On a quiet February morning in 1943, a Mexican farmer named Dionisio Pulido was tending to his cornfield in the village of San Juan Parangaricutiro. The sun was rising, the soil smelled of earth and ash, and the world seemed as ordinary as ever. Until, quite literally, it cracked open beneath his feet.

The boat ride starts off like any other through the ancient canals of Xochimilco. There's laughter in the distance, floating mariachi music, and the occasional splash of an oar. But then your trajinera turns away from the main path. The air gets still. The water darkens. The laughter fades. You're no longer headed toward a party—you’re heading into a ghost story.