The Chupacabra (11 page)

Why had her mother put information about the Nahua tribal traditions in the cryptid file about the Chupacabra? Had she come to the same conclusion as Vanessa? Did she think that the Chupacabra sightings were something much more deep-rooted in Mexican culture—something that went back to Aztec times? Vanessa let the folder drop to her lap. Her head was stuffed full of wild images, but she couldn't quite pin down her thoughts, and she felt quite exhausted by it.

Blood-sucking and transforming witches can be traced back to pre-Hispanic times in Mexico. Locals will often suspect a nagual within a community but would never openly accuse or confront a person, as it is too dangerous. They risk bringing sickness or death to themselves or their family.

“Is
nagual
a Nahuatl word, Izel?” Vanessa asked as she rolled the dough for the tortillas. It was her fourth time to try. All previous attempts had been rejected by Izel—too thick, too thin, and then too dry.

She knew from her mum's file that a nagual was a blood-sucking witch, but she was interested in hearing Izel's version of it. Head down, rolling dutifully, she waited for Izel to reply. When no answer came, she looked up.

Izel's barrel-like body was shaking; the knife that Vanessa had rarely seen out of her hand since her arrival was discarded, and she was holding on to the edge of the counter, as though keeping herself propped up.

“Izel, are you OK?” Vanessa's voice faltered. “I'm … I'm sorry.”

Izel's mouth was wide open and her many chins had collapsed on themselves.

The word
nagual
came out in a long, slow hiss, rather like the air being let out slowly from a balloon. The army of hairs on the back of Vanessa's neck stood to attention, and she held her breath.

“Never speak of those people,” Izel whispered, her eyes wide in panic. “Even that word said into the wind puts you in danger.”

The kitchen door opened, and Xolo trotted in, head held high, bat-like ears alert as if he were expecting first place at a dog show. Armado was close
on his heels, heading straight into the open arms of Izel, who seemed to make a miraculous recovery at the sight of him.

Vanessa gripped the rolling pin a little harder and resisted the urge to thump Armado with it. That boy's timing was something else. Then a thought popped into her mind unbidden: Was his timing good or bad? Did Armado know what was going on and just act all innocent?

Vanessa stroked the top of Xolo's head as he sat panting by her feet. She was glad to see him out of his lock-up.

“Did Xolo jailbreak, Armado, or has he been given a reprieve?” Vanessa made her voice sound as light and casual as possible. She hated the fact that Xolo was still locked up for much of the day.

“I heard him whining as I passed the stable and felt sorry for him. He led me straight here, though.” He grinned at her. “Food. It's a great tempter.”

“Maybe he knew that I wanted to ask you something,” Vanessa said.

Armado raised his thick eyebrows. A smooth, even tan and mischevious eyes. God, he was good-looking! Vanessa found herself blushing, much to her annoyance.

“Just wondering if the little presents were from you?” she said.

“Presents?” Armado looked amused.

“The snakeskin and dried-out frog in my bag? Or the dead lizard under my bed?” Vanessa replied. “You know, to try and scare me—me being a girl and all that?'

Armado looked really puzzled now; his laugh was genuine, the look of disbelief in his face unrehearsed.

“I would have to put a lot worse than a couple of dead reptiles in your room to scare you, Vanessa.”

His smile was friendly, and Vanessa grinned back.

“You know me better than I thought,” she bantered lightly and turned to Izel. But Izel had already left the kitchen.

On 3 May 1996 in Calderon Village Sinaloa, Northern Mexico, a giant bat-like creature terrorized the village. Goats were found daily with their blood sucked dry. Farmers formed night vigilante squads. “We are telling people to keep women and children locked up at night,” a local said. “Nobody knows really what it is. Dozens of goats have fallen prey to the bloodsucker.”

Later that evening the girls ate their dinner at the small table on the veranda outside their bedrooms.

They ate alone. Izel had gone to bed with a
headache, and Frida had not been seen all day. Joseph and Armado had gone to see a well on another ranch that was similar to the one they planned to sink on the Martinez ranch.

