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Saturday , October 11, 2025.
October brings more than cool breezes and darker nights, it awakens the imagination with tales that whisper from the corners of Latin America. Costa Rica’s own folklore is rich with ghostly legends and mysterious figures that reflect the country’s deep cultural roots and love for storytelling. This Halloween, A.M. Costa Rica presents a four-part series of spooky tales inspired by Latin American myths and superstitions. The series begins with “There’s A Lot To A Name,” an original fantasy by A.M. Costa Rica editor emeritus James Brodell, inspired by the Santa Muerte tradition from Mexican culture. There's A Lot To A Name
 By Jay Brodell His name was Mortimer, but he went by Mort, and that, plus a Jersey City accent, made all the difference. “Muert?” the startled hotel clerk said to him as he introduced himself. “Correcto,” he said, using one of the few Spanish words he knew. He gazed around the drab hotel. A group of old men distractedly watched a soccer game on the wide-screen television. A boy read a comic book in a corner. “Just your basic sleepy Mexican town,” Mort said to himself. After dumping his backpack in the confines of his hotel room, Mort took to the streets to survey this community, which he hoped would become his own. A retired concrete worker, Mort was counting on U.S. Social Security to keep him housed and fed in his old age. He had just turned 62, but a lifetime of work in the hot sun made him look years older. His face was heavily rutted, and his eyes sported dark circles below. That he was just 130 pounds, thanks to an unhappy stint in a veterans hospital, caused him to resemble a dried prune. Still, Mort was happy thinking that he had found a place to hang his hat. He could live here, he hoped, on about $600 a month, about half his Social Security income. San Carlos was a reasonable bus ride from the U.S. border and the twin towns of Nogales, which gave him access to the U.S. Veterans Administration's hospital in Tucson and an even closer veterans clinic. Plus, he could do his banking on the U.S. side of Nogales and take out his money here in San Carlos, where they even had several automatic tellers. When Mort returned to the hotel after a short expedition in the local downtown, he drew strange stares from the elderly audience in front of the television. One even got up abruptly and headed out the door. Even the boy stopped his comic book reading and stared at him. In front of his hotel room door, he found a collection of flowers and a trio of tortillas tightly wrapped in aluminum foil. “Must be a welcoming gift from the hotel,” he thought as he headed to the cheap desk at the window. He looked out to see the main street and the early evening bustle. He ripped the paper seal from the top of his newly acquired bottle of the local spirits and settled in for a welcome drink. “This will work for a while until I find some kind of boarding house or even my own place, depending on how much,” he said. “I hope the bed is clean. I have heard that some Mexican beds are crawling.” The bus ride south must have taken a toll because Mort enjoyed the sleep of the just. His empty stomach awakened him just as dawn was breaking. He found out that the shower worked and made a point to purchase a bigger bar of soap and a fluffy towel. “This is living,” he thought. “No clock to punch. No schedule to keep. No one to report to.” He decided to wear his dark pants and a similarly colored t-shirt. They were his only clean clothes. High on the list was finding a place to do laundry. He studied himself in the mirror. Not much to look at, he concluded, remembering fondly his earlier, pre-illness days when he sported muscles and a mustache. Both the muscles and mustache had been lost to time and illness. “Sleep is here!” read the slogan on his t-shirt. He remembered picking it up at a yard sale just after he got out of the hospital. It was written in bold, white letters over his left breast, probably a promotional item from a mattress store. “I look cool,” he said, more as a wish than a fact, as he headed for breakfast. There was a different man on duty at the reception desk in the empty lobby. He backed up a bit as Mort approached. Then he gave a forced smile and a quick salutation in Spanish. “I'm afraid I don't speak Spanish,” Mort told him. So the man quickly switched to English. “How can I help you, Mr. Muert?” The man eyed the slogan on his T-shirt. Mort noticed that the man's demeanor looked strained. Maybe he doesn't like Americans, he thought. “Tell me,” Mort ventured, “are there many Americans around here, and do they have a place to gather in the morning?” Mort had been told there was such a hangout, but he did not remember where. The reception clerk directed him to a cafe where Mort had seen outdoor tables and chairs when he passed by on his bus. “Thank you for speaking English,” he told the clerk. “It will take me a little time to get used to this town.” The clerk appeared to have trouble understanding him, perhaps because of the thick