Tag Archives: fear

The Shadow Behind the Curtain

Age: 18

Context:

This story was told to me by a Chinese international student at USC, whom I’ll refer to as SG. We were sitting together in one of the quiet study lounges at Parkside after midnight, discussing the kinds of ghost stories we’d heard growing up in China. That’s when she told me something she had never written down or shared publicly—something that happened to her in her childhood that she still remembers with frightening clarity.

The Story:

When SG was 10 years old, she lived with her grandparents in Harbin, a city known for its long, dark winters. Her grandfather had a habit of rising very early, often before sunrise, to boil water and do light chores. Their apartment had large, thick curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

One early winter morning, just before 6 a.m., SG woke up suddenly. She had heard soft footsteps and assumed her grandfather was up again. Curious and still sleepy, she wandered out to the living room—only to find it completely dark, with no lights on. She paused at the doorway.

That’s when she saw it: a silhouette of a person standing perfectly still behind the curtain, as if staring out the window. The form was unmistakably human—tall, slightly hunched, and entirely motionless.

Thinking it was her grandfather, she called out to him.

No answer.

She approached slowly, heart pounding. The air felt wrong—too still, too cold, as if the temperature had dropped. When she finally touched the curtain and pulled it aside—

There was no one there.

No one in the room. No sound of footsteps. No open windows. Just the snow falling silently outside.

Terrified, she ran back to her room and hid under her blanket. She didn’t tell anyone for weeks.

Informant’s Thoughts (SG):

SG says what disturbed her most wasn’t the sight of the shadow, but the fact that she saw it so clearly, and yet her grandfather had still been asleep in his room the whole time. Years later, she still isn’t sure if it was a dream, a hallucination, or something else.

What unsettles her most is that she continues to experience the exact same dream every few years: waking up in a different place, walking into a dark living room, and seeing a shadow behind a curtain.

Each time, she says, she wakes up before pulling the curtain open.

My Thoughts:

To me, what makes SG’s story haunting isn’t just the visual horror of the silhouette—it’s the way it has embedded itself into her memory and dreams, repeating like a ritual.

I’m struck by how familiar this setting feels: cold northern apartment, heavy winter curtains, the eeriness of early morning silence. Even though nothing explicitly supernatural happens, the ambiguity makes it even scarier.

It also makes me think about how many ghost stories we hear as children in China are tied to domestic spaces—kitchens, hallways, staircases—not abandoned mansions or graveyards. They are ordinary spaces made terrifying by something just a little out of place.

This story lingered with me long after she told it—not because of a ghost, but because of the uncertainty that still follows her.

La Llorona

1. Text

This folk narrative, commonly known as La Llorona (“The Weeping Woman”), was told to me by my godmother (RS). It is a widely known legend in Latinx communities, especially in Mexico, where my godmother is from, and the American Southwest. This folk narrative is typically used to convey cautionary lessons about motherhood, morality, and the boundaries between the natural and supernatural worlds.

In RS’s version, the story centers on a beautiful woman who lived in a small village. She fell in love with a wealthy man who eventually abandoned her and their two children. Overcome by grief, rage, or desperation, the woman drowned her children in a river. Immediately after realizing what she had done, she was consumed by guilt, sorrow and regret. RS informed me that in some tellings, she dies shortly after; in others, she takes her own life; in some, she kidnaps children, trying to fill the hole in her heart she created for herself. Either way, her spirit is said to wander the earth, especially near rivers or bodies of water, crying out for her children with an echoing, haunting wail.

RS emphasized that La Llorona is not just a ghost story, but a living presence in cultural memory. She described how, growing up, children were warned not to stay out too late near rivers or creeks, or La Llorona would come for them. The legend was often shared at night, especially during family gatherings, both to entertain and to instill a sense of caution and reverence, especially among young ones.

2. Context

This version of La Llorona was shared with me in an informal interview with my godmother RS, who has known this story since childhood. She grew up hearing it from older relatives, particularly her mother and aunts, and she began telling it to her children once she became a mother. Though RS does not take the legend as seriously as some of her relatives do, RS sees the story as deeply embedded in her cultural heritage and tied to her identity as a Latina woman raised in a multigenerational household.

Although she told the story to me in English, she often codeswitched and used Spanish phrases, which she said carried a power that couldn’t be fully translated. She emphasized that while people often treat La Llorona as a ghost story, in her family, it was treated with seriousness and even fear. It functioned not just as entertainment, but as a warning and a moral guide. For RS, the story also served to express complex emotions—grief, betrayal, guilt, shame—and it offered a way to talk about family responsibility, the consequences of despair, and the spiritual costs of abandonment.

3. Interpretation

La Llorona is best classified as a legend—a narrative that blurs the line between truth and myth, often grounded in cultural beliefs and reinforced through oral tradition. It persists in multiple variants across Latin America and the United States, demonstrating its function as a flexible and powerful narrative form that adapts to its audience while retaining core themes.

The story functions on multiple levels. On the surface, it serves as a frightening tale used to discipline children and discourage risky behavior, particularly near dangerous places like rivers at night. However, on a deeper level, La Llorona speaks to societal anxieties surrounding motherhood, gender roles, and emotional repression. The mother’s transformation into La Llorona reflects both personal trauma and collective memory, turning individual grief into a communal warning.

In RS’s telling, the emotional core of the legend was emphasized more than its shock value. The tale becomes not just a punishment narrative, but a reflection on the dangers of abandonment—both being abandoned and abandoning others—and the lingering pain that unresolved loss can leave behind. This emotional resonance helps explain the legend’s persistence over generations.

