Alamos de Muerte

Santa Muerte’s voice filled Bella’s head with the warning: Malogra is loose.

Rats, she thought. And who or what the heck is Malogra anyway? All she knew was that if it came from the World of the Forgotten, it was either creature, monster, or a combination of the two: cryptid.

Curiosity sent the now fifteen-year-old Bella Montoya to the library. She found only one mention in the rare book section of New Mexico folklore. Two sentences told her Malogra was indeed a cryptid which created itself when two elements—cottonwood seeds and high winds—entwined. It was known for rolling over and suffocating children who stayed out past their bedtimes. Why was also a mystery.

“That’s it, that’s all?” Bella muttered, bringing a “shhhh” from the librarian.

She closed the book. Unanswered questions just raise more questions. So, the child-killer is a kind of rare tornado? Malogra is both Frankenstein and Monster? And does it have a functioning brain, or does it act with a collective one—the sum of all its parts? Sabrá Dios. But again, this comes from two lousy sentences about a legend so old no one knows who met up with it first.

Curiouser and curiouser, Bella echoed Alice when she, too, tried to make sense of nonsense in a weird world. The cottonwoods lose their seeds in the winds from May to June. So, is that the only time Malogra can form itself? There’s got to be winds to animate it, but not a lot of vientos blow at night when kids would/might become prey. Or was the living terromote able to hunt the kid down in the daylight?

These were the preguntas Bella pondered as she rode her bike home, and Malogra lay dormant, absorbing sunshine, waiting as it had for over a century for the chance to live again.

#

When it found the open portal in the World of the Forgotten, Malogra had whirled itself through. No wind, not even a light breeze, stirred when it emerged. The quarter-sized hole in the ground of an empty lot spewed a jet of cottonwood seeds mixed with dirt, debris, bits of dried entrails, and small bits of teeth. After some minutes, the fountain dissipated and fell onto ordinary rubble, so if anyone had seen Malogra’s arrival, it drew no attention, curiosity from nearby creatures perhaps if any witnessed the anomaly, nothing more. Most humans had never heard of the beast, much less seen it. This changed when Malogra met Bella.

Bella had been an ordinary adolescent a year before, but having fallen into the Mundo de los Olvidados due to Santa Muerte’s scheming, she met many of her Norteño culture’s forgotten legendary individuals, some human, some animal, some a combination of the two. None like Malogra. After returning Bella to earth, the saint mistakenly left the gateway open between both worlds. In the brief time the portal had stood open, one of the otherworldly creatures had discovered it, leaving the rest wanting what the first had accomplished: immortality. But what’s Malogra’s motive? Bella wondered. If the thing has a brain at all, does it want the same thing?

Like the epic heroes of old, the inhabitants, too, wanted to be remembered by mankind. If Llorona had remained the singular New Mexican folk legend never forgotten; only few recalled Lechuza, Malhora, el Vivorón, or the rest. The Weeping Woman had attained a level in the World of the Forgotten the rest aspired to reach until Lechuza, the shape shifter, found her way through the open portal and had recently joined Llorona’s status. Santa Muerte had warned Bella to keep an eye out while she worked on closing the passageway. Like any sentry with an important mission, Bella had promised she would.

But she had never met Malogra. She didn’t know she had to look out for el viento o los álamos (cottonwoods). So, the particles which made up Malogra remained scattered upon the ground for several days until the winds came.

With gusts, and more importantly, sustained winds of 30 to 40 miles per hour in the lot where Malogra’s remains lay scattered, the conditions were perfect for its reanimation. First, one small cottonwood seed stirred, shifted a few inches, and landed on another. They joined and tumbled with the next viento into a small pile of their brethren. These combined, turned into a cluster. After only a few minutes, the hundreds of thousands of them that made up the monster had formed a whirlwind which spun itself into a grove of more cottonwoods. Branches whipped back and forth loosing the seeds which connected to the devil until an enormous body resembling a dirty, brown Yeti took shape.

The universe conspired, or maybe it was the venerable Santa Muerte, to introduce Bella to the beast in short order before Malogra met anyone else. Most of the inhabitants of the world where the forgotten spent their afterlives were legends which had been human first. Circumstances in life contributed to their eventual transformation into the monstruos we Norteños know now. Malogra had never been human, so it lacked emotion. Functioning like a psychopath, apparently, the entity remained a mystery. And if the legend was right, a child-eater.

