The Purple Veil of San Muerte

My Aunt Rosa had a room in her house that no one was allowed to enter except her. We called it the ‘santeria room,’ though she insisted it was white magic, not anything dark. The door was always closed, and a purple velvet curtain hung behind it, which she would part only to step inside. She wore a necklace of red and black beads, and we were forbidden to touch it. The room smelled of cigars, cheap rum, and sweet flowers.

In that room, she kept a statue of a saint I now know as San Muerte, the Holy Death. She surrounded it with offerings: small pumpkins, candy, glasses of water, and bowls of fruit. She would light candles and chant in a language I never understood. My cousin Marisol, her only daughter, was her acolyte. Marisol was heavy-set, always smiling, and had a heart of gold. She would help her mother with the rituals, stringing new beads and arranging the flowers.

On the sixth of December, 2008, Marisol died. She was thirty-one. She had a massive heart attack right in the living room of Aunt Rosa’s house. There was no history of heart problems, but she was obese, so we chalked it up to that. The funeral was a blur of tears and incense. Aunt Rosa didn’t cry. She just sat in a corner, fingering her beads, whispering.

Seven months later, I was driving home from my night shift at the textile mill. It was a lonely stretch of road, flanked by dying cotton fields. My headlights caught something on the shoulder—a cluster of red and black beads, strung on a leather cord. I stopped, picked it up. It felt warm, almost buzzing. I recognized the pattern from Aunt Rosa’s necklace. I thought she must have dropped it.

I decided to return it the next day. But as I drove, the beads began to feel heavier in my pocket. The radio, which had been playing static, suddenly crackled into a clear voice: ‘Marisol says hello.’ I nearly swerved off the road. I turned off the radio, but the voice continued, whispering through the speakers, ‘She wants you to know she didn’t have a heart attack.’

I threw the necklace out the window, but it was too late. When I got home, the phone was ringing. It was Aunt Rosa, her voice a dry rasp. ‘You found my beads. Bring them back. Tonight.’ I tried to refuse, but she insisted, saying Marisol’s soul was trapped, and I was the key to freeing it.

Against my better judgment, I drove to her house. The porch light was off, but the purple glow from the santeria room leaked through the window. Aunt Rosa met me at the door, her face sallow, old. She took the beads without thanks and led me to the room. The air was thick with the stench of rotting fruit and burnt sage. The statue of San Muerte was draped in a shroud, and the candles flickered as if in a draft.

‘She died because of me,’ Aunt Rosa said, her voice breaking. ‘I made a deal with the Holy Death to extend my life. In exchange, he would take my firstborn child. But I offered Marisol’s soul prematurely. She fought him. He took her body, but her spirit is still here.’

I wanted to leave, but my legs wouldn’t move. Aunt Rosa placed the necklace around my neck. ‘You will help her cross over,’ she said. ‘You will take her place as my offering.’ The room grew cold. The candles snuffed out, leaving only the purple glow from the curtain. I felt hands pressing on my chest, a crushing weight. I couldn’t breathe. I fell to my knees, gasping.

Suddenly, I heard Marisol’s laughter—joyful, warm, just as I remembered. The weight lifted. The hands withdrew. A breath of air filled my lungs. When I looked up, the curtain was swaying, and Aunt Rosa was on the floor, clutching her chest, her face contorted. She was dead before she hit the ground. The necklace had slipped from my neck and lay on the floor, its beads now dull.

I stumbled out of the house, never looking back. But I still feel the residue of the beads against my skin, and sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see Marisol smiling, her eyes full of gratitude. But other times, when the wind carries the scent of flowers and rum, I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, and a whisper: ‘You took her place, but I’m not done with you yet.’