The Cry Beneath the Falls
The Haunted Horror of Tequendama Falls and Hotel del Salto
They say the water never forgets.
South of Bogotá, Colombia, hidden in the Andean mist, Tequendama Falls crashes 515 feet into a chasm carved by time. It’s breathtaking. It’s sacred. It’s cursed.
The locals don’t come here after dark.
They say the wind carries screams — not from the rocks, but from the souls who leapt. The ones who never left.
And if you dare listen closely…
You’ll hear her crying.
Night One
Elena arrived with a backpack, a DSLR, and an unhealthy obsession with forgotten places. Her hostel room overlooked the crumbling bones of the infamous Hotel del Salto — a colonial-style mansion turned hotel, then museum, now mostly a shell clinging to the edge of the abyss.
“People used to jump from the windows,” her driver told her that afternoon.
“Lovers, widows, madmen. The water took them all.”
That night, just past 2:00 a.m., Elena woke up to crying.
Soft, distant… yet heartbreakingly close.
A woman. Wailing through the fog.
She looked out the window. The hotel was dark.
But she swore… someone was standing in the upper window. Watching her.
Night Two
The fog hadn’t lifted by morning. Neither had the unease.
Despite warnings, she crossed the rusted gate and stepped inside the abandoned Hotel del Salto.
Paint peeled like burned skin from the walls.
The ballroom echoed with silence — and something else. A dragging sound. Breathless gasps.
In a corner mirror, covered in grime, Elena saw her own reflection.
Only… it was weeping.
And behind her — a bride in white, soaked in waterfall mist, mouth stretched in agony.
She turned around.
No one was there.
The Legend of Room 207
She asked an old vendor at the overlook café. His hands trembled as he spoke.
“She was a bride. Left at the altar. She came to the hotel alone. Room 207. Wrote her vows in blood. Then…”
He pointed toward the falls.
“She jumped.”
They never found the body.
Only scraps of lace tangled in the rocks below.
Every year, on the anniversary of her death, someone hears her crying.
Every few years… someone joins her.
Night Three
Elena returned to the hotel one last time.
She found Room 207.
The doorknob was cold.
Inside, moonlight spilled across the floor like a wound. There was only a broken bedframe… and a mirror.
She wiped the glass.
Her reflection smiled.
Elena did not.
The woman in the mirror — the crying bride — pressed her hand to the inside of the glass.
“You heard me,” she whispered.
“Now… you belong to me.”
The door slammed shut. The mirror cracked.
Outside, a scream tore through the mountains.
And then — silence.
The Fall
By sunrise, hikers found Elena’s phone at the base of Tequendama Falls.
The last image taken:
A pale woman in a tattered dress, standing in the mist, arms outstretched.
Her face was not Elena’s.
Even now, if you visit the hotel…
Don’t stay near Room 207.
And whatever you do — don’t answer if she cries.
Because that’s not a woman.
That’s the waterfall remembering.
About the author
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