If you aren't from San Antonio, you probably haven't heard of The Donkey Lady. She's what anthropologists might call a site-specific sub-cultural urban myth. As children, we just called her scary.

When asked about her existence, friends of mine who grew up here in Austin, a mere 78 miles north of The Donkey Lady's turf, respond with the Donkey who?

How was it possible they don't know of The Donkey Lady? She was the stuff of childhood nightmares! Stories of her exploits permeated all of the elementary schools in San Antonio. Lonely travelers encountering her on a deserted road would hear the stomp-drag-stomp-drag of her uneven gait. Children left unaware with a babysitter... well, who knew what happened to them?

There were so many unanswerable questions about The Donkey Lady. Was she half-donkey, half-lady? Was she vertical or horizontal? Where did she live? (Personally, I thought she camped in the woods outside Loop 410, but my little brother was convinced she lived just across the street from my dad's housethis concept made it impossible for my brother to go to the bathroom by himself from age 6 to about age 10.)

We might not have known where exactly she lived or how her animal/human proportions were divied up, but one thing was for certain: The Donkey Lady had serrated fingernails that could saw through a deadbolt. This was a fact. One year I remember we all learned her phone number. It was something like 999-9999. If you called, you heard a high-pitched squeal. This would cause us to slam down the phone and run screaming through the house. Then we'd dare each other to call again. It was an excellent slumber party activity.

As kids, we never tired of scaring ourselves with The Donkey Lady. So when my six-and-a-half-year-old son begged for a scary story, who could blame me for dredging her up in all of her Donkeyfied glory?

I didn't mean to do it, actually. It's just that, every single time we climb into the car he begs for a scary story. Sometimes he insists that I not tell him one I've told him before. This can be difficult. There are only so many scary stories one can think of.

One day, when at a loss for material and distracted by traffic, it happened. I mentioned The Donkey Lady. My son's ears perked-up.

Then I remembered: The Donkey Lady was terrifying. Too scary, certainly, for my son.

I tried to back-pedal. I attempted to shrug her off as something silly that we made-up as kids. No go. His curiosity was piqued and he pressed for details.

I was stuck. No matter how much I tried to downplay The Donkey Lady, no matter how much I tried to make her into a joke, my son became more interested, more intrigued. His imagination had grabbed on to her and wouldn't let her go.

Such is the power of The Donkey Lady.

Now that weor, rather, Ihave invited The Donkey Lady into our home, her presence is palpable.

My husband wonders aloud about the existence of The Donkey Man. What happened to him? he asks with mock terror, braying loudly.

Unfortunately, humor doesn't work with The Donkey Lady. My son now needs someone to accompany him down the halleven if that someone is just the dog. When he inquires as to The Donkey Lady's residence, I tell him we always thought she lived in San Antonio. This gives him only a modicum of peace.

My two-year-old also has caught onalthough for her, the Gonkey Yady isn't so much scary as an excuse not to do something, like putting her bowl in the sink. No mama, can't, she tells me. Gonkey Yady there." A convenient ploy.

I feel kind of guilty for having dragged The Donkey Lady to Austin and introducing her to my son. But the deed is done. I comfort myself in the fact that, if it hadn't been The Donkey Lady, it would have been some other scary thing. He's a kid and part of childhood is looking for any reason to take a flying leap into bed every night. Which, of course, he's doing.

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