There are spirits that scream.
Spirits that cry.
And some… that laugh.
The worst are those.
I learned that the hard way.
—
It started with small things.
Toys that appeared on the graves.
Little handprints on the dusty windows of the chapel.
Giggles echoing at night, though there were no children in the cemetery.
At first, I thought it was just a passing spirit.
Children sometimes get lost on their way to Mictlán.
They forget where they're going.
They look for someone to follow.
So I left out candles.
Sweet bread.
A toy dog made of clay.
But nothing disappeared.
Then one night, I woke up to someone knocking at my door.
Three soft knocks.
Then silence.
I opened it, and there was no one.
Only a small doll on the ground. Its face had been scratched off.
—
The next night, I heard footsteps.
Tiny ones.
Running circles around my house.
And laughter—
not joyful, but sharp, mocking.
I went outside and called out:
"Who's there? Do you need help?"
The wind answered.
And something else.
A whisper: "You're not my mother."
I froze.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him.
A small child crouched behind a gravestone. His eyes were black, too big for his face. His smile… wasn't a child's.
I stepped back.
"You don't belong here," I told him.
And he laughed.
"I go where I want. They let me in."
"Who?"
He pointed downward. Toward the earth.
"The ones who live inside."
—
The other spirits refused to talk about him.
They scattered when I asked.
All except one, an old woman who used to sit by the mausoleum humming songs.
She said:
"He's not one of ours."
"What is he?" I asked.
"A shadow that puts on a child's skin.
He knocks to be let in.
And when someone opens… he stays."
—
I began to protect my house.
Salt at every window.
Ashes by the door.
A mirror facing each corner.
But he kept coming.
I found small footprints on my pillow.
Teeth marks on the candles.
And one morning…
I woke up with dirt under my fingernails.
That night, I waited by the door with incense and a prayer.
He knocked.
Three times.
When I opened it, he stood there. Smiling.
"You're not scared anymore," he said.
"No," I replied. "But you should be."
I blew the incense in his face. The smoke turned black.
He screamed—not like a child, but like something ancient, burning.
And then… he vanished.
—
I haven't seen him since.
But I still leave toys for the real children.
The ones who are lost, but kind.
The ones who deserve peace.
Because not all spirits are equal.
Some never were children at all.
And if one day, late at night, you hear a soft knock on your door…
Don't open it.
Especially
if they call you
"mother."