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Está Entre Nosotros Historias De Terror - Voces De La Noche · Niebla en el bosque con Evelith von

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I was born under the name of Guillermo López in the year nineteen hundred and
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sixty- five, in the magical and charming village of San Cristóbal de las
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Casas, located in the heart of Chiapas. This place, picturesque and full
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of traditions, stands majestically among green landscapes, mountains and valleys, a scenario
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that contrasts with the severity and rigidity that characterized my home. The house in
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which I grew up poor in material goods, but rich in stories, was
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on the slopes of the green hills surrounding the city. It was a simple
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structure of wood and roof of red tiles, a memory of the rural life
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of those times. My family was composed of ten members, my parents and
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us, the eight children. The López lineage was divided into three women and
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five men, my father' s favorites, of which I was the last
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Link, the youngest of all. They said that when my mother had a
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son, my father celebrated taking cane and listening to music by Don Basilio,
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an old man who dedicated himself to singing and cheering the people there. But
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when my father knew that the son who had come into the world was a
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child, he didn' t say a word and locked himself in his house
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and he wasn' t interested in seeing his own daughter until it was inevitable.
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My father, a man of complexion, strong and harsh, was a
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hard- working male chauvinist and a tireless worker. His deep and severe gaze
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reflected a man of ancient times, a man who found courage in physical work
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and virility in domination. The education he imparted to us was often severe marked
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by shouts and even blows resounding on the cold walls of our humble home.
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Every day before dawn, my father would wake us up to start our working
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day in the countryside. The rooster' s sound was just beginning to break
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the silence of the dawn, when we were already standing ready to work.
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They were long and exhausting hours under the sun from 5 a m to 3
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p m, digging, sowing, gathering. My father always insisted that we
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should earn our living, that food was not easily earned, and at the
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end of the day, our prize was a plate of hot beans. Sometimes,
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if luck smiled at us, we could supplement our meal with a few
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boiled potatoes or fresh zucchini from the harvest. Despite its simplicity, each bite
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was a reminder of the effort we had invested to obtain it. My mother
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was a good woman, but she was also a silent spectator of the abuses
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my father inflicted. His serene figure concealed a sea of sadness. His voice
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is always soft. She rarely stood up in protest, but even she,
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my dear mother, was a victim of my father' s violence. Despite
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the hardness of our existence, there were moments of happiness shining like beacons in
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the darkness. When my father was absent to be sent into the city,
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We, the eight brothers, rejoiced in temporary freedom. We played in the
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countryside we laughed, we ran, we enjoyed the beauty of our surroundings.
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Sometimes, during those special occasions, we all gathered around the wooden table,
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in our kitchen, to share a meal prepared with love for my mother.
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His hands, tanned by work and the passage of time, prepared the food
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with a delicacy and affection that transformed the simplest ingredients into dishes full of flavor
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and warmth. In those evenings, laughter and stories filled our house, compensating
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to some extent for daily hardships. Anyway, despite having experienced constant abuse and
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the obligation to work hard every day, when I was of age, I
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found myself at a crossroads where I had the option of freeing myself from that
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suffocating routine and the mandates imposed by my father. However, surprisingly, I
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decided to become a military officer. This unconventional choice, contrary to what many
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might expect from someone in my situation, filled my father with joy, though
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paradoxically, he never encouraged his children to seek formal education. I felt that
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the fact that I became a military officer was an honor for our family.
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The idea of one of his descendants following the steps of service and discipline in
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the armed forces seemed to give him a sense of personal pride and satisfaction.
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Reflecting on the underlying reasons for my decision, there may have been an influential
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psychological component. During my childhood, I suffered the emotional and physical consequences of
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an environment marked by mistreatment. It is possible that, in an attempt to
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overcome those painful memories and please my father, I have leaned towards the military
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career as a way to reaffirm my courage and obtain its approval. And well,
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as I entered the militia, the only thing I missed was my mother,
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since all my brothers had gone to work long before I left, because
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two had gone wet to the United States, three to Mexico City and two
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to Puebla, so at fourteen I alone had stayed with my parents. It
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was much more work and even though my father didn' t mistreat me as
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much as before, probably because I already had more strength to give and yet
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my refuge was always my mother, so I was the only person I missed.