Vanessa could not shake the feeling that she was in some way responsible for Izel's headache. She shouldn't have asked her about naguals. Glumly she watched the lizards scuttle along the veranda, their tongues flicking as they collected insects. They had a beautiful blue color on their sides and were about the length of her forearm. Funny, that. The one she'd found under her bed had been much smaller and was just a plain green. Maybe that one was not native to the ranch?

She took a long drink of the cool homemade lemonade. It was delicious and very welcome. Her mind was feverish, as if it were working overtime, cycling repeatedly through all that had happened so far.

“I got a lovely call from home this morning,” Nikki said out of the blue.

Vanessa turned to her, suddenly noticing how pretty her friend looked. Nikki's face was tanned and her blonde hair highlighted with natural streaks. It wasn't just that she looked pretty; she was clearly happy, too.

“They sent their love, Vanessa, and said that they bumped into your dad and Lee in Dublin last night. So they went for a drink together and talked about us. For hours, apparently.” Nikki paused for a second and then continued. “Mum said that your dad was really worried about letting you go after your last trip to Loch Ness.”

Vanessa opened her mouth and closed it like a fish. She didn't really want to go there at the moment.

“What happened at Loch Ness?” Carmen's eyes were trained on Vanessa's face, and Vanessa's heart sank.

“I was stupid. A stupid accident, that's all. I took a rowing boat out on the lake on my own.” When Carmen said nothing Vanessa continued. “Then I managed to capsize it and … well, I suppose I nearly drowned after I bumped my head.”

Carmen's eyes were wide as she listened to Vanessa.

“Luckily I got to the bank before I passed out. It was a close one, I know, but I was fine.”

“It must have been terrible, Vanessa. You must have been so afraid,” Carmen said. She was not a great swimmer. Vanessa smiled. Falling into the lake and meeting Nessie had been one of the best things that had ever happened to her, but she wasn't about to tell them that.

“Well, it was worse for Dad and the boys because they thought that I had gone missing, and the police were called in,” Vanessa said.

“The police were called to find Mama when she went missing,” Carmen said. “She was sixteen, and her father pronounced her dead.”

“Pronounced her dead?” said Nikki. “How do you mean?”

Carmen shook her black hair off her shoulders; she enjoyed an audience.

“My mother was a very talented artist. Her father was so proud that she had his father's genius, and he planned to send her to study with the best artists in America.”

“Oh, yes—his father was the one who carved the dogs,” Vanessa said quietly, more to herself, but it stopped Carmen in her tracks.

“Perhaps I'd better not say any more. It is not really my story to tell. It should be Mama and not me.”

Vanessa cursed herself and beneath the table she dug her nails into her own palms, annoyed with herself. She could have heard the rest of the story if she had kept quiet. Why, oh why could she not learn to stay quiet and not interrupt people? Her teachers
were forever saying it. Now Vanessa had to agree that they were right.

She tried to enjoy the rest of the evening with the girls, playing charades and games of snap with silly rules. But no matter how much she begged, Vanessa could not get Carmen to continue with Frida's story. She remained firm. It was not hers to tell.

At bedtime Vanessa sat on her bed and took out the portrait of Izel that she had attempted and examined it critically. It was pathetic. She couldn't show it to Frida, especially when Frida was an artist herself.

She turned to a blank page in her sketchbook and closed her eyes. The pencil in her palm became the smooth bone she had handled the previous day. In her mind she relived the images that changed and shifted until the woman became the owl. The bird woman. The owl woman, really.

Vanessa opened her eyes, picked up her pencil and began to draw. She did not stop until she had finished. She had drawn the feathers well. But it was the face that really struck her as interesting. The face was that of an owl, but the eyes were the wide, round eyes of a woman. She decided to leave it exactly as it was. She was exhausted.

The Chupacabra has glowing eyes and large fanged teeth. Eyewitness accounts of its color vary from blue-black to lizard green. At some sites where killings have occurred, three-toed tracks were found.

Vanessa thought she heard something beating against her bedroom window. It was a faint but steady beat and echoed dully around the room. Vanessa threw back her bedcovers and walked toward the French windows. She pushed them gently, and they swung
open easily. She hesitated for just a second before stepping out in to the night.