So, while Bella gathered the usual items she took with her when she left her house, a mile or so south in the empty lot by the creek where the cottonwoods grew, the monster grew, too. At rest, it lay on the ground, invisible to most, just piles of dirt and debris, the usual ground cover. As though someone had started raking rubble into mounds and left the task unfinished.

It stirred only with the slight breeze, and a rumble rose from several of the piles, and something like hunger pangs prompted the beast to wake. It opened its senses to sounds, smells, anything to provoke it to form.

A trio of boys on bicycles caught Malogra’s attention as Bella left her house. Their voices alerted it to a potential opportunity to achieve what it came for.

“What d’ya wanna do, Tony? Go to the arcade maybe?” one boy asked, straddling his bike, hands on the handlebars ready to ride.

“With what money, dumbass?” The boy named Tony answered. “What about…hey, Montoya, where you goin’?”

The third boy took off without waiting for the others, throwing back over his shoulder, “You guys are lame. I’m gonna find me some cash.”

The two followed when Montoya yelled as he rounded a corner, “I know where my sister keeps her tip money.”

“Geez, he’s gonna rip off his own sister,” Tony said. “That’s harsh. And he calls us lame.”

“Yeah,” the other added, “I’d never stoop that low. I’d steal from you before I...ever”

“Ha,” Tony laughed. “I dare ya to try. They call you Chopo now ’cuz you’re short. They’ll be calling you Chopo for a different reason when I’m through with you.”

The two laughed, not in much of a hurry to catch up.

And the pieces of Malogra rustled on the dirt, shuffling toward one another.

Malogra

Bella rode her bike to the library several blocks from her home and dropped a few books into the return bin, thinking to step inside later for more. A project for school occupied her thoughts on her leisurely ride to the edge of town to buy what she needed. Head down, pumping the pedals to get over a small rise, she didn’t see the other rider coming toward her until she looked up to check how close the stop sign was. Her nemesis on his bike sped up, aiming right at her. She swerved and escaped a collision, but he whirled around and came at her again. She didn’t wait; she knew once he had her in his sights, he’d pursue her until he satisfied his urge to attack—verbally, most often, as if his words had power over her.

They had, actually, held a power over her until her visit to the other world where her ancestors had counseled her. She knew she’d given Rusty Montoya this poder by allowing herself to be bullied by him. No more. But that didn’t mean she wanted a face-to-face encounter that might provoke him to violence either. He’d already done a bit of that, enough to make her avoid him.

She sped down a long hill, gaining momentum and flying through a red light. A passing flatbed made Rusty swerve at the intersection, barely missing the tail end and sliding sideways, bike and all, several yards to the other side of the street. Getting to his feet fast, he assessed the damage—mostly just scratches on the bike. He winced when he found a new tear on his jeans and elbows of the only jacket he owned.

He looked around and heard chuckles. His friends had caught up to him at the worst time.

“Ha,” shouted Tony, “she got away again, dude. How many times does this make aga—”

“Shut it,” Rusty growled, throwing a leg over the bike and pedaling off after Bella. The others followed on his heels.

Bella, meanwhile, had set her bike against the back of the feed store at the end of town, the only one which sold the treats her cat loved. Now, she stood at the window with her purchase to see if it was safe for her to exit.

Old man Gomez stepped up and to take a look too. “¿Qué miras?”

She glanced over and shook her head, turning to face hm. “Nada. ’Stá poniéndose poco vientoso, nada más. Tenga buen día, Señor.”

The wind was indeed picking up as Rusty’s cronies flew past, so neither she nor Señor Gomez saw. She left. She had one more stop before she could go back to the library.

Bella didn’t get far before a yell came from behind her. “There she is, Russ.”

She knew she’d be in for it if the three caught up to her. The vacant lot by the cottonwoods lay ahead. Beyond that was a café and several stores where she could hide until they tired of hunting her down. She pedaled as fast as she could on the loose gravel and had reached the middle of the lot when she caught a glimpse of something moving on her right.

The light wind blew into a full blown terromote—in an instant, a large dust devil of brown dirt spinning, pebbles flying into Bella’s face, rotated faster and faster as she sped forward to avoid getting sucked into it. Reaching the edge of the lot, she stopped behind a dumpster next to the café and saw a most unusual scene unfold.