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As I began in the army, I faced a series of challenges that
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required exceptional dedication and a willingness to overcome obstacles. I underwent rigorous physical and
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mental training, where I acquired combat, strategy and leadership skills through hard work,
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learning and preparation days. I tried to stand out in every aspect of
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my formation, demonstrating a strong determination. To become a soldier. It wasn
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' t that complicated, because I had always lived a life full of rules.
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In addition to the personal aspect, choosing a military career also gave me
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the opportunity to serve my country and protect the values that I consider fundamental.
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By embracing the uniform, I was committed to safeguarding peace and security. My
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dana l s. S. S. S. S. It is faced
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with any challenge that may arise in defence of freedom and justice. My first
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relevant call in the military field occurred in the year nineteen hundred and eighty-
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five. I was summoned, along with my platoon, for a mission of
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utmost importance to have and neutralize an armed group from Campeche that threatened security in
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the State of Cohuila. Our goal was to stop their progress and ensure peace
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in the region, and thanks to determination, discipline and teamwork, we were
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able to achieve this. At that time, he witnessed the growing organized crime
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in the country and our duty as soldiers was to confront and combat various groups
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engaged in this illicit activity. It was common to hear in the media about
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the security challenges Mexico faced and we were willing to put our lives at risk
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to help protect our compatriots and contribute to the stability of the nation. In
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the same year, Mexico was hit by one of the most devastating ismos in
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its history, which took place on Thursday, 19 September, and reached an
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impressive magnitude of eight degrees on the Richter scale. This catastrophic event left destruction
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and pain in its wake, with thousands of lost lives, collapsed buildings and
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entire communities united in the CAOS and despair. In the face of such a
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tragedy, we were called again to carry out relief, rescue and search for
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survivors. It was a deeply touching and heartbreaking experience. At the same time
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my eyes were filled with sadness when I witnessed the suffering of so many people
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desperate to find their loved ones and sometimes even their pets. But despite the
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desolation, the Mexican army emerged as a force of hope and solidarity in the
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dark. We work tirelessly, together with rescue teams and volunteers, to seek,
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among the rubble, to provide emotional support to those affected and to provide
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them with the basic supplies needed to survive in those critical moments. Our commitment
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to the reconstruction of the country became evident when, even after the emergency efforts
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ended, we dedicated ourselves to helping in the construction of housing for people who
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had lost their homes during the earthquake. This initiative sought not only to provide
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them with a safe roof, but also to give them the hope of a
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new beginning and the certainty that they were not alone on their way to recovery.
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As time passed, my heart was filled with deep pride for being part
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of the Mexican army and for having had the opportunity to serve my country at
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such crucial moments. I learned the value of hours, smelliness, resilience and
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teamwork whenever I called my parents. They were happy to hear everything I had
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accomplished in a short time and my father was proud of me, although I
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actually think he was proud of himself for having a military son. In short,
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the year was nine hundred and eighty- eight and after contributing to various
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missions that had taken me to the most dangerous and darkest corners of Mexico,
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I found myself facing one that made me see the existence of evil in a
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way that I had never imagined. We had been recruited for a very specific,
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high- risk mission. Our goal was clear and forceful. Catch one
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of the most fearsome groups of drug traffickers in Michoacán. An anonymous call had
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provided us with their exact location We knew that the mission could lead us to
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the limit, that we might have casualties, but at the end of the
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day or Hera, this was our duty. After several hours of walking,
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we arrive at a strategically located location near the location provided. From there our
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vision of the objective was clear. We begin to monitor the area by studying
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every detail, every movement, every shadow. However, from one moment to
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the next, our quiet camp was invaded by a roar of engines around five.
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Armored black trucks surrounded our camp, discovered our presence and decided to act
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before us. The air was filled with panic and tension. He initiated an
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armed confrontation that seemed to have no end. Drug traffickers were no less criminal.
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His combat skills made us suspicious of military training. We were in an
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unequal battle, but we couldn' t go back. During the chaos of
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the confrontation, my partner Martin, with a face that reflected both amazement and
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fear, managed to communicate something unusual to me. He told me that one
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of the men involved in the confrontation behaved in a strange, almost supernatural way.
