Ethereal Chronicles

Rosalia was a woman of such remarkable beauty that left every man in town captivated by her. She had received countless abundances of flowers from admirers, endured the longing, often lustful gazes of strangers, even declined a handful of marriage proposals. But her life was, as it had always been, one devoted to the will of God, something that no man could ever replace.

We lived in a quaint home with our mother, for our father had passed away when we were still fresh faced children. Rosalia and I shared a beautiful but modest bedroom, our large bed positioned behind the small balcony which overlooked our town and the nature that surrounded it. Each night, Rosalia would kneel in prayer, elbows pressed lightly on the bed as her hands embraced one another, whispering silent praise to our creator before crawling into the warmth of the covers beside me.

For so many years, her nightly prayers had been routine, utterly predictable. That’s why it came as a shock when, one evening, I entered our room to find her not kneeling by her beside as she always did but standing out on the balcony, leaning out to stare at something in the courtyard below. When I called out for her to come inside she jolted, turning to face me as a confused expression began to spread across her lovely face.

“Sorry.” She whispered, her voice barely audible. “There was a strange little man out there, smiling up at me and playing his guitar.”

“He will cease.” I reassured her. Being the less attractive of us both, I was not immune to the sting of envy that crept into my conscience from time to time. And as I watched her walk back to kneel once more by the bedside, I resented her, though I loved her so.

Before going to sleep, I decided to check if the man was still there. But when I looked out into the courtyard, I saw nothing but a few mules wandering aimlessly, picking at the grass growing from between the moss covered stones.

When I retired to bed, I could not rest. Partially because Rosalia tossed and turned endlessly, plagued by nightmarish dreams, but also because I could hear the incessant sound of singing emanating from beyond the walls. And it was such a strange sound, unlike one I had ever heard before.

The following morning, I rose to greet my mother and take some breakfast. Rosalia had not yet risen from her bed, so I brought her meal to her. She thanked me graciously, her face warming at the sight of me, and picked up her fork to eat. But the moment she did so, she cried out with disgust, flinging the tray from her so that it clattered noisily onto the floor.

“What is it?” I said, jolting as I rushed forwards.

“The food.” She said. “It is not edible, it is dirt.”

“What?” I repeated, bewildered. But, sure enough, when I glanced to the floor where the tray lay, the porridge I had brought her was gone, the contents of the bowl replaced by a scattered heap of filth, teeming with writhing worms.

Rosalia did not eat that entire day. Not because her appetite had diminished, but because no matter what we did, every meal placed before her turned to dirt. Her face, usually flushed with health, had grown pale, drained by the exhaustion of sleeplessness and an empty stomach.

In the evening, I found her once more staring down from the balcony, her body wracked with tremors. Instead of calling to her, however, I approached silently, peering over her shoulder to see what had captured her attention. And there, just as she had described, stood the strange little man, dressed entirely in black except for a gleaming belt around his waist. In his arms, he held a silver guitar, playing it with fervor, all the while locking his gaze onto hers with a hungry look, tipping his ridiculously large hat. Around him, the mules gathered, and watched.

“Rosalia.” I said sharply. “Come away.”

She jolted again, as though woken from a trance, and when she looked at me, her eyes were filled with fear. The man quickly scuttled away, though I sensed that he would return.

So instead of returning to bed, I took Rosalia to our mother, who insisted that this was the Devil’s work, and we went together to the Church not far from where we lived.

The priest cut off her beautiful hair so that it rested just below her shoulders, and as she wept he doused the strands in holy water, muttering a prayer as he did so.

We never saw the little man again.

APPEARANCE AND ATTRIBUTES

El Sombrerón is one of Guatemala’s most famous legends, and is also known as Tzipitio, the Goblin or Tzizimite. He is said to appear as an unusually short man, dressed in black with a thick, vibrant belt. His hat is much too large for his stature, and his boots are incredibly loud as he walks. He travels in the company of mules, which he ties to the homes of those he wishes to serenade.

He is fond of hair, and enjoys braiding it, be it horse, dog or human. But above all he is fond of beautiful women, particularly those with long hair and large eyes.

The woman who attracts El Sombrerón’s attention is followed by him often, as he pursues her affection in a manner akin to haunting.

This ‘haunt’ is a maddening one, whereby he constantly serenades her so that she is doomed to never sleep or escape from the sound of his voice. He may play with or weave her hair when she is alone, ignoring her protests. Her food remains untouched as he waits to claim her, for every meal placed before her is tainted with dirt so that she cannot eat.

When the day darkens, and dusk settles over the house, El Sombrerón brings his mules before her, singing and dancing outside her window until she submits to his love.