The Possession of Alba Diaz by Isabel Canas

The Possession of Alba Díaz

by Isabel Cañas

Berkley, August 2025

It was an ancient terror, I've heard people say. Or a pagan devil, rising from the dark maw of the mine to devour all in its path. Some say it was a haunting. If you ask me, that's too straightforward. Can you imagine if this were nothing but a ghost story, full of cold drafts and shadows where they oughtn't be, clammy palms and sweaty napes? That's too clean a tale. Too simple.

And this one gets messy.

For they say Alba Díaz de Bolaños barely survived. They say that when she stumbled down the cathedral steps, she was alive, yes--she was screaming, and all of Zacatecas heard it, their breasts chilled by how shredded and raw her voice was--but her wedding gown and all its silver was slick with blood. Gleaming with it, profane and red as cinnabar, wet as afterbirth.

Some say no one has seen her since.

I have.

And, unlike the storytellers who have mangled these events over the years, I know what happened.

The truth is worse than the stories would have you believe.

I once heard it said that the words themselves are cursed. That the tale, once told, will evaporate like mercury.

I can't know that for certain. Perhaps it will.

So lean in. Listen closely. I won't be repeating myself.

Thus begins Isabel Cañas's third gothic horror novel, The Possession of Alba Díaz, and it's immediately clear the reader is in devilishly good hands. Here an unidentified narrator establishes a short opening frame that not only provides a chilling hint of what's to come, but does so in a style that's confident and compelling. One can practically hear Cañas's voice rising up from between the lines promising this will be a story well worth your time.

The tale then shifts to a multi-POV third-person narrative, starting with Elias Monterrubio, a young alchemist in Spain in 1765. A convicted murderer, he is exiled to his family mine in Nueva España, along with a quantity of mercury to be used to purify silver. Enough silver to pay off the Monterrubio’s debt. And with his cut of the profits, Elias can start a new life, one as far from his despised relatives as possible. So he sets out, taking with him little more than the mercury and a strange tome he recently acquired in Africa, penned by an infamous sorcerer.

Meanwhile in Nueva España, Alba Díaz faces her own difficulties. Daughter of the rich merchant who holds the Monterrubio debt, Alba is adamant she will not become the property of any random man who wants to buy himself a wife. She therefore hatches a plan with her childhood friend Carlos Monterrubio, the cousin of Elias, who has shown little interest in women in the past. Together they agree to a marriage of convenience. Alba will not be anyone's possession, and Carlos's family will avoid having their debt called in prematurely, as the Díaz and Monterrubio families would be partnered.

Shortly after Elias arrives in Nueva España, he and Alba meet at a dance, each initially unaware of the other's identity, and they immediately form a subliminal connection. Days later the plague hits. When people start dying, the Monterrubios invite the Díaz family to flee with them to their mine in the mountains. The families, along with Bartolomé Robles, a priest of the Inquisition, take refuge in a rundown house called, moodily enough, Casa Calavera (i.e. House of the Skull). Soon tensions arise between the black sheep Elias and the rest of the Monterrubios. A dark malaise seems to hang over everything and everyone. Then, on a tour of the mine, Alba finds herself lost in the lower tunnels . . . and a cold, evil presence suddenly awakens within her. Elias rescues her and their unspoken bond is strengthened, but now Alba has become the unwilling host of something foul.

From here, murder and possession, exorcism and sorcerous rites, love and blood and violence play out to a nightmarish and thrilling conclusion. Throughout, Cañas takes a predominantly visual approach to depicting the horror, a style that would be even more disturbing if rendered in film. This style may not frighten every reader; what pushes one's scare button might not push another's. But if your thing is creepy demonic encounters portrayed in a manner worthy of The Ring, then Cañas will make your hair stand on end.

The Possession of Alba Díaz is well-written, despite a few modern-ish phrasings that can pop one out of its gothic atmosphere. It's a horrifying look at the variations of possession. And it's a clever manipulation of expectations that will take many discerning readers by surprise. To say more on that would risk spoiling the diabolical experience.

So does Cañas fulfill her implicit promise?

Hell yes, she does.

Jim Abbiati is a writer and IT professional living in Mystic, Connecticut. He's the author of Fell's Hollow, The NORTAV Method for Writers, and has an MFA in Creative Writing from National University