The House of Devil and Thousand Shudders

Coahuila in Guerrero is one of those places that sounds like it’s perpetually draped in twilight and secrets. The landscape is dusty, rugged, with just enough cacti to remind you that this is the sort of territory where you wouldn’t be surprised to see a tumbleweed skid by. Yet, it’s not the landscape that unnerves the residents of Guerrero; it’s something much darker.

One might think this sleepy border town, with its 300-plus years of history, has had ample time to accumulate its fair share of ghost stories. The legends are as dense as the mesquite that dots the landscape, thick with tales of apparitions, mysterious lights, and disembodied whispers. But nothing quite compares to the tale of La Casa del Diablo—the House of the Devil. Yes, not a witch’s hut, not a haunted mansion. The House of the Devil.

Picture a humid October evening in 2008, air sticky with the last vestiges of summer clinging to the thick autumn air. Nine bricklayers from Lamadrid, Coahuila, and Monterrey in Nuevo León, had just wrapped up a long day’s work, laboring to etch and lay cement around the town’s main square. After a day spent sweating under the sun, they were looking forward to a simple dinner, a laugh or two, and a bed on which to collapse. But tonight, rest would elude them. Tonight, they would encounter something that would etch itself not in cement, but in the very marrow of their bones.

The house, located at the intersection of General Raúl López Sánchez and Ramos Arizpe, had a reputation. Once owned by a prominent local family that had long since vanished from Guerrero, the building now stood like a forgotten relic—a shadow from another time. Despite its history, the bricklayers thought little of it; to them, it was just a place to lay their heads for a night. But as they would soon learn, not every house is simply a collection of bricks and mortar. Some places…have their own agenda.

Just as they were about to settle down to prepare their dinner, a strange sound began to drift through the house. At first, it was a mere whisper of wind, the kind that makes leaves rustle and trees sway. But this wind was no gentle breeze. It howled with a ferocity that shook the walnut tree in the house’s courtyard, its branches creaking ominously. And then came the moan—a woman’s voice, distant, yet chillingly clear.

At this point, one would assume the logical course of action would be to high-tail it out of there. But no, these bricklayers were made of sterner stuff. Curiosity piqued, they ventured outside to investigate the source of the strange noises, only to find—absolutely nothing. Not a single leaf moving, not a wisp of wind. The walnut tree stood silent and unmoving, as if mocking them. Confused, they returned inside, and that’s when things started to go very wrong indeed.

Initially dismissing these sounds as nothing more than the house settling, they tried to continue their evening routine. But the noises grew louder, relentless, like a taunt that dared them to investigate. Driven by a mix of curiosity and frustration, they decided to search the house room by room.

With each empty room they checked, the tension grew. Then, they reached the last room. Its door—a pair of old, double-leaf wooden panels—stood slightly ajar, riddled with cracks and gaps. The door looked as though it was barely holding back the darkness within. Yet, in that moment, curiosity won over common sense. They pushed against the wood to open it, hoping to find some explanation for the disturbances.

Then came the noise. A deafening, rumbling crash erupted from the room, as if the entire roof had come down. The men stumbled back, disoriented, and in the next breath, flames began to flicker through the cracks in the door. Panic gripped them as the temperature rose, and the air itself seemed to twist and shudder. They’d had enough. The men bolted out of the house, spilling into the night air, hearts pounding.

Minutes passed as they stood outside, chests heaving, adrenaline coursing through their veins. But, inevitably, one of them—a man named Juan, who clearly had a little more courage or perhaps a little less sense than the rest—announced that he was going back in. Maybe he was curious. Maybe he wanted to prove himself. Either way, he wasn’t going alone. One of his companions reluctantly agreed to follow him.

As Juan and his friend pushed open that door again, something else pushed back. A force, unseen but terrifyingly real, yanked them into the room. Juan, who was in the lead, found himself dragged forward, as if seized by an invisible hand. His friend, desperately clutching Juan’s arm, strained against the pull but was quickly overpowered. Unable to fight the force, he released his grip, and Juan vanished into the darkness beyond the door.

