing more than a broken, bloodied pile of meat on the floor.

His wife, petrified, cowered in the corner as Nacho’s face contorted with fury. She didn't scream—couldn’t scream—because Nacho, towering over her, threatened her into silence. As if the horror of what she’d witnessed wasn’t enough, Nacho forced her to help clean the mess. Sheets soaked with blood, the murder weapon dripping red—they cleaned it all while the stench of death lingered in the air.

Hours later, under the cover of darkness, they wrapped Salas’s dismembered body in a sack and hauled it onto the back of their horse. Nacho, ever the pragmatist, wasn’t one to leave loose ends. He planned to dump the body somewhere far away, somewhere untraceable, and carry on with his barbacoa business as if nothing had happened. But fate, as it often does in such tales, had other plans.

The sack slipped off the horse as they rode through the reeds near the railway tracks, and there it remained—too heavy for Nacho to lift on his own. Defeated, he left it there, hoping no one would ever find it. But bodies have a funny way of turning up, and sure enough, some factory workers stumbled upon Salas’s remains the next morning.

Nacho tried to go about his daily routine, but you can only hide a secret like that for so long. His wife, wracked with guilt and fear, eventually confessed to the authorities. Nacho was promptly arrested, and thus ended the story of Carne Gorda. But the legend? Oh, that was just beginning.

The neighborhood where the tragedy took place became known as El Barrio del Hacha, The Axe Neighborhood, a name that stuck like dried blood on a rusty blade. Over time, the story grew, taking on new forms with each retelling. Children were warned to stay away from the area after dark, lest they encounter the ghost of Nacho, still wandering the streets with his axe in hand, searching for his next victim. Teenagers dared each other to walk through the neighborhood at night, swearing they heard the faint cry of Salas echoing through the reeds.

And as with all legends, the truth behind it became murky, lost in the fog of time. Some people today have never heard the real story. They might walk through El Barrio del Hacha without a second thought, unaware of the dark history that lingers beneath the surface. Others, however, remember it all too well. Because, as they say, part of a person’s essence remains where they die.

So next time you find yourself in Allende, Coahuila, walking through a quiet, unremarkable neighborhood late at night, take a moment to look around. You never know if Carne Gorda is watching, axe in hand, waiting for someone to cross his path once again.

In-text Citation: (Treviño Barrientos , 2021, pp. 22-23)