The air was thick, the heat intense. Vanessa felt beads of sweat rise like blisters on her skin. She stumbled on into the dark, her hands outstretched as she blindly fingered the air. As she moved, cactus spines scratched her leg and a stone jabbed painfully into the sole of her bare foot. Maybe she should go back, she thought.

Something snuffled and grunted nearby and insects clacked and ticked all around her. In the dark Vanessa struggled to make sense of the sounds and then, through it all, she heard a terrible, high-pitched squeal. She stopped suddenly, her legs like lead weights. She probably wouldn't be able to run away even if she tried.

There was something behind her now. The cracking of a small twig sounded like a gunshot in Vanessa's ears. She turned slowly, forcing herself to look. At first she thought she saw a human face, a face that she knew. But the harder she stared, the farther the face retreated into darkness and another one took its place.

Vanessa found herself looking straight into a large, salivating mouth with razor-sharp fangs.
Above it two glowing red eyes pulsed to the sound of her heart, which pounded in her chest.

Too shocked to scream, Vanessa took off. She didn't feel the cactus tearing her skin this time or the cuts on her knees when she fell. She got up and kept running. Another high-pitched squeal just in front of her finally made her stop. The anguish in the cry echoed her own pain, and her legs gave way. She fell heavily on something. It felt warm and furry and the feel of it repelled her. What was it? An animal? The Chupacabra itself? She squirmed away until she could feel the hard ground beneath her again and then lay still. Total exhaustion overcame her. Instead of leaping to her feet, she lay waiting for the Chupacabra to strike; she could smell him in the air. Vanessa began to shiver uncontrollably.

On 11 March 1995, in the small town of Orocovis in Puerto Rico, locals were shocked when they woke to find eight sheep dead. They had puncture wounds in their necks and chests and had been drained of their blood.

Vanessa woke and found Armado's face only inches from her own. He was whispering, and at first she could not understand his words. Finally they made sense.

“You have to wake up, Vanessa,” Armado said urgently.

She smiled at him, relieved to find that it had only been a dream. For a moment she almost felt brave enough to hug him again. She was delighted to feel the soft mattress beneath her. But what was Armado doing in her room?

“Quickly, Vanessa. You have to shower. It's almost light and everyone will be up soon.” Armado's voice was brusque, and it jolted Vanessa wide awake. Shower? What did he mean?

Vanessa sat up and looked down at her hands and nightdress. There was blood everywhere. She screamed, but Armado clamped his hand quickly over her mouth to stifle it. He was pressing so hard that it hurt, and she suddenly felt as if she would suffocate. She bit down on his fingers, and he let out a yell. Nursing his hand, he turned on her furiously.

“What are you?” he hissed. “A wild animal?” His face was so close that their noses were almost touching.

The harshness of his words brought her to her senses. She looked at the dried blood on her hands and then touched her cheek. It felt dry and crusty.

“What happened?” Vanessa asked, her voice weak.

“It's all over your face and mouth too,” said
Armado. The disgust was easily read in his face. “You don't want anyone else to see you like this, Vanessa. Nikki and Carmen would be terrified. Hurry up!”

It was the mention of Nikki and Carmen that finally got Vanessa moving. She wished she could tear off her filthy nightdress, but Armado was still in the room.

She stared at him, desperate to ask about the dead animal that she had fallen over and whether he had seen the two red eyes, the devil's eyes. Then it occurred to her that it had been the middle of the night. Why had Armado been out? And why had he been the one to find her?

“You'll need to give me the nightdress. I'll get rid of it,” Armado said stiffly.

She slipped into the bathroom and came back wearing a clean nightdress. Armado took the bunched-up, bloody one and headed for the door.

He hesitated, the door handle in his hand, and turned back to meet her stare. “You don't look well, Vanessa. Have a shower quickly and then go back to bed. Go on … go on,” he added gently, shooing her like a dog.

Naguals can cast spells. They use a series of rites, incantations, and effigies. They can put people to sleep and make them lose their will—and, more dangerously, they can cause sickness, fever, and even death.