Then, the door slammed shut with a force that rattled the entire house. All the men could do was stare, frozen, as a chorus of thuds, crashes, and wild, unearthly screams erupted from within the room. It was a scene straight out of a horror film—a cacophony of sound, as though the room itself was tearing apart.

The door had no lock, yet it wouldn’t budge. The men hurled themselves at it, kicking, prying, and pulling with everything they had, but it held firm, mocking their efforts. Time slowed to a crawl. And just as they were about to give up, the door finally gave way. Inside, amid the wreckage, they found Juan—kneeling, clutching the back of an ancient bed, eyes wide and unseeing, breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked as though he had stared into the very depths of hell.

Juan’s ordeal didn’t end there. He was, quite simply, shattered. His face bore a look of pure terror, a twisted grimace that would haunt his companions for years to come. Though they managed to carry him out, he remained unresponsive, muttering a single phrase in a voice that barely sounded like his own: “The man is very angry…the man is very angry…” It was all he would say, over and over, his words as unyielding as the grip that had dragged him into the room.

They rushed him to the local health center, hoping that perhaps a doctor could shed some light on what had happened. But medicine offered no answers. With no other option, they brought him to the Parish of San Juan Bautista, laying him before the altar in a desperate plea for divine intervention. Priests and locals alike gathered, reciting prayers, attempting to break whatever hold had taken hold of his soul.

Hours later, Juan’s muttering subsided, his breathing returned to normal, but the haunted look in his eyes never left. To this day, he remains a shadow of his former self, forever marked by that night. Some say he still mutters those words—“The man is very angry…”—whenever he closes his eyes.

The next day, the crew left Guerrero. They had seen enough of La Casa del Diablo to last them a lifetime. But Juan? Juan was barely recognizable. Transferred back to Monterrey, he was no longer the sturdy bricklayer his friends knew. His face was etched with a fear so deep it seemed to have burrowed into his bones. He refused to speak, his mind fractured, lost somewhere in the shadows of that room. Rumor has it that he was, in the words of the locals, “deranged,” his mind gone with whatever had met him in the darkness of that house.

Guerrero is no stranger to dark history. Town gossip soon revived a long-buried story that seemed to fit the horrors of La Casa del Diablo. They say that long ago, during a time when the town was still young and wild, a military barracks stood across from the house. It was a time when the army was tasked with “cleansing” the area of “wild Indians”—rebels, warriors who fought against the invading forces that had come to claim their land. As the story goes, many of these captives were dragged across the street, through that very house, where they met their fate at the hands of the troops.

It doesn’t take much imagination to picture it—the sounds of chains, the cries of the fallen, the violence that could stain a place like ink into the pages of history. And in Guerrero, it’s said that some things never truly leave. They seep into the walls, into the floorboards, binding themselves to the place where they suffered, forever seeking justice or revenge, or perhaps simply a release from the prison of memory.

To this day, La Casa del Diablo stands, though no one in Guerrero dares to enter. It’s not boarded up, not marked by any sign, and yet it feels as though it’s cloaked in an invisible barrier. People walk by with their heads down, whispering prayers, keeping their children close, as if even glancing at the house might draw its attention. The townsfolk say that whatever lurks there is still very much alive—if you could call it “alive.”

Even now, the house remains a story only half-told, with locals insisting that no one should attempt to uncover the secrets buried within its walls. Whatever took hold of Juan that night, whatever possessed that final room, left its mark on Guerrero. Perhaps, someday, someone will have the nerve to enter again, to push that cracked wooden door open and face what’s on the other side. But for now, La Casa del Diablo remains undisturbed, an eternal reminder that in Guerrero, some spirits are better left in the shadows.

In-text Citation: (Saucedo Luna, 2021, pp. 55-57)