The Headless Ghost

Deep in the Chaco forest, in that inhospitable region of northern Salta Province in Argentina—land of Indigenous peoples from many nations, where the sun strikes without mercy and the white wind carries dust of bones, myths, and forgotten stories—lies the place called Telak Mok in the Wichí-Mataco language, meaning “Grandmother’s Ashes.”

Its name stirs unease and fear, for there, beneath the shadow of an old carob tree, rest not only the remains of an ancient Wichí woman but also the trace of the cold dish of vengeance she ate slowly before she died.

Locals say that when it rains for several days in a row, a headless ghost appears behind travelers, touches their shoulder, and asks:

“Have you seen a Chaco hat with the initials E.S.A.?”

It all began many years ago, on one of those scorching January afternoons in the Chaco, when Nuhaya, an old Mataco woman, was wavering between life and death. Her body was battered and bent like a bush beaten by the northern wind, and a pain sliced her breath like invisible knives. She knew her time was ending, yet before leaving this world, she wished to fulfill one last desire—to reach Yelaj, the village where her children and grandchildren lived. There dwelled a respected shaman, known for healing sick bodies and broken spirits, and Nuhaya still hoped he could ease her suffering.

But in her condition, reaching Yelaj was nearly impossible.

After walking for hours across a landscape that seemed endless, she found shelter beneath a gnarled old carob tree. Its twisted roots rose from the ground like bony fingers, giving her an improvised seat. Exhausted and without strength to go on, she sank into that wooden embrace, hoping some passerby would find her and take pity.

Hours passed. The suffocating heat of noon gave way to the stifling stillness of the siesta. Just when Nuhaya thought no one would come, she saw a distant cloud of dust rising—a battered truck approaching. Her heart quickened with a spark of hope. The vehicle stopped before her, and out stepped Experidión Sandalio Anaquín, foreman of the ranch Los Chilotes.

He was a tall, gaunt man, skin tanned by the sun, lips stained green from chewing coca. Around his neck hung a sweat-soaked kerchief, and upon his brow rested his most prized possession: a Chaco hat made of raw leather, its initials “E.S.A.” engraved in elegant cursive. The hat, inherited from his grandfather, was his symbol of status and power. Unlike his ancestors, Experidión had forged his own law in the forest—a law where the weak were not worth a second of his time.

—Amtena. Chi wo ya,—murmured Nuhaya in her tongue. Good day. How are you?

It came out as a whisper that dissolved into the wind, spoken with what little strength she had left.

Experidión’s eyes scanned her from head to toe with contempt. The gleam of scorn flickered in his pupils, and a crooked smile crossed his face. Without bothering to answer, he spat—a green, bitter wad that landed on Nuhaya’s cheek. To him, that was what she represented: nothing.

—Take me... to Yelaj,—she begged, her voice broken.

The foreman snorted and, without a word, roughly adjusted the load in the back of the truck, climbed in, and sped away, raising a thick cloud of dust that enveloped the old woman, choking her completely. The engine roared, and the vehicle vanished, leaving behind only an echo of indifference and disdain.

As the dust settled and the sound faded, Nuhaya felt a spark ignite deep inside her. It was a dark spark—born of humiliation and rage—that soon turned into something else: the certainty that she must respond with the only weapon she still possessed, the tayij, the posthumous vengeance of the ahat—the spirit of the dead.

The old woman closed her eyes, and with burning words dripping with hatred, she cast her curse:

“May death ride the white wind to find you... may your bones scatter upon the earth like sand in the river!

May the forest devour you and spit you out again and again!

May you never find rest—I condemn you to wander forever, searching for your head and your hat!”

That night, Nuhaya died beneath the carob tree, alone, with the dust of humiliation still clinging to her skin and the words of her curse dried upon her open mouth—a mouth frozen in a scream of pain and fury. Her family found her body at dawn, stiff and cold as marble, twisted by the final worms of suffering. Honoring her last wish, they buried her ashes at the foot of the tree.

From then on, that place was known as Telak Mok—Grandmother’s Ashes.

A few days after Nuhaya’s burial, Experidión Sandalio Anaquín drove along the same road where he had met her.

When he passed the old carob tree, he remembered her—and wondered why that old woman’s wrinkled face and yellow, feverish eyes kept appearing in his dreams. He thought he could hear the creaking of her old bones and her faint greeting echoing in his mind.

He drove on for several kilometers until the road followed a high riverbank. Then something strange happened. The steering wheel began to tremble violently, almost slipping from his hands, and an icy wind swept through the truck’s windows, making him shiver. Suddenly, a flock of crows appeared overhead, circling and cawing madly, as if announcing an ill omen.

Then the wheel twisted sharply on its own. The truck skidded, veered off the road, and tumbled down the steep embankment. Metal shrieked, glass shattered—and then there was silence, in that harsh and ancient land hardened by injustice and forgotten histories.

Three days later, workers from the ranch arrived at the scene and found the truck wrecked.

Experidión’s body lay crushed beneath the wreckage—but his head was missing.

They searched for days, even brought in tracking dogs, but found no trace of the foreman’s head or his beloved hat.

And the locals, as well as hunters, still tell that when they pass Telak Mok on stormy nights, an ahat, a wandering ghost, appears—bent forward, as if searching for something lost.

They say it creeps up behind people and asks, in a hoarse voice:

“Haven’t you seen a Chaco hat with the letters E.S.A.?”

And the old ones of the forest say that the ghost will never rest, forever searching for his head and his hat.

Nuhaya’s tayij was fulfilled—as always happens with curses spoken from true hatred.

Her vengeance, cold as the earth covering her ashes, came in due time.

Because in Telak Mok, words do not die.

They are buried with the bones—but they rise again, carried by the white wind.