Rusty flew into the lot right after and braked some distance away to watch the growing remolino transform into a full-blown whirlwind without getting pelted by debris. Tony and Chopo raced into the clearing, Chopo stepping on the brakes so hard his bike skidded with him right into the mouth of the now fully formed twister rising over the cottonwoods. Bella and the others screamed in unison while Chopo saved himself, scrabbling forward crablike and then diving under a dilapidated old truck at the back of the lot. Tony had frozen with his feet planted on either side of his bicycle, but the screaming set him into motion. Dropping his bike, he ran and slid behind the truck under which Chopo lay.

Before four pairs of shocked eyes, the monster took shape. Legs with feet and arms with hands formed, and a head rose above, all within the body of the swirling, brown twister. A ragged-edged maw, deep vermillion inside, opened up in the middle of the head, and the roar of great winds emerged. One step moved the body from the edge of the clearing to where it stooped and stretched a hand toward Rusty.

“Run,” Tony yelled, already taking flight in one direction and prompting Rusty to run in the opposite, leaving Malogra ravenous and enraged. Chopo didn’t move. He didn’t think the monster had seen him, he explained afterward. Malogra’s head bobbed forward and sideways and a giant sniffing sound added to the cacophony of swirling, crashing debris and hurricane-like winds. The enormous hand already on the ground snaked toward Chopo as Bella screamed, “Chopo, move!” He fled, but not before Malogra’s mouth snapped closed. The noise drowned out his screams, but Bella never could unsee the little fountain of spraying blood until Chopo wrapped his arm in his scarf as he ran. Keeping obstacles like cars and buildings between himself and the beast, he vanished into an alley and survived the attack minus two fingers of his left hand.

Malogra had straightened up and stood savoring the snack. The audible snapping of small bones as the winds died down nauseated Bella. Repulsed by the creature yet angry at its brutality, she remained hidden and watched its transformation. After a short while, the giant spinning monster disarticulated and rained dirt, debris, and millions of cottonwood seeds.

Bella leaned against the back wall of the café, arms crossed in an X over her chest, replaying in her mind what had just happened. “Well, hell,” she muttered, “so that’s Malogra.” I kind of wish I’d met the thing on the other side where I could ask for help. Who’d believe me, and what can they do here anyway? She had no idea if it had any brain to understand her, but she had to try something until she could ask Santa Muerte what to do. She walked to the center of the clearing and slid a sneakered foot over the debris back and forth, creating a line in the dirt. “Hear me, Malogra, Santa Muerte left me to report back to her about you. She’s not going to be happy you ate a piece of a human. You’d better gather yourself up and find the doorway back to where you belong.”

A sound like a deep gurgle came from the ground beneath Bella’s foot, and a reply came a letter at a time in the red dirt with childlike, jerky moves as if to get the letters right. When Bella realized, the new chill in her spine came with something she’d only encountered once: when she met el Coco, the boogie monster of nightmares. Her visceral, core response had been extreme in the terror it evoked. Malogra hit her far worse.

“I immortal.”

The monster was indeed a sentient beast. And Bella knew what it meant. “Yes, immortal. You have witnesses. And you took something from one of us none of us will forget. Rest in eternal peace now, Malogra.”

It had to go back. It could never return. Whatever the monster had done to Chopo had been only a sample of what it could do. The letters vanished as she watched, blown apart with an audible “whoosh.” No response replaced them. Bella would have asked for a promise, but the thought disappeared as quickly as it came. She could only hope it wouldn’t return.

An eerie silence somehow heavy in foreboding came over the lot. Bella straightened her spine, shoulders back and walked to her bike as nonchalant as she could fake though the escalofríos inside made her wish she’d worn a jacket instead of her favorite vest. Judging by its slow-motion movement because of its size when it had reached for Chopo, Bella thought it might be possible to escape the thing if it came back to life and if she pedaled fast enough.

What provoked the attack? Would Santa Muerte have answers? This olvidado was best forgotten of all the ones she’d met in the other world. None of them had tried to eat her, at least. And most had become her friends, whether animals, humans, or boogie monsters.

So much would happen in the next few days, and she knew the consequences would both further her efforts to keep such legendary encounter stories alive and shock the general public—hell, the world—when the truth reached the news. Cryptids had a bad reputation as it was with people who didn’t believe in their existence. Despite the naysayers, many Bigfoot stories and Nessie of Loch Ness randomly got around in variation.

Malogra was ours. Did we want to set it free in the world? Ended up, we had no say.