The Witch of Lake Atitlán

Shadows Over San Marcos

The village of San Marcos La Laguna, nestled against the steep cliffs that overlook the lake, is a quiet place. Life moves slowly here, dictated by the rhythms of fishing boats, morning prayers, and the gentle lapping of waves against wooden docks.

Isabela had lived here all her life, raised by her grandmother, Abuela Rosa, a healer known for her wisdom and knowledge of medicinal plants. Unlike many of the villagers, Isabela never feared the lake or its stories.

“They twist the truth like the wind twists the water,” her abuela would say, stirring a pot of herbs over a low fire. “The lake is not wicked, but it is not kind either. It simply is.”

But fear is a powerful thing, and the villagers spoke of Ximena in hushed voices. She was blamed for disappearances, for sudden storms that rose out of nowhere, for strange lights flickering across the water on moonless nights.

And then, one evening, a stranger arrived.

The Outsider

Daniel Ortega had heard whispers of Ximena’s legend in academic circles, a tale dismissed as mere superstition. But something about it gnawed at him. A woman who had lived for centuries? A lake that "remembered" its dead? It was too intriguing to ignore.

As he walked through San Marcos, notebook in hand, he stopped to question the villagers.

“Ximena?” an old fisherman spat onto the ground. “Forget her. If you value your life, do not go looking.”

Daniel pressed on, but each inquiry was met with the same response—fear, avoidance, silence.

Only Isabela was willing to talk.

“You think you’ll find some grand secret?” she asked, folding her arms. “Some lost piece of history?”

Daniel studied her face, searching for mockery but finding only curiosity.

“I want to know the truth,” he admitted.

Isabela exhaled, glancing out at the lake. The setting sun turned the waters into molten gold, the volcanoes dark sentinels against the sky.

“Then you should know,” she said, “the truth is not always what you want it to be.”

The Path to the Witch

Don Mateo, the village elder, was the only one who dared to speak of Ximena with any certainty. His voice was rough, his eyes distant, as if remembering things he wished he could forget.

“She does not live among us,” he said, his fingers tracing the rim of an old clay mug. “She stays where the cliffs meet the water, where no light reaches, where the drowned rest.”

Daniel scribbled notes furiously. “And the stories about her power?”

Don Mateo let out a hollow chuckle. “Some say she commands the lake itself. Others say she is cursed to remain here, neither dead nor alive.” He looked at Daniel then, his gaze sharp. “What is it you seek, truly?”

Daniel hesitated. He wasn’t sure anymore.

The next morning, he and Isabela set out toward the caves.

The jungle was thick, its roots winding like serpents beneath their feet. Birds called from the canopy, unseen but watchful. As they climbed higher, the air grew heavier, thick with something neither of them could name.

When they reached the mouth of the cave, the wind died.

And then, from the darkness—

“You should not have come.”

The Witch of the Lake

The voice was neither young nor old, neither soft nor harsh. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

A figure stepped into the dim light of Daniel’s lantern.

Ximena.

She was draped in flowing black, her veil obscuring her face. But even through the darkness, her presence was undeniable. There was something about her, something that made the air hum with unseen energy.

Daniel swallowed. “Are you Ximena?”

She tilted her head. “Names have power, and yours does not belong here.”

Isabela shivered. “We mean no harm.”

Ximena studied her. “You carry the scent of the old ways.”

Daniel took a step forward. “We came seeking the truth.”

Ximena let out a quiet laugh, low and knowing. “The truth is not something you can take.”

The fire in the cave flickered, and suddenly, visions swirled in the air around them—shadows rising from the depths of the lake, faces twisted in sorrow, hands reaching from the dark water.

“The lake remembers,” Ximena murmured. “It does not forgive.”

Echoes of the Past

Daniel stared at the visions, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Among the spectral faces, he saw something that made his blood run cold.

Himself.

But it wasn’t him—not exactly. The man in the vision wore old Spanish clothing, his face eerily familiar yet wrong, as if time had warped the features.

“What… what does this mean?”

Ximena’s gaze did not waver.

“You have been here before.”

Daniel shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” Ximena’s voice was almost gentle. “Blood does not forget.”

The wind howled outside the cave, and the lake began to churn.

“The lake wants you back,” she whispered.

The Water Takes Its Own

Outside, the sky had darkened. The lake, once still, raged with unnatural fury.

Then—out of the mist—figures rose.

They were neither fully human nor fully spirit, their eyes voids of endless black.

Daniel turned to run, but the ground beneath him trembled.

Ximena stepped forward, raising her hands.

“The lake does not take without reason.”

The figures wavered. The air crackled.

Then, the lake surged.

Daniel barely had time to scream before the water swallowed him whole.

The New Guardian

When the storm passed, only Isabela and Ximena remained.

The older woman looked at her with something like understanding.

“The lake took what was owed,” she said. “But now, it will demand more.”

Ximena reached into her robes and pressed something into Isabela’s palm—a stone, warm despite the cold.

“Keep this,” she murmured. “You will need it.”

The wind whispered through the trees. The lake shimmered under the moon.

And deep beneath the waves, something watched.

Epilogue: Whispers on the Water

Years passed. The story of Ximena changed.

Now, the villagers spoke of a young woman who lived near the cliffs, who could call the waters and silence the wind.

Some feared her. Others sought her wisdom.

And sometimes, on stormy nights, if one listened carefully, they could hear a voice rising from the lake—

“The lake does not forget.”

THE END.