Some Mysteries are not Meant to be Solved
There have been over thirty thousand cattle mutilations in Southern Colorado and Northern New Mexico since the 1960's -- gruesome scenes where cows are found with surgical-like incisions, missing organs, completely drained of blood and with no predator tracks to be found. Despite the devastating impact on local ranchers and an FBI investigation, there have been zero mutilation related convictions. this has spawned a whole host of UFO and governmental conspiracies, and Colorado's San Luis Valley is the epicenter for the phenomenon. There, the crew from Paranomral Mysteries, tries to solve one of the world's most enduring supernatural riddles.
Filmmaker, Kris Simms, says, "For every photo-shopped ghost on the web, I've seen a thousand actual mutilation pictures and I've met the people who took them." This film engages both skeptic and believer alike and will leave its audience reeling at the story's real world implications.
Manuel Sanchez, a rancher outside of the town of San Luis, Colorado suffered the loss of four calves due to mysterious mutilations in 2009, and this month he has lost another.
The string of mutilations in 2009 began with a fury in March with two animals on three different ranches in and around the San Luis Valley dying of mysterious causes. Authorities, including the local branding inspector, and ranchers could not determine how the animals were killed. In each case there were no signs of a struggle, nor a speck of blood nearby, indicators of a predator kill. The deaths didn’t end in March; by the end of 2009 eight animals were killed, four of those belonging to Sanchez.
The mystery continues!
Valentine's Day with La Llorona
Here I sit in the coffee shop, distracted and almost alone on Valentines Day. The barista is behind the counter wiping the stainless steel with one hand, and with the other, hanging the just washed coffee mugs. She does this all while keeping an eye on the clock in anticipation of her shift ending.
It is Valentines Day after all, and so she probably can’t wait for the surprise her boyfriend has in store. Her eyes have popped up and shoulders have dropped--another customer. It is the lady vagabond I see the majority of days.
Even on the warm days, this gypsy is cloaked by a long, hooded, black coat. And she walks about town in what I imagine a witch would wear, pointy black boots. I don’t know how it can be true but someone told me she is allergic to the sun.
On the colder days, she spends hours in the coffee shop. On these colder days, she assumes an area she litters with suitcases, backpacks and stuffed grocery bags. There are colder days when I watch her frantically cut up paper back novels, pasting the words and phrases into the story she wants to tell.
Her long, jet black hair sometimes shrouds her face, but not today. Today her hair is held back by a stocking cap. She’s cutting her finger nails with a tiny pair of scissors, the same scissors she dissects her books with.
She just looked at me. She always looks at me the same way. She looks at me with a one second too long stare. She breathes me in with that look and I can feel her think about me. She won’t look at me again, she doesn’t have to. I’m already scared.
Why, you may ask? Well, I’ve been writing a screenplay for a year now and the chief antagonist appears as a female vagabond with long, jet black hair, wearing dark, tattered rags and black, pointy boots. This villain wanders the roads and rivers of New Mexico carrying an assortment of bags. These bags contain the lost souls of her slaves and she is always looking to claim more.
I still remember the first time I saw this drifter. It was the day I began the final draft of my screenplay. I had all of the pieces and just needed to put them together. I walked into the almost empty coffee shop to see bags strewn around the room. “What the hell? Two patrons and a bag at every table,” I thought.
Being the regular I am, I moved a couple of bags so I could commandeer my usual table and settle into a comfortable day of writing. Then, the lady in dark, tattered rags exited the bathroom and walked straight towards me. It was as though my story’s villain jumped from the page. Yet, she stopped short of my throat and began gathering her bags.
After a deep breath, I apologized for moving her belongings. She gave me that one second too long gaze, smiled queerly and said, “I forgive you.” There are many times in the day when one might reply to an apology by saying, “Oh that’s okay,” or “No worries,” but, “I forgive you.” The exact phrase is a powerful, resonating combination of words and in this case, especially eerie.
Today, as she collects her bags, I have to ask, “Who’s the creep here? Is it a homeless woman looking for a warm place to toil over a neurotic hobby or a man who blends a homeless woman’s plight with that of the villain in his screenplay? Am I looking for forgiveness in exploiting this monster’s story?”
She’s gone and here I sit, alone in the coffee shop on Valentines Day.
Valentine's Day 2008, KES