Jersey accent, but he managed a forced smile nonetheless. Mort was not disappointed in the cafe, and he was surprised the service was so rapid, so rapid, in fact, that the young man waiting on his table bumped into the door frame as he hurried to place the order. Mort noticed three men sitting in the corner of the outdoor section of the cafe. They appeared to be Americans, and they were speaking English. This gave Mort the reason to walk over and introduce himself after he finished his eggs, toast and coffee. All three, it turned out, were in sleepy San Carlos because they were retired and living on Social Security. One, Greg, who said he was from Illinois, told Mort he had lived in the town for four years, adding: “The Spanish comes easily because there aren't lots of words you need to live here. You're not going to get into the local social circle. They really don't like Americans. You just need enough of the lingo to buy food and do other errands.” A man who identified himself as Jack disagreed: “I find it helpful to learn all you can because you can save money and generally know what's going on.” “Well, you have a better chance than we do living with that lady,” Greg told Jack. The conversation revealed that Jack lived with a younger woman and her three children just several blocks away. The two other men seemed a bit envious, but they hid their feelings by mocking Jack because his permanent living arrangements prevented him from playing the field with the local women. “Mort, you will find you're king here, and you will have women chasing you because you have a steady income,” said Greg. “They may not love you, but they love your wallet.” Mort decided he was happy to have met these men, even the quiet one who said little. He walked slowly back to his hotel, surveying the town, the small shops, and the people embarking on their daily routines. As he entered the hotel, he nearly collided with one of the men who had been lounging there the previous day. The man was exiting the lobby and jumped so hard to the side when he saw Mort that he whacked his shoulder on the door frame. The doors rattled on their hinges. “Disculpe, disculpe, disculpe,” the man murmured in a voice that seemed tinged with fear. The man ran down the hotel's four front steps so quickly that he nearly fell. As he looked back at Mort from the sidewalk, he collided with a woman carrying a cloth bag filled with groceries. The man tried to maintain his footing and stretched to support the woman as he fell into the street, narrowly missing the wheels of a passing car. The woman managed to remain upright despite the collision, and she gave a surprised glance at the man in the street. He was shaking in fear and continued to repeat his disculpes, this time to the woman. Then his eyes focused on Mort, still standing at the arched doorway atop the stairs. His expression changed from shock to fear. At the same time, the woman turned her eyes to Mort, quickly blessed herself, and scurried away. The best Mort could do was shout, “Are you OK?” The man did not reply. Instead, he quickly stood up and headed down the street at a jogging pace. “I guess they start drinking earlier down here,” Mort concluded. He headed to his room past the lobby that now had a small group of men clustered in front of the television. They all made quick glances at Mort and then quickly averted their eyes. Two mumbled something in Spanish. Mort spent the rest of the daylight hours finishing a novel he started reading when he was in the veterans hospital. Then he noticed that dusk had arrived, as well as an empty feeling in his stomach. The only place he knew to ease the hunger was the cafe where he had breakfast, so he walked into the dingy hallway and made his way downstairs to the lobby despite the minimal illumination. The clerk and the television crowd rapidly made him the center of attention, and their eyes followed him relentlessly. Mort felt compelled to respond to the attention and said simply as he stepped outside: “I'll see all of you later.” He had no idea the panic he had instilled. At the cafe, Mort saw the man who had remained quiet that morning. He sat down to speak with him. The man said his name was Anthony. “You are becoming very famous,” Anthony said. “How so?” Mort replied. “It's your name. They think you are Death,” Anthony explained. “It's all over town. Gringo Death is here. You know, these people have an interesting relationship with Death. And they think your name is Muerte, which means death in Spanish. Plus, they are really nervous about your slogan.” Anthony pointed to the letters on the T-shirt. “They think 'sleep is here!' means the big sleep. Some of them know enough English to figure that out and translate it to their friends,” he continued. “Then your encounter with that man who fell on the street and nearly got hit by the car convinced even more. They think you were getting even for him bumping into you at the door.” “He never bumped into me,” Mort insisted. “It was the door frame he bounced off of. I had no idea I was having this effect.” Anthony smiled, then