PHSphynX_PHC
Honorary Poster
La Mala HoraIn Chiapas, the southern state of Mexico, they tell of La Mala Hora (or La Malora or La Malogra). She usually appears as a beautiful long-haired woman dressed in white, walking along the side of the road at night. Men who encounter her are so taken by her beauty and seductive ways that they follow her mindlessly, with no heed to where she’s leading them.
The lucky few who have met La Mala Hora and lived to tell the tale say that while following her, they lost their sense of direction. If they carried a lamp, it would suddenly stop working. Luckily, these fellows noticed that the lovely lady they were following floated, rather than walked. Or they noticed that her toes were backwards. Those poor victims who don’t look down at La Mala Hora’s feet will follow her to their doom, as she leads them over the edge of a ravine.
And if you see La Mala Hora on the road dressed in black, then look out! She is far more fierce and aggressive in her black-clad form.
Tomás Kaufman collected a Mala Hora story, told in Mochó, a dying Mayan language spoken in Chiapas, in 1967. In this story, the storyteller refers to our monstress as La Mala Mujer (“the evil woman”):
A man from Motozintla had a girlfriend in Amatenango. One night, as he was on his way to visit her, he ran into a woman on the road. She looked like his girlfriend.
“Since you were coming to see me, I came out to meet you,” she said. “I’ve brought all my things. Let’s run away together.”
“Are you serious??” the man asked. He couldn’t believe his luck. But then he looked at the woman more closely, and he saw that her toes were on backwards!
“You’re not my girlfriend,” he said.
“Of course I am!” she said. “Now let’s go, before my father finds us.”
The man insisted that she lied, but she denied it.
“No, you don’t fool me.” And the man slipped a blindfold on the woman and began to hit her until she ran way.
The next day, the man got a needle, then went to the priest and had it blessed. That night he walked the road to Amatenango again. He ran into La Mala Mujer on the way, again posing as his girlfriend, and this time he pretended that he believed her. They ran away together, and after some time they arrived at a little glen, where they stopped to rest.
The man pretended to feel romantic, and leaned over to embrace “his girlfriend.” As they sat down, he slipped the blessed needle beneath her without her noticing. The needle stuck her to the spot; she couldn’t get back up. Then the man left and went back for the priest.
When they returned after dawn, La Mala Mujer was still there, with her hair streaming all around her. The priest told the man to hit her with a branch, while the priest prayed. Just as the priest began his prayers, and the man raised his branch, the woman vanished.
And that’s The End.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the region, in New Mexico on the southern border of the United States, La Mala Hora is a completely different creature. In 1910 Aurelio Espinosa described la Mala Hora, or la malogra, as an evil spirit that haunts the crossroads at night, hunting those who travel the roads alone. If you see it, you will be driven permanently insane (sounds a little like what they say about the cihuateteo, too). According to Espinosa, La Malogra looks like a large lock of wool, or even an entire fleece, that expands and contracts in size before its viewer. It rarely appears in human form, but when it does, it’s a sign of bad omen: disaster or death.
Ana Castillo referred to this version of La Malora in her novel So Far from God. In the novel, the character Caridad is attacked by something made of sharp metal and splintered wood. Of limestone, gold, and brittle parchment. It held the weight of a continent and was indelible as ink, centuries old and yet as strong as a young wolf. It had no shape and was darker than the night, and mostly, as Caridad, would never, ever forget, it was pure force.
This attack inspires Caridad to turn her troubled life around, and to become a curandera, a traditional folk healer.
More modern New Mexican versions of La Mala Hora describe her as a terrifying wonan in black, who appears to travelers at night when a death is about to occur. There’s a particular story that’s floating around the internet, of a woman driving alone at night on the way to Santa Fe. She (almost literally) runs into a demonic woman on the highway. The next morning she gets news that her husband, who had been away on a business trip, had been killed.
According to one informant, in Monterrey, Mexico (northern Mexico), La Mala Hora has a face like a horse and runs alongside your car. I think in this version, she is also an omen of death.
Whether she’s a temptress or death’s messenger, the lesson of La Mala Hora is clear: be wary traveling the roads alone at night.
La Mala Hora
A New Mexico Ghost Story
My friend Isabela called me one evening before dinner. She was sobbing as she told me that she and her husband Enrique were getting divorced. He had moved out of the house earlier that day and Isabela was distraught.
I called my husband, who was on a business trip in Chicago, and he agreed that I should go stay with Isabela for a few days to help her during this difficult time. I packed a small suitcase and got right into the car. It was late, and it would take me at least four hours to drive from my home to Sante Fe. Isabela was expecting me to arrive around midnight.
As I traveled down the dark, wet highway, I kept feeling chills, as if someone or something were watching me. I kept looking in the rear view mirror, and glancing into the back seat. No one was there. Don't be ridiculous, I told myself, wishing fervently that I was home in my bed instead of driving on a dark, rainy highway. There was almost no traffic, and I heartily wished that I would soon reach Sante Fe.
I turned off the highway just before I reached the city, and started down the side roads that led to Isabela's house. As I approached a small crossroads, I saw a woman step into the street directly in front of my car. I shrieked in fright and slammed on my brakes, praying I would miss her.
The car shuddered to a halt, and I looked frantically around for the woman. Then I saw her, right beside my window, looking in at me. She had the face of a demon, twisted, eyes glowing red, and short pointed teeth. I screamed as she leapt at my window, her clawed hands striking the glass. I put my foot down on the accelerator and the car leapt forward. For a few terrible moments, she ran along side the car, keeping up easily and striking at me again and again. Then she fell behind and in the rear view mirror I saw her growing taller and taller, until she was as large as a tree. Red light swirled around her like mist, and she pointed after me, her mouth moving though I could not make out the words. I jerked my attention back to the road, afraid what might happen to me if my car ran off the street.
I made it to Isabela's house in record time and flung myself out of the car, pounding on her door frantically and looking behind me to see if the demon-faced woman had followed me. Isabela came running to the door and let me in.
"Shut the door! Shut it!" I cried frantically, brushing past her into the safety of the house.
"Jane, what is wrong?" she asked, slamming the door shut. She grabbed my hand and led me into the living room. I sank onto the couch and started sobbing in fear and reaction. After several minutes, I managed to gasp out my story. Isabela gasped and said: "Are you sure you were at a crossroads when you saw her?"
I nodded, puzzled by her question.
"It must have been La malhora," Isabela said, wringing her hands.
"The bad hour?" I asked.
"This is bad, Jane. Very bad," Isabela cried. "La Malhora only appears at a crossroads when someone is going to die."
Ordinarily, I would have laughed at such a superstition, but the appearance of the demon-woman had shaken me. Isabela got me a cup of hot cocoa, brought my luggage in from the car, and sent me to bed. She was so concerned for me that she didn't once mention the divorce or Enrique.
I felt much better the next morning, but I could not shake the feeling of dread that grew within me all day. Neither of us mentioned La Malhora, but we were both thinking of her when I told Isabela that I wanted to go home. Isabela insisted on accompanying me. I flatly refused to drive after dark. I was afraid I would see the demon-woman again when I passed the crossroads.
We left the next morning, and we hadn't been home more than twenty minutes when a police car pulled into my driveway. I knew at once what it meant, and so did Isabella.
The officers spoke very gently to me, but nothing could soften the news. My husband had been mugged on the way back to his hotel after dinner last night. His body had not been found until this morning. He had been shot in the head and was killed instantly.