The continued telling of La Llorona, whether in traditional and modern contexts, illustrates how folklore adapts to shifting cultural realities while preserving key ethical and emotional truths. RS’s version demonstrates that the legend is not a static artifact of the past, but a living narrative that continues to serve social, emotional, and pedagogical functions. Its survival speaks to its ability to evolve in form while remaining rooted in the cultural consciousness of those who tell and hear it.

Date of performance: 4/06/25
Language: English
Nationality: Mexican-American
Occupation: Retired
Primary Language: English
Residence: Monterey, CA

Old Man Waterface

Nationality: American

Age: 47

Occupation: Education

Residence: Sedalia, MO

Performance Date: October 27, 2024

Primary Language: English

Language: English

MAIN DESCRIPTION

Q: “What’s something strange that’s happened to you?”

A: “Like, what kind of strange?”

Q: “That’s up to you.”

A: “Oh, well… I used to have this recurring dream, um, in which I, when I was young, I would have to take out the trash every week. And I’d have this recurring dream about when I would take out the trash, and I would take it out to the alley behind our house, that there was a figure there and he had no face. His face moved around like— it looked like it was water. So, I named him Old Man Waterface. So, I would have this dream about every six months. And, um, my mom would think, of course, that I was trying to get out of taking out the trash, but I 100% had this dream over and over and over again.”

INFORMANT’S OPINION

Q: “Do you believe this occurrence had more significance than being simply a dream?”

A: “It always happened the exact same way. There was never any variation in the dream. All I know is, well, being honest it scared the hell out of me.”

PERSONAL INTERPRETATION

The fact that this is a dream and the figure remains faceless leaves room for a million perspectives. I could see Old Man Waterface as a mere kid’s nightmare. I could see a faceless figure representing the spirit of a person who has lost their identity or been forgotten as well. There is a wealth of possibility. The consistency of the dream is startling, but there is not enough evidence to draw much beyond that point. The creature had no cultural significance, and the informant named him. So, it looks like it could be his monster!

Ghost story in the woods- JH

Age: 18

Date of interview: 12/01/24

Informant Name: JH

Language: English

Collector’s name: LP

Nationality: USA

Occupation: College Student

Primary Language: English

Residence: Appalachia in Pennsylvania

The cold October rain trickled down my neck, causing me to shiver. But I don’t feel cold, not really. I’m angry. I’m angry and sitting down to talk about it makes it worse. I’m angry and I need this time alone. The cold 40-degree downpour was necessary to clear my mind. The edge of the woods seems the best place to get this alone time. I had to have been not in my right mind. I never would have been here if I was. I heard the screams and felt the terror those brought me. I felt the fear choke me up when the screams would move down the valley far, far too fast to be anything real. I saw the way those screams caused my father to halt in his tracks while we were out late. I heard his voice tremble with fear as he refused to recount his encounter with the Screaming Thing to me.
But that wasn’t on my mind right now, it was only the annoyance of the argument I had just had that pulled me down that hill to stand at the edge of the trees. The raindrops hit and ricochetted off of the water of the pond in front of me. They cracked down on my scalp. They slammed into the blades of grass and leaves surrounding me, making it hard to hear anything.
But still, I heard it. Faint, down the valley, barely a threat. I wasn’t scared, I was still angry. And I had no reason to be afraid, clearly. The screams remained at the end of the valley as I stood my silent ground against the world. A minute passed, then two, then three. Nothing was happening, and nothing would happen, I knew.
Until I took a step. A light shuffle. My legs were growing numb from the rain and standing locked in the same position. Nothing. The screaming stopped for a second, then sounded again—much, much closer. My skin began to crawl, those minute of ignoring the rain trailing down my spine catching up to me. I shiver violently. I feel my breathing go faster, and my heart is speeding up too. I take another step, and another, and another. It’s a walk for the first 4 steps, but the thing is halving the distance every step I take. I trip, stumbling up the hill I walked down to get here. It’s so close. I stand up and sprint. It’s on me now, and the darkness it brings presses on the edges of my vision, becoming more centered until I can’t see. I keep running, but It’s there. Infinitely loud, my heart is beating out of my chest. I keep running, hoping I don’t run into anything. It’s so loud, so loud…
Then nothing. The screaming stops, and the darkness lifts off my vision. I hit the ground for the second time. I’ve fallen just inside of the floodlight spilling from the garage. It’s stopped and I’m safe. Shaking and scared out of my mind, but safe.

“Bowling in Heaven” (memorate)

by Grace Robinson

“When I was little, I was really scared of thunder storms and [my] Grandma would always tell me that the sound of the thunder was actually the sound of people bowling in heaven, -and after she told me that story enough I wasn’t scared of them anymore.”

My informant spoke with great passion about this short narrative that was replayed to her many times as a child. She told me her grandmother was very Christian, so she thought that claiming that the loud thunder was actually the result of heaven-dwellers indulging in a carefree recreation, would ease by fear. Her grandmother was ultimately right, as the reminder soothed her anxieties over thunder storms, having grown up in such a religious household, the familiarity to religion from the group she was raised with aided her, even though she doesn’t claim to be especially religious herself.

I also find it interesting that while I would still classify this short narrative as a memorate, since it pertains to a personal experience, it also shares many traits with that of ‘myths’. It is essentially a kind of creation story for a universal truth, seeing as folk everywhere hear thunder. It’s a sacred narrative about how something came to be (the thunder deriving from something holy), and it doesn’t take place in the real world (i.e. Heaven). So while I wouldn’t quite classify this piece as a myth, due to what I believe to be a small reach, it definitely seems to share its qualities.