gave a brief outline of the rural Mexican's relationship with death. “Remember, on the Day of the Dead, they all bring food and drink to their dead relatives in the cemetery. And the living and health conditions here are not the best, so they see death all around them all the time. Your face is the icing on the cake. It reminds me of some character in a horror movie.” Mort got defensive. “I used to be a good-looking guy. Then I got sick, lost 60 pounds, and can scare kids. What you are telling me now is that I can scare people at the hotel?” Anthony broke into a short laugh. “Not just the hotel. The word of mouth here is fantastic. Most in the downtown now have heard of you. I found out after I met you at breakfast because I went to the butcher shop, and some woman came in nearly hysterical.” “Maybe I should move to another town,” Mort said. “And lose that shirt,” Anthony replied, half in jest. The revelation that he was the living embodiment of Death took Mort's appetite. He said good-bye to Anthony and walked slowly back to the hotel. The pedestrians seemed to make room for him. Some crossed to the other side of the street. At the hotel, he noticed that the lobby television set was off and there were no loungers. As he turned to mount the stairs, he noticed a small statue in an elevated niche on the far side of the lobby counter. “Now that's Death,” Mort said to himself. The statue was just about 20 inches tall. The figure wore a black robe and carried what looked like a glass sphere in an outstretched right hand. The face was a skull, and the left hand was wrapped around a scythe that was taller than the figure. Although he hated to admit it, the face looked a lot like his emaciated self. “I'm looking more like Marvel Comics' Skeletor,” he joked to himself. “I guess these people do have a fascination with Death after all,” he concluded. He decided to find out more about the statue in the morning. As he reached the room, he encountered more flowers, more tortillas, and even some chocolate on the floor in front of his room. “This Death business seems to be rather profitable,” he joked. “First of all, you are not a woman, and that statue you saw depicts a woman,” Anthony said through a grin over breakfast the next day. “It's Santa Muerte, kind of a cult figure here in Mexico. Haven't you seen any of those television drug dealer shows?” “How do you know she's a woman. He's wearing a big cloak,” Mort asked. “Hey, Mort. I don't make the rules. That's just what they call her. She's sort of a mixture of the Virgin Mary and some Indian characters. She's supposed to mean death or health or wealth or love, depending on what someone needs. And the color of her clothes shows the difference. There are red ones, white ones, blue ones, and even green ones, although all the distinctions are lost on me. Millions worship her here in Mexico.” Mort digested this revelation and said, “This is a complex society. I liked it better when I was just Death. There are too many things to know otherwise.” Anthony turned grim: “I suspect this worship comes from people who have no other hope. You probably don't see it, but this community…Hell, the whole country…is riddled with corruption and run by major drug dealers. The little people here are crushed down every day, paying extortion or seeing their daughters and sons abused. Fortunately, we, as foreigners, are out of the loop except for robberies and the frequent burglaries. They know we wouldn't be here if we had a lot of money.” “My advice is to just enjoy life here, stay out of the local society, and basically mind your own business,” Anthony cautioned. “I don't even speak Spanish, so there's little chance of me getting involved in all this,” Mort responded. “Sorry, Mort, I think you already are involved because they think you're something you're not. Just be careful.” Mort decided to heed this advice. So when he returned to the hotel, he made an effort to put the hotel clerk at ease: “You know I'm here on vacation,” he told the man behind the reception desk. “I'm not working. I just want to relax.” “That ought to do it,” Mort concluded as he tried to tarnish his image as the ever-present Death. The clerk, clearly apprehensive, appeared to consider Mort's statement, then said: “Yes, Mr. Muerte, we know you are not here for us. We still respect you, and we want you to be welcome here.” Mission accomplished, Mort concluded as he retreated to more tortillas, chocolate, flowers, and his room. “This is getting more intricate than I ever could have imagined.” He withdrew to his bottle and the small television screen for the rest of the afternoon. A knock some hours later interrupted the Spanish television soap opera and jolted Mort out of his inattention. He was surprised and a bit fearful. Still, without removing the chain lock, he peered into the dank hall. There stood a boy about 10 years and a much older man behind him. The man wore a clerical collar. “Mr. Muert,” the boy said in clear, perfect English, “Padre Ramirez would like to speak with you.” The older man smiled. Mort quickly let them