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Author's Note: If you enjoyed this story and its take on an urban legend, please check out 
A Fair for Psychopomps
As Sharon goes to park at the roadside of the graveyard, the woman motions. "Keep driving. Slowly." More families gather at ofrendas next to the tombstones. Fewer here than at the city center, but these are further steeped in tradition. As they move along at five miles an hour, the woman looks out of the window. "They are not here either." Her voice cracks. "They're not here. My children have abandoned me!" She breaks into a sustained wail.
"There's another cemetery..." Sharon starts, anxious for an excuse to stay on the road.
"No! Take me to the river!"
"I-Inglewood Park! Inglewood Park Cemetery. It's on the way to the river. The river is the last place you saw them, right? They must be there, it's so close." Sharon babbles desperately.
"Hurry." The woman spits, rotting gums showing under decomposing lips as she bares her teeth. "They had best be there." Even though her eyes have glassed over, they are full of hatred.
Sharon thinks about the river. The children's watery graveyard. Where the woman in white had held them under until their lungs filled with fluid and they moved no more. Returning only on Dia de los Angelitos. Forever separated, but safe from the mother who had killed them. Sharon nonchalantly takes a left on 4th Street instead of a right, away from the river, hoping the woman won't notice.
"Do you think I'm a fool, Reaper?" The woman asks. "I know where the river is. It calls to me, and you will not silence it!" She opens her mouth wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw to feed. Her scream deafens Sharon within the confines of the cab. The glass all around reverberates with her cry, thrumming until it shatters. Sharon covers her face to avoid the falling shards, her foot frantically probing for the brake. She finds it with the tip of her shoe and slams down on it.
The car fishtails for what feels like a lifetime before spinning out of control. Sharon's head cracks against the door as the taxi comes to a stop, and her world becomes a blur that reeks of burnt rubber. She feels the brake pedal go limp before some invisible force mashes the gas to the floor. Sharon stomps uselessly on the brake as the car speeds Westward, back towards the Santa Ana River. 4th, Main, McFadden. The street signs fly by while the steering wheel magically turns, burning her palms as she tries to fight it.
Sharon fumbles at her waist, searching for her sickle. It's gone, lost in the spin-out. She leans across the seat and finds it on the passenger side floorboard. Sharon grabs it and gathers her courage, turning to face the crone. The woman in the backseat is surrounded by a poltergeist aura of energy. It flows from her chest, fingers, and weeping eyes.
"Stand down, Llorona! That's right, I know you too. I'll reap you early and worry about the consequences later." Sharon has no idea if it's even possible, but she won't sit back and let the woman kill tonight. She only needs ten minutes.
La Llorona smiles as tears stream down her ruined face, challenging the psychopomp. Sharon brandishes the sickle before lunging over the divider. The taxi careens on reckless autopilot, sideswiping parked cars while the two slice at each other with blades and claws. Legs and elbows crash into metal and vinyl within the tight space. The woman bleeds a thick, clotted black where the sickle rakes across her skin. Sharon's arms and face leak a ghastly fog of ichor, cuts opened up by the woman's sharpened fingernails. Somehow, in the tussle, Sharon finds herself atop the undead passenger. She raises her sickle to strike a death blow when the car slams to a stop, sending her flying through the space where the windshield used to be. Sharon watches the asphalt pass below her, then it's tearing her flesh as she rolls across it. Her vision fades out when she hits the curb.
Sharon utters a groan and puts a tender hand down to brace herself. Rising, she blinks hard, focusing her vision. In that instant she wishes she hadn't, but it's too late. The sign across from her reads:
OLIVE CREST PATHWAYS TRANSITIONAL HOME
Further ahead, underneath the constant city hum, the flow of the river can be heard. From the front door of Olive Crest, a trio of figures emerges. Lit by the yellow-orange streetlamps, Sharon can make out the woman, holding two young orphan boys of four or five by the hands. She has the veil drawn over her corrupted face, hiding it from the children. Sharon can hear the excitement in the boy's voices.
"Eres mi mama nueva? Tienes una piscina en su casa?"
"Y dulces?" The other one adds.
The woman answers each question with a soft "Si." Her voice sounds like an angel's, warm and beckoning. Sharon looks about wildly, searching for her sickle. The slight gleam catches her eye, about fifteen feet away. Stumbling forward, Sharon picks the blade up mid-stagger. It makes a menacing 'skkkrrnkk' as it catches the concrete. She tracks the three figures as they descend to the river trail. For just a moment, they're lost behind a ridge, then Sharon can see them wading into the water.
Quickening her pace, Sharon gives pursuit, splashing loudly as she enters the river. The woman doesn't notice. Her shrill banshee cry echoes as she holds the boys underwater, her grim gaze fixated on the broiling bubbles. Sharon draws the sickle around La Llorona's neck with enough force to sever trachea, carotid, jugular... anything in its path. Instead, the sharp edge scrapes and bounces away, as if it had tried to cut through granite.
The woman's hand shoots out, gripping Sharon by the throat. As she lets go, one of the boys surfaces, coughing and sputtering violently. Sharon slashes at the throttling arm, but it is unyielding, imbued with unnatural power by the river. The boy looks at her with wild eyes, unable to comprehend the scene before him. Sharon chokes out a single word.
"Run."
She can hear the splashing sounds of the child making his retreat. Her eyes roll back in her head, thoughts on the other boy still below the water. The abject terror. Little lungs on fire as they fill with liquid. Sharon gathers what strength is left and plunges her sickle below the river's surface until it pulls against taut flesh. Then she's swallowed by the cold. Floating in a suspended unconscious.
Her eyes are open. She thrusts upward and into the crisp night air, vomiting up brackish brown as she regains her footing. Sharon feels something grabbing her palm. The hand of a young boy. He looks as if he's dressed in his Sunday best, hair combed and parted, and fully dry. But most of all, he looks at peace. Sharon smiles wistfully and gives the small boy's hand a squeeze, then leads him up the riverbank. She tells herself that she is an angel of mercy, not a murderer.
"Donde vamos?" He asks, unafraid.
"Home." She says, "Al casa, mi amor."
Together they slowly walk towards Sharon's damaged taxi.
The End