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He didn' t look well his face was as if a shadow was
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treated a spectrum in the middle of the battle. This individual seemed to be
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always behind one of his companions, distracting our soldiers, moving from one side
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to the other, in a way that challenged the laws of physics, simulating
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to approach and then move away with an unusual speed. The most disturbing thing
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was that, despite the shots we fired at him, it seemed immune,
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the bullets passed through that shadow as if it did not exist, as if
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we were fighting a ghost. Despite the distraction caused by that mysterious shadow,
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it goes, several or my brave companions managed to maintain the concentration necessary to
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aim at their goals. With millimeter accuracy and bullet- proof determination, they
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managed to hit the target. However, no matter how accurate the shots were,
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something inexplicable happened. The bullets that struck the man, who seemed to
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protect the enigmatic entity, caused no harm, not even the slightest scratch.
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In addition, a series of inexplicable failures in our weapons were added to this
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scenario, because on several occasions, when they tried to repeat the shot,
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the weapons were boxed as something to prevent us from harming that man. Given
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the unusual resistance of the individual, I decided to try a different approach.
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Quietly, I slipped behind him, avoiding every possible sign of my presence.
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With a quick and determined move, I caught the man with my own hands,
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throwing his gun away from his reach and neutralizing him that way. However,
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far from showing fear or surprise, the subject mocked us. His sarcastic
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laughter resonated in the air. His laughter was so strong that the echo repeated
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them when he turned his face to look at me I saw in his eyes
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an abyss of evil and coldness that I had never seen in any individual.
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His yellow teeth shone every time he mocked and the words coming out of his
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mouth were pure insults. He told me the only way we could have caught
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him was like this, implying he possessed some sort of supernatural protection. The
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battle finally ended up leaving behind a trail of destruction. We had several straws,
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both on the criminals' side and our side. Each loss was a
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blow to the heart, a wound to the soul that would not heal easily.
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However, we managed to leave that place with seven criminals in custody.
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Later I had the opportunity to speak with one of my superiors, General Carlos
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Mendoza, I told him about what happened in detail, explaining to him the
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inexplicableness of how one of the detainees seemed immune to the shooting, how our
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weapons mysteriously jammed when we tried to shoot him and about the strange character who
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seemed to protect him, which, to add even more mystery to the situation,
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we never managed to find General Carlos Mendoza, a man who seemed tired
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already by his long career in the militia. He listened to my account with
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a grim seriousness that reflected his long experience on the battlefield. When I finished,
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he was thoughtful for a few moments and nodded. Finally, with a
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sigh, he began to speak. Mendoza confessed to me that, although it
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seemed strange, similar cases had happened before over the years. Other comrades in
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arms had reported similar encounters, clashes where some strange entity protected evil people.
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He explained that people who engage in organized crime, especially in certain regions of
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Mexico, often seek protection in the supernatural. They use rituals, amulets and
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prayers to try to gain an advantage so that the odds are in their favor
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and among those practices, veneration of the devil himself and holy death is especially
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common. Those words caused an image to jump into my mind I remembered the
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tattoos of that man, the criminal who had resisted our shootings and laughed at
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our attempts to stop him. His tattoos, which at the time seemed to
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me mere ornaments or marks belonging to a band suddenly, acquired a new meaning.
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I remembered the design of the Holy Death, which adorned her skin with
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her whitish bones and dark mantle as she seemed to look at me from her
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arm with empty eyes that seemed to hide pure evil. That must be the
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answer of his resistance, somehow to the fact that man had obtained protection from
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the Holy Death. General Mendoza also told me stories that, despite their serious
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tone and evident conviction, seemed to have been taken from a horror novel.
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According to him, it was not uncommon for seriously injured criminals to reach hospitals
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and somehow survive, despite injuries that would be fatal in anyone else. He
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told how, on more than one occasion, doctors were lost to the ability
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of these men to recover, as if their bodies were able to withstand wounds
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that should have been fatal. However, these miraculous recoveries had a frightening cost.