into his room. The priest sat on the only chair, Mort on the bed. The boy stood and explained that he was just a translator. That wasn't exactly true because the boy did nearly all the talking, exchanging just a few words here and there with the smiling priest. He must have been briefed beforehand, Mort concluded. “The father wants to welcome you to our town and hopes that you might come to our church for Mass,” the boy began. “He knows that the townspeople have the wrong impression of you and seem to be fearful. So when you come to Mass, they will know that you have a good heart.” The priest continued to smile. “Who do you think I am?” Mort asked. The boy exchanged some words with the priest, who replied and then continued to smile broadly. “We think you are a nice Gringo who has come to our town for a little while, and we want you to be welcome,” the boy said. “The Mass is on Sunday morning, of course.” Mort looked at the smiling priest. Clearly, this was not a rich parish. The man's black jacket showed lots of wear, and a few strings dangled from the cuffs. Then he sized up the boy: clearly bright with a shock of blond hair that was in need of cutting. “How come you speak such good English?” Mort asked him. “My father was an American, but he died,” the boy replied as his face reflected his sadness. “Please tell Padre Ramirez that I can make no promises, but if I can, I will visit this Sunday,” said Mort, recalling that it had been at least 30 years since he was inside a church. “And God bless both of you,” he added, feeling like a hypocrite. The boy relayed this to the priest, and both seemed pleased. As they left, Mort wondered to himself, “What the hell was that all about? Is the priest trying to calm his flock? Is he trying to capitalize on his budding friendship with Death?” The questions ran through his mind as he watched the priest slowly make his way down the steps, assisted by the boy who held his arm. “Is he fearing Death himself?” Mort wondered. Naturally, the visit by the priest was the news Mort brought to breakfast the following morning to share with his American breakfast partners. They were surprised. “Old Father Ramirez hardly ever goes out in public anymore. Something about his legs or hip,” said Greg. “He must have heard a lot about you from his parishioners.” Jack had an opinion. “It was a marketing call. The old priest is trying to corner the market on Death before the competition. At least that's the way I figure it.” “The competition?” Mort responded. “Yeah,” Jack replied. “You know I live with a Mexican family, and my woman and her mother hardly go to Mass anymore. They have their own altar in the back of the house, and then they gather twice, maybe three times a week, at some other house. They worship La Flaquita, the Skinny Lady, you know, Santa Muerte. There's a big following here in San Carlos.” “That makes a lot of sense,” interjected Anthony. I know I see statues and altars of Santa Muerte everywhere in the businesses, the private homes, even some of the less reputable places I go. The ones in the stores usually have golden robes. I think that means money. And I know one family where the teen girl prays to a red one. That's seeking love, I think.” “So I am in the middle of a marketing war,” Mort said. Jack replied: “Well, this is going to be very complicated. You know all the gangsters venerate Santa Muerte, too. Strictly speaking, the saint is not Death, and she's a woman like the country's patroness, the Virgin of Guadalupe. And you're not a woman. And to some of these people, you are the embodiment of Death. The way I understand it, Santa Muerte is prayed to so her followers can experience a happy death, whatever that is. She is a holy figure, an emissary from God. And, despite that, she sometimes is called Holy Death.” “So I am living an enigma,” said Mort with a sigh. “Maybe you need to do some studying on your own,” said Jack. “There's even a long list of commandments from Santa Muerte. My woman's aunt has them tacked up in her kitchen. If I remember correctly, one of them demands exclusivity, just like the First Commandment of Moses: 'Have no other before me.' Santa Muerte does not like to share!” His breakfast meeting gave Mort a lot to consider. He was walking back to his hotel when the first pangs cramped his stomach. That was the prelude to six days being a prisoner of his toilet. “I think they call it Montezuma's revenge,” Mort regurgitated to himself multiple times, blaming the food, the drink, the air. Except for a few brief runs to the liquor store and several to a nearby market for canned food and water, Mort restricted himself to his hotel room and bathroom. “Christ, will this ever go away?” he was saying to himself for the thousandth time when there was a knock. He recognized Anthony when the voice said: “Are you in there, Mort?” “It's the welcome to Mexico dance,” Anthony explained. “We all had it. I figure you have been careful about drinking the water. It's just a change in location. Mexicans who go to New York have the same problem. The Gringo revenge. We all figured