It Was the Pishtaco
Photo by Sankavi on Unsplash It was the pishtaco, Madre, I swear, says Juliana, sitting across from Marta in the half-light of the front room. They’d barreled in moments before, slamming the door behind them, and Juliana had managed to light the kerosene lamp in the confusion. Now, Marta watches the girl, sensing the tension in her young body, there, so close: the ragged breaths, the sweat under her blouse, all so close. Don’t be silly, she responds, those are folk tales. Maybe they’re folk talks, Madre, but I heard them from my abuela. Marta also remembers the stories told by the old women in Huanta, where she spent her childhood, about the gringo who roamed the mountain passes fishing for kids, young people, even grown people, to cut them in half and extract their fat drop by drop. She would imagine him naked, white, walking around like a hungry dog, his snout damp and dirty, smelling of his prey. I heard the same things, Juliana, that it comes
