It is late at night as you twist and turn in your bed.

The heat of the day doesn't seem to go fully away at night,

so you grunt as you force yourself to walk over to the window to let in some cool air.

Something catches your eyes out by the end of the old cobblestone streets.

Along with the shine of the nearby street lamps bouncing off the still river next to your house,

you notice a tall, thin figure floating by the trees, wearing a white dress, it looks like.

You instinctively get down on your knees away from the window and stretch your arms out

to close the window once again, but it is no use.

You begin to hear the howls of the wind mixed with the cries of a woman.

Aye, my children, she cries.

Where are her children?

Her cries grow louder until they disappeared with the sounds of splashes.

The wind carrying her voice downstream, leaving you with an odd sense of grief, loss, and guilt as it fades away.

It is a tale that will outlive many of us, told from dark places in Mexico and down to Latin America,

a brief tale that has its own adaptations in other continents.

Let's hear about the famous story of the weeping woman.

Here's the tale of La Jorona.

My name is Edwin.

Here is a dark memory.

Maria was a very beautiful young woman who lived in a small town.

Mand would pursue her, bringing her flower, singing her songs, and trying their every move to get her attention.

But Maria had her eyes set on someone, someone that many of her friends warned her to stay away from.

...