out what had happened when you hadn't showed up for nearly a week. Look, I brought you something.” Anthony unveiled an eight-ounce bottle of Imodium. “This will ease some of your suffering,” he said. “You're lucky. You still can get bottles of this stuff in Mexico. In the States, they sell tablets in bubble wrap, and you have to use shop tools to open the packaging. Such is progress. “Remember to stay away from the water and street food. Also lettuce. The irrigation water is impure and puts bugs on the vegetables. They take better care of the stuff being exported to the States. And remember, amoebas can eat your liver. Only use bottled water for brushing your teeth, too.” “I'd like to keep my liver,” Mort responded. “But this run of stomach problems has cost me some pounds and really makes my face even worse.” “That's great for your image,” Anthony laughed. “Come to breakfast when you feel better. We'll reserve a seat at the toilet there, too.” Mort groaned. Later, Mort had to admit the bottle of sticky white liquid made him feel better and reduced his frequent bathroom trips. He rallied after Anthony said he eventually would survive and feel good again. Two days later, Mort made an appearance at breakfast. “Thanks, guys, for thinking about me,” he told the American trio. “I probably would not have survived without the little bottles. I went through two more.” “You really look like Death now,” Jack said. “Yeah, you scare me, too,” Greg added. Mort, himself, remembered being shocked when he viewed himself in the mirror that morning. His hair was longer and more unruly. His cheeks were more hollow. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, and the eyes themselves appeared to be more sunken. “Just call me Santa Muerte,” he told the men. They laughed. Mort was not laughing when he returned to the hotel. He had lost at least a week in finding a permanent place to stay. He was glad he did not die from the battle with his stomach, although there were times when he considered that a better option. “I guess that's just the hidden cost of moving to another country,” he concluded. He was surprised that he had a visitor when he returned to the hotel. The desk clerk motioned to a woman, about 40, seated alone, where normally there would be a handful of men watching a television set. She introduced herself as Irena. “Pardon the intrusion, Mr. Mort, but my mother would like you to visit her. We maintain the shrines of our sainted lady, the agent of God Almighty, Santa Muerte, and we would like to share with you the protection and satisfaction of knowing her.” Her English was perfect. Mort scanned the woman. She, like he, was dressed all in black but with a large assortment of gold jewelry, including a pendant featuring the saint surrounded by a circular frame of white stones. “Could they be diamonds?” he wondered. Both hands sported multiple rings. “Why would she want to meet with me?” Mort asked the women. “In addition to the spiritual, we could use your help,” the woman said. “We think you could also help our faithful in achieving their wishes.” “How could I do that?” Mort questioned. “My mother can explain,” said the woman. “Can you come with me now?” Despite lingering fears, Mort relished stepping out with an attractive woman, even if she was 20 or 30 years younger than him. Setting his concerns aside, he agreed. They walked into what appeared to be a more seedy section of the city. There were more vacant lots and more graffiti scrawled on walls. A few dogs prowled for food. “Aren't you worried about your safety?” Mort asked the woman. “Nobody would touch me or even you, for that matter,” she said. Mort noticed pedestrians crossing the street as they approached. Some women at the entry to their houses stopped sweeping, blessed themselves and stepped inside as they approached. There was no mistaking the destination. From halfway down the street Mort could see the larger-than-life statue of Santa Muerte, surrounded by many bunches of flowers and candles, and the sidewalk. “This is our outside shrine,” said Irena as they came closer. “The candles must burn all the time.” Two women were on their knees mumbling before the statue. “Please don't approach the altar,” Irena asked. “Your clothes are not clean enough. You must have very clean clothes if you go to honor Santa Muerte.” “Sorry,” Mort replied. “I've been in a sickbed for the last week.” “I know,” the woman said. There was a large young man standing inside the gated entrance to the home. He smiled at Irena and gave way. They entered a lush garden that eventually opened to the entrance to a dwelling. Inside, Mort found a formal living room and a younger woman who asked, also in English, if he wanted coffee. For obvious reasons, Mort decline the offer but continued to admire the decor, which appeared to be very colonial. “I was surprised that there is no altar inside,” Mort told Irena. “There is,” she replied, “But the Skinny Lady likes her altar to be secluded. It's in another part of the house.” Almost immediately, an older woman, introduced as Irena's mother