The River Spirit of Tárcoles

The river belongs to her.

And those who forget… pay the price.

The River’s Warning

Miguel wiped the sweat from his brow as he stood at the riverbank, gazing across the sluggish waters of the Tárcoles. The air was thick with humidity, the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation clinging to his clothes.

It wasn’t the first time he had come here, but something about today felt wrong. The jungle, usually alive with the sounds of insects and birds, was eerily still. Even the massive crocodiles that usually lounged along the shore seemed uneasy, their armored bodies half-submerged in the water, eyes barely visible above the surface.

Miguel shook off the creeping unease and turned his attention to the task at hand. His boss, Don Esteban, had big plans for this place—a luxury resort right on the river, complete with boat tours and riverside cabins. A place for tourists to marvel at the fearsome crocodiles from a safe distance, with cold beers and expensive meals waiting for them at the end of the day.

The locals had protested, of course.

*"You must not anger the river,"* they had warned. *"The spirit of Tárcoles will not allow it."*

Don Esteban had laughed in their faces. "A ghost? Are we still living in the dark ages?"

Miguel had kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t one for superstition. He had grown up hearing the stories, but like most men of his age, he figured they were nothing more than old wives’ tales.

That belief wavered now as he stepped toward the water’s edge.

A strong gust of wind tore through the trees, sending a cascade of dry leaves into the river. The surface rippled unnaturally, as if something had moved beneath.

Miguel froze.

And then, he heard it.

A whisper.

Not from the trees.

Not from the wind.

From the river itself.

*"Leave this place…"*

Miguel staggered back, heart hammering against his ribs. He turned sharply, scanning the trees, the river, the shore.

But there was nothing.

Only the silence.

Only the water.

Watching.

Waiting.

The Crocodile’s Eyes

The following morning, Miguel sat outside his small wooden cabin, drinking coffee and trying to shake off the unease from the night before.

His younger brother, Javier, leaned against the porch railing, watching him with amusement.

"You look like hell," Javier said, tossing a stone at the dirt road in front of them.

Miguel exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I didn’t sleep much."

Javier smirked. "Don’t tell me you’re scared of Maita now?"

Miguel shook his head, but he didn’t answer. What could he say? That he had heard a voice in the river? That something had been watching him?

Javier clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, hermano. You and I both know there’s nothing out there but crocs and muddy water. Let’s go finish the job before the old man gets impatient."

Miguel wasn’t convinced, but he wasn’t about to argue with Javier.

By noon, they were back at the river, machetes in hand, cutting through thick vegetation along the banks. The sun was hot, the air heavy with the smell of damp earth and decay.

Then Miguel noticed something.

The crocodiles were gone.

Not a single one lay basking in the sun. The river, usually teeming with their prehistoric forms, was empty.

A chill ran down his spine.

Javier, oblivious, kept hacking away at the undergrowth. "See? No ghosts. No spirits. Just—"

His words died in his throat.

Miguel followed his gaze and froze.

At the far end of the river, just beneath the surface, a pair of blue eyes stared back at them.

Not crocodile eyes.

Not human eyes.

Something else.

Something watching.

Something waiting.

The Spirit Awakens

That night, a storm came.

The wind howled through the jungle, bending the trees like they were nothing more than blades of grass. The rain came down in torrents, drumming against the roof of Miguel’s cabin.

Then, in the middle of it all, Miguel heard the voice again.

*"You were warned…"*

His blood ran cold.

Javier heard it too. He shot out of bed, wide-eyed. "Did you—?"

A loud crash shook the cabin.

They grabbed their machetes and rushed outside.

The river was rising.

The muddy water surged forward, swallowing the land in an instant.

And there, standing in the center of the flood, was a woman.

Her hair flowed like the river, dark and endless. Her eyes burned blue like flames in the night.

Maita.

The River Spirit.

Javier’s breath hitched. "Impossible…"

Miguel fell to his knees.

He didn’t know why—he just knew.

This was real.

This was her.

A Bargain with the Spirit

Maita’s gaze swept over them like the tide, ancient and unyielding.

"You come to take what is not yours," she said, her voice carrying over the roar of the storm. "You disrupt the balance. You must choose."

Miguel swallowed hard. "Choose what?"

She lifted a hand toward the water. "Leave… and the river will spare you. Stay… and become one with its depths."

Javier looked at Miguel, eyes wide. "She’s insane."

Miguel knew better. This was not a woman. This was the river itself, speaking through flesh and bone.

"We will leave," Miguel said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The resort… it will not be built."

Maita smiled.

And the storm ceased.

Epilogue: The River’s Watchful Eyes

The next morning, Miguel and Javier packed their belongings and left San Ramón.

The resort was never built.

The river remained untouched.

And the villagers say that Maita still watches over the Tárcoles, her presence lingering in the mist that rises from its waters at dawn.

Sometimes, when the river is quiet, when the world is still…

You might see a pair of glowing blue eyes beneath the surface.

Waiting.

Watching.

Guarding the river forever.