The Ghostly Cry of Highway 5
A woman is brutally murdered and her body is found near a highway. Her spirit, unable to rest, haunts the road. Truck drivers and motorists report seeing her apparition, sometimes as a hitchhiker, other times as a passenger.
There are some stories so shrouded in mystery, they beggar belief. Stories that make you shiver in your seat and pull the duvet just a bit closer at night. Yet, they also demand to be told, for they are woven into the fabric of a place. And this one, dear reader, is about a very beautiful woman, a tragic love story, and a road. Oh, but not just any road. No, this is state highway number 5, a stretch of asphalt somewhere in the Mexican state of Chihuahua, whose unassuming first curve has become synonymous with death, fear, and the kind of eerie encounters that Hollywood dreams are made of.
Let’s start with the facts—or at least as close as one can get in a tale like this. It was the mid-1980s, a time when big hair ruled, neon spandex was alarmingly acceptable, and the road to the El Tepeyac ejido wasn’t known for its spectral hitchhikers. Somewhere near this very curve, a shepherd boy tending his goats stumbled upon a sight that would haunt him forever. The charred remains of a woman lay in the woods, about 200 meters from the curve. Her body told a grim story: beaten, raped, hanged, and then set alight.
Terrified, the boy ran back to his family, who in turn alerted the authorities. The investigation led to whispers and theories—some as smoky and elusive as the figure she would later become. It was said that she had been a barmaid in Ciudad Acuña, originally from Chihuahua. Even more salaciously, she was rumored to have been the lover of a customs officer, one of those who worked in the now-defunct RAM office. The officer, they say, became the prime suspect and was hauled off to jail.
But this is where the story begins to take a turn for the macabre. The woman’s mother, undeterred by the bureaucratic inertia of the 1980s justice system, took matters into her own hands. Years after the incident, she tracked down her daughter’s remains, confirming her identity through jewelry, teeth, and DNA. Yet, even after the remains were laid to rest in Chihuahua, the woman’s presence refused to leave the infamous curve.
Locals began to talk. And you know how small towns are—once a rumor starts, it spreads like wildfire. Truck drivers spoke of seeing a beautiful woman in the back of their buses, asleep. They would stop to wake her, only for her to vanish the moment they reached her seat. Others described a woman by the roadside, flagging for a lift. Some brave souls stopped, only to find their vehicle inexplicably empty upon arrival. The unlucky ones didn’t stop, only to feel her presence inside the car moments later, a chill spreading through the air as if Death itself had taken a seat beside them.
And then there are the accidents. The curve has claimed its share of victims over the years—some say far too many for it to be mere coincidence. A truck overturned, killing its driver, while another vehicle inexplicably veered off the road, bursting into flames and taking its occupant with it. Witnesses whisper that these drivers may have seen her, or worse, that she caused their demise.
It’s not hard to see why the locals have given this spot its name: the Curve of Death. But beyond the spine-tingling ghost stories and the inexplicable accidents, lies something altogether more poignant.
The woman at the heart of this tale—whoever she was—was, by all accounts, a beauty. A barmaid who perhaps sought love or a better life, only to find herself embroiled in something far darker. Her death, brutal and unjust, is a stark reminder of how easily a life can be snuffed out and forgotten. Except, of course, she hasn’t been forgotten.
Her story, grim as it is, has endured. And for all the ghostly sightings and accidents attributed to her spirit, there’s a poetic justice in the fact that she remains. A spectral reminder to all who pass through this curve that she was here, that she lived, and that her story—however tragic—still matters.
Now, you might scoff at all this. You might roll your eyes and mutter about how ghost stories are for children and wide-eyed tourists. But even the most rational among us knows there are places in this world that feel… different. And when you’re barreling down state highway number 5 at night, your headlights cutting through the darkness, and you see a figure by the roadside, you’d better think twice before dismissing it as your imagination.
Because on that curve, imagination has a funny way of becoming reality.
And if you’re lucky enough to pass without incident, perhaps whisper a quiet word of respect. For the beautiful woman who never left.
In-text Citation: (Crispin Terrazas , 2021, pp. 60-61)