appeared. She was about 60, wrinkled and walked slowly to an elegant, carved, large wooden chair. She invited Mort to sit nearer in an adjacent chair. She also spoke English well but with an obvious accent. “Thank you for coming, I was hoping that I could prevail on you to attend some of our gatherings. You will find that the Powerful Lady, Santisima Muerte, will bring light and happiness into your life. We have a rosary session outside tomorrow night. And you are most welcome. I know that our saint has a bad image in your country's television, but we are not all robbers and drug smugglers.” Mort replied: “Now that you mention it, I remember seeing references to Santa Muerte on crime shows while I was in the hospital. I don't have an opinion, though.” “Perhaps you will,” the older woman said. “The saint always is under attack by the government or the church. The poor people realize that the government or the Catholic Church cannot answer their prayers the way Our Lady can. She is not the personification of death that you see in your country on Halloween. She is an instrument created by Our Lord to be a messenger and a vehicle so the pleas of the poor and oppressed are answered. In your life, what do you want? Riches, love, maybe health. If you seek the help of the Sainted Lady, present her with gifts, pray to her, keep a shrine in your home, all your needs will be fulfilled. That is her promise.” “You make a strong case. Praying has never been my strong suit,” Mort replied. “Yet you have made an impact on our little city here. People think that you are a messenger or agent of the Lord, too,” the woman replied. “Well, I will make a point to attend tomorrow night. But I make no promises to believe,” Mort said. “That's all we can ask,” said Irena. “The love of Our Lady grows even in your country. And not just among Mexicans and other Latin Americans. Your government, too, has failed in many ways to meet the needs of its people, and they are desperate. It is the desperation here that we see every day as supplicants bring what little gifts they can spare to the Skinny Lady: Money, jewelry, food, even cigarettes. And they wouldn't do it if their petitions went unanswered.” “I can find my way back to the hotel,” Mort said, as he tried to take his leave gracefully. As he stepped outside, he saw two different women on their knees praying in front of the Santa Muerte altar. The bulky guard surprised him when he said in English: “Both their husbands are sick, and they need them to get better to support the family.” Mort felt like a tourist in a strange land as he headed to the hotel. There was no chance to interact with people. Children stopped their play and ran when he approached. Doors closed. Shopkeepers quickly stepped into their stores. He stopped at one store where the sign said “Botánica.” It looked like a plant store, but Mort noticed a photo of Santa Muerte in a corner of the display window. He entered to find large collections of shelves, bottles and floor displays featuring various kinds of herbs and other vegetation. He could not read the signs in Spanish, but he concluded that each product was related to some kind of medical treatment. It was at the rear of the store where he found the altar to Santa Muerte. This image was draped in gold, and a multicolored candle was burning. There was a smell that Mort instantly recognized as marijuana. The clerk was highly attentive, smiling broadly, and followed Mort just one step behind. Then Mort saw the many shelves containing images of the saint. There were statues clothed in gold, red, black, blue and yellow. There even was one dressed as a bride. Mort selected one about 18 inches tall. The cloak was black, and the figure held the traditional glass ball in the right hand and the scythe with the left. As he walked to the counter, the smiling clerk followed. Then Mort realized that any good altar to Santa Muerte needed candles. He gazed at the selection of many votive candles. Some were short, some were white, others held a rainbow of colors. “Might as well go all the way,” Mort thought as he reached and selected two four-inch black candles. He saw the clerk's face lose its smile and reflect fear in his eyes. The clerk quickly collected the peso bill Mort offered and returned change with a repetitive “Gracias, Gracias, Gracias.” As Mort walked from the store clutching the bag with his purchases, Mort knew where his path lies. “I am Death and the consort of some Mexican saint. I can be somebody here, and I think this might turn out to be profitable. Every retiree should have a hobby.” ---------------- James
Brodell, A.M. Costa Rica editor
emeritus, is a retired professor
of journalism and a New York Metro
area newspaper editor. He has
studied US open records and open
meeting laws extensively. He can
be reached by emailing JBrodell@jamesbrodell.com.
This short story is from the author's ebook "Brother Amos Gambles His Soul and Other Quirky Short Stories," available on JamesBrodell.com - Copyright James J. Brodell 2025 -           |
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