White Death
The White Death is a creepy story about a vengeful spirit in Mexico who hunts down anyone who knows about her existence.
I am currently sitting in front of my computer, scared witless. Every
moment could be my last. My friend is here with me and he is the sole
reason why my life is in danger. It may not make sense at first, but let
me explain.
It all started earlier today, when a friend of mine burst into my
house and slammed the door behind him. His eyes were wide with fear and
he stood there with his back against the door, breathing heavily. I
asked him what had happened and he told me this story:
He had been living with his Aunt for the past year because his
parents were in Mexico. They were doing mission work at a small hospital
in Southern Mexico. The previous night, a bedraggled man had stumbled
through the entrance of the hospital. He was screaming in Spanish and
appeared to be out of his mind with terror.
They brought him over to a chair and let him sit down. As he caught
his breath, he told his story in broken English. He claimed that his
sister had been killed by something he referred to as “La Muerto
Blanco”. He kept saying that it was coming for him next.
Confused, they asked him who or what a Muerto Blanco was. With a look
of unfathomable fear on his face, he said that La Muerto Blanco was The
White Death. She is the soul of a girl who died years ago. She died by
her own hand, he said, alone and unloved. She hated life so much that
she wanted to remove all traces of herself from the earth. So great was
her desire to completely obliterate her memory, that she returned from
the dead as a vengeful spirit, bent on killing all those who knew of her
existence.
She is a girl, but not a girl, he said. She’s not dead, but not
really alive. She has cold, black eyes that weep blood. She walks
without ever actually seeming to move an inch. She stalks her victims
like a wild animal, pursuing them across rivers and valleys, trailing
them back to their homes. You are never really aware that she is
following you, until you hear her telltale knock upon your door.
“She knocks once for you skin, which she’ll use to patch her own
decaying flesh. Twice for your hair, which she’ll gnash between her
teeth. Three times for your bones, which she’ll fashion into clubs. Four
times for your heart, which she’ll tear out of your chest. Five times
for your teeth, which she’ll polish and keep in a box. Six times for
your eyes, which she’ll pluck out one by one. Seven times for your soul,
which she’ll swallow whole.”
“No matter where you go, The White Death will track you down and you
will hear her terrible knocking begin on the door. You can try to outrun
her, but she’s faster than any mortal man. If you flee from your home
while she’s knocking on your door, she will follow you wherever you go.”
The terrified man was certain that this thing had killed his sister.
He had tried to tell the police, about The White Death but they would
not listen, dismissing it as an old wives’ tale. Next, he had tried to
tell his priest, but the priest immediately shut the door of the church
in his face and turned him away. The priest had seen The White Death
following him, he said, and did not want to get involved.
With his head in his hands, the frightened man said that The White
Death follows you forever until you tell someone else about it. Then it
strikes. It kills you and begins following the person you told.
After finishing his tale, the man stole a car from the mission hospital parking lot, and vanished into the night.
Apparently, my friend’s mother and father had immediately called his
aunt and told her about the stange man they had encountered. They asked
her if she had ever heard of the White Death. She said she had not and
they proceeded to tell her the story that the man had told them.
The aunt got a phonecall later that night. It was the Mexican police.
They told her that the parents had been found dead outside the
hospital. They had been torn apart.
My friend’s aunt had immediately called him at school to break the
bad news to him. As he cried, she told him she couldn’t understand what
had happened. She recounted the whole story to him, telling him about
the strange man who had turned up in the hospital just hours before his
parents were found dead. She told him how the man had given his parents a
weird and disturbing story about something called The White Death.
When he hung up the phone, he had struggled to come to terms with
what had happened. It almost didn’t seem real to him. When he got home
after school, he found the front door of his Aunt’s house standing open.
Inside was a trail of blood, leading into the kitchen. There on the
kitchen floor, he found his Aunt’s dead body. She had been torn limb
from limb.
He ran out of the house and all the way across town, never looking
back, until he reached my house. As he told me this story, I could
hardly believe it. Within the space of a day, his mother, his father and
his aunt had been murdered. It all seemed too far-fetched.
But before I could utter a word, my friend and I both recoiled in horror as we heard a knocking begin at my front door.
We’ve been staring at the door for an hour now, neither of us wanting
to open it. The knocking is still going on, growing louder and louder.
She never gives up. She never quits. La Muerto Blanco is unstoppable. I
think she wants to scare us, my friend and I. I think she wants us to
blame each other. And I do – I blame my friend. It’s all his fault. He
should never have told about her.
As I sit here in my house, beside my friend, both of us listening to
that hideous knocking growing ever louder, I wish a lot of things. I
wish she had killed my friend before he reached my house. If he had
never been able to tell me about her, I wouldn’t be in danger now. I’m
sorry I ever met him.
And I’m sorry for you too. I’m sorry I made you read this story. I’m
sorry I ever told you about the White Death. Because now that you know
about her, she’ll be coming for you next.
