The way we say it By Daniel Soto

 

One night a couple of my cousins, my brother and I decide to stay late at the house and tell ghost stories, and, of course, la Carreta sin Bueyes was among them. We were having such a good time that we hadn’t noticed the lateness of the hour.

Then suddenly out of the pitch-blackness that surrounded the little dwelling we heard the unmistakable sound of an oxcart rolling slowly and ponderously through the ruts and over the stones of the narrow dirt roads that cut through the fields of coffee plants.

All conversation suddenly halted, and we sat there in silent terror listening to the slowly approaching sound.

The cousins were trembling with fright, but my brother and I were determined to find out where the sound was coming from and what it was. So, leaving the cousins huddled in fear, we ventured out of the house creeping deep into the surrounding forest of coffee plants.

The only light was the eerie blue glow of the moon rising overhead.  The sound became closer and closer, when suddenly we saw it; la Carreta sin Bueyes!

My brother and I dropped to the ground. The cart continued to move toward us. We were so scared we could not move. I thought the thing would just roll over us, and that was the way we would die.

But, as the ghostly object got closer and closer I began to make out the silhouette of a man driving the cart. “There’s a driver,” I said to my brother. “And look! There are oxen too.”

The cart lumbered just past us, and then abruptly stopped. That’s when the smell hit us, that rich, fetid aroma that can only come from animal fertilizer.

My brother and I realized simultaneously that the oxcart was about to deposit a load of manure right on top of us. We both jumped up and ran screaming like banshees in the direction of the little house.

The next day I told the story to my father who immediately burst out laughing. “Ah, poor Manuel,” he said.  “And who on earth is this Manuel,” I inquired with surprise. “Why he’s the old man who delivers fertilizer nearly every night during the summer,” my father replied, unable to suppress his laughter. 

“Apparently it was you who gave the old fellow quite a scare last night when he was making his delivery to our farm. He told me this morning in all sincerity that our place is haunted and that a couple of ghosts jumped up at him from among the coffee plants last night.”

Well, I’m not easily frightened, but to this day whenever I hear the sound of carreta wheels rolling across a cobblestoned street, it still gives me pause.