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The humors, the stories that circulated among the prisoners and the stories that
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Mendoza himself had collected over the years spoke of an unimaginable price. Criminals who
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committed themselves to Holy Death or the devil in search of protection, they said,
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must pay with human sacrifices. Sometimes it was said that they should offer
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the soul of their own children, their mothers, their wives were men and
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women consumed by ambition and selfishness, able to sacrifice their loved ones in search
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of power and protection. And, well, all that made me realize about
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human evil. However, despite the horror and disbelief, I also felt deep
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satisfaction. By the end of the day we had managed to put seven of
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these criminals behind bars, depriving them of their freedom. After our conversation,
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the army paid tribute to the fallen in combat. It was a moment of
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sadness and remembrance, but also of pride and determination. Despite the losses,
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we kept going, we kept fighting. After the tribute, I was assigned
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a new mission. You should watch the cell of the man who appeared to
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be under the protection of Holy Death, I was not afraid of him.
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I wasn' t going to let his laughs or his bad words intimidate me,
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so I set out to keep an eye on the cells, knowing that
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the next day he would be transferred to the preventive prison Varonil Norte in Mexico
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City, along with his accomplices. When I arrived in the cell, I
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found the man kneeling on the ground apparently praying, but as I heard his
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words, I realized that he was not addressing God, but to Holy Death.
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The moment he saw me enter a hypocritical smile, he drew on his
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face, examined me from head to toe and ordered me to leave. I
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just stood outside the cell and turned my back on him, but suddenly he
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started saying disturbing things. She mentioned my mother' s name and claimed that
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she had died, implying that I hadn' t even heard about me getting
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into matters I shouldn' t have. Then he added that my father,
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deep down, was happy that his wife was being eaten by the worms,
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for he had never loved her. My anger made me turn quickly to face
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it. I don' t remember feeling such anger before I ordered him to
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shut up, but my thoughts began to torment me. As he knew my
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mother' s name, he mocked me as the tears of rage flowed from
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my eyes. Honestly, I felt like opening the cell and hitting him until
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he shut up, but I knew that was impossible. Then he told me
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that his mother, Holy Death, had revealed to him that she had taken
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my mother. I tried to stay calm, knowing he was just messing with
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me. I knew my mother was fine and all I had to do was
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ignore it. I turned back to him and he laughed again several times until
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he fell asleep. The hours passed and I began to feel calmer, but
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suddenly everything got worse. Someone touched my shoulder from the cell and when I
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turned around I saw the criminal asleep. It had been no one, but
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suddenly a horrible cold hand off the ground and touched my shoulder again. This
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time I wasn' t going to let him make fun of me before whoever
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was touching me could take my hand off, I grabbed it hard. That
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' s when I realized that it wasn' t a normal hand, but
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a bony hand, and looking at who I belonged to, I saw a
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skeleton in a black robe. His face was an empty skull without eyes,
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but somehow I felt his gaze fixed on me cold and immutable. The bones
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of his hands stood out each one ending in a sharp tip that seemed able
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to cut off the same reality, I couldn' t help but let go
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of a scream that made that horrible figure disappear. And at that moment the
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man in the cells woke up. She looked at me as I was completely
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immobile and scared and asked me if I had seen her too. I didn
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' t answer. The man began to laugh and told me that he was
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very lucky to have seen his beautiful lady Dawn as the time of his transfer
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approached. I decided not to say anything. I swallowed the fear and stood
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there until they came for him. But the worst was coming a few hours
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later, General Mendoza called me to give me shocking news. My mother had
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died the day before from a heart attack. I couldn' t believe it.
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My world fell apart completely. The only person who had really loved me
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and made me happy was gone. The days turned gray and the pain was
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unbearable. I went to his wake and it was horrible to know that the
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pillar of the family was gone. My father was not immuted by the death
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of his wife and I hated him a little more because I realized that my
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childhood, that of my brothers and that of my poor mother had been pure
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suffering. Only my brothers and I feel their loss to whom. By the
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way, after that event, I haven' t seen you again until today.
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As time passed, I began to reflect on what that man had told
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me and on the appearance I witnessed. What he mentioned about my mother turned
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out to be true and surely so was what he had said about my father.
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I haven' t been to see him to this day and I have
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no news of him. That terrifying experience made me realize that evil really exists
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and is among us. I will never be able to forget that event,
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nor will I be able to forget the happy days I spent with my mother
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and brothers. Anonymous account or